Here’s a dusty photo of Mom and her earrings in her family room in 2005, where we threw a little 75th Birthday open house for her. It was a word-of-mouth, mostly family event. Mom didn’t want anything too big, because she was setting her pace to make it to her 80th Birthday bash. And magically—she’s now on the cusp of 90.
That’s Dad behind her, eating whatever it was she made for her 75th B-day open house. Yes, she catered her own birthday party. She didn’t want it any other way. Mom is an excellent cook. It is her talent, and she knows it. She has always liked to see people enjoy her food. When we were preparing for her 80th Birthday bash, we told her she was not allowed to cook for the occasion—not because she wasn’t fully capable of doing it, but for the simple fact that we didn’t want her to work that hard. In the notice we put in THE CHRONICLE to invite folks to Mom’s 80th, we even announced that Mom would not be cooking for the occasion—hoping that just such a public proclamation would further encourage Mom not to attempt to cook something for the whole town. Oh, how naive we were!
Mom showed up at her own 80th Birthday shindig with trays of wrapped homemade toffee and baked popcorn galore—and little jars of jam—for everyone who showed up to see her be old. I immediately gave her the sarcastic raised eyebrow and Evil Eye stare. During the party, she said to me, “You kids aren’t mad at me for making treats, are you? I just wanted to give everybody a goodie.” I told her to relax. I said, “Mom, we always get over you not minding us. Get over it yourself.” And then we winked at each other, and off she went to hand out more treats. I will tell you now that she felt guilty she ran out of her creations before all the people quit coming through the door to bid her a happy 80th. She told me the next day that she was going to try to remember every single person who came but didn’t get a goodie, so she could make more and deliver the offerings in person. I was sore afraid! Could we pump that much gas into the Helenmobile?
So what did Mom do? She quickly figured out that her plan to see that every last person who attended her 80th got homemade, Helen-created treats was not feasible. She let go of her guilt, and let it slide. She went back to worrying that her children were mad at her for cooking when we had already taken care of refreshments for the open house. In the thank-you-to-everyone-who-came-to-my-party note she put in THE CHRONICLE the next week, she half-heartedly apologized to us for not listening about not cooking for her own bash—for yet again doing whatever the HELL-en Wright she wants to do. I called her and told her once more, “Mom, we always get over you not minding us. Get over it yourself.” And then she said, in her best theatrical, smart-mouth tone, “Well, what do you expect? You kids never listened to me all those years you were growing up!” Point taken. Game, set, match! Mom wins!