reminders of phyllis

I think of my mom many times a day. She died in January at age 96 after a long, good life. So I cannot say these thoughts make me sad. Quite the opposite, actually.

Like today, I am talking to my friend M and mention my upcoming "collin-oscopy."  She corrects my pronunciation and I smile, thinking of my mom's often incorrect articulations.

Another example. A few weeks ago I'm talking to someone and mention that I love the white Albuquerque tuna by Catch Fresh. Warm thoughts of my mom immediately come to mind.

Last week Jill and I see a new play called The Balusters. 

The play is great. It's a satirical look at an elite group of one-percenters who represent the Board of a neighborhood conclave. Their petty arguments about dog poop disposal and the right type of balusters remind me of a story.

It was 1978 when my parents built a second home in a small, gated community on the Cape called Wild Harbor. It's a home they grew to love, and where they made many lifelong friends.

My parents so enjoyed their time there, that after a few years they sold their primary house in Brockton and moved to the Cape permanently. 

My father was always building things. He was exceptionally creative and could make or fix just about anything. He decided that a small white fence separating his lawn from the street would be nice.

I can't remember if he did all the work himself or if he hired someone. But it took some time for the fence to be completed. The chair of the Wild Harbor Association would often drive by in his golf cart, offering up a smile and neighborly wave.

Soon after the fence was finished, my dad got a letter from the Association informing him that he had to remove the fence as it violated neighborhood guidelines. It had something to do with split rail fences (either they were required for all fences or prohibited; my mom would have recalled).

After returning home from the play and remembering this story, I wanted to call my mom and reminisce. My dad did end up taking the fence down. And this story became more humorous in its many re-tellings. 

It's those small things that happen almost daily that most make me think of my mom.