Posted on 08/09/2009 10:11:04 AM PDT by franksolich
It was a torridly hot summer in Nebraska that August, when I received the last letter from my mother. I was in Lincoln, about to become a sophomore in college. We wrote each other frequently, pretty close to nearly every day. The other siblings had it much easier, as they could just pick up a telephone and chitchat with her, a means not available to me.
I had just moved, into a "party house" with six other college classmates, and she had not yet gotten my new address, and so sent the letter to the place where I worked, receiving and shipping and keeping track of firearms. The letter was six pages long--we oftentimes had to pay extra postage for our correspondence--on unlined paper, in her tiny near-Cyrillic pensmanship, two sheets of it being those plain paper mats used at the hospital for food trays.
My father, her husband, had died several months previously, and she was very lonely, more so because other than my younger brother, to be a senior in high school, everyone else in our large family had grown up, gone to college, married, had children, embarked upon careers, and lived very far away.
(Excerpt) Read more at conservativecave.com ...
Ping for the list.
Your a great story teller Frank
Beautiful.
I've always considered it a story of a woman who more than exceeded the expectations God made of her.
Being her own son, I am awed, impressed, and of course thank God I had such as a mother.
And that it is. A fine story by a son worthy of his mother's love and our respect and remembrance. God bless you both, Frank...
does the story just end with his mom falling to the floor, or is there more to read?....
No, that is the end.
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