She’s rushing, smiling on cue, and performing routines. She’s non-stop, and beautiful.
I remember moments that preceded the day of this photo, which marked her graduation from Nursing School at the University of Tennessee in 1971, or 1972. Before that, she lived and drove like a wildcat, running everywhere. Papers strewed across the back seat of her car as she was hurling around curves, lurching to stop at traffic intersections, rushing to class or some work assignment. Some days she took me along, to tag along behind her brisk stride down a university hallway or through the parking lot of a big hospital. She drove through each day as if the strictures of life were in her way, and she certainly wasn’t going to allow me to stop her. I never dared to try.
One day at work, I sat in the doctor’s office while she rushed down the hallway, injection needle in hand.
The doctor called her back, “Judy! Has Kathy had anything to eat?”
She charged back, turned her head inside the doorway, looked at me and said, “My purse is over there, and you know where the vending machine is.”
Then I watched her disappear down the hallway, again. I giggled while retrieving coins from her purse, looking forward to a dinner of Snickers and bag of chips. Out the corner of my eye, I saw the doctor shaking his head.
“Nothing is coming to you honey, you have to go get it yourself.” She would tell me.
Whatever that was, for her at least, remained out of reach, so she kept running, and chastised laggards who couldn’t keep up with her.
Once she stopped, then came the smile, and it seemed everyone loved it. At least that I could see from people she met and people she helped.
She was my mom, and I did everything I could to be like her. Everything except, smiling on cue.