My Mom and Elvis
On January 8, 1966, my mother, age 22, was killed in a terrible car accident. I was three years old...
Every January 8th, I remember my mother with much more intensity than any other day of the year, or rather I think about her more. January 8th, also happens to be Elvis Presley's birthday. I know that's a random thought to stick in here with this post about my mother, but the thing is, I love Elvis. He's my favorite and he is very definitely the King of Rock and Roll! A little side tid bit... I saw Elvis in concert when I was 12 years old at the Asheville Civic Center. My friend, Michelle Tullis and I were dropped off by my grandfather and picked up after the concert! YES. We. Were!! It was one of those "most awesome" lifetime moments. Being there while Elvis was singing and sweating and throwing those scarves out in the audience... way cool to 2 12 year old girls!! I've loved Elvis since I was little. Graceland is on my bucket list. :) Anyway, back to my mother...
Sadly, I don't remember one thing about my mother. I can't picture her pretty face or see the color of her hair. I don't ever remember sitting on my mother's lap or being wrapped up in her arms or carried on her hip. I only remember what I've seen in photographs, but every January 8th, I find myself really thinking about her and all I have missed b/c of her death, and all she has missed as well.
Growing up, my family would tell me about my mother. What she looked like, how she acted, things she used to do, etc... She was kind of an enigma to me. I longed for her in the way a little girl longs for the comfort of her mother's embrace. Even though I couldn't remember her, I missed her and loved her and I so wanted to have her with me. My grandmother took the place of my mother and I will forever be grateful. I called my grandmother, Nannie, not Mom. I knew she was my grandmother so I didn't feel right about calling her "Mom." My grandmother was only 45 years old when she became my guardian and took on the job of raising a 3 year old little girl, after having raised 3 of her own children, as well as having to work 7 days a week at a restaurant owned by she and my grandfather. My grandparents raised me because my dad let them. At the time of my mother's death, she and my dad were separated or already divorced. My dad was not the poster image of "Dad of the Year," so my grandmother wasn't about to give me up. No way in ___ so to speak. My dad signed me over in a room in the courthouse on some cold day in 1966, and that was that.
My mother was born on June 30, 1943. Her name was Frances Catherine Whittemore, however, everyone called her "Tinky." It was her nickname; no one called her Frances. She was only 19 years old when I was born. My dad was 7 years older than she, and he looked like Elvis. (seriously) OMG! He was so handsome. I can see why she fell for him. My mom was the youngest of three kids. She had an older brother and sister. She graduated from high school, but didn't go to college. She worked at a "Plant" in Asheville, called "CTS"... I can't remember what that stood for, but I know she and my aunt both worked there for awhile. I have been told that my mother was one tough cookie. She didn't back down from anyone. She knew how to take care of herself and wasn't afraid of a fight. She got into fights sometimes, whether with her siblings or with someone stupid enough to aggravate her. I've been told she was quite the "bad ass." No fear. Confident. Takes care of her own. Sounds like good qualities to me.
For as long as I can remember, I have always wondered what kind of relationship my mom and I would have had with each other. Would we be "friends" in that way moms and daughters become friends when they are older? Would we have gone shopping for prom dresses and wedding dresses? Would we have had long talks about "mean girls" and school and boys? Would she have soothed my aching heart when some boy broke it? I think she would have done all those things and more. I know she was stubborn and hard headed, so I figure we would have had our fair share of arguments as well. I know she was so much fun to be around. She loved life. She loved to play and laugh and be with her friends. I'm pretty sure she and I would have had great fun together. Everyone loved my mother and loved being around her. There were times I got a little bit angry at God for taking her from me, especially when I was so young. I know there are supposed to be reasons for everything, but I don't get this one.
My mother's death nearly killed my grandmother too. I know she was never really the same after her accident. Oh, how she mourned for her baby! I can totally get it now that I'm a mother too. I don't think there could be anything worse than losing one's child, no matter the age. Remember my mom was only 22 when she died. My mother's death was hard on everyone. As I got older, my family would tell me so. My grandmother poured her life into mine and I guess I was the reason she got up each morning; she had a job to do--raise another little girl. My grandmother was one of 12 children and some of her sisters lived close by us, so I had several aunts who shared in the care of me and I loved it. When I was little, I used to spend the night or several nights at one of their houses with my cousins and we would have such great times. I loved my great big family. There aren't many of those 12 left anymore, in fact there are only 2 sisters left, both with health and aging issues. Some day I will write a post about my grandmother. She changed my life.
I wish my mother were with me today. I wish my grandmother was still here. I need them both, especially now and in the days that are about to happen to my family and me. February 24th is the scheduled mediation day. What I wouldn't give to have a mother to run back to after that day's events! Although neither of them are physically here with me, both of them are with me in spirit and in my heart and in my children and in the woman I am today. I may not remember my mother, but she is part of me and I am part of her and I know she loved me.
D~
Every January 8th, I remember my mother with much more intensity than any other day of the year, or rather I think about her more. January 8th, also happens to be Elvis Presley's birthday. I know that's a random thought to stick in here with this post about my mother, but the thing is, I love Elvis. He's my favorite and he is very definitely the King of Rock and Roll! A little side tid bit... I saw Elvis in concert when I was 12 years old at the Asheville Civic Center. My friend, Michelle Tullis and I were dropped off by my grandfather and picked up after the concert! YES. We. Were!! It was one of those "most awesome" lifetime moments. Being there while Elvis was singing and sweating and throwing those scarves out in the audience... way cool to 2 12 year old girls!! I've loved Elvis since I was little. Graceland is on my bucket list. :) Anyway, back to my mother...
Sadly, I don't remember one thing about my mother. I can't picture her pretty face or see the color of her hair. I don't ever remember sitting on my mother's lap or being wrapped up in her arms or carried on her hip. I only remember what I've seen in photographs, but every January 8th, I find myself really thinking about her and all I have missed b/c of her death, and all she has missed as well.
Growing up, my family would tell me about my mother. What she looked like, how she acted, things she used to do, etc... She was kind of an enigma to me. I longed for her in the way a little girl longs for the comfort of her mother's embrace. Even though I couldn't remember her, I missed her and loved her and I so wanted to have her with me. My grandmother took the place of my mother and I will forever be grateful. I called my grandmother, Nannie, not Mom. I knew she was my grandmother so I didn't feel right about calling her "Mom." My grandmother was only 45 years old when she became my guardian and took on the job of raising a 3 year old little girl, after having raised 3 of her own children, as well as having to work 7 days a week at a restaurant owned by she and my grandfather. My grandparents raised me because my dad let them. At the time of my mother's death, she and my dad were separated or already divorced. My dad was not the poster image of "Dad of the Year," so my grandmother wasn't about to give me up. No way in ___ so to speak. My dad signed me over in a room in the courthouse on some cold day in 1966, and that was that.
My mother was born on June 30, 1943. Her name was Frances Catherine Whittemore, however, everyone called her "Tinky." It was her nickname; no one called her Frances. She was only 19 years old when I was born. My dad was 7 years older than she, and he looked like Elvis. (seriously) OMG! He was so handsome. I can see why she fell for him. My mom was the youngest of three kids. She had an older brother and sister. She graduated from high school, but didn't go to college. She worked at a "Plant" in Asheville, called "CTS"... I can't remember what that stood for, but I know she and my aunt both worked there for awhile. I have been told that my mother was one tough cookie. She didn't back down from anyone. She knew how to take care of herself and wasn't afraid of a fight. She got into fights sometimes, whether with her siblings or with someone stupid enough to aggravate her. I've been told she was quite the "bad ass." No fear. Confident. Takes care of her own. Sounds like good qualities to me.
For as long as I can remember, I have always wondered what kind of relationship my mom and I would have had with each other. Would we be "friends" in that way moms and daughters become friends when they are older? Would we have gone shopping for prom dresses and wedding dresses? Would we have had long talks about "mean girls" and school and boys? Would she have soothed my aching heart when some boy broke it? I think she would have done all those things and more. I know she was stubborn and hard headed, so I figure we would have had our fair share of arguments as well. I know she was so much fun to be around. She loved life. She loved to play and laugh and be with her friends. I'm pretty sure she and I would have had great fun together. Everyone loved my mother and loved being around her. There were times I got a little bit angry at God for taking her from me, especially when I was so young. I know there are supposed to be reasons for everything, but I don't get this one.
My mother's death nearly killed my grandmother too. I know she was never really the same after her accident. Oh, how she mourned for her baby! I can totally get it now that I'm a mother too. I don't think there could be anything worse than losing one's child, no matter the age. Remember my mom was only 22 when she died. My mother's death was hard on everyone. As I got older, my family would tell me so. My grandmother poured her life into mine and I guess I was the reason she got up each morning; she had a job to do--raise another little girl. My grandmother was one of 12 children and some of her sisters lived close by us, so I had several aunts who shared in the care of me and I loved it. When I was little, I used to spend the night or several nights at one of their houses with my cousins and we would have such great times. I loved my great big family. There aren't many of those 12 left anymore, in fact there are only 2 sisters left, both with health and aging issues. Some day I will write a post about my grandmother. She changed my life.
I wish my mother were with me today. I wish my grandmother was still here. I need them both, especially now and in the days that are about to happen to my family and me. February 24th is the scheduled mediation day. What I wouldn't give to have a mother to run back to after that day's events! Although neither of them are physically here with me, both of them are with me in spirit and in my heart and in my children and in the woman I am today. I may not remember my mother, but she is part of me and I am part of her and I know she loved me.
D~
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