My name is Mike, and I have the good fortune of being the third child of Audrey—a woman who lived life with a sense of joy and exuberance that was distinctly her own. Audrey, my mom, was a remarkable character, bursting with color and curiosity, much like the tapestries she so lovingly crafted.
Audrey passed away in 2012. I think about her often. I miss her.
Mom was outgoing and fun-loving—a real party on two legs. There wasn’t a fishing trip or family gathering that she didn’t relish. Her laughter was a constant melody in our home, a home she nurtured not just with warmth, but with a relentless passion for living in the moment. She adored my dad and cherished each of us five kids, even if we drove her a little crazy at times.
Growing up, dinner was an unspoken contract of familial unity, our very own sacred tradition. Every night, like clockwork, we’d gather around the dinner table—sans TV, sans radio, just pure, unadulterated conversation. And oh, the first among us to cheerily exclaim, “Thank you for dinner MOM, don’t forget to take your pill!” was rewarded with the much-coveted extra dessert. The irony of that statement—knowing that “pill” meant birth control—is something dad would often chuckle about, affirming with a wink that indeed, five kids were plenty.
One of my favorite memories of mom, laugh-out-loud funny in retrospect, took place when we were out on the boat. Dad had to dive under to fix the propeller while mom, in typical Audrey fashion, nonchalantly went to the head to do her business. Moments later, dad surfaced with, well, an unexpected souvenir on his head—a reminder that even mishaps could lead to sidesplitting laughter.
But mom’s true passion lay not only in family dinners or unplanned boat adventures; it resonated in her unwavering zest for life. On my dad’s 60th birthday, I whisked them away to Cancun—an unforgettable trip where we all attempted deep-sea fishing. As fate would have it, everyone on the boat succumbed to sea sickness, everyone except mom and me. The captain dropped the queasy bunch back onshore and indulged in a shared bottle of rum with mom and me; the ocean, the amberjack, and the carefree intoxication became a memory—a laughter-drenched day no storm could cloud.
Mom was more than laughter and good times; she was a craftswoman at heart. Each custom greeting card, each hand-stitched quilt was a testament to her thoughtfulness and dedication. She poured her soul into those creations, marking each birthday, holiday, and cherished moment with her unique touch. For her, these weren’t mere pieces of art; they were an extension of her love, a tangible piece of herself she shared with us.
In those quintessential “Audrey” moments, she’d often muse aloud, “I wonder what the poor people are doing today?!” Dad, always ready with a retort, would reply, “Audrey, we are the poor people.” We’d all laugh at mom’s insistence that wealth lay not in currency but in connections, in sunsets shared, and in the richness of simply being alive.
Throughout my life, mom’s attitude shaped my outlook. She encouraged me to embrace the present—not to be consumed by the pursuit of wealth or the frenzy of work, but to delight in life’s simple pleasures. “Just being” and “just living” were not mere mantras for her; they were a testament to her profound wisdom.
When people ask me about Audrey, what I want them to know is that she had a remarkable “love for life.” It wasn’t just a quality; it was her signature. She taught me and all who knew her to appreciate each moment, not to take ourselves too seriously, and to always, always find joy in the beauty around us.
As I reflect on mom’s life, I realize how deeply her spirit has intertwined with my own. Her laughter echoes in my memories, her wisdom guides my choices, and her love remains a steadfast presence in my heart. Audrey may have been one of the “poor,” but she enriched the lives of everyone she touched, proving that real prosperity lies in love, laughter, and the indelible bonds of family.