Happy Mother’s Day. My mother, Evie, is gone, but I see her smiling face every day whenever we’re here in Tucson. There’s a framed photo of her sitting on the top shelf in the library. The photo is right next to a small collection of leather-bound copies of my books. Those are special editions that my publisher sends me whenever one of my books hits the top ten on the NYTimes Bestsellers list. I know my mother would be proud of me, and I’m grateful to her. I wouldn’t be where I am today had Evelyn Busk not raised me the way she did. And her child rearing philosophy was a direct result of the way she was raised by her mother, Cecelia Fromm Anderson.
Which reminds me of something one of my long ago editors told me–an editor whose tenure with me was short but brief. “Judy,” she said, “the problem with your characters is that they always do things because of the way they were raised.” Try as I might I couldn’t then and still can’t view that as a “problem.” After all, characters are people, too, and all of us, fictional or not, are–for good or ill–a reflection of how we were raised.
Because I was a young child when we left South Dakota, much of what I know about Grandpa and Grandma Anderson is the stuff of family legend rather than personal knowledge or observation. Grandpa Anderson, Andrew Gottfried, aka A.G., was a newly arrived Swedish immigrant who made his way to South Dakota where he found work driving a dray wagon. Cecelia Fromm was a maid-of-all work in a hotel that was, according to my mother, owned by Tom Brokaw’s grandparents. One weekend, at an after work party, A.G. caught sight of Cecelia dancing on a table. That, as they say, was that. Theirs was a love match, one that never wavered. When Cecelia died of a heart ailment in her fifties, the expression of utter shock and disbelief on Grandpa Anderson’s face when he heard the news was my first-ever experience of grief made visible.
Grandma Anderson as I knew her was relatively short (compared to the rest of us), round, and sweet. When we went to South Dakota on family vacations, she put out the welcome mat and killed the proverbial fatted calf. She would cheerfully lay out a feast of pot roast, potatoes with their jackets on, and green peas fresh from the garden. One of my most vivid memories from South Dakota is of sitting next to Grandma Anderson on the back porch of their house in Summit, shelling peas, with both of us sneaking one or two from each pod as we went along. (Is there anything better than a raw green pea fresh from the pod? Oh wait, yes there is–sweet corn plucked from its stalk and eaten raw, too. That’s another thing Grandma Anderson taught me–the miracle of utterly fresh raw corn.). By comparison, if we showed up on Grandma Busk’s doorstep on one of those trips, hungry and tired after three long days in a car, she would grudgingly haul out a loaf of bread and butter and maybe, if we were really lucky, a pot of jam.
Both of my paternal grandparents were toxic. My father often told me that he never knew what love was until he met my mother. I suspect that my mother’s insistence on moving from South Dakota to Arizona was based as much on curing my father’s arthritis as it was on escaping his parents’ sphere of influence. Soon after our move, Grandpa and Grandma Anderson sold their farm and moved to Summit and into the house in town where I remember them living. Being free of the farm meant they were free to travel, and they did.
Originally, our house in Bisbee was a two bedroom affair, but it had a full unfinished basement. On one of their first trips to Bisbee, Grandpa and my dad turned the basement into a one bedroom apartment. Grandpa was a whiz at carpentry. I remember watching him laying the hardwood floor–eyeballing the spot, cutting the wood, and then unerringly fitting it into place. If he used a measuring tape, I don’t recall seeing it. Once work on the basement apartment was finished, Grandpa and Grandma turned into regular snowbirds, spending South Dakota’s harsh winter months in Bisbee, living downstairs.
As a first grader, walking home from Greenway School one day, I caught sight of a stray puppy, a poor, ugly little mutt that someone had abandoned on the street. It was small enough for me to carry, which I did. However, once I arrived at the house, I attempted to convince my mother that the dog had “followed me” home. My mother wasn’t buying. She told me, in no uncertain terms, that the dog had to go. Heartbroken, I put the pup back out on the street.
It happened that Grandpa and Grandma Anderson were visiting at the time. The next morning, when Grandma came upstairs for breakfast, she was wearing a long green sweater. During the meal I noticed that, whenever my mother’s back was turned, Grandma would slip a tiny piece of bacon or toast under her sweater. Not only had she brought the puppy back inside, she had already named her–Daisy. It’s one of the few times I ever remember my mother being overruled, but she was. Daisy became an integral part of our lives for the next twelve years.
I don’t know where the “dog rescue” bit shows up on the human genome or in my DNA, but I know it’s there, handed down, generation to generation, from Grandma Anderson to me. It’s why Bella is sleeping peacefully on the back patio right now, saved from becoming a flat dog on that street in Bellevue three years ago. But Grandma Anderson’s dog-saving trait didn’t stop with me. It’s why my daughter rescued Snowflake, an unsocialized puppy mill mommy who was terrified of everything beyond the outside wooden pen that had been her prison for the first six years of her life. Three years later, Snowflake, has morphed into a lovely family dog. It’s why a year ago my daughter and grandson rescued a black twenty-pound pound puppy named Storm who is now a gangly, hundred pound Irish wolfhound which my husband refers to as The Galoot.
And so, Happy Mother’s Day, Grandma Anderson. You never met your great-granddaughter, Jeanne T., or your great-great-grandson, Colt, but I’m here to tell you, they are both chips off your old block.
Other than Daisy, you never met any of the dogs you helped rescue, either, but they all wish you a Happy Mother’s Day, too.
I am sorry that you are one of us who will not be able to visit with their moms this Mother’s Day. My own mother died almost 27 years ago, and I still miss her everyday .. especially when something happens and I think, “I should call mom to tell her.” She died a violent death in her own home in Kennewick, Washington, murdered by a neighbor. He was apprehended (in Portland, Oregon driving her car) and is in prison for life without parole.
She will always be remembered to me as a hero since she died while protecting her grandchildren – my two children.
I have enjoyed your books so much especially the JP Beaumont as I visit Seattle frequently and always seek out the sights you refer to in your books. I read a couple out of sequence before realizing early after finding you as an author, and then reread those books to keep the sequence going in my mind. They were still surprising as time had passed. Next up, the Ali series followed by the Walker family.
Don’t ever stop writing!!!!
Thank you and Happy Mother’s Day.
ps, I too am very familiar with the Seattle Cancer Care Alliance and give them big kudos.
Phyllis Tompkins
Kennewick, WA
Please accept my condolences on the loss of your mother. She’s my hero, too. People sometimes ask me if I use real cases in my stories. I do not, and it’s because real crimes affect real people, and those kinds of terrible events resonate for a lifetime.
Thank you for reminding me about shelling peas, fresh corn and also for the wonderfully sweet carrots pulled, washed with the garden hose and eaten with the tops still on. Oh, and the tomatoes! Nothing comes close to home grown tomatoes. Wonderful memory of my mom’s mother. Just like your other grandparents my dad’s parents were not the nicest people so we didn’t see them often. Have a wonderful Mother’s Day!
My Mom’s been gone 27 years next month; I was angry that such a wonderful, kind, loving and talented woman left me at age 64. I gradually came to terms with it, appreciating how blessed I was to have this woman in my life for as long as I did. There were ten children in my mom’s family, and the youngest, my Aunt Gloria, was the chef supreme. She lived on the same Indiana property my grandparents had owned (with another aunt in between). I loved to be there in August for tomatoes fresh from the garden; just give me a salt shaker and I’d eat it like an apple! Once I picked blackberries and she made the most wonderful pie I have ever tasted.
All that family seem to be animal lovers, as well. My 82-year-old aunt, virtually blind due to macular degeneration, still walks her beloved dog Penny at least once a day. I lost my Buddy Love a few months ago (he was 17) but have now adopted a long-haired Dachshund named Peanut. Her original owner, a friend here in Bisbee, died suddenly, and Peanut has had several temporary homes. My dear friend Frank, still in Indiana, has rescued many Shih Tzus over the years, some from puppy mills and others when previous owners died. I can’t imagine my life without a canine companion.
Lovely Mothers’ Day sentiments. Thanks for all your good words!
I thought of my Iowa home farm the other day as I pulled a bunch of rhubarb from the garden. I didn’t expect it to be up and ready as it was covered with snow not that long ago.
In addition to the usual vegetables, we grew strawberries. Nothing can beat the taste of a strawberry warm from the sun. I think I ate as many as I put in the basket. At least Mom thought so. She used to freeze whatever made it to the kitchen.
She was always busy cooking and baking and doing something for the rest of us. I guess that’s what mother’s do. She was a dog lover, too.
I am so proud of my Mom who lived to be 97 and worked till she was 92. She was a go-getter always and just a special woman and Mom. I miss her every day even though we moved from South Dakota to WA 47 years ago. (A move we’ve never regretted.) We made the long drive back (learned to dread that forever Montana) every 2 or so years. My kids have very fond memories of their Gramma and always said, “She’s not like a Gramma, she’s cool.” I am proud to say that every one of my grandkids have said the same about me!
My heart breaks for my niece’s little ones. She just died ,at the age of 46, from breast cancer. She fought the good fight but left behind a 7 year old girl and 12 and 14 year old boys. I pray that those little ones will always know what a wonderful mother they had for a short time. They didn’t come much better than her.
My heart aches for all of those who have lost their Moms way too soon. I hope they all have fond memories. And for all those who are still lucky enough to have their Moms, treasure them every day!
You back memories of my Mom and my Grandmas.
My Momma loved everyone and gathered them to her. She worked as a Missionary in a foreign country and had numerous foster children. I miss her bright smile everyday
My precious Grandma raised 10 kids through the Depression, always with a cheerful spirit.
Grandmother was reserved but she taught me crotcheting and made the best German Chocolate cake.
Thank you,J A
For the 24 years my husband and I have been together all of our pets found us. We had 2 cut little dogs that were wandering loose in the desert around Apache Junction and they found my hubby before they got run over or worse, bitten by rattlesnakes. We had an Arizona Desert Tortise just walk into our back yard and stayed for 5 years. Our cat Lucky was abandoned in the garden shop of a local Walmart high up on a pallet. The kitten was just about a week old and it heard my voice and was crying to me. I made the clerk climb up on a rickety ladder and I’ve had her ever since. I’m mother to 2 wonderful kids and one kitty and 2 chickens.
Happy Mothers Day.
PS, I no longer have my mom with me and I miss her everyday. If I can be half the parent she was, I know I’m doing it right.