by Liz Flaherty
Wednesday night at church, we had the annual Mother-Daughter gathering that celebrates Mother's Day. It was a pitch-in--with Methodists, there is always food. It's a small church in a small community and there weren't that many of us; there were nearly as many in the singing group that entertained us as there were in the crowd. My daughter was there, and it was a good time.
They sang with joy, skill, timing, musicality, and warmth. They laughed with each other and with us. They supported each other. They shared their talent, their time, and their knowledge. They interacted with the children in the crowd and the music teacher hugged my daughter--twice--because even though Kari is 44, Mrs. Dielman still remembers her.
It made me think of the epilogue debate among romance writers and editors. Should we write them or
Until I attend writers' meetings where most of us are retirement age. Or sewing days with my extension homemakers group when we sew hundreds of garments and toys for the children's hospital. Or talk to my friend's neighbor who's 91 and still gardens. Or see them dance with the ones they share their lives with. Or watch them sing.
That's when I know. With canes and separated-into-days boxes of medication on their kitchen counters, the heroines are still sharing and supporting and being women, hear them roar. Kick-ass heroines didn't start with recent generations but with the ones before us, our mothers and theirs. the ones who taught us to roar. And share. And support. And love beyond all limitation and write about it. That's their epilogue.
Happy Mother's Day.