I wish I could tell you Mom was full of wisdom and offered metaphorical advice at every turn.  On the contrary, Mom’s advice was the treasure you’d find in the bottom of an old sock pile at the local thrift store; unexpected, bizarre and stunningly appropriate for the occasion.  Speaking of, the decor in our home could be described as early thrift store.  This wasn’t so much because Mom loved thrift stores (she did) but because she could never throw anything out.  Mom had a pack-rat’s soul and a gypsy’s heart.

As the middle child, I was the translator of Mom’s crazy schemes.  My older sister was too orderly and logical to get on well enough with Mom.  My younger brother enjoyed Mom’s constant activity but was no better at deciphering her, no better than, well, no better than anyone else, even our father.