Mimi was my Dad's mother, and she is now the voice in my head at every turn, my guide through the mania of motherhood. She is more to me than I can begin to convey, the best tribute to her being the stories she left me.
Mimi was a golfer. Not necessarily a good golfer but a golfer who played often, loved the game (and the fashion) and was her happiest chasing golf balls around, "I'll take a five on that hole dear", my job being official score keeper, official meaning I wrote down what Mimi said, not always what she shot. And she played long beyond the time that her body thought it best, in fact I would drive her up to the ball, she'd swing her legs over the side of the cart, pull back her club and shoot from inside the cart. It's a miracle I was not clubbed.
Several years ago, after a big family get together at a Kansas City steak house, she was stopped on the way out of the restaurant. At this time she was in a wheelchair, her legs clearly tired from all that golf. A nice man leaned over and said, "Mrs. L?". She looked up, "Why little Tommy Watson, how nice to see you!". Tommy Watson? She continued, "Now Tommy, do tell me what you've been up to, I haven't seen you in years. And how are your parents?". Somehow my grandmother, avid golfer and gal about KC wasn't exactly sure what Tom Watson, golf legend, had been up to for the past few years.
He couldn't have been nicer.