Today is the celebration of the nativity of the Blessed Saint Rebecca. She was born 82 years ago. I prayed for her soul today at Mass. When I dropped by to see The Old Goat, I detected that he was aware of the significance of the date although we did not discuss it. Still, her absence is a source of deep regret.
In November before she died in February, I woke up one morning and needed to talk to my Mom. I was living in Missouri at the time. I drove the 700 miles to sit in her kitchen and talked with her about nothing in particular. As I have indicated in previous posts, the Blessed Rebecca was an extraordinary cook. She felt her boys ought to be able to cook for themselves. I am happy to say that Tinker and I learned early about feeding ourselves. She was a sweet, sweet person. I know The Old Goat misses her. I certainly do.
I offered a prayer for her kind spirit this morning at Mass, safe in the assurance that a person of such genuine beauty is always welcomed into God's enternal busom.
You know how Irish boys are about their mothers. You can steal my truck, kick my dog, destroy my crops, kill my chickens. But, never, ever, speak ill about my mama.
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