On May 6, my mom, Barbara Hudson, passed away. For her, the road to the end was short – cancer diagnosis on Sunday, on her way to the next world on Tuesday. For me, her only child, the road has been long and bumpy.
She was a pioneer Las Vegan, an adventurer in spirit—an explorer in her DNA, I believe. I’ve read the family history she left me, compiled by many of my family members over the years, and it only makes sense that my spunky Texan mother liked the Las Vegas of the 1950s and 1960s so much. Wide open spaces. A party every weekend. What’s not to like?
I miss being able to ask her questions like, “What did Dad call the guy who showed up to torch your restaurant for the insurance money?”
Her two-word e-mail reply: “Suitcase Harry.”
I’ve no one to ask these types of questions now.
She was a fellow writer, a woman who contributed her fair share of stories to KNRP’s old radio show, “Making Nevada Home.” I turned on an old stereo the other day, and was shocked to hear her voice on the tape deck, telling radio listeners about playing practical jokes on friends back in those early days. Seems that the Goodsprings Bar saw its fair share of new customers, dressed to the nines, looking for the gourmet restaurant. As you might imagine, the only thing the Goodsprings Bar had was broken floorboards and a pool table. When Mom and Dad fell victim to this joke Mom kicked off her high heels and tried to learn to play pool. Like I said, she was spunky gal.
To say that I miss her would be far worse than a simple understatement, but adjectives don’t help much, either: dreadfully, deeply, lovingly—nothing conveys that measure.
Photo courtesy of Ben Earwicker, Garrison Photography, http://www.garrisonphoto.org/sxc/