A visit from my son


I was four months pregnant when I moved south from northern Ohio, and my husband was already here working. I knew there were doctors in Cleveland I wouldn’t go to for a cut finger. So you can imagine my concern here. Fortunately, new-found friends recommended the right obstetrician and in July, 1959 a son arrived safe and sound.

When he was six months old he had a very bad cold and serious congestion and we were sent to see a pediatrician in Atlanta. He said our baby had a serious heart condition and would not live six months. So we began to cope with that information.

Well, he got better and better and we went back to that pediatrician – who announced, “guess I was wrong, he’s just fine.” I shall make no further comment here.

We had first moved to Forest Park, and my son started first grade there. Halfway through the school year, we moved to Fayetteville and not wanting to change schools midway in first grade, I drove him back up there each day to finish the year. Shhhh – please don’t let them know this.

He had a sister who arrived in 1968 and I’m proud they are graduates of Fayette County High School.

As many children do, my children eventually moved away, my son ended up in Oregon and my daughter in Colorado. You just have to take the attitude that if they’re happy, you’re happy.

When my son was 9 years old, I taught him to play chess. A disclaimer here, though I consider myself a pretty smart person, I have to disclose that math is not my thing. It’s not even in my bucket list anywhere.

After a few weeks of lessons, the lad caught on to the game and began beating me every time. So I quit playing with him. Years later I got my revenge.

He taught his son to play chess when his son was 9 years old, and his son soon caught on and consistently beat his father. My son called me and said he now knows how I must have felt.

I mentioned I was four months pregnant when I moved here and when he was grown, he delighted in telling everyone he is only four-ninths Yankee but five-ninths Rebel.

Last week he came to visit for a week, bringing his 15 year old daughter along. She may be only 15 but she is 5’ 11’’ tall. Needless to say, she wants to play professional volleyball and at least her height will get her headed in that direction. And yes, she brought homework with her – it was spread all over the kitchen table.

Their visit brought back a lot of warm memories, I can’t say I never got mad at my son, but 98 percent of them are warm and fuzzy. Not to mention that he now helps me stay in a house and allows me to remain in a community I have been in for 50 years.