Memories of Sheila Stone Dill




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From Andy Harrison

It's still difficult to express how special my Mom was to me, but I'll do my best. Here's a short list of things that remind me of her:

Homemade pizza reminds me of my Mom. When we were kids she once dropped an entire bubbling-hot pizza face down on the oven door as it slid off the pan. That was the first time I heard my Mom cuss. Oven-Door Pizza was born, a catastrophe on that day, but a source of belly laughs for years afterwards.

Sitting at the piano reminds me of my Mom. When I was a kid with better things to do she made me take lessons and practice. She wouldn't let me quit! But one day when I was older and dumber I quit anyway. In the years that followed, I'd watch her play and wish I could play like her. Now when I play I imagine her listening with approval, but at the same time gently telling me to keep practicing, and finish what you start.

Children's books remind me of my Mom. I don't remember her reading to me, but I know she did. She was good at it. In her later years I got to watch her read to grade-school kids, which she did with endless joy and patience. I've slowly reacquired my favorite books from childhood, knowing they're special because she selected them herself so many years ago.

Sunflowers remind me of my Mom. Sunflowers are the happiest flower so it makes sense she loved them so much. She grew towering specimens in her yard every summer. She also painted them on her fence so she could enjoy them in the winter too.

When I see a young mother at the discount grocery store, patiently asking her bored kids to behave and doing her best to fill the cart, I think of my Mom. She bravely raised her kids alone, making sacrifices for herself so we could have things like piano lessons and occasionally Farrell's ice cream. She worried about money but she made sure we didn't know it.

Birds remind me of my Mom. She loved them and appreciated them, and was thrilled when I expressed that Heidi and I had fallen in love with them too, largely because of her. Once when I told her I saw something new, she reminded me that it wasn't new at all. She said it's been here all along, all your life. You just never noticed it until now.

May we all spend the rest of our lives life looking at the world like my Mom did—with an open heart and open eyes, with patience and compassion, and with a desire to guide others to see and appreciate things not yet noticed.

Marc Elliot Hall Henderson, Nevada 

Page created: 14 January, 2023
Page modified: 1 June, 2023

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