Powdered Milk and The "Best Christmas gift EVER"

I'm 56. My mother had me at 19. I'm a young 56. She's an old 75. We joke about it: her closest friends are 90 which is how old she would be if she didn't know how old she was.

I have two daughters who live in Europe: one in Vienna, Austria; the other in Zurich, Switzerland. I use to travel alone with my three children in Europe every other summer - from 5-7 weeks each time so as to explore as many countries in that time.

I starting this when my youngest, a son, turned 5, so each would be responsible for their own suitcase and backpack as we navigated trains, planes and (rented) automobiles. Needless to say, I screwed myself, because now two of my children fell in love with Europe, after graduating college in-country, and decided to stay.

This is emotionally hard on me, so I work a lot.

My mother, at "90", doesn't relish traveling. But my 25-year old daughter in Zurich asked if Oma (grandma) would spend Christmas with her - "before she gets too old to enjoy it" - so I bought my mom a flight as a present to them both.

Emma is so excited to host her Oma in her quaint 'villa' apartment. Emma has prepared an agenda and restaurants to hit and meals to cook. She can't wait to show Oma around the galleries and university where she works.

My mother arrived Monday at noon to my house in Andover, MA so I could drive her to the airport Monday evening.

After we had lunch, I went back to work and she did the same - she writes grants for the senior center in her town. (She retired from UMass Amherst where she ran the capstone business writing program for the school of business.)

As I drove my mom to the airport in Boston, we joked about my recent purchases in preparation for potential disruptions to food supplies "and such".

She knows I am not one to panic, even when there is reason to, so she asked me seriously if I was worried. I told her I see some risks and I can afford these preparations and be happy to waste the money if I don't need them.

She recalled the time in my 20s when just the two of us were driving back during rush hour from a fun day in Boston as we hit a dark grey wall. It was a freak summer storm that dumped a deluge of rain causing my car to stall in the center of 93N. There was no visibility even with wipers at max, and she was in pure panic mode screaming 'we are going to die'. I calmly told her to stop talking and close her eyes. I put my blinker on and kept my hand on the horn as I used the other to gently but methodically steer us form far left to far right breakdown lane before my car died not us.

She knows I don't live in fear. And she knows I am not one to panic, even when there is reason to.

I asked her to wear her mask on the plane given it was the height of flu season. She asked if she could come live with me if 'zombie apocalypse' occurs.

I said yes. Jokingly I said, I would order more powdered milk.

And then she slipped in this comment, as if mentioning the color of a nearby car, of how she used to buy powdered milk when I was a toddler because she couldn’t afford real milk.

I didn't know that.

I remember her telling me she was too proud to ask my grandparents for money, for which they had very little anyway. I remember her telling me she once asked about food stamps but they told her she would have to quit her job and she thought that was stupid.

But I never knew she was so poor as a young, single mother that she couldn't afford milk.

No wonder my strongest memory of moving to the dairy farm a few years later was the freshly-squeezed milk delivered to our door each morning with that thick layer of cream on top. No better gift in the world.

Except a strong mother.

Who raised a strong daughter.

Who raised strong grand-daughters.

I heard from my daughter, Emma, this morning:

"She is HERE!

Best Christmas gift EVER"

Oma has arrived safe and sound, so their adventures, and memories, have begun.

I wish each of you - dear clients, team-members, colleagues and friends - the same blessings as my mother has gifted to me: serious work, loyal family, and all the gifts that come after suffering and scarcity.

Happy Holidays!

/Samantha