Tribute to Mom



My first ever “published” book, a self-pubbed job with a print run of exactly one copy, was a tribute to my mom, titled Clare, the Novel. At age nine I hadn’t quite grasped the nuances of literary genres. Clare was, in fact, not a novel; it was a biography. You see, even at such a young age I knew my mother was something special. She deserved a tribute.

So I rubber cemented photos of Mom onto the colorful pages of construction paper and added my written highlights. One picture depicted her poolside with a gaggle of my “aunties”–all Mom’s best friends that could support or scold me, band-aid a skinned knee and send me home in a pinch. I grew up in a tight neighborhood, free-wheeling it on my banana-seated purple bike, weaving between my “aunties” houses, visiting friends, playing kick-the-can or softball until it turned too dark to play.

Mom encouraged me to ride. Sports were a part of life. She also taught me to ski. She pushed me to excel at everything I tried. In Clare, the Novel, I  glued a photo of her skiing, with the orange pom-pom on her hat bouncing down the slopes. Born and raised in Florida, Mom didn’t learn to ski until she married my dad and moved to Seattle. He once told her that while she “would probably never ski the same run as him, at least she could ski on the same hill.” She took that as a challenge. Now Mom is a better skier than she’s ever been. Just last weekend, she joined me skiing Powder Bowl, a black diamond at

Me and Mom

Crystal. And she killed it.

My earliest book also showed a picture of her stepping out of the shower. Only her beautiful runner’s leg poked out from the shower curtain. It was supposed to be an “embarrassing” moment in the biography, revealing the innermost secrets of the subject. But in fact, I was proud of her. She had great legs. She was beautiful, and she was my mom.

My mother, Clare, is still beautiful. She has supported me, comforted me, cajoled me and pushed me. She has been my coach, my mentor, my confidante. I remember a conversation I once had with my grandfather, her father, about her. She would always be

My Beautiful Mom

his little girl, and I loved answering his questions. He wanted to know if she still held the same outlook she did as a young girl. “Is she happy,” he asked. “Does the light in her eyes make you smile?”

“Yes,” I told him. “Her smile makes me smile.”

I’m a very lucky daughter; I have a fabulous mom.

6 responses »

  1. Kim

    You should be getting new snow this mothers’ day morning–lucky you.

    You are also lucky to have such a wonderful mother who had a lot to do with who you are today. That is a special tribute that should put a tear in your mothers eye and pride in her heart to have such a caring and loving daughter.

  2. Sam,
    You’re right. I have a wonderful mom. She taught me all the important stuff. Perhaps this little tribute here might make up for all the worrying she’s had to do over me.

    • Well, Kimbo, I can’t stop crying and all these tears of joy are messing up my mascara. I am so very proud of who you are and what you do and I feel so grateful that on Dec.7, 1970, you entered my world and changed everything for me. You have given me such unimaginable pleasure all of your life. I love you to the sun and the moon and back again a million times. Thank you for your tribute eventho you lied about how I skied on Powder Bowl last week. I was just lucky enough to be skiing with you. Come home safe and sound, my Hang Ten child.

  3. Good for you Kim, most often than not its the things you never said you regret the most, i know that because of the things i never said when i had the chance

  4. Pingback: Skier’s Thumb: The world’s most common ski injury? « Kim Kircher

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