Paula (Moo) Brower, born on May 7, 1947, drew her last breath on September 22, 2011.  She was surrounded by love during her last days from her siblings, Ken and Michelle Holmes, and her two children, Tara Degeal, 32 and Ryan Brower, 34.  She was in no pain on this or her last several days at Care Partners Hospice in Asheville, NC.  She died during sleep, and at peace. 

She had been battling cancer of the lungs, thyroid, and finally spine which spread to her brain and could not be treated.  She was in constant pain until her final admission to Mission Hospital, where she stopped fighting and decided to live out her last days in comfort.

“Beat it, you kids,” I can hear her say.  And we would.  Growing up, you knew Ma meant business.  She was not strict, she simply meant what she said.  She raised both her kids to be polite, well mannered, and behaved without so much as a smack on the bottom.  I remember perhaps one or two times in my life where she grabbed me in anger.  That was all I needed.  It didn't happen again.

As we got older she decided that we were who we were, and nothing she could do would change that.  She gave my sister and I immense freedom to come and go through our teenage years, and soon our house became the neighborhood hang-out.  She loved people and enjoyed having them around.

You had a good time with Ma.  No matter who you were, she put you at ease.  I've never met anyone with such an accepting, open of being.  Save, perhaps, her dad, my grandfather.

She carried the legacy of her dad into the next generation.  A legacy of deep belly laughs, acceptance, fun, thick skin, and non-conformity.  I remember once when she was driving around with a beer in the car and we were passing a police station.  We were old enough to know that you had to hide it and told her so.  With a slight smirk and a glance over she simply said, “salute”, and took a big swig. 

People loved her.  She was quick to bring in strays, either Siamese kitties or friends.  In high school we knew quite a few of them, and she was always happy to accommodate friends who got kicked out for one reason or another.  All her life she was an island of respite for misguided souls who needed someone in their life who didn’t judge them.

She was a bastion of advice in relationship matters.  People were her forte.  Just the shortest conversation led to astoundingly astute advice that shed light on issues of the heart.  One of the last conversations I had with her was to mend a broken heart, which she helped me with, while racked with pain and unable to get out of bed.  This was her true passion, and something she never quite solved for herself.

Her advice was never given unless asked for, but when you did ask, you were the better for it. She had tremendous insight, an uncanny ability to cut right through the crap.  

Otherwise, she was content to observe, without passing judgment.  She would fool you.  Just when you thought you were getting away with something, she would call you out on italways with acceptance and love.

 She never forgot a birthday.  Growing up, she made each one a time of celebration.  The years when we weren’t near we were always sure to get a full birthday song, you could count on it.  She never forgot a single one.  Every year she would pledge, “This year we are all a little too broke, let’s just do cards.”  And every year you would get a little something.  Maybe it was a gift certificate to a place you never shopped at, or a bag of candy we liked when we were kids.

She loved art and music.  Tina Turner.  Michael Jackson.  Salvadore Dali.  Every year for Christmas it was my tradition to buy her a new art calendar.  I finally learned to let her pick one out, and she would spend days sorting through websites to find one that caught her fancy. 

She was a hell of a card player.  Sharp as hell and teasing all the way through the game as she whipped up.  I don’t remember a time when I beat her at spades.

Paula, Moo, PJ, Ma, she was always and no matter what, herself.  That was my mother.  You took it or you left it, and she wasn’t going to apologize or wear a mask.  Perhaps this was her greatest gift, her honesty.  At times intense, or stubborn, or any number of things which we all can be, but always Ma.  When you saw her, you knew you would get the whole person, not a picture she wanted to paint, or a better side.  

It was a love well lived, and well loved.  I picture her now, taking a sip of vodka and diet and laying down her cards with a flourish, cupping her hands to her mouth to begin her victory song:  “Dooo dooo, doo doo doo, doo doo doo….doo doo doo, doo doo doo, doo doo doo, do.” 

Sa-lute to you Mom.