Ronda Rich

Syndicated Columnist

It is a line that Tink and I quote often, always with a shake of the head. We will carry it to our graves. A dear friend of ours — a successful entertainer from a storied family — had a cruel mother who left her children to figure out food, school and life for themselves. This friend grew into a fine, honorable man because, I suppose, it was born into his genes from both sides of his family. It was not, as agreed by everyone who knew his mother, taught by her. Or demonstrated by her actions.

While reading his recent memoir, I gasped then laughed while reading a chapter about his mother. I walked upstairs and read the line to Tink. His mouth dropped, he shook his head. He had known her fairly well.

“That’s tough but…” Our friend had written, “our alcoholic, drug-addicted, waste-of- skin mother” then he continued on with a story that would be unbelievable except we know it to be true.

She, now laid in a grave for several years, was the exception.

Most mothers are good, decent, well-meaning.

This Mother’s Day season, I’ve been thinking a good bit about my precious friend, Sue Holliman. Oh, how I loved her.

We were brought together by tragedy but that tremendous sadness held us closely together for over 35 years.

Her son, Jay, was one of my best friends in college. Jay Holliman always had a twinkle in his eyes, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth — even when a professor was frowning at him over the lack of seriousness with which he took his studies — and his wit was one of the quickest I ever encountered.

I don’t remember how many colleges had already invited him to leave from matriculating in their institutions. Two, perhaps.

Or more. I dragged him through marketing, English and business math classes. When he passed his courses, he always treated me to dinner, then when I managed to get him to graduation, he threw a big party and declared I was the guest of honor.

“I prefer showing horses but thanks to Ronda, I may get a real job.”

He did, using his enchanting personality to become an extremely successful salesman in the grocery business. Until he wound up in the hospital in his early 30s, I did not realize that he was born with a rare blood disorder that caused him to have thin blood. A paper cut was a big issue for him.

In the hospital, he was being treated. He sat up in the bed that fateful night, laughing and actin’ the fool, happy that he might be released the next day.

“Go home, Mama, and get some rest. I’m fine,” he said to Sue.

Convinced he was, she went home for a good night’s sleep. At 3 a.m., the phone rang. A doctor broke the news. A blood clot had gone to his lungs.

“It was a peaceful death,” he said softly to an inconsolable mother.

From that day forward, Sue Holliman clung tightly to two things besides her daughter, husband and family: A gold, extremely fancy ring that Jay had won for a national horse competition and me.

Once over a Christmas lunch, the year that my Mama had died, I reached across the table and, wordlessly, touched the championship ring. She looked down.

“I always wear it.”

I had on Mama’s engagement ring. “I always wear this, too. It keeps them close, doesn’t it?” Our eyes misted.

When her voice returned, she clasped my hand tightly. “And, you keep Jay alive for me. You will never know how much it means to have you so close in my life.”

One Friday night well over a year ago, Tink ran into the room, phone in hand. “It says ‘Sue Holliman.’” I answered to hear Lucy’s tortured sobs. Unexpectedly, Sue had left us.

Again, I had lost a good Mama.

Ronda Rich is the best-selling author of the Stella Bankwell mysteries. Please visit www.rondarich.com to sign up for her free newsletter.