My mom, Jeanne Randolph, was born in 1925. When she was 18, she fell madly in love with my dad who was nearly twice her age, but had horses and played polo for the Oakbrook Country Club team. They had seven of us kids — first three girls and then four boys. I’m the eldest, but undoubtedly not the wisest. In 1960, my father committed suicide leaving my mom with us seven kids ranging in age from 14 down to 1-1/2, and a very small life insurance policy. She perservered. On January 17, 1964, she died of cancer. Two months later, my grandmother succumbed to cancer, and the next year my grandfather passed away. We had never known my father’s family. He always said even if they left him a million dollars he never wanted to see them again. So, we grew up orphans and maybe are a little tough. All but two of us graduated from college — working our way through. We lost only one of the lambs who became involved in drugs for several years. My youngest sister dragged him kicking and screaming into a more productive life.
This post is for my mom — enduring, wise, artistic, funny. Miss you mom . . .
