Happy memories with an invitation to dance I

T was Mother’s Day in the United States and my wife Maria’s brother, Tony, and her sister, Virginia, followed the American ethos of celebrating the occasion with a home visit, even though she died a few years ago.

This is not as odd as it sounds as the urn containing her ashes was placed in a niche in a columbarium.

The word derives from Latin, is an old reference to dovecotes and is a public way of keeping remains with easy access. It’s a growing practice across the pond.

Maria’s mother Pat grew up in Blackpool, lost her first husband when he was only 39 and emigrated to America with her second husband. She had the ditziness and sense of humour of Lucille Ball.

The sense of humour was inherited by her children. “If I ever go doolally, shoot me,” she said.

“But mother, how will we know?” her son Tony replied.

Tony and Virginia have lived in America for years. When their mum died after a long illness five years ago, Tony phoned Maria and said: “You know what this means don’t you? We’re orphans.”

As Mother’s Day approached, Tony phoned Virginia and said: “I’ve got the perfect card for her.”

On the front was a pair of high heel shoes which reflected their mother’s passion for dancing.

In her home town of Blackpool, during the war, she loved nothing more than to cut the light fantastic in the Tower Ballroom.

When they got to the niche in the calm grounds of the columbarium overlooking the waters of Puget Sound in Washington State, Tony opened the cellophane packet and took out the card so they could both write a message inside.

Virginia says: “When we opened it, the message said ‘Congratulations on your Graduation.’ Trust my brother.”

They both signed it anyway with the thought that their mum would have appreciated the humour.

As Maria said: “Well, dying was a sort of graduation after all.”

Happy Mother’s Day, Pat.

Pat had the ditziness and sense of humour of Lucille Ball. The sense of humour was inherited by her children.