Remembering My Mom

💜 Remembering My Mom 💜
She passed December 3, 2022, and today I found myself sitting with the weight—and the weirdness—of that again while preparing to move back to Colorado. My dream that she wanted for me too.

Sometimes I still get the urge to call her—to talk about something random… or even about her dying. Other times, it feels like she’s not really gone, just off in California enjoying the beach.

She loved the beach and the sand so much. At one point she told me, completely serious but laughing, “You could just put my ashes in a fancy sand bucket—but make sure it has a lid. You wouldn’t want me going everywhere.”

We actually talked about it a lot—whether her ashes should go in the ocean, in the Mighty Mo, or be split between California and Nebraska. She dreamed of a metal beach bucket filled with Pacific sand and tiny shells, with a sealed jar nestled inside. “Not a normal urn,” she said. “Something original. A midwestern farm girl who adventured her way to heaven.”

It was weird, tender, and very her. And it makes me smile now, remembering how even in death, she wanted to be surrounded by beachy beauty, sand, shells, and a little bit of whimsy.

I’ve been searching but not able to find it. So for now she sits on my book shelf in the container the cremation people put her in… inside the just right size purple canvas bag with their logo, that I loved and found so ironic so asked for an extra one. She would have thought it fitting.

Our relationship wasn’t perfect. It had layers. But one thing was always clear: she loved me in the loudest, most expressive ways she knew how.
When we were together in person, she made birthdays special with cake, balloons, even streamers and treasure hunts. When we were apart, she always sent a card and made a Facebook post reminding me I was her “miracle,” her “princess,” her “treasure,” and that she was proud of me. And she said it all in purple hearts and ALL CAPS—with enough flourish to fill a novel.

One of my favorite things she ever wrote to me was:

“You’ve come a LONG ways from the little girl with her Kool-aid stand on the side of the mountain trail in Colorado!”

She wasn’t wrong. That little girl built something bigger than either of us imagined—but she was the first person to believe I could.
And funny enough… I just found these old photos of that Kool-Aid stand. Barefoot. Focused. Ready to serve.

That scrappy little setup on her organ bench on a untraveled mountain trail in Colorado was my first “business,” and now I get to move five miles from there. So honestly? Not much has changed. I’m still here, building from scratch, figuring it out as I go. She saw that spark in me before I knew what it was.

She wrote so many stories and once had a column in a small rural newspaper. In 2007, I made her a website to put them all, and she wrote about the experience—and me.
Reading it again today brought tears. It’s now one of my favorite pieces she ever wrote:
https://vickioneal.com/those-pesky-keys-to-success

To make things even harder, my grandmother passed away just one week before my mom. She’s in a couple of these photos too—holding her dog, surrounded by granddaughters, wearing that same warm smile – if we could catch it.

Then a few months ago, we lost my grandfather too. Three of the most instrumental people in my life—gone within the span of a few years. Now, it’s just me and my sissy, Mystia Skirmont holding the line.

Now my sister and I are the ones inheriting the farmhouse she would’ve received next. We’re sorting through decades of history—hers, ours, theirs. Every room holds echoes of them: the trinkets, the rocks (sooo many rocks!), the hard-times prep done wrong, and the photos tucked in drawers. She’s so present there, it almost feels like she just stepped out to water her gardens and will be back any minute.

But we’re not just cleaning up a house.
We’re reclaiming something sacred—something broken, yes, but still worth saving.
We’re not just preserving what they left behind—we’re growing from it. We’re healing. We’re choosing to break cycles, face hard truths, and build something healthier than what we came from. And we’re doing it together.

These photos remind me of the good parts.
The silly parts.
The roots.
The echoes of love—even when things were hard.
So here’s to her: the messy, adventure-driven, gypsy-like soul.
And here’s to me: still growing, still healing, still carrying forward the best of what she gave me.
No matter how complicated things were, I never doubted that she saw me as someone special.

I love you Mom, and miss you so much! 💜