It has been almost a year since my mother’s death and it was sorting through the pieces of her life that motivated me to begin this effort. Beatrice Olivant was 39 when I was born, which was later in life than most in the 1960’s. By the time I have conscious memories her hair was graying and the generations separating us very apparent. Yet from the stories I have been told over the years, she was far from boring in her day. Indeed I think it is safe to say she has a rebellious streak, typical for the oldest of five children. Often she told me of the day she and her cousin Ernie painted the car body my grandfather had been working on while he was at work. That when her father came home and saw it the first words from his mouth was her name is telling. My mother was a people person and always was chatty with those around her. Life threw my mother many unfair curves over the years but she always made the best of whatever situation she found herself. When faced with an unfamiliar situation, my mother rose to the challenge. As a child it’s hard to imagine your parents as children, indeed difficult to see them for the people they truly are I will always regret we ever did get to this point. However there was never a mother who cared more for their son or was more willing to sacrifice than my mother.