And speaking of dying, which I just did: One of the nicest tributes you could get without dying first my friend S’s mother just died.

I think she was 89. If not, trust me I’ll hear about it from the beyond. She was an absolute trip.

She never lost her Boston accent (after ~60 years here?), she was loud (as the mother of ~8 had to be) and she told it like she saw it. Her opinion of you could change and then veer back the other way without you knowing why it had changed in the first place.

It takes one strong woman to get to 89. I’m just realizing and understanding more lately the sheer determination it takes to get to be that—or near that—age; just how much shit you have to go through, like it or not.

Anyway, my friend called to tell me and she had a classic Sally story. It points out some definite differences between her generation and mine, that’s for sure.

I’ve been dealing with (and—whoo!—enjoying) “inter-generational” stuff lately, so this caught me a little from that angle, but mostly from the story side:

She’s been under hospice care for a couple of months. She’s dying, she knows she’s dying, and knowing her she still smoked up a storm (and I say ‘You go girl!’). She was also in a great deal of pain.

And do you know that she wouldn’t take all the pain medication—did I say mention she was on her death bed??—because she didn’t want to “get addicted“?!

Just let that sink in for a moment. That just cracks me up no end. It reflects some inter-generational differences fore sure, but more significantly, is all Sally.

I hope she’s now happy with her sons and husband and is queen of the world again.