Kathleen Leonard-nee-Kammerdiener: a tough Southern mother with a Californian's mysticism

The day Mom died, I was wrapped up in myself, specifically my dissertation for a master's program at King's College London. That is both the downfall and the joy of this story. Mom, originally reluctant to support my goal of coming here, rallied round and became my loudest cheerleader. I called her out of the blue on the 22nd. 'I don't want to alarm you,' she said, 'and I wouldn't have told you but you called -'

'Yeah?'

'But I'm about to have a procedure done. The test the other day showed a 50% chance of a blockage; but last time it turned out to be a shadow.'

I really wish I'd asked more questions, demanded she stop right there, like that would have helped.

I won't go into long details here. She apparently did not need to die that day. She did not have the blockage at all. In other words, she could have gone to have lunch at What-a-burger and had a long chat with me instead. Now she's in a morgue at a hospital in WACO.

Mom was born August 15, 1939 to Leonard and Susie Kammerdiener, in Denton, Texas. She was a beautiful, blue-eyed child with two older brothers, Norman the eldest, and John. She would move a lot as a girl, both because my grandfather got various jobs throughout Texas, and purportedly, he had a temper according to Mom. He was also warm, generous and loving. The family finally settled in Alice, which is where I spent much of my youth, from baby up to aged 26. A few years ago, Mom left California, where she raised me and my brother, to go buy a huge house on a parallel block to where she had lived as a teen. It had a tropical feel to the backyard, with an expansive cool pool to swim in. When my fortunes faded a couple years ago she wanted me to come live with her. She knew I was also trying to squirrel away money to get to King's College here in London.

Oh how I'd whine when I thought my life was stuck with Mom! Everything from the humid air to Cadillac-sized cockroaches filled me with ennui, often stultifying. I'd bitch, overeat, take the car for long drives. I joined a coloring group. Then the year I didn't make it to King's - I got sick and couldn't make my biometrics (fingerprints) appointment - Mom insisted I get a good job. How I managed that I am not quite sure, but I did interviews remotely, landing a reporting position outside DC.

When it came time to leave Alice, I made a video in the backyard, cried as I said goodbye to her elder cat Luzie (who would die this past Christmas), and have a final meal with Mom at our favorite restaurants, Chili's and El Jalisiense. The long drive to San Antonio with my cat meant passing miles and miles of stark, stuck-in-time landscape, replete with tumbleweeds and cacti. Dead armadillos in South Texas are a given. Ditto deer heads at your local rest-stop.

At 77, Mom was still doing yoga in her bedroom, swimming daily. She looked incredible and attracted male attention. People often remarked that she had to be my sister. There was a time when I hated that, but no longer. I knew it was a difficult road ahead, but leaving had many benefits. I'd find an excellent apartment outside DC, gain more work experience, and restart tennis lessons, all with a notion that I'd finally get to London to grad school. That is where I am now, as I said, finishing up my dissertation.

Mom had plans to move back to the Bay Area in early September. I was worried about this move, as I'd recently told my uncle, but I also knew her soul was there. I have an email from her stating how much she missed the beach. I had cried when she sold her Sausalito condo. I wonder now if on some deep level, I knew something about Texas would kill her. I never trusted its level of sophistication of care for the elderly, even though I appreciated the slower pace being more conducive for Mom. When I saw the house, I relished the space, pool, rosebush, and a bit of a social scene at the coloring group I had joined at the local library. Mom and I would dine on What-a-burgers occasionally, and many times on the weekends I'd make a recipe from either Anthony Bourdain's cookbook APPETITES (may he rest in peace) or Rachel Ray's spaghetti and meatballs. 'These are the best meatballs!' Mom said one day, lying on the couch as she ate. That was Mom in a nutshell: anything I did was better than anyone else could have possibly done. She called me 'Peachie' and told me to 'keep dreaming,' as her Mama had told her. I didn't like the implication that my plans were 'dreams' and we'd fight over it. Most recently when I called from a hospital exterior in London to describe a local Victorian and outdoor rosebed. 'Mom, I want to buy one like that and fly you out when I get a good job.' She: 'That's a nice dream.'

My mother could have been a 'Baylor Beauty' but she was shy and didn't follow up with whatever the nomination process was. She had been her salutatorian at Alice High, where her mom taught Geometry and ran the yearbook club. At Baylor she majored in Education and would become an elementary school teacher before getting her MS in counselling at San Francisco State. After a stint as a counsellor, she'd return to teaching, this time in Hercules, California, north of Berkeley. I always knew that my being connected to some of her former students would pacify me one day following her loss. I was right. Many have written. One student remarked: 'Your mom always made me feel heard.'

I cannot think of a grander compliment. I hope a little of her has rubbed off on me. I've been snappish and impatient following her death. Even in happier times, I've never had the gift of gab and natural grace she possessed. But I owe it to this lovely, artistic soul to strive every day to give to others what she gave to me, my brother David, and her many students. She painted and she wrote short stories, sang beautifully and played the piano. She was not a fan of American football, but was happy for me the night I got to watch Tom Brady lead the Pats to a win. I kept running into her room to share the score.

Thank you, Mom, for all the laughs.