🎄 Preview of this week's On the Fly blog: A Holiday Tribute to Mom.
As the holidays hustle with pixels and beeps,
the world scrolls along in a smartphone-y sleep.
I log off for a moment—just one little minute—
To breathe in the past and to sit myself in it.
My mind doesn’t wander to faraway places,
Or trips full of tickets and new airport faces.
Instead, it drifts backward, as memories do,
to Cuba, Illinois, where the best moments grew.
Where my mother—dear “Marcie”—put love to the test. With a smile that could melt the most frigid of dawns, and hugs that hung on you like shivering fawns.
She came from La Rochelle in France, brave and bright,
Across oceans and war shadows, into new light.
A town full of strangers soon felt like her own,
And her courage built up the foundation of home.
“Oh yes, we know Marcie!” the locals would say—
“It's Doc Ball’s French lady! She brightens the day!”
She cleaned, and she cooked, and she cared with great cheer,
Raising three bounding boys . . . then one more that year.
Michèle came along in December’s cold glow,
And our home filled with sweetness we’d yet to outgrow.
While we boys made a racket—a thundery roar—
She added a calmness we’d not had before.
Dad rose before sunrise, his pottery job calling,
While Mom kept our household from falling.
Beds made and socks sorted, no mud on the floor—
Somehow she managed it all (and much more).
She cleaned homes in town as we learned and we played,
Yet she was always home waiting as daylight would fade.
Dinner would simmer, our home warm and bright,
A beacon of safety that glowed through the night.
Cuba was magic—its streets full of cheer,
Kids biking about without worry or fear.
Snow made it sparkle, the Square shimmered too,
A Mayberry village where kindness felt true.
And through it all—every season, each year—
Mom’s love was the compass that kept our path clear.
Her courage, her laughter, her soft, steady hand,
Taught us what it means for a heart to expand.
So this Christmas, we cherish the gifts that don’t end—
The love of a mother, a compass, a friend.
If you seek your own spark, let your mind gently roam
To the people who built you, who made you feel home.
For me, that was Cuba. That’s the family’s call.
That is my mother, Mauricette Elaine Ball.
I’m Patrick Ball. Happy Holidays to all!
(Read the complete tribute this Friday.)
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