Mom grew up just outside Ft. Worth, Texas. Her family was strong in the Cherokee Nation, and she always told me stories of the great triumphs and tribulations of the Cherokee. She felt it was important that we all remembered that we were of a noble heritage, each of us kids being half-breed.

I remember coming home very upset from school when I was 9 years old, after having been teased and picked on by classmates for being half Cherokee. Mom always told me that those kids just didn’t understand, and that I needed to hold my head up high, remember who I was, and to embrace life with all the passion and spirit of my ancestors. I remember her telling me stories that her grandfather used to tell to her when she was a little girl. Mom always had a special talent for this, for making you actually see the story in your mind. Many nights were spent in my house as a kid and teenager, listening to these stories out on the patio, looking up at the stars or sitting in front of the fire pit. These stories always had a way of making me feel better after all the ribbing I would get at school.

Mom was also a writer, an artist, and was constantly working on something. She wrote many stories and eventually wrote a novel. It was never published, mostly because she was afraid of rejection, even though she never actually admitted to that. She always said it wasn’t that important, and merely a release for her. She said the same of her blanket and tapestry weavings. She was taught how to weave by her grandmother, and most of our furniture was draped in her creations. One of my fondest memories was coming home from a friends house one evening, while Dad was working a case in El Paso, and hearing the clacking of the loom and Mom singing to herself in the sewing room.

Mom also had a funny side to her. Well, maybe weird is a better word for it! Shopping trips were common, as is the case with all families, but for the Hit Family, grocery shopping was an art. All of us would pile into the car and head to the store. On the way, Mom would explain the game plan, very much like a football coach designing a play. As Dad drove, Mom would lean over the seat and detail the trip something like this:

"Now, Bryan, take this part of the list and you head straight down the middle of the store, get the pickles and the ketchup, then hang a right and get the peeled tomatoes......oh, and don't pretend to forget the things at the bottom of the list again!"

I hated that last line! This always meant I was the one who had to get her woman things. To a 15 year old kid who was embarrased enough by how weird his mother was in the grocery store, there was nothing worse than this. I did everything in my power to get out of it, but by the time I reached 18, I'd finally developed a plan. As soon as the Hit Family hoot of "break!" rang though the air and we all began to disperse to our sections of the store, my sister and I would meet each other in the toilet paper isle and swap lists. Touchdown!

Another amusing thing about my mother was her culinary skills. Don't get me wrong, she's a fantastic cook, but she just has this way of serving the food that's, um....interesting. During a family celebration, Mom made her patented "Barn Burner" chili. This stuff has been known to make people with a love for spicy food dial 911 to get the fire department. Evem my Dad reached for the water, and he loved to eat jalapenos 20 at a time for a snack. I guess Mom figured that since everyone in the family all had at one time had something to say in reference to her chili and the onset of heartburn, she'd make a statement about it. She served the chili with all the goodies on the side, with cornbread, and a nice jello mold. Inside the jello mold, instead of the floating fruit, were full rolls of antacids.

My mother still lives in Texas, and even though she no longer has Dad, she still claims he's there to protect her in spirit. She also claims he still leaves the toilet seat up. Well, no one ever said Mom didn't have an imagination!