Wednesday Notes, May 7, 2025
Missing my mom as Mothers Day draws near . . .
My mom died three days after Christmas. It was my senior year at college. Her passing left a big gaping hole in my life. She missed my graduation, my marriage and the birth of my children. I so needed her at all those times and every day.
A year after my mom died, my dad, a naval architect and now retired from the US Navy, remarried, plus designed a new class of boats called passage makers. The first passage maker was built in Hong Kong. Dad and Linford sailed around the world then settled in Carmel, California.
My dad wrote a book about his new class of boats he called passage makers. It was published in 1975 ( There is now a fourth edition, his original work plus new chapters by a coauthor.)
When my dad died twenty five years later, my stepsister said furniture that was his would be packed up and sent to me.
In the fullness of time a monstrous moving van maneuvered its way down my older residential shady street in Ocala, Florida. It was so tall that the top of the truck clipped off oak tree branches.
The mover unloaded my family dining room table, the one that can expand with five leaves. It has fun history. I have written its story here.
The out came a big rectangular shape, heavily bubble wrapped. Once in my living room, the mover took out a box cutter and began stripping away layers of bubble wrap.
Finally, what was underneath was revealed – my mom’s dresser. I didn’t even know it existed. I assumed since my dad had sold her Steinway grand piano (my mom was a concert pianist) that everything of hers was gone.
I took one look at her dresser and started crying.
Wait. There is more. When I open the top left hand drawer, where she kept her beautiful silk slips, the ones with lace on top and along the bottom, I could smell the lavender sachets she used to put in that drawer. More tears.
Her dresser now sits in my bedroom, a daily reminder of my mom. I am grateful.
Below is a blog about my mom, part of my memoir book entitled Wednesday Notes published in 2021:
Wednesday Notes, December 30, 2020
I miss my mom. She was my best friend, a good listener who did not judge, just listened, with sympathy, offering much needed advice (not always heeded).
Mom died three days after Christmas long ago. I still have the urge to pick up the phone and dial a very familiar number so we could talk.
Lucy Maude Ord Beebe was first and foremost a California girl, growing up in San Diego. She swam a lot, once training for Olympic tryouts with long swims in the Pacific Ocean. She always planted flowers wherever we were stationed (my dad was career US Navy).
Mom’s DNA explains why I am a masters swimmer and happiest in my garden. I miss the flowers that always bloomed around my mom. But she left a legacy.
Being married to a naval officer meant moving a lot. Mom bought California poppy seeds, the ones that produce those bright orange blossoms in springtime.
When we’d be driving through faraway places like Idaho and Wyoming my mom rolled down the window and cast seeds into the wind. Five hundred years from now archeologists will try to explain how California poppy seeds ended up blooming in the foothills of Wyoming and Idaho. I could tell them the answer. My mom.
Like many in California who were serious swimmers, mom spent less time in the pool and more time in open water.
One day on a training swim in the Pacific she swam alone (not a good idea) for over a mile straight out from shore. Then leg cramps hit her hard. She tried swimming for shore using only her arms but current and waves kept her in place. She was fading.
Calling for help, she heard no response and saw no one nearby. Then dolphins arrived and surrounded her. One dolphin put a fin under one of her arms. Another dolphin did the same with her other arm.
They gently lifted her up to the top of the water and guided her to shore, then swam away when her feet touched the sand.
She would tell this story of the day dolphins saved her life. I am grateful to them. Years later my mom and dad got married and here I am. None of this would have happened without the dolphins.
I too have a dolphin story. Eight years ago, I came to Sarasota from my home in Ocala to attend a travel writers conference. Taking an extra day to write local stories I found myself crossing the John Ringling bridge on a Sunday morning, windows down, inhaling salt air.
Runners and walkers crossed the bridge both ways. Bikers slowly climbed the ascent, making this bridge one of the few hills around Sarasota.
Suddenly I said out loud: “This is where I am supposed to be.”
Shocked me. I never saw that coming. And by the way no one else was in the car. Went home to Ocala and told my pastor that story.
He said: “Oh, you have been called.”
“Called to do what?? I asked.
“You will figure it out when you get there,” he responded.
I came back to Sarasota to look for a place to live. Sitting in the Bird Key parking lot I dialed the number of a realtor that a friend gave me. As the phone rang, I saw dolphins leap out the water right in front of me.
She answered the phone saying “hello, hello” but I am speechless. Seeing the dolphins, to me, was a sign.
I managed to answer the phone. Liz Nason, an awesome Realtor, and I connected. Liz found me the perfect small home. Three months later I moved to Sarasota.
I have to say I am so grateful to be here, near the water, where dolphins leap and new beginnings are possible.
©2020 and 2025 Lucy Tobias
Coming next week in Wednesday Notes: Just this past week a clerk in the garden section at Lowes home improvement tried to convince me it was time to buy a barbeque grill . . ..summer must be here.
ah, I too lived aboard - an old Chris Craft crusier ( back when they were solid mahogany) and then a houseboat. And yes a Passagemaker would have been a dream come true. Did get to spend some time on the original.
Great story about your mom and dad. I have lived aboard three of my sailboats over the years. I always admired the Passagemaker designed by you dad. I viewed it as a trawler with auxiliary sail power. Would love to have had one, but way out of my budget.