The Bill Williams Studio building, now occupied by Prestige Portraits, overlooks the busy intersection of Crooks and Main with its glossy sample portraits beaming from the windows at passing traffic. Every time I drive past it, I can't help but think about my mom.

Trained as a photographic color artist, my mother once applied transparent oil tints to sepia-toned portraits of local brides, babies and high school graduates. She freelanced for Bill Williams Studio when I was growing up in the 1960s and 1970s, back when Bill Williams himself owned the business.

That was before photographic portraiture was changed by the use of color film.

If you graduated from high school in the same era, I’ll bet you’ve got a hand-tinted graduation photo of yourself stashed away in a family album. Chances are, if your photo was taken at what was then the Bill Williams Studio, my mother was responsible for painting it.

Crack open your old yearbook again, and you'll notice how the senior portraits of your classmates are remarkably similar: The guys are forever captured in suits and ties, while the girls look frozen in pearls and crewneck sweaters, their hair sprayed into submission with Aqua Net. You can almost hear the Beach Boys crooning "Good Vibrations" in the background, can't you?

A creative mom, ahead of her time

I can still picture my mom working at her portable "studio" at home – a small table with an easel placed next to a window overlooking our backyard. I’d often watch her squeeze a rainbow of transparent oil paints onto a glass palette, then apply delicate washes of color to her assigned graduation portraits.

In those days, few women in our neighborhood had careers other than motherhood and housekeeping. Always creative, Mom believed it was important to have work of her own, yet she also wanted to “be there” for me when I returned home from school. I once heard her tell an envious neighbor that she felt lucky to have what she called “the best of both worlds.”

Even so, her deadlines were relentless, especially before the Christmas and graduation seasons. Twice a week, she’d pack her finished portraits in yellow Kodak boxes and deliver them to her supervisor at Bill Williams. Visiting the studio with her was always a highlight – once I got used to the weird chemical odors wafting from the darkrooms.

There was the memorable time, too, when Mom arranged for the formidable Bill Williams himself to shoot my portrait. It was 1972, my hair hung straight to the middle of my back, and I chose a Jessica McClintock peasant dress for the occasion. A tall, balding man, Mr. Williams put me totally at ease during the shoot, which is one of the secrets of good portrait photography. Later, my mother applied a heavy brush background to the print, making it appear as though it were an oil painting. Today it hangs in our hallway upstairs, a constant reminder of my carefree hippie days.     

My bouts of teenage rebellion were few and far between, however, and I was always proud of my mother – proud to say, "My mom is an artist."

While she didn’t realize it at the time, she also inspired the freelance writing career I began in the 1980s after my son was born. She showed by example that a mother can nurture her family without postponing her other creative dreams. For that alone, I owe her a debt of gratitude.

Reversing roles and facing changes

These days, it’s my turn to take care of Mom. Now in her 80s and widowed, she  hasn’t lifted a paintbrush in years.

Last year, she was diagnosed with a complicated set of cardiovascular issues, including early stage dementia. As I write this, she’s recovering from congestive heart failure at William Beaumont Hospital, and it’s a bit too early to predict when she’ll be well enough to come home.    

Like other baby boomers taking over health care decisions for their parents, I’ve got a new list of questions a mile long. When is it time to take away Mom’s car keys? Or to consider assisted living? How will I find the energy to be fully present for her when my emotional tank is running on empty?

Thankfully, my mother’s internist agreed to order an evaluation from Beaumont Hospital’s Geriatric Clinic late last year.  The clinic deals with health challenges and lifestyle issues that are unique to the elderly, providing tips and resources based on the needs of each patient.  To say it’s been a blessing to receive this additional advice would be an understatement.  

Meanwhile, when it comes to caring for my mother, the best thing I can do is to remain as flexible as I can – just as she did when I was a young girl in need of her attention.

Being the daughter she needs right now isn’t easy, but every day, I’m learning how to be in a different relationship with her. Just as Mom taught me years ago when she worked at home as an artist, I improvise as I go along.