I'm now seven years older than she was when she died at the age of 56. Had I died at that age, I would have missed the births of the younger four of my five grandchildren; missed the holidays and casual times with my children and their families; missed my friends, my work, my hobbies, my travels, my very life!
Mom wasn't around during the bleakest years of my life, partly caused by her passing which made me confront my own life issues, and eventually leave my marriage. I didn't know how to make the best of what I had, so I fell short. I have images of Mom always trying to make the best of it, too; but also somehow always falling short.
She wanted to travel, but never did, except for one trip to Australia and New Zealand that my brother and I gave to her and dad one Christmas. I might be wrong, but it seems that was the highlight of her life.
She was very social, but dad didn't like to have company over. He thought the house was always a mess. With two adults and an eventual seven children living in about 1000 square feet of space, it probably was always a mess, or close to it.
Mom always said she had "champagne taste, but a beer budget." And it was probably the beer that soaked up their budget since Dad didn't like to come straight home from work and usually stopped off for a couple of brews with the boys first. His after work stops sometimes led to several hours of brews with the boys, a late night home, and midnight arguments—not the life mom had imagined at the age of 20 when she was about to marry the dashing Navy chief who was seven years her senior.
After Mom had the first three of us, she wanted to get a job outside the house, but Dad, according to her, said, "No wife of mine is going to work!"—a reflection of the macho culture of the early '50s and the military pride that leads a man to have to prove "I can do this! I don't need your help!" Instead of a job in an office or factory, she went to work in the baby factory, having another four children over the next 15 years.
Yes, I remember mama ... hamming it up for the home videos, kissing an orange picked from our backyard tree in December in sunny San Diego (National City) so the family back in frozen Schenectady New York could see how great life was here; knitting granny squares for the sweaters and throws she would give away for Christmas or birthdays; head down over bills, trying to figure which to pay now and which could wait a bit; on the phone to the school to find out why one of my brothers had detention and telling them what they could do about it....
I remember her telling me about getting a phone call from my school when I was in first grade. Thinking it might be a friend of hers, she thought it would be funny to answer with a line she had just heard. "Phil's Bar & Grill. It's your nickel. Start talkin'" she slurred into the receiver with a lot of fake Bronx attitude. She then about melted to the floor with embarrassment when she heard, Mrs. Filimon? This is Sister Angela from the School of the Holy Angels."
I remember going to live at my aunt's and uncle's in Schenectady after high school and working at the G.E. plant there. Mom told me that her best friend Mary Johnson hinted afterwards that maybe I went away because I was pregnant, which was far from the truth. My mom told Mary to go to hell. Not sure they spoke after that.
I remember Mom's friends Mamie and Tony, an hispanic couple who lived a few blocks away and were godparents to my brother Jonathan. Mamie and Tony were foster parents over the years to a couple of dozen kids whose photos covered the living room wall in their home. For me, being raised with six younger siblings, I was amazed that someone would actually invite that kind of chaos into their lives; but the two of them seemed very loving and happy. I'm trying to recall if Mom ever told me how they met, but I can't. They lived down the block from Mary Johnson, so maybe that was the connection.
I remember that personal conversations were missing between Mom and me.
I was probably about eleven when I mentioned to her that my chest felt weird, like there were doughnuts under my skin. She didn't tell me I was growing breasts. No. She suggested I'd be okay if I just rubbed Vaseline on them.
One summer between my 6th grade and 7th grade years in school, I was sitting in the living room, watching TV when a Playtex bra commercial came on. Mom was behind me at the dining table, doing something, when I ever-so-casually said, "I gotta get me one of those." She sort of mumbled an "okay" and we soon afterwards went to buy my first bra, a 34B—and it was snug! Looking back now, I wonder how long she would have let me go bra-less before taking me shopping.
When I asked her how babies were born, she had Dad get a library book for me: Being Born. I read it and still didn't quite grasp the whole idea, only remembering that my folks got a library book for me. I asked a friend of mine what was meant by "the birds and the bees," and was told to ask my parents. Of course, that never went anywhere....
I remember that Mom always wanted more for me than she got for herself in life. She wanted me to go to college, and I did start, but dropped out my first year with pneumonia.
She wanted me to travel, which I did somewhat, but years after she died.
She wanted me to wait to get married, which didn't happend since I married six weeks short of turning 20. I had my son exactly three weeks after I turned 21. Mom had me one week before she turned 21. My Grandmother had my mom about 4 months after she turned 21. It seems we had a pattern going there—for a few generations, at least.
Yes, I remember mama. Something I don't stop to do often enough these days. I love you, Mom!
