Category Archives: Mom

September 23, 2014 · 0:00

A Sunny September Day

“It is September 24! You’ll catch your death.” Mom declared. “You may not go swimming with your friends.”

“Moooommmmmmm.”

I couldn’t believe it. I’d finally, finally, finally been invited to the cool kids beach by Cathy, a seriously cool girl. And Mom was telling me that I couldn’t go. Or that I couldn’t go swimming, which was what people do at the beach.

We compromised. I got to go to the beach with a promise not to swim. A promise I was planning to break just as soon as it was out of my mouth. Mom wouldn’t be there – she’d never know. And she didn’t until much later.

Mom was being ridiculous, I thought – it was a warm September day, in the 80s. A perfect, last beach day of the year.

In spite of growing up on the beach, I was (and am) a rotten swimmer. I never really learned to get very far or very fast. I splash around in the water in something a half notch above a dog paddle.

But I love the water.

Early on I learned to back float forever. When I tire after my first 10 strokes, I turn over, point my head in the direction I want to go, and meander through the water. I watch the gulls overhead, see pictures in the clouds, daydream. It’s wonderful. Relaxing. Peaceful.  Not at all tiring.

In elementary school, Burying Hill Beach was where the cool kids went in the summer. It wasn’t my beach.  I was not generally invited there. But when school started that September, Cathy took a liking to me, and invited me to meet her and some other friends there.

In fact, there were tons of people at the beach that day. It was likely to be the last sunny, warm day for swimming at the beach. Everybody in 7th grade was there. Everybody in our class and all the other classes. The beach was packed.

For some reason I don’t recall, Cathy wanted to swim in the causeway that runs between Burying Hill and Sherwood Island State Park. All the cool kids did it. At least when the life guard wasn’t looking, they did. In fact, it was probably what the lifeguards spent most of their time doing all summer long – chasing people off the jetty and away from the causeway. Of course it was late September; there was no lifeguard. We were free to swim wherever we pleased.   As we stood there considering the other side, we heard half-hearted warnings from behind us, which, naturally, we ignored. We’d crossed to Sherwood Island earlier in the day. What was their problem?

Google Image, Natch.

Google Image, Natch.

“Race you across!” said Cathy. And in she went.

Ingrid and I looked at each other, shrugged, and dove in after Cathy, who quickly outpaced us. Soon, I was left far behind even mediocre swimmer Ingrid.

It had been really easy to swim the causeway just an hour or two ago. Even I managed it.  But of course, the tide had ebbed, and was now going out. And while the water looked completely placid, the tidal current was heading straight out. Fast.  And it took me with it, out towards Long Island, 30 wet miles away.

But don’t worry. Remember, I am a champion floater. Possibly the best back floater ever.  Olympic-quality floating.  (Hey, synchronized swimming is an event.  Don’t judge.)

I wasn’t scared in the least. I turned over on my back, pointed my head towards shore (I had long since passed the end of the jetty) and started kicking my feet and flapping my arms. I was making good progress, getting out of the strong part of the current. I was heading to Long Island a little more slowly. And besides, it was a beautiful day, the water was warm, the sky was blue. It was delightful. And I knew I’d make it back to shore. I only hoped I’d make it before dinner. I was supposed to be home by then.  If I didn’t make it, my mother’d kill me.

I don’t know how long I was floating, enjoying myself, when I was rudely interrupted. Some man just swam up to me and started shouting stuff to me.  At me.

“Put your arms around my neck,” he ordered. “And don’t be afraid. I’ve got you now.”

“Afraid of what?” I asked. “What does this guy want?” I wondered. Fortunately, I kept that thought to myself.

But I did as I was told for the first time that day, and held onto his neck. I must admit, that it was easier to see the crowd that had formed on the shore while my head was above the water.  What’s everybody looking at?

So the man towed me in, chatting all the while.

“You’re very calm. Some people panic,” he said.

Frankly, I was more panicked about having my arms around a strange man, to tell you the truth. That’s why people panic, I thought. It was quite humiliating, in fact.

As soon as we got in, somebody else immediately wrapped me up in a towel and started rubbing my arms and back as if I was suffering from hypothermia.

“I’m OK!” I kept saying over and over again. Why is everybody making such a fuss? I wondered.  What’s the big deal?  I would have made it.

I imagine I thanked him. I’m sure I did. Positive. I mean, I do have manners. I just can’t remember thanking him or anybody else.  I thought they’d overreacted.  (They hadn’t.)

It seemed that Cathy had made it to the other side. Ingrid, like me, had gotten back to dry land on some other unknown man’s back. I vowed to become a better swimmer, because it really is embarrassing to be hauled out of the water like a flounder.

I learned not long afterwards that Jenny L’s father had been the guy who fished me out.

Each of us went home, vowing never to tell our parents the story of that day. Nobody told.  Strangely, nobody else let our parents know, either.  Life was better when nobody was a tattle-tale.

But just like the promise I broke to my mother that day, I broke my pledge of silence.

I told Mom in 1982 when she was staying with me after my operation.

“What?!?!” she shouted. “Somebody saved your life and I didn’t even get to thank him?” She was mortified. Laughing, but mortified.

“You would have killed me yourself if you’d known at the time.”

“You are in such trouble for going swimming when I told you not to.”

“Mom, this happened in 1968.”

“… wait until I tell your Dad.”

 

*     *     *

 

In a couple of weeks I’ll be going to my 40th High School Reunion. I sure hope that Jenny’s there, and that her Dad is still alive. I hope that I can at last pass on my parents’ deepest thanks, and my own, for his unheralded rescue.

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June 15, 2014 · 0:00

What’ll I Do?

“I have to believe,” Dad said smiling, looking across the table at the lot of us.  By an amazing coincidence (school vacations) we had an unplanned family gathering — all seven of us, plus respective spouses and grandkids there in Florida at the same time.

It was bitter-sweet, though, we all knew would be the last with all of us together.  Mom was fading quickly.

The laughter and individual conversations and one liners quieted down as we all expected Dad to give a toast.

“When I look at all five of you,” Dad paused, smiled, put his arm around Mom, “I have to believe … that your mom and I — are at least first cousins.”

The crowd roared.

My Dad wasn’t much for sentimentality.  He was a wise-ass, and a very funny man with terrific comedic timing.  But in his heart he was a romantic.  And he loved those sappy, romantic songs from the 1930s and 1940s.  Of course he did, he fell in love with Mom when she was singing them.

Actually, Dad wouldn’t tell me how he met Mom.  Well, he told me how they met many times.  A different story every single time I asked, with the more outrageous ones coming out if Mom was in the room.  It became a wonderful game for the two of us.  How he met the girl of his dreams.

“Dad?  How’d you meet Mom?”

“One day I found myself whistling a happy tune, turned the corner and saw her and figured out why I was whistling.”

“Dad?  How’d you meet Mom?”

“Who?”

“Dad?  How’d you meet Mom?”

“I was just walking down the street one day, and she chased after me.  She never DID let me go.”

“Dad?  How’d you meet Mom?” I asked when I was hospitalized for the first time.

“She was singing in a show.  She was the prettiest thing I’d ever seen.  So I went back stage.”

I don’t really know if that was the real answer, but I suspect it is.  Because Dad always had a soft spot for those old torch songs.  And he loved to hear Mom sing them — which she did with such style, even if she was washing dishes as she sang.

So here, for Dad and his lady, is one of Dad’s favorites.  I can remember him telling me the story of Irving Berlin and Ellin Mackay.  They fell in love but her father disapproved, and sent her off to Europe.  He wrote this song and married the girl.

Happy Father’s Day to my Dad, to my Husband (a wonderful Dad) and to all of you Dads.

(And Frank?  You guessed it — John HATES this song!)

 

 

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December 22, 2013 · 0:00

Home for Christmas, Again

She told the story every year with a warm smile on her face.  Sometimes her eyes got a little bit misty.

“It was 1943, and the War was on, and your father was in the Navy, on a ship somewhere in the Pacific.  We never knew where he was.  Like all the other boys I knew, he was in danger every day.  We lived for the mail, we were terrified of unfamiliar visitors in uniform.  A telegram sent us into a panic.  And ‘I’ll be home for Christmas’ had just been recorded by Bing Crosby.  It was Number One on the Hit Parade.”

That’s how Mom started the story every time.

Of course I’ll Be Home For Christmas was Number One that year.  Everyone, or just about, was hoping that someone they loved would, in fact, be home for Christmas.  That all the boys would be home for good.  But all too many people were disappointed.  I doubt there were many dry eyes when that song came on the radio that year or for the next few.

Mom and Dad got engaged right around Pearl Harbor Day, but the War lengthened their courtship significantly because Dad enlisted shortly after the attack.  It was to be a long war, and a long engagement.  But Mom was in love with her handsome man.  If possible, I think that Dad was even more so.

Mom, Circa 1943
Mom, Circa 1943

My Dad was drop-dead gorgeous, and I have heard that in his single days, he was a bit of a ladies’ man.  Every girl in town, it seemed, had a crush on Dad.

Dad, Circa 1943
Dad, Circa 1943

In fact, my Aunt Sally once told me that she had been manning a booth at a church bizarre one Saturday in about 1995, when an elderly woman came up to talk to her.

“Are you Freddie E’s sister?” the woman asked Aunt Sal.

“Yes I am.  Do you know my brother?” Aunt Sal responded.

“I did,” she sighed.  “I haven’t seen him since we graduated from high school in 1935.  Sixty years ago.  He was,” she stopped to think of just the right word, “… He was dream-my.”

“He still is,” Sally quipped.

One day not long after after Mom had passed, Dad and I were looking at some pictures I hadn’t seen before.

“Dad,” I told him with wonder looking at a particularly good shot, “You should have gone to Hollywood.  You’d have been a star.”

“Nah,” Dad said.  “Mom would never have gone with me.  And once the war was over, well, I wasn’t going anywhere else without her.”

Dad circa 1935
Dad circa 1935

Dad never quite got over feeling lucky that he had Mom.  And he never stopped loving her.

But back to Mom’s story.

“It was Christmas morning, 1943, and I went over to visit Dad’s mom and dad.  Grammy E’d had symptoms of Parkinson’s Disease for seven or eight years at that point.  She could still move around (she was later, when I knew her, almost completely paralyzed), but she could barely talk.”

Mom continued.  “But your Dad’s mom was singing ‘I’ll Be Home For Christmas.’  Well, she was trying to sing it, any how. She kept repeating that one line, over and over again.  ‘I’ll Be Home For Christmas.’  I thought she was crazy.”

“You see,” Mom would say, “Your father had somehow managed to get Christmas leave – he was coming home!  He wanted to surprise me and wouldn’t let anyone tell me he was coming.  He was expected any minute, and there I was, trying to leave.  But I couldn’t stay.  That song made me cry; Freddie was so far away, and in so much danger.  I couldn’t bear hearing it.”

So Mom left after a while, she had other people and her own family to see.  Later Dad caught up with her and they spent most of Christmas together.  Both of them always smiled at the memory.  Dad was home for Christmas that year, just like in the song.  It was a magical year for them both.

Mom was always touched by Dad’s surprise and by his mother’s loving gesture in fighting back the paralysis that was taking over her body to try to get her son’s girl to stay.  To sing when she could barely speak.

“I’ve always wished I’d stayed.”

We lost Mom on Easter of 1997, and Dad really never got over her passing.

The song and Mom’s story took on an even more poignant meaning in 2000.  Because on Christmas of that year, Dad joined Mom again for the holiday.  He went “home” to Mom for Christmas again, joining her in the afterlife.

Even through the sadness of losing Dad on Christmas, I always have to smile when I hear that song.  Because I can just see the warmth in Mom’s eyes now as she welcomed Dad home.  This time, I’m sure she was waiting for him with open arms.

*     *     *

This is another re-posted piece.

Happy Holidays to all of you — May 2014 be a Happy, Healthy year for all of us.

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December 19, 2013 · 0:00

Both Sides Now

“The Season” makes me crabby.  Grumpy.  Irritable.  I’ve come to hate it.  Everything about it.  I hate the music, the crowded stores, the decorations.  I especially hate the decorations.

Last year a friend stopped by our house in the middle of December.  “God, it’s December 15th,” I said to her, “and the only decoration I have up is the wreath on the door!”

“I don’t think that counts, Lease,” responded my husband John. “You didn’t take that down from last year.”

“Oh, yeah.”

Tonight, I’m looking around at my undecorated house thinking, “uggggh,” not “Ho ho ho!”

It wasn’t always true, though.  I used to be one of them.  I was a veritable Christmas Elf.  I baked, I decorated.  I embroidered Christmas stockings for the whole family.  My son Jacob and I built gingerbread houses that did not come from a mix or a box and were actually made of gingerbread stuck together in the shape of a house!  My friends got a bottle of homemade Irish Cream liqueur.  Some used it to get their kids to bed on Christmas Eve.

But mostly, I sang.  The records, tapes and CDs came out on Thanksgiving.  From the moment I woke up the day after Thanksgiving, until New Years, I would trill away.  “White Christmas,” “Do You Hear What I Hear?” “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas.”  I belted “Mele Kalikimaka” when I had an established escape route to avoid people trying to punch me.  I know the words to all 18,423 verses of Frosty the Snowman.  I would start singing in the shower and keep going until John tackled me and put duct tape across my mouth, usually at about 8:30 a.m.  Regardless, I’d start up again the next morning.

If the current, Crabby Christmas Me got a hold of the old Merry Christmas Me, I would slap myself silly.

So you see, I do understand the Christmas-sy part of Christmas.  The love, the joy, the traditions.

But now I see the other side.  And it’s that “tradition” part that is to blame.

You see, my family’s always been fairly competitive.  My mother and her sister Ruth were particularly so.  They’d argue at each shared Sunday dinner over a million things:  whose gravy was better (my mother’s), who cracked the best one-liner (always Aunt Ruth – she was a hoot), and most traumatically for me, whose young daughter was taller. (Duh, Maureen was almost a year older than me – of course she won every time.  But you’re not taller now, are you?  And you’re still older, Maur.  You’re still older.  How do you like it??)  Darn, I wish I’d missed the competitive gene.

When I was a kid, Aunt Ruth was high on the list of my favorite relatives.  Now she’s tops on an altogether different list.  And it ain’t Santa’s list, neither.

Because Aunt Ruth started a family tradition.  A competition.  But it’s not a family tradition I recommend, especially during the Christmas season.  In fact, it should have a warning, although I’m not sure where you’d put it:  Don’t try this at home.

You see, Aunt Ruth started the tradition of kicking the bucket on a major holiday.  What fun!  Great idea!  Not many families do that!  Hey, we are DIFFERENT!

Knowing Aunt Ruth, I’m sure her last thought was “Doris, you’ll never top this one!  I’m dying on Thanksgiving!!!!”   She was no doubt a bit miffed when my mother joined her a couple of years later.  Because, not to be outdone, Mom arrived in the afterlife on Easter Sunday.

Their party really got going when we reached Y2K, and my sister Judy died unexpectedly on my birthday in January.  Now, you might argue that my birthday is not, technically speaking, a holiday.  Not a paid day off for most folks.  But hey, in my book, this qualifies.  So there.

As time went on, there were fewer and fewer holidays I could celebrate.  The only big one left was Christmas.

Guess what happened on Christmas, 2000!  Yup, Dad reclaimed his spot at the head of the table with Mom, Judy and Aunt Ruth. Dad trumped them all.  Or because it was Christmas, perhaps he trumpeted them all.  Maybe both.

I must say I am rather ticked off about it all.  Sort of changes the tone of the Holidays, you see.  I plan to have words with all four of them, next time I see them.  And I will not be nice.

In the meantime, celebrating holidays, well, it just seems so odd to me.  Especially Christmas, because Christmas is so stuff-oriented, and most of my Christmas stuff is from them.  It takes a bit of the fun out of decorating.

For a while, I considered joining the Eastern Orthodox Church.  That way I could celebrate the same holidays, just on different days.  I could keep all my Christmas crap!  I could decorate!  I could bake!  I could sing!  But then I realized that the change would just give us all additional high priority target dates, and I don’t have enough family members left to meet the challenge.  So Eastern Orthodox is out.

At the same time, I also realized that, when Dad hit the Holiday Lottery, the whole tradition had to stop.  Because I’m pretty sure that biting the dust on, say, Columbus Day, just wouldn’t cut it.  So why bother?

Nevertheless, this whole thing has made me decidedly anti-Holiday.

There is one holiday I still look forward to, though.  Groundhog Day.  I just can’t figure out what sort of decorations to put up.

 *     *     *
When I first posted this piece two years ago, my blogging buddies didn’t know whether it was safe to laugh at it.  It is. 
This is a reprise — it’s one of the most healing pieces of writing I’ve ever done.  I re-posted it for the two new followers I have and the 1,242 robots who have started following me since I first put my blogging buddies in the awkward position of not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

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December 12, 2013 · 0:00

It’s the Thought That Counts

Mom was known for her gift giving skills.  Yup, my Mom loved to lavish people with gifts.  Unfortunately her lifestyle and her taste were anything but lavish, and you could tell.

Plus there was the fact that she really didn’t like to shop.

When the five of us were teenagers and lived at home, Mom gave up on picking out the perfect gift for us.  She knew that we wanted cool clothes and that she would never be able to tell the difference between what was cool and what subject us to ridicule.  High school is especially hard for kids whose mothers buy the wrong clothes.

But when we all grew up, Mom re-discovered Christmas gift giving.

She would start shopping in September or October, ordering this that and the other thing that she found interesting or fun or different.  When she ordered something, she wouldn’t necessarily have someone in mind to receive it; she just liked it.  And she just knew that someone else would too.

Generally she was wrong.

You see, in spite of the fact that she developed a new love of gift giving, Mom still hated to shop.  So Mom ordered exclusively from the mini-catalogs she found in Parade Magazine.

Google Image

Google Image

You know how most of the gifts you’ve received over the years recede in your memory? I’m guessing that the gifts from grandparents nearly always fell into that category.  My niece and nephews, however, all remember what Grammy gave them.  We still talk about them, every single year.

I’m not sure whether the most memorable gifts arrived in 1984 or 1986.  It’s a close contest.

In 1984, I spent Christmas at my sister Judy’s house, with Jude and her three kids.  There were three contenders for best Mom/Grammy gift that year:

At the age of 12, my nephew Matt got cereal bowls for his gift.  Cereal bowls formed out of multicolored plastic cabbage leaves.  In addition to the fact that it wasn’t exactly what Matt had been hoping for, there was something weird about the bowls themselves.  While each of the 4 or 5 leaves that formed the bowls started wide and formed a perfectly usable bit at the bottom of the bowl, the leaves narrowed as they went up, separating about an inch and a half from the bottom.  Therefore whatever started in the bowl didn’t stay inside of it for long.

Not at all interesting or artsy. Just messy. (Google image)

Matt’s was not at all interesting or artsy. Just messy.
(Google image)

Nate, Matt’s younger brother got another “Grammy Special” that year.  Nate was 7 and Mom sent him a package that read:  “Twist Ties WITH CUT-TER.” And you know, it was a good thing it was clearly labeled.  Because we would still be wondering what the hell that spool of green wire was for, even with the picture of the garroted tomato plant on the cardboard that the spool of Twist Ties was twist-tied to.

My sister Beth’s two boys, who were then 14 and 16, got the same presents.  And they loved them just as much.

That same year Judy and I found two identical small packages from Mom.  One for Judy and one for me.

“Good things come in small packages,” Judy said mischievously.  “Let’s save them for last.”

Of course we did just that.  But Judy was faster than I and got the wrapping off hers first.  It was a little green plastic box that said “Judy” “Judy” “Judy” all over it.  Inside was a pair of gold earrings in the shape of the letter “J.”

I unwrapped mine.  It said “Elaine” “Elaine” “Elaine” all over the box.  Inside were gold earrings in the shape of an “E.”

Yup. I still have them!

Yup. I still have them!

“Ummm, Mom?” I said to her later on the phone, “You forgot my name.”

“No I didn’t,” Mom said with a chuckle.

“Yes you did.  You gave me Elaine’s earrings.  My name’s Elyse.  And you forgot it.  My own mother forgot my name.”

“I DID NOT,” she responded, “But you know, they did have boxes at the store with just a plain old “E” on them, but I didn’t want to get that.  It just seemed so boring!”

Mom was never boring when it came to gift giving.

Another memorable year for Mom gifts was 1986.  You might recall that 1986 was the 100th Anniversary of the year in which the French had given the United States the Statue of Liberty.  It was also the year John and I got married.  So Mom decided to celebrate all kinds of events with one special gift for her new son-in-law to welcome him to the family with the perfect gift for the new man in the family.

Mom gave my new husband John a “Statue of Liberty Commemorative Switchblade.  A knife.  One with a locking blade, so that if/when he stabbed something, the blade would lock in place.  What better gift to give to a new family member?

“Is John supposed to use this on me, Mom?” I asked.  She didn’t think I was funny.

 

 

Image from Ebay, because after all who wouldn't want one of these?

Image from Ebay
You know you want one

A Statue of Liberty 100th Anniversary

Commemorative Switchblade

*    *     *

In the years since Mom’s been gone, various family members (OK, just me) have tried to capture the spirit of the incredibly bizarre gifts Mom gave.  But sometimes, mere mortals have to just accept that they can’t possibly compete.

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