My husband is as easy going as can be, so when he makes a request, I try my best to oblige. Last night he asked for Sunday pasta with meatballs. How could I refuse?
Homemade pasta with all the trimmings is something I can do with my eyes closed but when I first started out in the kitchen as a new bride, I had no idea what I was doing. Sure, I had watched my mother cook for years but itās a whole different ballgame when youāre on your own.
Iāll never forget the first time I tried to make Sunday pasta. Reading my motherās recipe was no help. This is exactly what she wrote:
For your pasta dough mix flour and eggs, water when you need, pinch salt, oil maybe.
Thatās it. No measurements, no amounts, nothing definitive. Her meatball recipe was no better:
Chopped meat, eggs, some salt & pepper, handful parmigiano, another handful breadcrumbs, dice onion, parsley, oregano, glass of water.
A GLASS OF WATER! Which glass? What size? At this point my eyes were frantically scanning the kitchen for a glass! I didnāt know if I should laugh or cry. Iām sure my mother never referred to a recipe in her life so she had no idea how to write one!
Just then it hit me and I had a vision of my mother in her kitchen. She always used a Flintstoneās Jelly Jar as her water glass when cooking; she said it was the perfect size. All I had to do was find an equivalent measure and Iād be good.
I eventually mastered the art of Sunday pasta with meatballs but I sure do wish I had my momās jelly jar .ā¦ for old timesā sake, you know?
My mother was coming for a visit ā just a couple of hours but enough time to give my house the once-over.
I gave up long ago trying to please Mom or meet her unreasonable expectations; nothing I did made her happy or proud so why even bother? Now that I was a mom, spending time with my kids was more important than keeping an immaculate house.
To my surprise, the afternoon with Mom was delightful. As she was leaving, she walked by the pile of shoes in my mudroom and announced with a huff, āNancy, you are such a disappointment.ā
It was December 17, 1997 ā one mere week after the birth of our first baby. This was to be a special time alone for Stephen and me; Christmas as a new little family.
Stephen set up the tree and brought down from the attic the decorations I collected over the years ā heirloom pieces lovingly given to me by his mother. Inside the large box sat a smaller box; cradled inside was a treasured ornament belonging to Stephen’s great-grandmother, a delicate crystal snow globe passed from one generation to another.
The sudden, unexpected knock on the door quickly jarred our tranquil mood. On the threshold stood my parents, suitcases in hand. My heart sank. Perhaps it was wrong of me but I loved my husband’s mother more than my own.
Stephen showed my parents in and the dynamic in the room instantly changed.
My mother had the ineffable ability of showing up at the worst time ā always unannounced, uninvited and unwelcome. I’ve often wondered if she knew how I felt about her surprise visits and didn’t care. Every event, momentous or ordinary, had to be about her.
Mother’s greetings were interwoven with recriminations about it being mid-morning and I was still in my nightgown. Then she swooped in, taking my sleeping son from my arms; disturbed, he wailed pathetically.
Turning abruptly to show my father his screaming grandson, the hem of mother’s coat swept against my cherished ornament, sending it flying.
It shattered; the jagged shards tore into my wintry heart.
āOrganized? You call this organized? I see books not positioned correctly on the shelves and why is there a bottle of Coca Cola sweating on your desk? There better not be any water rings on the wood. Now finish up in here; we haven’t got all day and my patience is wearing thin!ā
More anger and criticism rained down on me by my long-suffering mother. Living with her was neither fun nor easy ā it just was what it was.Ā
Mother was a strict, in-control-at-all-times perfectionist who rarely let her guard down or her emotions show, which is why what happened that ordinary day in August left both me and my sister bewildered, squinting our eyes, skewing our faces and scratching our heads wondering who this imposter was in my mother’s place.
Mother raised her arm above her head. Suddenly the sky parted, angels sang and a brilliant stream of light shone down upon an envelope in her hand. My sister and I stared in disbelief as realization struck. We hugged each other, jumped up and down, screamed and cried tears of joy for peeking out of that envelope were three yellow tickets that looked exactly like this:
Three passes into a world we only dreamed of, a place greater than any national treasure, a fantasy land more majestic than any shrine in the universe, tickets more precious than gold, frankincense and myrrh.
Clapping her hands twice, Mother brought us back down to earth. āHurry and get dressed. The show starts in four hours and traffic will be a nightmare. Dresses only, girls. No blue jeans and no shorts. And for heaven’s sake, wear your bras; you are not animals and this is not a free-for-all!ā
Oh, really?
Sacred tickets in hand, we jumped into Mother’s 1957 Ford Fairlane 500. It seemed to take forever to arrive and we sang one Beatles song after another. In the distance we caught our first glimpse of Shea Stadium glimmering in the glow of the setting sun like the Land of Oz, and the four wizards were there waiting to play just for us. Well, us and approximately 56,000 crying, screaming, hyperventilating fans.
We found our seats and finally had our first real chance to look around. Our eyes widened in awe; surely this was even more spectacular, more jaw-dropping than The Colosseum in Rome which we had visited just one month earlier. Finally, after waiting for what seemed a lifetime, television host Ed Sullivan appeared on stage and tried to speak over the roaring mass of adoring fans. These were the words he spoke that night: “Now, ladies and gentlemen, honored by their country, decorated by their Queen, and loved here in America, here are The Beatles!”
Pandemonium, a mania the likes of which was never witnessed before broke out as the most beloved musical group of all time ran onto the stage.
My sister and I grabbed our binoculars and raced to the bottom of our tier for a closer look. Hearing anything over the cacophony of the audience was almost impossible and we screamed and cried right along with everyone there. At one point I looked back, stunned to see my mother laughing and singing and dancing in the aisle! Whatthefuckedness?!
That night my world was changed; my greatest dream came true. I had reached Mecca, climbed Everest and walked on the moon. Being there was beyond surreal. It was the most electrifying and exhilarating experience of my life. That night remains etched in my mind and on my heart for all eternity.
Melt in my arms tonight, my darling, for youāre safe in this room here with me Rest your head on my chest now, my darling, think what tomorrow will be The moon is full now, my darling, the hushed trees making nary a sound As snowflakes and crystals descend from the heavens tenderly kissing the ground
The winter is here now, my darling, gone is the summer breeze song But the fire is warm, the blanket is cozy and Iāll cling to you all the night long Close your eyes and sleep now, my darling, for you know I will always be near Wipe the tears from your long golden lashes; ātwas a bad dream, thereās nothing to fear
Hush now, no more crying, my darling, only sweet thoughts swimming round in your head Youāre so precious, my darling, my angel, very small yet so safe in my bed Tomorrow is Christmas, my darling, and the reindeer will be pulling the sleigh With Santa and candy and toys made by elves and heās surely coming this way
We baked Christmas cookies, my darling, all arranged on the very best plate To place on the mantle, my angel, for Santa, his hungry tummy to sateĀ Whatās that you say, my sweet darling? Read one more story tonight? Yes, of course, my sweet little darling, for I know all things will be rightĀ
Just a short one, my sweet little darling, for the clock is beginning to chime It won’t be long now, my darling, youāll awaken to a wondrous time Are you ready, my precious, my darling, for the story of fairies and plums? Mommyās here, my sweet angel darling, and here Iāll stay till the bright morning comes
Itās always a thrill for me to open my page for guest posts and share some great writing. Today itās a special honor to present a very meaningful and personal story written by my sister, Rosemarie Houlihan. I believe her words will touch your hearts as they did mine.
Mom’s 90th birthday
If I believed in saints, my mother would be one.
Mom had a very difficult life. Her mother was an invalid requiring daily injections and healthcare which my mother gave her. Yet, despite my grandmotherās fragile health, she imposed rules and regulations which my mother had to follow.
As a child my mother did all the heavy household jobs such as scrubbing the marble steps leading up to the first floor of their three-family house. Her education was limited to the eighth grade because she had to go to work to supplement her fatherās income. Momās first year of work was as an unpaid apprentice dressmaker. She remained a dressmaker most of her life and her work was unparalleled.
When my parents married in 1939, they lived with my motherās parents. My father and grandfather worked conflicting hours, so Mom was always cooking a meal for someone.
A baby boy was born in 1941 but he had kidney disease and died at home at the age of two. War had already broken out and my father was called to serve. Married men with children were not being drafted at the time so all Momās aunts had their husbands and babies home with them. Mom was bereft, at home, caring for her mother and mourning the loss of her baby. She would sit on her bed folding and unfolding her babyās unused clothes. Her aunts saw what this was doing to Mom and convinced her to accompany them on an errand. While she was out, her uncles dismantled the crib and put all the babyās things in storage. Mom was furious when she returned but this act of tough love probably saved her sanity.
I was born after my father returned from WWII and then exactly four years later, on my birthday, my sister was born.
Throughout her life Mom cared for someone who was sick. Her mother, her baby, her father and eventually her husband who was ill for more than thirty years. When my great-grandmother Mada Rana found herself in need of care, my mother took her into our home and looked after her as well.
I was so used to my mother always sewing at home, doing alterations for friends and neighbors, making clothes for me and my sister, I thought nothing of āvolunteeringā her to sew all the ladiesā costumes for a Gilbert & Sullivan production at our high school. As busy as Mom was, she got the job done and became the official costumer for all our plays until my sister graduated high school.
Despite all she did for us, I remember feeling ācheatedā that my mom was not like other moms. She didnāt sit with us after school and chat; in fact, we never really ātalkedā. She was always working at something ā cooking, sewing, cleaning.
Into her old age Mom continued caring for my father ā and he was a handful! He was a good man but incapable of doing much. Still, Mom took great pride in taking care of Dad, calling it āher dutyā. Iāve often wondered if Dad was truly incapable or did he feel inadequate because Mom could do anything she set her mind to? Mom was a powerhouse and Dad may have felt overwhelmed. Who knows what he might have been capable of if given half a chance? Maybe he could have helped Mom but she didnāt know how to share the load.
When Dad died, Mom aged abruptly; she became overwhelmed with day-to-day life. The change was shocking but when I think about it, she relaxed for the first time in her life and just let go.
Throughout her life Mom never complained. She never cried, never shouted ā and everything stayed inside her, tightly sealed.
I am in a place now where I compare myself to Mom because my dear husband of 54 years has major health issues ā not only physical but emotional. And I am failing miserably at caring for him.
I say Iām failing because I do not have the grace that my mother had. I cry, I yell and curse, chastise and apologize and resent him while always loving him. I start each day saying I will do better, but he rarely smiles or says āgood morning, how are youā ā and, of course, I take it personally which I know I shouldnāt.
But it hurts. The man I married and looked up to is facing his inability to live as he used to. His eyesight has failed him, his memory is poor, his ability to do anything physical, mechanical, technical ā all gone. He feels diminished, sad, useless.
And I donāt know what to do.
Oh, I participate in a twice-monthly caregiversā group and it is cathartic. I make promises to myself. And when I ātalkā to my mother, the memories of her ability to cope often come to me. And I listen.
It was unseasonably warm for November; the sun was brilliant with only a few wispy clouds scattered here and there, but the autumn leaves swirling in the wind were a reminder that winter was just around the corner.
I decided to take a walk in the nature trail near my house. I didnāt like leaving my elderly mother home alone for too long but she was having one of her lucid days and insisted sheād be fine at home doing some sewing.
I wasnāt gone long when it started getting cloudy and cold. As I walked up the front path, I spotted my mother sitting in her rocking chair on the porch. She was busy at work, her sewing basket by her side.
āMom, itās cold. Come inside and Iāll put on the kettle for tea.ā
My mother looked up and smiled sweetly but her eyes were blank; I could tell she didnāt know who I was.
āOh, I couldnāt possibly do that. I need to stay here. You see, Iām waiting for someone and I have to finish my mendingā she replied.
āWho are you waiting for?ā I asked quietly, dreading her answer.
āMy husband. The war is over and heāll be coming home very soon.”
It was then that I noticed mom was repairing the zipper on my late fatherās WWII bomber jacket. Little by little, day by day, Mom slipped deeper into another era ā a time long gone but fresh in her mind as though it all happened just yesterday.
My mama was a wild child living on the wrong side of the tracks in the middle of Nowhere, USA. Her parents were AWOL most of the time and didnāt give a ratās ass about my mama. She grew up faster than any baby girl should have to and learned at an early age how to cast a glancing spell at the male population.
By the age of 15 she was pregnant with me. My mama messed around with so many men, she couldnāt even begin to guess who my father was. The promise of a million dollars or the threat of a gun to her head and mama still wouldnāt be able to name my daddy. The guys she hooked up with didnāt hang around for long and none of them was man enough to fess up anyway. Mama had sex, not relationships.
Mamaās only friend was Faye, another lost soul who lived the same impulsive lifestyle. By the time Faye was 16 she already had two babies so it was only natural that she be the one to help my mama when she went into labor. Nobody else gave a goddamn.
Faye lived in an abandoned motel which was home to a few hapless drifters. She did her best to keep the place as habitable as possible. Two dresser drawers with thin cushions served as beds for Fayeās babies. Faye was no whore and never took a dime from her gentlemen friends, only accepting candy, stockings or a small bottle of White Shoulders.
There wasnāt much Faye could do about her bed ā a discarded Petri dish of a mattress. Whenever she could do laundry, sheād wash the one and only sheet she had. In-between washings sheād just flip the sheet over. Thatās where my mama labored with me for two long days. Faye told mama to grab the sides of the mattress. āI wonāt lie to you about the pain, honā she warned. āHang on, this is going to hurt. A lot.”
My mama screamed and cried and cursed; Faye never left her side. A couple of curious women from the next room would pop their heads in but it was just Faye and my mama on their own. Finally, when it was time, Faye gently drew me out and cleaned me up before giving me to my mama.
The cops knew about the motel but as long as there were no illegal activities, they turned a blind eye. They even arranged for the utilities to stay on ā better than having people living in the streets just because they were down on their luck. Every week the local pastor and church youth group would drop off food, toiletries, diapers and detergent. Thankfully there were some people willing to lend a helping hand.
Everyone said I was the most beautiful child theyād ever seen. My face and green eyes were identical to my mamaās but her hair was straight and blonde, her skin like cream while my hair was a cloud of dusky curls, my skin the shade of warm butterscotch. My coloring divulged my fatherās race, nothing more.
We stayed with Faye until we started cramping her style, then we moved into an adjacent room. The adjoining door made things convenient; mama and Faye took turns babysitting when the other had company. Mama used a drawer for my bed, just like Faye did.
When you live in an environment like mine, itās hard not to be influenced. I saw and heard things no kid should and before I realized it, it became ingrained in my soul. By the time I was 13, lots of mamaās boyfriends were checking me out and I liked it.
One steamy summer day, mama was next door putting highlights in Fayeās hair. I was alone resting on the bed when Hal showed up. I liked him; he came by often to see mama. Hal asked me where mama was and I told him. He sat on the bed stroking my hair. I smiled and gave him that look mama always gave her men. Hal slid the straps of my sundress down my arms, revealing my breasts. He gently touched one, then the other. He tongued one, then the other and I got a warm feeling down low in my belly. I arched my back and moaned softly. Hal slipped off my panties and sat me on his lap; there was a momentary sharp pain. I learned what to do at my mamaās knee and it was good.
There was one man whoād come around the motel; heād sit in his big fancy car looking out the window. He never left the car except the one day he saw me sitting outside on the stoop. He came over, gave me a peppermint candy and said I was the most gorgeous thing heād ever seen. He asked what I was doing living in that dump. He said with his know-how and my looks I could make lots of money, live like a queen in a big fine house and never want for anything ever again.
This man wasn’t telling me anything new. I smiled just like I smiled at Hal. The man smiled back and lifted my chin. He studied my face intently and said I’d do very nicely. This pompous ass actually thought I needed his know-how; he was mistaken. I already knew how. All I wanted was a ticket out of here, to live my life doing what I was good at and to make lots of money. Let this fool think whatever he wanted to think; he would learn soon enough that I knew exactly what I was doing.
Two days later the man in the big fancy car came back. He opened the car door; I slowly walked over and slid in. Glancing up at my motel room window, I saw my mama staring down at us. When Hal sidled up behind her, she laughed gaily, turned her back and fell into his arms.
Mama had set the stage for me and now I was ready for the show to begin.
If you are reading this, I am no longer with you. Thereās so much I wanted to tell you when I was alive, so many things I needed to explain but the words failed me. Now I find myself in the early stages of dementia and know this is my last chance to say the words you needed to hear.
You know my life was not an easy one and I learned at an early age to keep my emotions in check. I was always theĀ Ā practical one, keeping everyone and everything in line and doing my duty for the family. If you think I did not realize you cared for your father more than me, you are mistaken. Your father was a weak man and a bit of a buffoon. I was the one who was in charge of the household finances; left in your father’s hands, we would have ended up in the poor house. I was the one who pushed him into getting a job with the postal system; honestly, how can anyone expect to make a proper living as a barber? I know you enjoyed the “fun” times with your father but that just wasn’t reality.
You may have felt that I was stern with you and not a simpering, doting mother; perhaps I was harsh but that’s the only way to raise young girls to become strong women. I never had a care or worried about you because you were the defiant and rebellious daughter, unlike your sister who is too much like me. I think I always knew you would become your own woman and nothing like me. Having seen you with your own children, I know Iām right.Ā
Please know I did the best I could. I did love you even though I never could bring myself to say it. I hope you know that.
Your MotherĀ
August 18, 2009
To my mother:
Iām writing this letter knowing it will never be sent. Youāre gone now so who is there to send it to? But some words need to be said.
It was rough growing up thinking I was unloved by you and there were times I hated you for that. For a long time I thought it was something I had done.Ā I’ve learned it was something you couldn’t do ā let your guard down and show me love.
My teens years were the turning point for me because I got out of the house and away from you. You know my mother-in-law was a very different type of woman; warm and kind, we formed a bond and I found in her the mother’s love I desperately needed.Ā
How I resented you and your aloofness! What a shame … so many years wasted. Now as I look back I feel sorry for you. Deep down I believe you loved me; you were just too afraid to show it. I’m living a good life, Mother. I have a loving family and we’re not embarrassed or afraid to say “I love you”.
You’re wrong about Dad; I didn’t care for him more than you. I loved him and he adored me even though you kept him on a short leash and told him it was unmanly for a father to fawn over his daughter.
Iām happy to say I’m nothing like you. I hope you can rest in peace, Mother. I will not spend the rest of my life wondering about what might have been.
The Elephant's Trunk 