For Mom

For varied and interesting reasons, Mom had a life goal early on— to be the Best. Mom. Ever. When she met Dad, marriage immediately seemed their destiny, at least to her. But since Mom was 14 and Dad 16, he demurred, and, with the help of World War II and a couple of surprisingly inferior, interloping fiancées, they put off the inevitable for five years. They called each other Peachie (Dad) and Red (Mom), and as a modest sign Mom had made the right call, Dad showed the wedding reception caterer how to make the coffee. This was gonna be one heck of a team.

From then on, Mom made Donna Reed, Jan Brady, and Marge Simpson look like pikers. Starting a household on just $17 a week, Mom was a champion baker who let her kids “help” with the making of most cookies. She hosted dinner parties Betty Crocker would have fawned over, including one where the pet dog was licking the faintest hint of spilled Jell-O off the dining room wall while Dad’s boss was there. Otherwise, the house was always fastidious, she ironed everything, and her mastery of every in-vogue card game was legendary.

She also made Ali look weak.  When her oldest son developed cancer, she was bedside. When he later divorced, she was a listening ear. When leukemia came while he was in Dallas, she kissed Dad goodbye, calling home every night, until her firstborn left her too soon.

Mom also made hay out of life’s little moments.  She knew the names of the dry cleaner’s kids, and no repair person left without having a cup of coffee or having shared their life’s story. As a grandparent, she showed up for Grandparents’ Day at school wearing the salmon suit (with matching heels) her grandchild loved.  Trouble was, she was a week early.

She came back the next week, in the same, cleaned, suit.

Mom was a keen letter writer, and had talent. When she purchased a package of higher-priced hot dogs to get her kids a special prize that turned out not to be in the package, she wrote the company. Two weeks later, they sent two dozen of the prizes in return.

Her one published piece was a concert review. I worked as a stringer for the local paper, covering arts events. Mom was an administrative assistant there, and I don’t remember if I couldn’t cover this one, or if Mom was simply feeling inspired. Either way, she asked the boss if she could write about the Fred Waring concert (one of Mom’s musical favorites), and he said sure.

It put me to shame.

I caught glimpses of Mom’s writing more often once she got a home computer.  She wrote in fits and bits, but this remarkable woman— this woman who gave up her hometown so her kids could go to a better school, who stared teachers down if they dared cross her babies, who soothed her husband through every night of an unexpectedly uncertain end of a career path— was her own worst critic as a writer.

And that is the world’s loss.

I wrote five books when Mom was here, all designed for my profession, and she generously edited four of them. Her estate left enough money to write another book, a collection of the first hundred posts of Six O’Clock Sky. This, the 100^th story on this blog, is the dedication.

This is for you, Red, one diffident writer to another.  Give Peachie my love, and tell my Big Brother the Lions finally made the playoffs two years in a row.

Life’s Meaning

Love
Is so strong
It is soft.

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