my mom

My Mom

My sister and I were lucky. We had such a good mom. We thought she was perfect. No one is really perfect. Not even good moms. Sometimes they fall off of the pedestal we have put them on. But our mom didn’t stay off long. She’s crawl right back up there and do something amazing and in our eyes she would be perfect again.
She was born in 1916. She grew up in the roaring 20's, a beautiful blonde who could Charleston with the best of them. She and my dad, (her childhood sweetheart) would dance at the Inglatara., the local dance hall.
In my generation, tt became the Ing, a roller rink where my childhood sweetheart and I went to skate.The same floor my folks did their dancing.
When my dad was 18, he worked for Mr. Logli at his first grocery store on Broadway. One night he called my mom and said, "I’m going to Belvidere to pick up some chickens. Come with and we’ll get married." She did and they did.
Afterwards, he dropped her off at her home and no one knew for three months that they had gotten married. Her dad was a cop and I’m sure it took that long for them to get up nerve.
The years flew as they do for us all. Mom was a meticulous housekeeper and a great cook. . Those were the days when you waited for Dad to come home and ate together. There was a routine for the house: wash on Monday,(with a wringer washer and hang outside.), iron on Tuesday, bake on Wednesday, grocery shop on Thursday and clean on Friday.
She could cook, that woman. I’ve praised her "orange spaghetti", and Texas Sheet Cake many a time. Her cole slaw was second to none; except for Deb’s who learned how to make it from her.
One of our favorites was something she didn’t cook, only orchestrated. During the week we would go to the farm with my grandparents to get milk right from the cow. She would put the milk in our big yellow Pyrex bowl and leave it on the counter for several days. It would then be sour milk with sour cream on top. She served it with hard dark Lithuanian rye bread, gotten at Labunski’s Bakery. Yogurt never tasted so good.
Sundays was always roast for dinner. It had to be chuck. The roaster came out, the meat and vegetables went in. Several hours later, out of the oven came the dinner you tell your kids about. I still have the roaster. I can make the chuck, but not like my mom.
I’ll end the food frenzy with her from scratch lemon pie. The tartness would make your jaw lock and ears ring. Now that was a lemon pie you talk about.
There were times she would make me nuts. Her "disease to please" would get out of control and she was all over the place trying to make and keep everyone happy. I didn’t stay nuts very long. She tried so hard and in the long run, she was almost always right.
In her younger days, she was the hardest worker I ever knew. She took care of family, in-laws, worked as a secretary, and helped my dad in their tavern. That included Friday night fish frys. I don’t know how many potatoes she peeled or how many cabbages she grated to serve the hungry customers who loved her cooking.
She wasn’t your typical mom and grandmother. She had a few vices, and the time and place being right, she could be a pistol. Sometimes we would be embarrassed the way she danced around the house. If I could only see her dance now.
After the tavern was sold, and they moved to the lake: she did take the time to smell a few roses.
On occasion, on a quiet week-day, she would take some of the grandkids up to the Spa where they would be allowed to play a game of pool, and have some chips with their Orange Crushes.
She would sit on the stool, one skinny leg folded around the other, smoking her cigarette, and sipping her one whiskey and water. (She did not do the driving). She watched the pool game, thoroughly loving every minute of her afternoon outing with the kids.
She was pretty until her dying day, her blonde hair only going white after she quit touching up the blonde of her youth. Even into her 80's, when she got up in the morning, she fixed her hair and put make-up on before she started her day.
Into her 83rd year, she quit smoking. But she still had her sips. Medicinal, you know.
And so it goes. The circle of life. Her legacy is one of the love for her family that never dies.. I told her once that she did so much for us, and what could we do for her.
"Pass it on." she said simply. "Do for yours." I’m trying, Mom. I’m trying.
On May 10th, 1908, the first Mother’s Day was declared and celebrated. Whether you are a busy young mother with toddlers pulling at your apron strings, or a ninety year old mom with a kid of 70, on this one hundredth anniversary, I wish you a Happy Mother’s Day.
Remember. And Enjoy