59 Mother’s Days

This Sunday marks my mother’s 59th Mother’s Day. As she often says, she couldn’t have done it without me. As this year’s tribute to her, I want to share a few of the special things she did for me and my siblings as we grew up.

Almost twenty years ago (has it been that long!) the five of us put together a little booklet recounting many of the memories we had of the special things she did; everything from the smell on her hands after cutting up onions that one of my sisters loved to creating fabulous award-winning Halloween costumes year after year.

Mom, still on occasion, makes homemade cinnamon rolls; Bisquick, sugar and cinnamon and butter rolled up and baked to perfection. There is no other cinnamon roll that compares in our minds. She also spoiled us terribly by making individual meals for anybody who didn’t like that evening’s fare. She became a short order cook in essence because we were a finicky bunch and she allowed it.

Mom was involved in all our school projects, from smoking volcanoes to art projects and she saved almost all our school papers. Sometime in my early thirties she gave me a box of school art papers and homework papers that she’d saved from Kindergarten on. It was like receiving a microcosm of my life to that point, and something I still cherish. I’ve added things to the box over the years, like a favorite dress when I weighed ninety-five pounds and doilies a favorite aunt crocheted.

Holidays were always an event with my mother. We went to countless “Breakfast with the Easter Bunny” or “Breakfast with Santa” outings at the Boston Store in Erie. We were the obnoxious kids who played on the escalator, riding it up and down until the last minute, although I don’t think we were loud or roughhoused. We were well behaved kids for the most part. She took us to performances of the Nutcracker and attended all our concerts, plays or sporting events.

Before the days of seat belts, one of our all-time favorite pastimes was to load up in the old DeSoto, four of us in the backseat, and Mom would drive real fast over the railroad tracks (the tracks at Loomis Street or Phillips Road were the best) so we’d fly up out of our seats and sometimes hit the roof of the car. At the very least, our stomachs would do a little flip-flop and we’d beg her to do it again. It took awhile for Dad to figure out why the car shocks were always shot.

Mom instilled a love of poetry in most of us. She’d recite bits and pieces of poems she had learned in school, bits of Shakespeare, and sad depression era poems her mother used to recite to her. She always said her mother taught her to put expression into the words, not just repeat them, and she’d demonstrate by reciting the last line of The Face on the Barroom Floor, by Hugh Antoine D’Arcy, “With a fearful SHRIEK,” she’d shriek, “ – he leaped and fell across the picture- DEAD!” She’d emphasis the words with fearful clarity.

Our love of reading didn’t end there. My sisters and brother and I were great road builders when we were young. We had two sets of encyclopedias at our house and they made excellent roads when placed flat, end-to-end across the living room. We’d spend hours crawling along the “road” pushing our cars and trucks to various destinations. Maybe she thought we’d pick up some knowledge by osmosis.

Mom spoiled us, she pampered us, she made us feel like we were the most important people in the world. They don’t make Moms like they used to it seems. Depending on the decade, she did all the wrong things according to the experts. But most of us turned out pretty well in spite of it.

Yes, Mom, I DO know how lucky I am to still have my mother. Every year grows more precious. I love you too.