Mama Mia

Mama Mia

I was talking to my brother on the phone last week and during the conversation he said to me, “Do you know what day this is?”

I checked out the calendar that was hanging on the wall. It was August 7. My mind ground its gears for a minute, trying to think, trying to put an occurrence with the date. Nope, nothing came to mind.

“Sorry, bro. Nothing rings a bell. I'm drawing a blank,” I replied.

He said, “It's mom's birthday.”

My mouth dropped open at his announcement. Mom's birthday. Damn. I hadn't thought about that for a long time. But when I thought a bit harder, the date did come back to me. August 7, 1921 was mom's birthday. And dad was born 20 days later, on August 27. Yep, I remembered now. Just needed a bit of a memory jog.

I thanked my brother for reminding me about the date. We chatted on for some time afterwards, but my mind kept returning to the significance of the date.

You might think me callous for forgetting my mother's birthday. I assure you I'm not. I may be forgetful and absent-minded, but not callous, at least not consciously. The dates for my mom's and dad's birthdays are pretty much academic now, anyhow.

They're both gone.

Dad died in 1991 and mom passed away way back in 1972. Bad ticker, which seems to run in the family. She was only 51 years old when she left us and that seems incredibly young to me, now, looking back at it. That was almost 36 years ago. She died 49 days after I got married, so she only had seven weeks to enjoy having a daughter-in-law. I think that might have bothered her the most. She always liked to say that she lived for her kids. And so, by extension, her daughter-in-law. Mom never had any daughters, so she was enjoying the new one she'd gained. Then...

Let me tell you a bit about her. At least the stuff I know. I wish I knew more.

Mom was born, as I stated before, on August 7, 1921, in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Her first name was Lenora, her mom's name was Ola and her dad's, Mike. Ola's maiden name was Adams and, as I found out only recently, she could trace her ancestors back, if not to the Mayflower, then to one of the boats coming over not long after the Mayflower. And, with a little luck, maybe even to the presidents John and John Qunicy Adams. Mike was born in Italy, in the Calabria district. If you picture Italy as a boot and Sicily as the ball the boot is kicking, Calabria is the toe of the boot. He was a stonemason, but not the “normal” kind of stonemason. He was a stone carver. He was one of the immigrant artisans who carved the flowers and ivy and fancy filigree-work in the granite and marble around the windows and doors of churches. You've probably seen work similar to his. I've heard a lot of his craft can still be seen in a number of Catholic churches in Cleveland. Most of what I know about my grandfather is old memory and hearsay as he passed away in 1953 when I was only six years old.

Mom had a sister named Loretta who was born several years after her. We all called her Let or Letty. Sometime in their childhood the family moved to Cleveland, then to Millersburg, Ohio, in Amish country. As a young woman, mom worked in a funeral home in that town, cleaning the funeral home, ironing the undertaker's shirts, and performing other house-keeper type tasks assigned to her. She said her pay was $1 a week. That'd be back in the early '30's perhaps? I believe she also ran a restaurant some time in the “old” days.

She never learned to drive.

I actually know very little about her early life. I wish she was still here so I could ask, but, of course, that's not possible now. I just look at the old photo albums and do a lot of conjecturing.

Dad and mom were married on June 14, 1946 – Flag Day. This was not long after dad returned from Italy (imagine!) where he fought in World War Two. I know nothing of the courtship.

I am embarrassed at my ignorance of my parents lives. It might be because of memory loss, but it's more likely that I never really knew much about it. My folks, as far as I can recall, really didn't talk about their past very much. At least to us kids.

I was born in '47 almost exactly nine months after their marriage. My brother Gary came along in '50 and my brother Chuck in '55. I guess you could say we had pretty normal lives. Dad worked in a factory most of his life as an electrician and did a lot of moonlighting wiring houses after his shift at the factory was over. We didn't see him very much. Mom was a stay-at-home housewife and mother which was exactly what she wanted to be and seemed to be perfectly adapted for. There wasn't a whole lot of money around, but we made do pretty well. Us boys had fairly normal childhoods. All three of us were in the Boy Scouts, two attaining Eagle rank. All graduated from high school, two attended college. My brother Gary and myself were members of the U.S. Armed forces during the Vietnam era, Navy and Air Force respectively. Chuck got lucky as he was younger and “missed” out on all the military stuff. My brothers both ended up in California when they “left the nest”.

It didn't seem so at the time, but our family was probably very close to the statistical norm. We had dogs for pets, had nice Christmases, had paper routes and got part-time jobs as soon as we were able so as to have some “cash in hand”. We then bought 2-wheel and 4-wheel vehicles about as soon as we had the money scraped up and became mobile. Mom and dad both smoked and two of us kids picked up the habit. Smoking was very widespread in those days and didn't have the stigma attached like it does now.

It sure wasn't good for any of us, however.

Mom suffered a lot when my brother and I were in the military. She was a worrier, and us being away like that, especially when we were overseas, worried her even more. I remember her taking “nerve” pills that were prescribed by her doctor. I never asked what they were and she never told me. Perhaps she was sicker than I knew? She was a good cook, loved to bake and the family, when we were around, always sat at the table for her meals. A lot of the meals were Italian. Go figure. She seemed to be always a bit overweight and she continued to be a heavy smoker until the day she died.

I remember her last day.

It was a beautiful fall Saturday morning, bright sunshine and a clear blue sky with the fall foliage colors vivid in the trees around town. I had taken my wife to the beauty parlor for a hairdo and had then driven my Volkswagen to the old family home to say hi. Mom was having chest pains when I got there and thought she needed to go to the doctor. I asked how long she'd been hurting and she said most of the night. I bundled her into my car and headed up towards the emergency room at the hospital, but she insisted on going to the clinic instead. So we went there. She expired about 20 minutes after arriving.

I've always felt guilty about not ignoring her instructions and taking her to the emergency room instead of the clinic, but woefully I listened to her instead of my brain. Plus she'd had a physical exam not that long ago and had got a “clean” bill of health.

But I also have to believe she was in pretty bad shape by the time I arrived on the scene and my choice was probably immaterial by then. If she had called an ambulance that evening? I don't know. Dad was working in West Virginia at that time and only coming home on weekends. Perhaps she didn't want to do that alone or maybe she was worrying about how much the emergency room would cost?

I guess we'll never know.

The trauma of that day haunts me still.

I relived a lot of these memories after the conversation with my brother was finished last week. The events of that time seemed like only a few years ago instead of the 3 1/2 decades they actually were.

So I marked the electronic calendar on my computer with my mom's and my dad's birthdays and made sure I'd notice them the next time they rolled around.

They would have both been 87 this year.

I can't send them a greeting card any more, but, on their birthdays I can take a minute to remember and to wish them well, wherever they may be now.

I think they'll smile at my forgetfulness.

I also think they'll be happy that this old son of theirs will do his best to try to remember their birthdays from now on.

Yeah, I think they'll like that.