Sunday, May 8, 2011
I remember my mother --
how beautiful she was ... she was prettier than any other mother;
how I loved to wear her sunglasses;
how she always kept it together when catastrophe came.
I remember, like it was yesterday, when she sternly reprimanded me for gossiping about a school friend's moral lapse.
I remember her potatoes and onions smothered in butter, wrapped in tinfoil and cooked on the grill.
I remember when she took me to the very 1st pizza parlour to come to our small town: I'd never even heard of pizza before.
I acquired my love of soft-serve ice cream from my mother. She announced one evening that there was a new "frozen custard" stand just outside of town. None of us had ever heard of "frozen custard" and when I heard it was called "frozen custard" I vowed never to eat such a thing. But it became a family summer ritual to take cool evening drives around Conneaut Lake PA, and for each person to get their own "frozen custard."
I remember my mother when she regularly drove 80 mph and how proud I was of her that she wasn't wimpy like the other mothers. I also remember the night the police car flashed their lights at my mother to stop, and when I went to turn around and look she said, "Don't look at him; he'll go away."
And I remember my mother, even at the end, in the hospital, stuck through with tubes and unable to talk, and the nurse that decided to do some procedure on her that she didn't want done. She shot that nurse such a look of rage and attack that the nurse never again put her head thru the door.
I got my strength from my mother and I miss her every day for that. I am such an inadequate duplicate of that strength.