Yes mom, I’m here even though we are apart

My mother is 90 years old, one of the elderly isolated in nursing homes, unable to hug and kiss her children, alone because of the pandemic.

And this will be our first Christmas apart.

She lived with us for 25 years. But after her stroke, she’d forget to take her medication. And when she entered the nursing home in March, we thoughtwewould be able to see her and take her home for visits.

But theCOVID lockdowns came immediately. I haven’t given her a hug or a kiss since then.

I knowwe’re not alone. There are people all over theworld who wish they could touch and hug the ones they love. And many have lost their parents toCOVID in nursing homes.

“But here, we don’t talk about missing everyone so much,” she toldme Friday. “Our thoughts are with our children and grandchildren. Whining and crying just won’t do. You just don’t mention it because others might feel sad.

“We justwalk around the halls with ourwalkers, we talk about theweather, the food, butwe don’t discuss whatwe miss outside,” she said. “I suppose prison inmates are like this.

“I look at the whole picture, howit’s been difficult, yes, but howwe’re accepting, howeveryone is accepting it, to reach the goal.”

She isn’t a little old Greek YiaYia with an accent. Yes, she speaks fluent Greek, but shewas born and raised in the small Canadian town of Guelph, Ontario, where she developed her stiff upper lip and her love of English literature.

Whenmy brothers and Iwere young, she taught us the poem, “In Flanders Fields,” by Col. John McCrae, a son of Guelph, who served in the Canadian Army duringWorldWar I. She taught us to sing “God Save the Queen,” for Queen Elizabeth.

As a child of the Depression, she hunted for coal on the train tracks. Her family had a small farm on the edge of town. Later, my grandfatherwent off towar.

He’d fought inWorldWar I. And in his 40s, he demanded to join his old regiment forWorld War II. Somehow, they let him in. Papou Pete, my grandfather, was a forceful man.

As a girl, mymomworked the farm andweeded the onion patch. Her younger brother,

Uncle George, milked the cows and goats before school. They’d helpmy grandmother make yogurt and feta cheese, packing the feta in barrels and taking them to the train station on a truck pulled byMarco the farm horse. Yia-Yia Katina, my grandmother, would ship her feta cheese as far as California and Vancouver.

“We should have stayed in the cheese business,” my mother said. “Think about it. The Americani love feta now. And finally, they’ve discovered good yogurt.”

As a girl, she listened to Churchill on the radio.

“I remember that voice,” she said. “Churchill’s voice, a strong voice. Therewas no nambypamby about the man. Wewere at war. And hewas Churchill.”

Today’s culture talks and talks about feelings. Everything is so gushingly emotional, and many are constantly full of outrage and angry tears.

But not her generation. The Depression and the war honed them, and later came the communists and the Missiles of October. They’d been tempered.

“And don’t forget about China!” she said. “Papou Pete always warned about China.”

I think I became a writer because she fostered it inme. She’d tell such vivid stories. Onewas about former heavyweight champion Joe Louis, so down on his luck hewas reduced to boxing a drugged bear in a dirt boxing ring at some county fair.

And stories about vendettas in the old country in the mountains. And one of a midnight elopement and angry men with guns, lanterns and dogs hunting for the young couple, who’d hidden themselves in a mountaintop chapel.

It’s good for her to retell them, to remember. And so I asked about one of her favorites: Papou Pete and the peanutwagon.

“What do you mean, peanut wagon?” she said.

Mom? You knowthe story about Papou’s peanutwagon. Tell me.

“John, what peanutwagon?” Mom?

“What peanutwagon!” He’d lost his restaurant in the Depression andwent on relief for one day, but hated taking charity. He came home with a ridiculous peanutwagon and Yia-Yia Katina began to cry because shewas ashamed the downtown businessmanwas reduced to a pushcart.

Mom, do you remember? “I don’t remember. A pushcart?” Therewas silence on the phone on Friday, andwewere both lost in the darkness of it.

But after a minute, she said: “Oh yes, I remember. The peanut wagonwas painted white.” Wasn’t it a redwagon?

“No, itwas white, I tell you,” she said. “Fourwalls of glass, I see it now. And therewas a place to keep lighted pieces of coal under ametal pot, towarm the peanuts, popcorn, and chestnuts. We needed the money.

“He pushed hiswagon into Exhibition Park. And therewas a river where peoplewould skate when itwas frozen. Whatwas the name of it? I’ve forgottenmy own damn river.”

The Speed River.

“Yes! The River Speed. And when he came home that first night, he pulled piles and piles of dimes, nickels and quarters on the table. Yia-Yiawas stunned. We were all stunned. We rolled all the coins up in bank paper.

“Wewere so close, andwe were happy,” she said.“Wewere all crying. Wewere together. We were crying and the tears came, andwe held each other so tight, so tight.

“John? Are you there?” YesMom, I’m here.