Sometimes Mom was a piece of work. But all for the sake of family.
She was one of a kind, my mom. She once phoned to tell me about Chicago’s weather of clear skies, balmy temperatures and low humidity and then wondered out loud why anyone (meaning my wife and me) would move to Florida.
The morning of a hurricane, she was the first to call to ask if we were all right and what we were going to do. And didn’t we wish that we had stayed in the Midwest where there are no hurricanes, mudslides or tsunamis? “What about the winters, Ma?” “My children always loved the snow. And ice skating.”
Since she could never resist photos of her eight kids, I figured I’d win her over by ordering one of those cute albums you can customize with humorous captions. Beneath a photo of my wife and me by the sea, I wrote: “I wanted to visit the nude beach, but Marianne vetoed the idea.” And accompanying the shot of the two of us at a waterfront restaurant: “Seafood is so fresh here, Ma, that the waiters and waitresses carry landing nets.”
“Interesting,” she responded. “Don’t you miss Chicago pizza?”
Once when I flew home to visit, she fixed me a plate of chicken and potato salad from the Jewel deli and immediately got on the phone to report my arrival, arranging for me to visit Net’s house, Kevin’s place, Rosie’s condo and James’ and Charlie’s homes in the burbs.
When I told her I was jet-lagged and thought I’d just spend the rest of the day relaxing at her home, she said what a nice surprise it would be for Kev if I popped over there that day. He was just asking her, “How is Dave doing?” And when you go, she said, make sure to tell Kev how nice his garden is. He works so hard.
The last day of my visit, when I stood up with the rental car keys, she
sidled over to her strategic spot where she would lean against the back of the couch, blocking the front door. That was the moment she brought out the big guns, news-wise: Mary Kay’s new house. Last week’s visit from Nancy and Jay.
I dropped my keys on the table and sat and listened. Asked some questions. And when I got up to leave a second time, she maneuvered back to her spot in front of the door: Had she mentioned to me the problem with her clothes dryer?
Gert (Cichoszewski) McGrath was born in 1920, the oldest of six children, including two younger boys who survived and two who died at birth and another at around age 5. Childhood mortality was considerably higher in the days of polio, tuberculosis
and scarlet fever.
I thought that might be one reason why she and Dad had had so many of their own children and why she treasured members of her family more than her life.
On my wedding day, when I was looking forward to a quick ceremony and epic partying at the reception, Mom managed an adjustment to our plans: Her own mother, Grandma Rose, had been ailing in the hospital. You have enough to do today, she assured us, but, you know, it pains Grandma that she cannot attend, and she would be thrilled to see both of you on your special day.
We really would like to, I was about to tell her, but it was quite impossible with the schedule.
Marianne, of course, not as familiar with my mom’s M.O., totally caved and directed the limo chauffeur on a detour to Little Company of Mary Hospital. How could we not spend an extra 30 minutes, Marianne said, to bring tears of joy to someone who wanted so badly to see us?
Well, sure, once she put it that way. Today, Mom is gone.
And I look back with appreciation for her patience and persistence all those years in finally making me realize that there is nothing more important than family.
And no such thing as loving too much.