Remembrances of my mother
Mother’s Day is just about upon us. In 1912 Ann Jarvis trademarked it as the second Sunday in May. And this is how it all began in this country. My mother was a rare human being. She was the youngest of six siblings in a large Irish Catholic family who grew up in New York City and in Upstate New York. They were a talented bunch who loved to sing around the piano and dance. I loved all of them.
She was one of the Greatest Generation, those grew up during the Great Depression and who fought for our freedom during WWII. I loved the stories she told of attending Catholic schools and skipping classes to go see the Rockettes at Radio City Music Hall when she was in high school.
Let’s just say, they tried to see these dancers, but were spotted. Mom was a redhead from birth. She had beau- tiful flaming hair that was seen at a distance quite easily. She was known to be a bit of an instigator, getting into mischief along with her friends. That didn’t stop her or them from trying.
When she’d tell me about these times, a sparkle would shine in her green eyes, and she’d laugh. Mom was good at laughing. I have a picture of her with her head thrown back, mouth wide open laughing. I think it was something my little brother said or did. She was always laughing at us kids and we always tried to get her to laugh.
She met my dad on a street corner in Washington DC in 1943. He was a handsome lieutenant in the Army and she was a Marine. My dad was from East Tennessee and had
never met anyone like her. She was with a group of young women headed to a USO dance and he, being the gentleman soldier, offered to escort them to the dance.
My mom confessed that my future father was the best-looking man she’d ever seen and she loved his accent. My dad was indeed a handsome young man. Daddy thought Mom was stunning. He’d never seen a red-haired green-eyed girl like her. At the dance, Dad wasn’t dancing. He really didn’t know how. The MC at the dance announced that anyone who could get the shy, young lieutenant to dance would win five dollars. Guess who won the five dollars. Three weeks later they were married, and the rest is history.
Years later when Dad and I were sitting at their dining room table just talking about Mom, he got this look on his face of pure love. He knew he was getting close to the end of his life. They had been married 66 years. And their love for each other never wavered. “Oh, she was such a pretty little thing.” He looked at me with his brown eyes softening and said quietly, “She still is.” When we lived in Morocco, Mom was in a car accident with the French Commandant. I was in the car with mom. This small military car was in front of us driving too slowly for Mom.
It was a flat straight, two laner. No cars were coming, so she passed the car. As she came back into her side, she clipped the car. Evidently, hitting such a prestigious man was frowned upon. It looked like the whole French Army came in cars, trucks, and on motorcycles. Before too long, Daddy came in a military car. He walked over to Mom and just looked at her and said, “Honey, what did you do this time?”
Daddy always said we were deported from Morocco, but that wasn’t true. Mom was pregnant with our little brother and the medical facilities there were not prepared to handle any emergencies with a newborn.
We went back to the states and life moved on. Mom was always there for us in everything. She was a room mother back when schools had room mothers. She made costumes for plays I was in. She always baked me a devil’s food cake with seven-minute frosting sprinkled with coconut, my favorite, for my birthdays. She never missed an event of any of her three kids and was always front and center. She defended her kids and thought we were all amazing.
Mom and Dad moved to Calhoun in 2018. Mom lived to be 95 and I had the privilege of directing her twice in “Smoke on the Mountain.” She played a subversive church lady and one of my fondest memories is of her dancing down the aisle at the theatre as the audience stood clapping their hands. It was her moment to shine. I was with her when she passed away. She always told me she’d live to be 95. That was long enough to her.
Not to me. Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. We all love and miss you.