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Looking in the rearview mirror a few weeks ago, I saw my mother’s mouth and it was sitting under my nose. I never realized I had her mouth. I find this very weird. I’m almost 50 years old and I never noticed this before. My mother’s mouth, when in neutral, had both corners turned way down. She said everyone always thought she was mad or sad, unless she was laughing.
Six years ago today my mom died. It’s been six years without my weekly Sunday morning calls. It’s been six years since I’ve had the thought “I need to remember to tell mom that” and know she would hear it. It’s been six years since I could call her for a quick check on one of her recipes. I tried for a while to call one of my sisters on Sundays, but it wasn’t the same and it didn’t last long. Certainly not the 18 years of talking to Mom every week. I think we missed 5 or 6 Sundays in all that time. That’s over 930 calls plus all the times we talked more than once a week, I would put it at at least a 1000 calls. Sometimes we’d talk for an hour or more, but I think they probably averaged 30 minutes. That’s 30,000 minutes of sharing our lives with each other. 30,000 minutes reliving favorite family stories. 30,000 minutes discussing our soap operas or politics – not much difference between the two, we often said. 30,000 finite minutes.
I often wondered if I’d stayed in my hometown instead of moving 2000 miles away, if we would have talked more or less. I suspect it would have been less. On the other hand, we would have shared many, many more minutes in each other’s physical company. I would have been there when she had to put Dad in the nursing home. I would have shared the responsibility with my sister of driving mom to her doctors' appointments or to see Dad. Running to the store, bank or post office would have been part of my week. Right up until she died, my mom would put some money in the checking account for utility bills, insurance and taxes and then take the rest in cash. She needed specific denominations because she had a system. Somewhere hidden in the house was a box with a bunch of white envelopes. Each envelope labeled with a use and an amount. They were for “clothes”, “birthdays”, “groceries” “emergencies” “St. Anthony’s” and several others I can’t remember. Each month she filled them. When they were empty, she was done spending until the next month – no credit card for her. While grocery money did run out sometimes, we always had enough in the deep freeze and the cupboards to keep us fed. She rarely went into one envelope to pay for another’s – “Don’t rob Peter to pay Paul” was her solid economic advise. One I wished I’d live by.
For most of my early years, the box was kept under her bed. During the summer, when I’d hear the ice cream truck coming down the street, I’d run for the box asking Mom if I could have a popsicle. Barely waiting for an answer, I’d give her the box and then run outside to stop the truck. By the time I’d made my choice, Mom was right behind me with the money. Sitting on the front steps, eating our popsicles on a warm summer morning was the best.
Re-reading this, my childhood sounds so idyllic. Sometime it was and sometimes it was not. Today, on the anniversary of her death, I choose to remember the idyllic times. Times when the corners of our mouths curved up.
Six years ago today my mom died. It’s been six years without my weekly Sunday morning calls. It’s been six years since I’ve had the thought “I need to remember to tell mom that” and know she would hear it. It’s been six years since I could call her for a quick check on one of her recipes. I tried for a while to call one of my sisters on Sundays, but it wasn’t the same and it didn’t last long. Certainly not the 18 years of talking to Mom every week. I think we missed 5 or 6 Sundays in all that time. That’s over 930 calls plus all the times we talked more than once a week, I would put it at at least a 1000 calls. Sometimes we’d talk for an hour or more, but I think they probably averaged 30 minutes. That’s 30,000 minutes of sharing our lives with each other. 30,000 minutes reliving favorite family stories. 30,000 minutes discussing our soap operas or politics – not much difference between the two, we often said. 30,000 finite minutes.
I often wondered if I’d stayed in my hometown instead of moving 2000 miles away, if we would have talked more or less. I suspect it would have been less. On the other hand, we would have shared many, many more minutes in each other’s physical company. I would have been there when she had to put Dad in the nursing home. I would have shared the responsibility with my sister of driving mom to her doctors' appointments or to see Dad. Running to the store, bank or post office would have been part of my week. Right up until she died, my mom would put some money in the checking account for utility bills, insurance and taxes and then take the rest in cash. She needed specific denominations because she had a system. Somewhere hidden in the house was a box with a bunch of white envelopes. Each envelope labeled with a use and an amount. They were for “clothes”, “birthdays”, “groceries” “emergencies” “St. Anthony’s” and several others I can’t remember. Each month she filled them. When they were empty, she was done spending until the next month – no credit card for her. While grocery money did run out sometimes, we always had enough in the deep freeze and the cupboards to keep us fed. She rarely went into one envelope to pay for another’s – “Don’t rob Peter to pay Paul” was her solid economic advise. One I wished I’d live by.
For most of my early years, the box was kept under her bed. During the summer, when I’d hear the ice cream truck coming down the street, I’d run for the box asking Mom if I could have a popsicle. Barely waiting for an answer, I’d give her the box and then run outside to stop the truck. By the time I’d made my choice, Mom was right behind me with the money. Sitting on the front steps, eating our popsicles on a warm summer morning was the best.
Re-reading this, my childhood sounds so idyllic. Sometime it was and sometimes it was not. Today, on the anniversary of her death, I choose to remember the idyllic times. Times when the corners of our mouths curved up.
