It hit me the other day that, of all the topics about which I’ve written, I haven’t done anything on Mother’s Day. An oversight that will be corrected here, and high time too.
My mother was the third of four girls. They also had a much younger brother, a surprise baby. I’ve mentioned my grandfather, a big, brash, wonderfully uninhibited Irishman. In many ways, my mother took after him. She seldom had an unexpressed thought. She loved my brother, my sister, and me unconditionally, but was unequivocal in telling us what she thought we should do. I, for example, should have been an accountant, or at least something to do with insurance, because those would generate a suitable, stable income. When I became a music teacher, well, that was a questionable proposition – until my parents came to my first concert. Then, she admitted that perhaps she might have been a bit off the mark.
My mother grew up in Canada, as I’ve written before, and was a nurse by training. She was a navy nurse in World War II, where she met my father. He was in the US Army, stationed in St. John, Newfoundland. After the war, he came back to the US, and she joined him later in the Boston area, where we were born and spent our early childhood. She was a city girl through and through, which I’m sure is where our daughter inherited her love of the city. So, of course, my father’s preference to move to the country, buy an old farm, and set up his sales rep business, not her ideal lifestyle. But, she did it anyway. While my father was on the road during the work week, she and the three of us would be at home out in the country. My father was an only child, in fact the only child, and the only grandchild in his branch of the family. Having a “family” was a new experience for him, one that my mother brought to him.
Mother was from an Irish Catholic family. Our home was about 10 miles from the church we attended. When my brother was old enough to drive, he would and mother would have us say the Rosary on the way. The timing was just about right. But we also knew that if we could get her talking long enough to reach a point about three miles in, there wouldn’t be time to fit it in. She’d reprimand us – “Oh, you kids. You did that deliberately, didn’t you?” Of course, we had, but we’d still deny it. My brother and I both sang in the boys’ choir, and mother taught Sunday School. Interestingly, she was not a traditionalist, and fully embraced the changes in the church and the spirit of Vatican II. On one occasion, terrifying at the time but amusing years later, it was, I believe either Palm Sunday or Easter – I don’t really remember which, but the Curate, the associate as they were called at the time, gave his homily on the “one true church”. He went on and on about Martin Luther, the “heretic”, the Episcopalians were founded “in sin”, so on and so on in that vein. After Mass, just I’m sure as my grandfather would have done, mother bustled out into the sacristy and gave him a tongue-lashing the like of which, I’m guessing, he’d never had before. “Father, that homily was a complete disgrace! In this new era of ecumenism, of understanding among the faiths, you need to change your perspective pretty fast.” I can remember that like it was yesterday, the word “disgrace” ringing off the walls. He stood there with his mouth open. I think he was stunned into silence.
In later years, mother returned to her nursing roots, becoming very involved in the local hospital. At first, she volunteered in the gift shop, eventually held a seat on the hospital board. When she died, in 1985, the hospital planted a small tree with a memorial plaque out front. The hospital has been expanded over the years, so I don’t know if it’s still there.
My late mother-in-law was quite the opposite. She, too was a nurse, working first in a private practice, and later at the clinic associated with the hospital. Where my mother was outspoken, Doris was self-effacing. I wouldn’t call her shy, because she had her moments. She was a lovely lady that took me into the family fully. I remember on one occasion, mentioning casually that I liked Brussels sprouts. They appeared the next Thanksgiving at the table. That was Doris. I always called my in-laws Doris and Alfred, because neither I nor they were really comfortable with “mom” and “dad”. I didn’t call my own parents that. As I mentioned, Doris was a nurse, and one of the most respected in the city. They had a summer cottage on Granite Lake, outside Keene, and not far from my parents. That was the gathering spot all summer long for the family. Her Ladyship and I would go over most weekends, sleeping on a pull-out couch in the living room, which opened onto the front porch. One of my favorite recollections of Doris, who was usually the first to rise in the morning, was of her heating her coffee in the microwave, trying vainly to “shush” the beeping, and then she’d play cards on the porch, so we’d hear that distinctive sound of cards shuffling. Now, those sounds bring a smile and I think of Doris.
The day our daughter, the Princess, was born, my mother happened to be working in the gift shop. She dashed over to the clinic, and I have a mental image, if not an actual picture of Doris and she hugging and kissing in delight. Sadly, my mother died at 67, when Betsy was three, and Doris died a few years later, also at 67, so neither had long to cherish their granddaughter. Both mothers filled the large Catholic church in Keene for their funeral masses, a real tribute to who they were. The Princess is named for Doris’s mother, Elizabeth, and her middle name is Doyle, my mother’s maiden name. And we see so much of the best of both of them in her.
On this Mother’s Day, I hope that readers can either celebrate with their mothers, or, as we do, look back fondly with great stories and memories that live on. Be well.
I'm Thinking...No! 