Hi, Hon. What Did You Do All Day?

By Nancy Leitz

Did your husband ever come home from work and ask you that question? My husband, Roy, did many times before I finally found the right answer. I'll tell you what I did.

We had been married for seven years and had four children. Can you say rhythm method of birth control? It was the Catholic Church's sure fire answer to their ban on artificial birth control (Read: methods that actually work.) As I have said before, the name we gave to people who relied on the rhythm system was PARENTS.

So, we were living in the little town of Darby in a small row house with three tiny bedrooms and one bath. It was a little like living in Lilliput, only we were full sized and that made living in that house with six people a bit difficult.

The place was usually a jumble of toys and clothes and baby bottles and diaper pails in the midst of adult stuff like books, newspapers, tools and piles of bills that had to be paid. Thank God we always had enough money to pay those bills, if only I got a chance to sit down long enough to actually write a check.

What I did was, every day about 4:30 I would shine the kids up and change their clothes if necessary. I would pick up the papers and books and generally straighten up the house so it looked real neat and clean before Roy came in from work.

As soon as I decided which way I was going to cook the hamburger that night (i.e. meatloaf, spaghetti and meatballs, meatcakes and gravy etc.), dinner would be started, so I was busy every minute of the day, as you can imagine, so it really frosted me when I would hear that familiar phrase: "Hi Hon, What did you do all day?”

I had to stop him from saying that. But how? I thought of and rejected many diabolical plans to make him eat his words, but none would be sufficient to break him of this dreadful habit. Then it hit me and here is what I did.

The very next day when he came home from work, the Pepsi glasses and chip bags from the night before were on the coffee table. The breakfast dishes were piled in the sink with the egg gluing itself to the plates and the milk bottle was in the middle of the kitchen table along with the crusts and remains of the peanut butter and grape jelly sandwiches I had served at lunch time.

There was a basket of dirty laundry in the dining room and a baby coach full of Cheerios that the boys had dumped in there for fun. There were three dirty diapers in a trash can in the middle of the living room floor and none of the kids had been shined up. They all looked like they should have been standing under a sign that said "Give Till It Hurts". They had dirty faces and dirtier clothes and were definitely not happy. There was absolutely nothing cooking on the stove. Ice Cold! To sum up, both the kids and the house were disasters.

As Roy came in the door, I said, "Please do not say one word. Many nights you come in here and the first thing you say is, "Hi, Hon, what did you do all day?

“Well, HON, so you'll know what I do all day, TODAY I DIDN'T DO IT."

[The Elder Storytelling Place can always use additional stories. If you would like to contribute to this growing and important collection written by ordinary elders about their lives, the guidelines are here.]

Elder Storytelling Hiatus

Due to unforeseen circumstances, The Elder Storytelling Place is on hiatus until Monday, 19 May. There are stories in the hopper, but more are always welcome.

There was such an excellent collection of stories for Mother's Day that I'd like to suggest doing another week for Father's Day which, in the U.S., is 15 June. The deadline for those stories is Friday, 6 June.

A Day on the Beach for Dancing with Poseidon

By Cowtown Pattie of Texas Trifles

Dear Grandmother,

While I know that your eyes cannot see this, nor the words comprehensible, I wanted to write a letter to you today.

Do you know that you have seen ninety-two summers come and go? And, do you know that you now have three great great grandsons? I still keep the picture of our five-generational photo taken a few short years ago when your first-born son, my dad, was still alive. The five-by-seven frame is nestled among many others sharing a middle shelf, but its importance in our family history is never lessened.

Remember?

The photographer sat you in the center of the picture holding Connor, your first great great grandson. Sadly, you had already buried two husbands and one son, and would soon bury another son before finally retreating away to a place where life's events matter little. It is odd, too, to see myself as a grandmother - a feeling I haven't quite come to terms with.

The decision to place you in an "old folks’ home" was not an easy one for your daughter, but there was no way to provide you with daily care - I hope you understand. My visits are few and short-stayed, but thoughts of you unexpectedly interrupt my usual routines. Soft, furry stuffed animals keep you company in my stead, ever faithfully by your side. They give me reproachful looks when I enter your room on those occasional days, and I hear their whispers about duty and granddaughters who forget.

Did you know that I wear your wedding ring now? Your hands grew too gnarled with arthritis, and the nurses said you shouldn't wear it any longer. The simple white gold band with the two rows of tiny diamonds is out of style and scratched with years of wear. It will be passed down to one of your great granddaughters, who will in their turn, love the memory it holds of you.

If I could have one wish for you, it would not be the selfish one. Not a wish to bring you back to this present time for me, but a hope that you live now within warm good memories.

Remember how you loved the salty, white-capped gulf waters?

When we spent a week in Galveston floating on bright orange rubber rafts, tenuously perched upon them with our bodies and catching the waves together? We laughed and giggled and grew very amazed and a little scared when our return to the sandy beach found us miles from the rest of the family and the car.

This fortuitous playtime was a revelation for me; suddenly I could see beyond the years of the grandmotherly matron I knew. That day in the sparkling surf, I played with the young girl you once were. She was fun, adventurous and full of mischief. No stern lectures about how the sun will ruin your skin, no crabby face at the suggestion of bare feet, instead you threw off the dusty mantle of age and danced with Poseidon that day. It is a memory I keep and cherish, more than any other of you.

Since that summer day long ago, I could always find the Wave Dancer Girl if I looked carefully enough. I grew to appreciate your humor and your tenacity to enjoy life in the face of some pretty rough obstacles. Now forever gripped in the twilight world of Alzheimer's, I hope that you find yourself on that warm beach every day, feeling the spray of salt water on your face, your hand in mine as we ready ourselves to catch the next "big one".

Are you ready, Lizzie-Gail? Dig in with your feet, hang on tight, wait...wait...jump!

The sun is shining, and we have all the day to play, Grandmother.

All my love,
Your first grandchild, your first granddaughter

Happy Birthday, Mother. Where Are You?

By Tamar Orvell of Only Connect

Dear eema, mommy, ma, mother,

Today is your birthday. And no matter which name I call you (toggling through the monikers I have assigned you over the decades), you appear not to make sense of my voice nor understand my words.

While you once spoke five languages fluently (German, English, Hebrew, Yiddish, French) and earned a master's degree in foreign languages that gave you license to teach French and German in New York City high schools (you "couldn't stand the endless ringing of the bells," and soon quit), you stare blankly at me now, occasionally yawning.

I attach this photo, marked Rosh Hashanah on the back of the original print copy. Judging by my shirt (I remember all our clothes), glasses (still trying to look like Gloria Steinem), waist (visible), hairstyle, and phony sophisticate look (I never took to sipping wine), I am guessing that the photo captured us 20 years ago. You, always pretty and dressed tastefully, are wearing your mother’s springtime necklace, the one I am wearing today.

It is a common regret that we do not ask enough questions while our parents are still around to answer them. Was I too incurious when I was younger or too busy with other things (really, myself) to ask more about your fascinating life and sometimes peculiar biases or ways? Until even a year ago when I spoke with you, I could hope for a clue, a key, a name in answer to my questions.

Now, I can only rely on the few people still alive and alert who knew you before I did and could help fill in the blanks that I know will never be filled. Not as only you might have filled them.

A full life lived in many lands
Over the past dozen years, despite your steadily decreasing faculties and increasing silence (you, the nonstop chatterbox who would sometimes drive me crazy with your talking), I consider how, throughout your long, full life, you were brilliantly successful in negotiating most of your many careers, challenges and activities.

For example, almost as soon as you arrived into this world to Russian-born parents living in Poland, your father, helping to secure a safe home for the Jewish people in their homeland, was soon relocated to Germany where your sister was born.

Next, the Leah Dinnen and Dr. Simon Bernstein family moved to Denmark (where you became a lifelong non-swimmer when they dumped you into a net and then tossed it in the ocean - a local swim training “method”) and then to England (where you picked up traces of the royal accent that your spoken English hinted at all your life).

When you were a sweet 16, Lady Liberty, the "mighty woman with a torch...mother of exiles," greeted your family on New York City's Ellis Island where agents in the great registry hall - opened as a USA immigration station in 1892, processed 12 million immigrants in the next 68 years it was in operation.

Even today, when I land in the Big Apple by airplane, I think about your maiden journey here - what it might have been like on that boat carrying war-, world-, and sea-weary, freedom-craving, hope-filled immigrants. And I wonder about your first moments and early years on these strange shores.

Finally, a home base
I do know why home became New York City: your father worked here as an official of the Zionist Organization of America (and, especially after retirement, edited and annotated Hebrew medieval liturgical poetry, accessing its great library resources). You immediately entered Evander Childs High School in the Bronx and then earned BA and MA degrees at Hunter College in Manhattan. No small feats for an immigrant, especially a woman, in the third decade of the last century. Yet you were not just any woman.

Heiress to ancient Jewish law and modern traditions
You adored your parents (so did I and all who knew them). Really, you were your daddy's girl, inheriting his values, passions and talents: lifelong study and learning writing, reveling with a wide circle of friends, an appetite for delicious food, a strong constitution and charm, warmth, and even a temper.

And you were a player. You married three times and became a widow the same number, birthed two daughters in one hemisphere and raised them in another. You traveled widely in the USA and in Europe, joined a tourist group when the former Soviet Union first admitted Americans and journeyed often to Israel where you lived a decade during your first marriage until your beloved, my young father, died suddenly.

Wherever you were, you had endless appealing friends with whom you shared any of your wide-ranging interests: literature, theater, opera, museums and galleries, travel, folk dancing, playing piano (especially Chopin sonatas), studying sacred Jewish texts and modern Hebrew literature (Moshe Shamir, among others), film, ballet, and frequenting elegant shops, beautiful parks, and splendid gardens.

A long line of over-readers
While I reflect on my career choices (teaching, community organizing, writing), work my way through the 26 books I borrowed this month from my public library, read online the print subscriptions you kept even after they ceased to sustain your attention (The New York Times, daily, and The New Yorker, weekly), and polish my Hebrew with coursework and in conversation, I look in the mirror. And I see my smile, my lips, my hair, my build. Do I see you in me? Or is it me in you?

Years ago, while you were fully present in spirit, you told me that you felt like an ancient tortoise. And that you had done enough, lived enough. Yet you are still here. And I sigh and don't know what to wish for you. So, happy birthday, dearest one. I won't wish you the traditional "[m]any more."

But wait. A gift to touch your soul as it has all these years. In the video clip below, Jerusalem scenes featuring anemones, kalaniot, with Shoshana Damari singing her trademark song, kalaniot.

Your loving daughter,
Tami

Remembering Mom Mom McGarvey

By Nancy Leitz

After my Dad died in 1977, my Mother no longer felt secure in her little apartment in Burlington, New Jersey. We thought she would be happier and safer in Cooper River Plaza where my brother, Jack and his wife, Peggy,lived.

It was a lovely complex with two high apartment buildings right in the park where the Cooper River winds through and every day in nice weather you will see roller skaters and bicyclists and joggers and just plain walkers.

We took Mother to see an apartment on the first floor (she had a terrible case of claustrophobia, so no elevator) and she loved it and looked forward to moving there. She was already 77 years old, so packing her things herself and moving would have been impossible for her, so we invited her to our house and Roy picked her up and brought her here so that she could be comfortable while all of her children packed her things and set up the new apartment.

We packed everything in our cars and a rented truck and when we got to the apartment, many hands made light work of putting her furniture in place, hanging her pictures, sorting out the closets and putting up the little table where she had pictures of her grandchildren at every stage of their lives. There were dozens of them.

In the kitchen we put away her dishes and pots and pans and had everything ready for her to cook. The whole thing took about two days and when we took her to the apartment tears ran down her cheeks when she saw how nicely we had all fixed up her little place for her.

It really did look cozy and warm and you had the feeling that she had lived there for years. There was nothing for her to do except settle in.

Next, we had to order the special TV channel called Prism (forerunner of ESPN) because Mother was the world's greatest sports fan. She loved the Phillies, Eagles, Flyers and 76ers. If you wanted to win a bet about who was the quarterback of the San Diego Chargers or the goalie for the Red Wings, you called Mom Mom. She could tell you who won the Cy Young Award in 1967, or the Heisman Trophy in 1954. She was phenomenal.

So, she settled in at her little place and always slept until 10 or 11AM every morning. After all, the game might have been on the west coast the night before and she wouldn't have gotten to bed until the wee hours. Everybody knew not to call her before noon.

My brother,Jack, lived in Building 2 on the 10th floor and Mother lived in Building 1 on the first floor. Because she didn't want anyone disturbing her early in the morning, Jack made her a card to put in her window that signaled to him that she was up having her coffee and all was well. He could spot the card with his binoculars and didn't have to call to see if she was okay. So that was one call she avoided.

Every Sunday, Roy and I would drive over to see her. When we got to the main entrance to the building there were two sets of doors. The outer door required a key or you could be buzzed in by a resident who was expecting you. The inner door was attended by the doorman, George. He was to greet all residents and visitors. That is how it was supposed to work but seldom did.

Most days the outer door would be propped open with a door stop and the inner door was held open by George's chair, which was tipped back and held George's slumbering body. He was asleep almost every time I saw him and the residents and visitors alike tiptoed past him so as not to disturb his sleep.

When we would get to Mother's door she would invariably say, "Did you see George?" and we would dutifully say, "Yes, George is there." Then she would say," Oh, I feel so safe knowing George is on duty and wouldn't let anybody in who didn't belong here."

This went on every Sunday until Mom Mom died in 1984. She never knew, and no one ever told her that George spent all afternoon in his chair sound asleep "guarding" the building.

But Mom Mom loved that little apartment and looked forward to the company who came in to enjoy whichever game was on. One of the things that everyone remembers best about her was the way she talked back to the television. Being the world's greatest feminist, she despised the "Ring around the collar" commercial. When the wife was being berated by the announcer because her husband's shirts had dirty collars, Mom Mom would jump out of her chair and shout, "How about him? When is he going to wash his neck?"

Another one that got on her nerves was, "Winston tastes good like a cigarette should.” She would be outraged and point her finger at the screen and say, "AS a cigarette should. As. As. As.”

Then there was the one for Immodium. The announcer would intone, "Four out of five people SUFFER from diarrhea.” Mom Mom would smirk and say, "Does that mean that one enjoyed it?"

We were lucky to have her for so many years and she was in perfect health both physically and mentally until about two weeks before she died. She had a stroke and never recovered. We had a wonderful time at her funeral luncheon with everyone telling their favorite Mom Mom story with a great deal of love and affection. There were plenty of them, and they remind us of how much we miss her.

A Mother's Goodbye

By Beverly of Beverly, Use Your Words

I was always a mother's girl. I could not stand to be away from her when I was young. My father died when I was five and I was very needy of her.

We moved in with my grandparents. I knew I loved my grandmother, but for reasons I did not know then, she just wasn't like my mother. When I hugged my mother, the touch of her skin, her smell, was better. I longed for those hugs. No one else mattered.

When I was little, I never really thought that my mother would ever leave me. I feared it, but would not allow myself to think about it. Then, one day it becomes reality. You know your mother is dying.

That day happened when I went to visit my mother in the nursing home. She had Alzheimer's and I thought we had many more days together. We didn't. She stopped breathing, I rang for the nurses. There was a flurry of activity and before I knew it, she was being wheeled into the ambulance and I did not even say goodbye.

I was going to follow the ambulance to the hospital. When the ambulance did not leave immediately, and being a nurse, I knew something was wrong. I got out of my car and hopped into the ambulance and saw the paramedics trying to intubate my mother. I stopped in shock, and they grabbed me, trying to shield me from the scene, but I relive that experience all the time in my mind. I sat on the curb with a paramedic and knew it was not good. I knew already I was losing my mama.

When I got to the emergency room, my sons, niece and nephew and Shannon were already there. The doctor said that she was in a deep coma. I could tell more by the tone of his words than the words themselves. My brother and I decided not to put her through any suffering. We were all by her bedside all night. She never woke up. She never moved at all.

When morning come, I thought I noticed fluttering of her eyes. Soon after this, the nurse came in with my son and daughter-in-law. I excitedly told them what I had seen. I leaned by her ear and said "Mother, this is Beverly, if you hear me open your eyes".

She opened her eyes, then shut them. I said, "Mother, I love you". She opened her eyes, then shut them. I said, "And, I know you love me". She opened her eyes, then shut them. The nurse then called her by name. My mother did not respond to her. I looked at my son and he gave me a smile affirming what had just happened. My mother had just told me goodbye and that she loved me.

It has been eleven years since my mother died. I miss her still. I love her more.

[EDITORIAL NOTE: Please note that, unlike most weekends, the Mother's Day series here at The Elder Storytelling Place will continue with new stories posted on Saturday and Sunday.]

A Mother's Last, Best Lesson - Part 1: Green Bananas

By Ronni Bennett of Time Goes By

In 1991, my mother was found to have cancer. Her right breast was removed and when the nice ladies from a cancer survivors’ group came ‘round with implant information, Mom thanked them and shooed them away. “What do I need breasts for,” she said. “I’m 74, not 24."

Tough old bird, right? Just you wait.

She had a prosthesis fitted so she wouldn’t look lopsided at the pool of the apartment complex and got on with living.

A year later, cancer was found in her other breast. During the final pre-hospitalization check-up, something alerted her physician who postponed the surgery and ordered new tests. Mom phoned me in New York from Sacramento.

She’d had two hips replaced, several years apart, and had been happy to recuperate both times without me. She did so again during her first breast cancer surgery. This time, however, she seemed to be not so cavalier. In our family, we neither showed nor acknowledged strong emotion, but I thought I heard a bit of worry in her voice, maybe even fear. I filed the observation under interesting, but did not mention it aloud.

Mom had not regained the 25 pounds she'd lost after the first cancer surgery and her energy level did not return to what it had been. As we waited, over the period of a week, for the results of the new tests, we spoke on the telephone every day which was hardly our custom. Beyond our cats and cooking, we had little in common.

I got the call from Mom on a Tuesday evening. More cancer. Liver. Inoperable. A few rounds of chemo or radiation might extend her life a few weeks, but the doctor's best guess was that she had about three or four months to live.

Because in our family we do not intrude or arrive unannounced, I asked Mom if she wanted me to go to California to be with her. “Oh yes,” she said. And after a pause, “please.” There was no guessing at what she was feeling this time. It was the most emotion I’d heard in her voice in my entire life.

The first thing I did when I was settled into an extra bedroom in her apartment was visit Mom’s physician. He told me this story:

He had called Mom into his office, he said, to tell her in person the results of the tests. He explained carefully and clearly, going over every option in detail, though there were, essentially, none. No hope. It took about ten minutes to get through it all, and then he stopped talking.

Mom sat quietly looking down at the floor, very still. She sat there without speaking for what, in other circumstances, would be too long. Just as the silence was becoming uncomfortable, she looked up and said to him: “Are you telling me I shouldn’t buy any green bananas?”

The doctor was stunned. He had no idea what to say. They both were silent, looking at each other, perhaps wondering what was next. And then they burst out laughing.

[The rest of my mother's story can be found here.]

My Mom

By Darlene Costner

If I had to choose one word to describe my mother it would be sweet. But that is inadequate because she was so much more. She was, by nature, very giving, compassionate, loving and courageous. She had such an even temper that I think my step-sister and I were the only ones who ever saw her lose it.

Our kitchen was small and storage space was limited to an upright cupboard that took up most of the space. As a result, all of the pots and pans were stacked under the sink. They had to be very carefully stacked because they filled the space and if they were not put in “just so,” they would fall out.

One day I started to enter the kitchen when Mom was putting the pans away. She would put one pan in and the entire stack would fall out. She patiently repeated the process about four times and four times the whole stack fell out. Suddenly, Mom stood up after the latest mishap and started kicking the pans all over the kitchen floor. I was so stunned to find out that my mother had a temper that I nearly fell over.

The second time my mother lost her equilibrium was on one of the many nights that my step-sister and I engaged in our nightly ritual of fighting over whose turn it was to wash the dishes.

Neither one of us wanted to wash because Mom dirtied so many pans when she made a meal that the end result was having to laboriously scour them and change the dishwater because they were so caked with food. It was not a fun thing to do. We shared a common selective memory; we each thought we had done the dirty deed the night before. Ergo - it was the other's turn to wash that night.

On this particular night the argument between Gloria and me became so heated and prolonged that my mother suddenly entered the kitchen completely exasperated with listening to us, doubled up her fists, hit each one of us on the top of the head, and said,” You girls just shut up!”

We were so stunned to see Mom lose her temper that the arguing stopped immediately. I don’t remember who ended up scouring the dirty pans that night, but I do know it was an act of contrition.

Mom loved horses and the outdoors in that order. She was a superb horsewoman and broke her own horse when she was only thirteen years old. Five years later she rode that horse when she became the first Queen in the Colorado Springs “Pikes Peak or Bust” rodeo. The local newspaper gave her a white buckskin outfit that consisted of a split fringed skirt, a vest and gauntlet gloves. It was a major event at that time and Mom was interviewed by a journalist from Denmark. The article was published in their woman’s magazine. She also rode her horse to the Governor’s mansion in Denver. I am very sure that this was the happiest time of my mother’s life.

Mom would have been very ecstatic living on a ranch, but fate decreed otherwise. She spent most of her adult years serving the public in the cottage court and trailer park that my grandmother started. Being shy by nature, this must have been difficult for her at first. She eventually became outgoing and was well loved by all who knew her.

Mom never complained even though she had a hard life. I admire and love my Mom and will always miss her.

The Best She Could

By Claire Jean

Mother: female parent, look after, care for, protect, nurse, tend

How many ways can one define mother? I read several books and took a few classes before becoming one myself. Lengthy discussions with friends already in that role were fascinating and informative. I listened intently to their parenting stories that seemed pretty much like a roller coaster ride.

By paying close attention to what worked, what did not work, I planned to make it my guide. Learning from their mistakes would help me to become, if not a perfect parent, a better informed one at least. Well, we know how that usually works out!

Enough about me. I turn now to my own Mother.

Who was she?

My mother emigrated from Italy to the United States at the age of thirteen. It was not a joyful departure. Mother was very attached to her maternal grandmother who was not able to make the journey. It was a painful separation for them both. She arrived in Boston with her mother, brother and sister in 1923. Her father traveled to America a year or two before to find work and become somewhat settled in the new country. This was usually the practice for men to go beforehand and women to follow.

Unbeknownst to mother, an arranged marriage was in the works prior to her stepping on American soil. Measures had been taken for her to marry a man much her senior who had been living and working in the United States for a few years.

She told me that she noticed an older-looking man hanging around many times watching her as she jumped rope and played ball with friends in the neighborhood. She had no idea who this person was, but did not mind since he would occasionally stop by the house and bring her gifts.

The marriage never materialized, she believed, because friends of her mother said that such practices were not the norm in America. Mother was surprised to hear of the plan and also relieved when she learned that it had been terminated, but sorry to no longer receive the presents.

She, at thirteen, was placed in the third grade in a Catholic school. Because she spoke not a word of English, she was required to sit beside the nun. The abusive teasing and name calling that spewed forth from the other children were too much for her to take and so she left school never to return. With the help of friends, she eventually got a job in a factory.

At sixteen, she met my father who was seventeen and also an immigrant. Shortly after their meeting, they eloped. She had her first child at seventeen, a second child a few years later and me, the only daughter, thirteen years after her first. What did she know about parenting? Not much. She never did learn to read or to write. The parent/child order of things was put in reverse as soon as it was possible.

We lived in neighborhoods that shared my parent’s background, traditions, etc. Community was powerful, and we spent much of our time with people just like us. For me, that was until I started school. I was determined to become as American as my school friends.

I began slowly introducing mother to American customs, especially working with her on the English language. There was one area that proved particularly challenging. Food. Wonder bread, baloney, and American cheese were foreign foods in our house, but they were a start and eventually such things became okay for her youngest child to eat. However, I’ll never forget the day I brought a can of Chef Boyardee Beefaroni into the house. I thought my mother would faint. I had gone too far.

There were many things that I regretted and wished were different. I always wondered who wrote those angelic velvety messages inside Mother’s Day cards. Whoever it was, never met my mother. She was tough; times were tough. She did the best she could.

Hopefully, one day, my children will feel that their mother did the best she could.

Mama's Sayings

By Celia Jones

As a child in upstate New York, I felt embarrassed that my mother had a European accent and a different ethnic background than my friends’ mothers. I would have preferred the immaculately groomed Waspish mothers of TV family sitcoms.

Yet, I was also grateful that Mama was much warmer and more huggable than the pale, thin blond mothers of Leave it to Beaver and Dennis the Menace.Being able to cuddle up to her soft, snoring body, inhale her doughy smell and play with her black curls during an afternoon nap had taught me about the depth of real motherly love.

Mama expressed her views on life in her Yiddish sayings like, “An animal always dies with his feet in the air.” I was not sure exactly what she meant by this, probably that death usually takes us by surprise, and we should cherish every day rather than look too deeply for reasons for our existence.

Mama taught me to enjoy life’s simple pleasures such as drives in the country and picnics in the California Napa Valley, where our family spent many summer days swimming in the hot mineral baths of Calistoga. She and Daddy perched like two fat love birds at the side of the pool munching mountains of Mama’s roast chicken, crusty, jawbreaker bread rolls and juicy watermelon slices. My father would always be the extroverted one who struck up conversations with the other bathers, while my mother sat quietly content by his side.

At home, Mama became very talkative and chirped away incessantly about all kinds of trivia, with special focus on the shopping bargains and recipes she found.

In a crowd, however, Mama’s nature was retiring; she preferred to be an unobtrusive, but keen observer. Recently, I got hold of an old Super8 film reel that my father-in-law took of my husband and myself when were leaving from San Francisco Airport for a two-year teaching stint in Australia. Everyone looked excited by our adventure, and my father was being his natural comedic self.

I had not noticed until viewing this film 25 years later the devastated look on my mother’s face as she sat in the shadows observing all the activity and sensing that we wouldn’t be coming back to live in America.

Shortly after we left America, my father became ill and Mama was left on her own to cope. She never missed a day visiting my father in the hospital after his cancer operation, gritting her teeth making the painful two-mile walk on her arthritic knees.

My father said she encouraged him with a mantra-like phrase, “It’s nearer, rather than farther.” Mama supported Daddy in his journey to overcome his illness and taught me the value of true devotion.

When there were serious complications after my father’s surgery, Mama feared the prospect of living alone. No doubt, she would have thought about her adage: “A mama can always find room for l6 children, even though 16 children can’t find room in their home for one mama.”

Mama always used to say it would be a nightmare to have to live with her children, remembering how difficult it was when her own mother had to live with her and my father. As a parent herself, Mama was unselfishly devoted to her children, no strings attached, and she has been my role model in raising my own daughter.

Fortunately, Mama was able to bring my father home from the hospital with her, and I can just hear her sighing, “There’s no place like your own home,” when they walked into their house.

My parents were not materialistic and though they could afford to buy a nicer, more modern place, Mama refused to move from our old ramshackle house on Nursery Street. She lived in the kitchen, which was twice the size of the living room. This was Mama’s domain where she created her culinary triumphs and frequent disasters.

Instead of resembling the fluffy-looking loaves pictured in the recipe books, her bread rolls turned out like cargo-ship anchors. Her problem was that she was overly generous with ingredients. If the dish called for one cup of flour, she’d use two or three eggs instead of the one required. She always said, “I don’t like to skimp on food for my family. You have to cook with love,” and we always knew she did.

She would express her values in sayings with a food theme like, “He cries and eats creplach” which reflects Mama’s attitude to selfish people. Creplach were Jewish dumplings, once considered a delicacy that usually for the wealthy. This saying encapsulates my mother’s censure of the selfish type of person who will never admit that he is financially comfortable for fear that someone might be jealous or ask them for a loan to help them out of a desperate financial situation.

However, you would never hear Mama complain about her lot in life: “If everybody put their troubles on the line, they would gladly take their own over someone else’s. As long as you have your health, you have everything.”

How well I remember this saying whenever I’m tempted to feel sorry for myself. I used to find this saying ironic as my mother was always fighting the effects of poor health with debilitating migraines, high-blood pressure, varicose veins and later, Alzheimer’s and cancer.

However, Mama did accept that bad things can happen to good people and superstitiously would warn us: “Beware the people with the evil eye!” She was superstitious and believed there was a sort of person who begrudged other people’s good fortune and “gave you the eye,” inflicting illness and misfortune on the receiver of this “eye.”

She dressed us in red to ward off the evil eye. There was also a precautionary ritual, where a close relative had to spit in the air close to your face after exposure to suspected evil looks. I used to think that this probably worked because nobody could be jealous of you with spit all over face.

I’m only a little superstitious, but I still feel that it is unwise to provoke envy in others. Unconsciously, I've found that I've also adapted her kind of stoic philosophy. Without being negative, I'm aware that there’s no guarantee that bad things won’t happen to my loved ones, and cherish them all the more.

It was her philosophy to counteract anger and cruelty with a dose of kindness: “You can get more bees with honey than vinegar.” That made the most impact. In other words, disarm people who are hell-bent on creating ructions and hostility by showing them understanding.

Psychologists today prescribe this non-confrontational approach today as a means of dealing with conflict situations. As a high school teacher, I often followed this advice when handling obstreperous students and found it to be an effective approach.

One day when I was teaching a senior English class, I told my students about my mother’s sayings and one boy asked me if my mother was a philosopher. The question surprised and amused me. I was going to answer my student’s question by saying that, of course, she was not a philosopher. She wasn’t very well educated, and I never considered her very bright when I was young.

However, like an epiphany, years after my mother’s death, I suddenly realized that her sayings had made their intended impact on my adult behavior, life choices, values and relationships. I felt both a renewed respect for my mother and a sadness that I hadn’t recognized the value of her words before. Her little gems still lingered in the depths of my psyche.

Mama’s behavior expressed true love, and her words expressed a down-to-earth wisdom and courage. Once more, I could see Mama waving her palms over the Sabbath candles spreading her own personal version of the Jewish zeitgeist. Her rubbery matzo balls and dense chicken soup still felt heavy in my chest, but all around me, what I was most conscious of was the lingering sweetness, which would always be with me, of my mother’s “nshoma,” her enduring spirit.