As a little girl, I adored my mom. To me she was the most beautiful woman in the world - glamorous, stylish, cool. Dressed always to kill, she innocently attracted every man that happened her way. When I grew to be a teen, I swore the Virginia Slims ads in the magazines were modeled after my memory of her - thin, tall and elegantly smoking thin, long cigarettes (though in reality, in those days she always smoked unfiltered Camels!)
As I described in a previous post, I
so remember going to Mass every Sunday - not for the meaningful sermons heard, but for the fashion parade that proceeded from our front door to the door of our neighboring Catholic Church - St. Matthews. Not only was mom impeccably dressed, my father was "suitably" attired, as handsome as Rock Hudson many would say, and my brothers, sisters and I were decked out in our Sunday best. Seated properly in our pew, while all eyes were supposed to be locked on the vestment-laden priest as he delivered his homily, mine would be peaking up with adoration at my mother in her leopard-skin hat or the one with the long pheasant feather brushing past her shiny brunette hair. Mother Mary didn't hold a candle to mine.
I often wonder now if my children ever perceived me that same way (wishful thinking!), or if this beautiful mystique was peculiar to women of that generation. It saddens me that we've lost that innocent, elegant beauty and exchanged it for purchased plastic replicas with little to no mystery.
I really have no early memories of my mother looking harried, being sick, or cross, though I've heard of the days she was. It was 1952, the most virulent year on record for the poliovirus and just before Jonas Salk perfected the vaccine, when my mother lost her closest friend to the disease and days later came down with it herself. One moment she was fine, caring for two young girls just 13 months apart, and the next she was dragging her limp body across the floor to the telephone to summon dad. Mom, unlike her dear friend, recovered and soon we were all vaccinated against that deadly disease. Thank you, Lord, and thank you,
Jonas Salk. Mom went on to walk city blocks on her hands (literally), teach us all the swan dive and jackknife, crochet umpteen baby blankets, tablecloths, and throws, as well
entertain extended family, executives, and countless friends as her family grew from two to seven.
Actually eight. Mom lost her second-to-last baby in the fifth month. She said she felt a whir and knew the baby had died. Prior to ultrasound's ability to peak beyond the veiled womb at the baby within and obstetrics offering no dependable means to confirm an unborn child's death within the womb, the church could not consent to and my mother wouldn't think of having a therapeutic abortion. Thus mom carried my brother until his ninth month, shying away from the "when's it due?", "how far along are you?" questions thrown at her, anticipating the dire outcome of a dreaded delivery and, once again, herself escaping the severity of the situation, though not the sadness. Michael. Returned to the mind of God.
It would be many years later when mom would once again push the limits of endurance, but I'll save that story for its proper time.
