After her doctor cut off all food and medications, Mom prescribed her own remedy; sherbet. Eight bowls a day. Every day. She was 89 and getting stronger. How could I say “No”?
Author Archives: Mark Steven Porro
Scared
(Mom tenses up as soon as I enter) Mark: Mom, are you scared? Mom: Yes. Mark: Do I scare you? Mom: Yes. Mark: I never want to do that. (She puckers up for a kiss) Mark: Is that what this is all about? (She shoots me a wicked smile)
Last Bath?
Mom was happy to christen the new bathroom with a bubble bath. But then she passed out in the tub. Great, I try to do a good thing and I kill my mom. At lease she smelled good.
A Memoir Mini-Teaser
If your mother deserves to be treated like a queen in her “Golden Years,” you need to read this book.
Three Bags of Crunchy Granola
Mom: I’m saying goodbye. Mark: Where are you going? Mom: Heaven, I hope. Mark: Why? Mom: Well, I’m not going to hell. Mark: Of course not, but why now? I just fixed up the house. Mom: The what? Mark: The house. Don’t you want to enjoy it? (no response) And I just bought three bags of crunchy granola. (She laughs and falls back asleep)
You’re Gonna Need a Bigger Fireplace
As our family grew, so did the Everest of gifts Mom bought. The house could handle the increasing numbers, but the fireplace could not. Stockings spanned the entire face and spilled onto both sides, two or more to a hook, prompting visitors to say, “You’re gonna need a bigger fireplace.”
Just the Two of Us
’Twas the night before Christmas . . . no, ’twas the night of Christmas.
The first without Dad, or the second. Things got hazy after his passing. I’d
flown in from the Left Coast to spend the holidays in New Jersey where it was
bitter cold outside and warm and toasty inside, just as it should be during
this time of year. It’s quite often the opposite in Los Angeles, which makes it
tough to get into the spirit of things.
Meet the Author as He Explains the Title
My mother cherished her weekly trips to the beauty parlor for a shampoo & set. Occasionally, she’d spice things up with a perm and frosting that required a reintroduction to her family—even the dog needed a second sniff. However, those salon sojourns were but a distant memory. So, I launched the “Day of Beauty” to recreate at home that pampering she so loved, and I’m sure, so sorely missed.
“Day of Beauty” soon evolved into its own multitasking operation. While Mom did her business on the commode, and depending on how long she took, I performed many of the chores on the DoB menu. These tasks included a full sponge bath, soaking her feet in Epsom salts, shampooing, conditioning, and blow drying her long, now silvery, hair.
One day, hoping to make her adventures on the commode a tad more pleasant, I offered Mom a cup of her favorite beverage: hot tea with skim milk, no sugar. It was a hit. And from that day forward, A Cup of Tea on the Commode became a staple on the menu, and the clear choice for the title of my memoir.
The Story Behind the Cover
When I first embarked on this journey, my mother had many visions. Most were light, some dark, and others damn entertaining. But the one she saw most often and described in such detail was of a parade of well-dressed children who marched down Emmett Place and passed by her bedroom window. The girls held flowers, a single stem, or a bouquet, including her favorite, daisies. The boys held colorful balloons that bobbed in the wind. This parade also plays an integral role throughout A Cup of Tea on the Commode.
While editing the manuscript, my sister Caryl, out of the blue, sent me a batch of old black and white photos. One caught my attention. It captured Mom, eight years old, dressed in a frilly white dress, wearing patent leather shoes, sitting on a bench, with a flower in her hand. I don’t recall ever seeing that photo before, but I couldn’t help thinking that serendipity played a role in its timely arrival. This young Genevieve fit in perfectly with Mom’s parade, which left me no choice but to feature it on the cover.
The handwritten title adds a soft touch and hints at the intimacy of the stories within. A pattern of daisies, her favorite flower, fills the background and reinforces the warm invitation to join me on my multitasking adventures of caring for Mom.
You Don’t Have Alzheimer’s, Do You?
Doctor: I think your mother has Alzheimer’s disease. I turn to Mom and ask, “You don’t have Alzheimer’s, do you? Mom: I don’t remember. Priceless.