When doubting my tall tales told to escape trouble, my mom declared, “I’m from Missour-uh.” Which, as a child, I never understood. Born and raised in Garden City, Long Island, why in the world would she claim she was from anywhere else? And where did the ‘uh’ come from? It’s spelled Missouri, with ‘an’, that’s pronounced, which also made little sense and only magnified my confusion. Dad’s “You’re full of soup” or “Ya bagrat” clearly captured the Brooklyn brashness we knew and loved. Did my mom secretly prefer the mighty Mississippi over the Hudson River? ‘Showboat’ over ‘Guys and Dolls’? The Cardinals over the Yankees? Well, apparently, yes. “Showboat”, her favorite musical, featured her favorite song, “Why Do I Love You?” Her upright piano music box chimed the same tune. She even named her dog, Zuri, as in, “I’m from…” Her fascination with Missouri—a state she never visited—fascinated me.
Author Archives: Mark Steven Porro
It’s Like Déjà Vu All Over Again
When I returned in September as Mom’s plus one for her grandson Josh’s wedding, I noticed little had changed at 247 Emmett Place. I shouldn’t have been surprised after someone sent me a photo of Mom asleep in her wheelchair with her head propped up by a travel pillow jammed under her chin. Who thought that would bring me comfort? Or was that the idea?
Better Than Food
Other than my father’s corny jokes, most of our family traditions involved food. Dad was clever. He hid his lack of culinary skills by entertaining the troops, and his show magically made everything taste better. When serving his creations, he often proclaimed them, “Better than food.” And who were we to disagree? His crazy-shaped pancakes always delighted, as did his made-from-leftovers spaghetti sauce and soup—what he called “Baseball Soup” during the season that extended into the fall if the Yankees reached the playoffs. Dad roasted chestnuts all year long, divvied up pomegranates, made an art out of day-old corn on the cob, carefully peeling off one row at a time and distributing the kernels into eager hands. He stuffed ice cream cones with cold mashed potatoes that never melted on a sweltering summer day. And in 1963, he reinvented popcorn. He named his crunchy half-popped popcorn snack, Nutranuts. His goal was to lure us kids away from candy and junk food to reduce dental bills. Mum’s the word on his success rate.
When Ya Comin’ Home? (excerpt)
Other than Michael’s potluck Tuesdays, the occasional sushi night, or the obligatory monthly takeout from Boston Market®, I cooked all of Mom’s meals—not a simple task. This woman whose taste buds retired years ago still had a particularly picky pallet. Whether it was the color or texture, I don’t know, but her comments could be brutal. She scolded Michael. “Not your soup again!” Or when serving a breakfast dish she hadn’t enjoyed in years, I asked, “Best French Toast ever?” She forced a smile, then shook her head, no. So, to avoid any more ego-crushing, I tried to keep things fresh and exciting. When whipping up my world-famous ratatouille, emphasizing “World-Famous” catapulted this healthy meal onto her favorites list. My homemade chicken soup and my special French Toast—whether she admitted it—also made the list. She loved spareribs, so I bought a grill to barbecue them year-round. Another blast from the past treat she enjoyed was corn on the cob. But for Mom and her loose dentures—she refused to let me secure—getting the corn off the cob proved too difficult, so I stripped those kernels off with a knife as my babysitter did so many years ago. Thank you, Mrs. Becker.
Give Me a Break (excerpt)
We hadn’t been out much in the past year. I thought a breath of fresh air would do us both some good. So we, as Mom liked to say, went “gallivanting.” We Jersey-Shored it for Caryl’s royal spa treatment, which gave my Day of Beauty a royal run for its money. We drove to Long Island for lunch with Dad’s sister, Claire, the last of her generation. Closer to home, we traversed the county visiting favorite places only to find time had erased them. A strip mall now stood where Tice’s and Van Riper’s Farms once did. These were the go-to places in the Fall for fresh apple cider, red candy apples, and losing yourself in a sweet cloud of cinnamon. Fishel’s Bakery, home of melt-in-your-mouth cream donuts and our traditional ice cream birthday cakes, no longer existed. T & Ws, who made the best chocolate chip mint ice cream, gone. Mama Rosa’s pizza vanished—still the best pizza, and the one I measure all others by. Wilke’s Deli replaced Pat’s Deli and overcharges non-suspecting customers for every sandwich. You never had to count your change with Pat.
The Call (excerpt)
My mother’s first attempt at dying, the first I knew of anyway, occurred on February 5, 2011, nine days after her eighty-ninth birthday. I was working at my sister’s design firm in Grand Rapids, Michigan, making extra cash to keep my struggling Los Angeles snack food business afloat. My bachelor life made the journey back and forth between the Pacific and the Lake Michigan coasts easy, even for weeks at a time. I had no children and few responsibilities outside of work, but that all changed when the call came.
Planting the Seed (excerpt)
Well-schooled by hospice nurses, Deecy and I became proficient in tending to our mother’s daily needs including: Sponge baths, bedsore treatment, diaper, clothes, and bedding changes—not easy with the helpless patient lying in bed. During our stay, we took over most duties, taking breaks only when hospice paid their regular visits. Mom was now sitting up, alert, smiling, talking, eating umpteen bowls of sherbet, and only sherbet. Lemon, lime, watermelon or raspberry, the flavor didn’t matter, just keep it coming. Her “If you don’t already have diabetes, you will surely get it now diet” lasted for several weeks. I know what you’re thinking. I was right there with you. Sherbet may not seem like the smartest medicine, but that’s all she wanted. And who were we to question this eighty-nine-year-old Phoenix who rose from the dead with renewed youth and energy? Genevieve was back, and in the pink.
Be Patient (excerpt 2)
Hospice’s initial assessment: Her body is shutting down. Food is no longer necessary. Ice chips will provide some relief as she transitions. We obeyed the “No food. Ice chips only” directive, and we expected the daily stream of hospice nurses to obey it as well. However, we discovered that nurses often ignored directives and dispensed their own brand of care. To make sure they followed the rules, Deecy and I stopped them at the front door with the directive in hand. This worked well until one nurse, after noting the directive, turned to our mother and blurted out, “Are you hungry?” We practically leaped over the bed to stifle her. But when Mom’s eyes snapped open, the nurse accused us of starving her to death. She called her supervisor and repeated the accusation. Hospice told her to leave, and she did so in a huff.
Be Patient (excerpt)
After several days of little change, we all came to terms that our mother was leaving us, comforted only by the fact that she appeared to be in no pain. We kids took turns sleeping next to her, just in case. Though Mom spoke no words, she responded to touch by squeezing our hands, shifting her body, or moaning softly when we touched foreheads. On the rare occasion she opened her eyes, she focused solely on the upper corner of the room. Was someone beckoning her? She wouldn’t say.
If You Rebuild It (excerpt)
Once completed, Mom christened the new bathroom with a bubble bath—her first in years. I took photos to mark the event. But a near tragedy cut the celebration short when Mom passed out in the tub. Great, I try to do a nice thing, and I kill my mom. At least she smelled good. I pulled her out, carried her downstairs, put her to bed, and called a nurse. She said leaving Mom in the hot bath for too long caused her blood pressure to drop, causing her to faint. I kept watch until she woke up a half-hour later. Mom didn’t remember passing out, but she did remember the new bathroom. So, a win-win for me. But taking no more chances, there would be no more baths.