I didn’t know the last time Mom signed anything. She had gorgeous handwriting, and her signature was fine art, but after her stroke in 1992, I feared I’d never see it again. Mom being Mom fully recovered, as did her penmanship. But that was twenty years ago. Out of the six kids, only Laurel’s hand came close. However, Laurel lived in sunny California, and forgery was not an option. At least one I wasn’t willing to entertain—yet. The end of my nightmare all depended on finding a checkbook, if one still existed in this house, and a signature, if Mom could still manage one.
Tag Archives: Eldercare
Way Back When (excerpt)
Having five children in her first seven years of marriage and a sixth four years later might have pleased the Catholic Church but had to be a shock to Genevieve. Okay, not a total shock since it takes two. But as an only child, she never experienced other little people, let alone six of them. Noel, on the other hand, had five siblings and several cousins living close by. He didn’t experience peace and quiet until he joined the Army.
The Lentil Soup Wager
While I heated a bowl of lentil soup for Mom, Tweedle Dumb leaned in to offer some sage advice gathered from years of serving her. “Gen doesn’t like soup.” I replied, “If it’s made and served with love, she’ll eat it.” She countered, “Wanna bet?” I couldn’t resist. “Okay, if Mom finishes the entire bowl, will you move out?” She sneered, stuck out her tongue and stomped off. To be honest, I wasn’t sure if Mom would eat anything I prepared for her. This woman with limited taste buds proved to be quite fussy. But when I served that soup—with no coaching on my part—she devoured every last lentil, and in record time. I captured it on my iPhone to share with Tweedle Dumb if she dared to see.
Full Circle (excerpt)
… We witnessed a reconciliation of sorts during Dad’s last years. They worked as a team to battle his heart disease and became nearly inseparable. Dad confirmed this by signing his typewritten updates, “Genoel,” a combination of their names. Mom was the main reason he chose to stay at home instead of in the hospital. But that decision required an extraordinary effort on her part. No spring chicken herself, she struggled to get him in and out of the house, and to and from the outpatient heart clinic several times a week. After seeing our seventy-six-year-old mother crouch behind and push our eighty-two-year-old father’s butt up the four steps to the house, Caryl begged them to move to the Jersey Shore so she could take care of them. Mom smiled, looked at Dad and said, “We’re doing all right, aren’t we?” He nodded, yes, and those two iron-willed folks stayed put. I saw this tandem perform their technique just once. And though I found it painful to watch, it was a beautiful sight to see.
The Recyclers
Our introduction came early. If food scraps didn’t make it into Dad’s creations, they ended up in the compost pile next to the garage. Now, decades later, that might be the most fertile soil in all The Garden State. But his passion for recycling extended far beyond food.When it snowed, all the neighborhood kids sprinted to Maryann Place; a short, steep, and as long as friends stopped traffic at the bottom, a safe hill to slide down on a flexible flyer, toboggan, or in our case, a hollowed-out refrigerator door.
You’re Gonna Need a Bigger Fireplace
On rare occasions, Mom removed the plastic covers from the living room furniture. Only then did we take comfort knowing we wouldn’t, by accident, slide off our seats in the cool months or stick to them in the hot. This also gave us another reason to love Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter Sunday. Turkey, stuffing and Mom’s apple, cherry and pumpkin pies—even with bellyaches after—made Thanksgiving a treat. Bonnets, baked ham, and searching for Mom’s lavish baskets overstuffed with candy, sweetened our Easters. But only Christmas was an all-hands-on-deck family affair. Dad braved the blistering evening snow and a shaky ladder hanging garland and multi-colored lights around our front door, while the rest of us stayed warm by the fire listening to Bing Crosby and Nat King Cole croon Christmas carols. Mom and Laurel set up the Nativity scene on the mantle, keeping Baby Jesus off to the side. David and Caryl hung stockings emblazoned with our names—pets, too—above the fireplace. Michael draped our fragrant Douglas Fir with strings of lights with at least one near impossible to find faulty bulb that threatened to disrupt our holiday cheer. Deecy and I decorated the tree with tinsel and family heirlooms beside ones soon-to-be. And we crowned our masterpiece with an angel and prayed she’d watch over us. But secretly I prayed she’d bring me a bounty of gifts, whether I was naughty or nice.
I’m from Missour-uh
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.
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.