Mom’s obsession with Universal Product Codes began years ago after discovering if she collected enough and mailed them in—along with a substantial check—a beautiful “Collector’s Item” awaited at the end of the UPC rainbow. That’s all she needed to hear. So, throughout our house, whenever we opened a bag, a box, a bottle, a jar or can, all we heard was, “Save the label. Save the label.”
Tag Archives: parent/child role reversal
Genevieve’s Vision
On a crisp, sunny spring morning, a merry band of well-dressed young children parades down Emmett Place, looking like they’ve just escaped Mass at Our Lady of Mount Carmel. Some skip, a few hopscotch, others weave, but most march in unison. The girls—hair in pigtails, ponytails, or pixie cuts—wear frilly white dresses, white lace socks, and patent-leather shoes. All carry flowers: a single stem or bouquet. The boys sport combed hair, dress pants, shiny black shoes, and starched white shirts neatly tucked in. Neckties are the norm, but a couple flaunt their individuality with bow ties. Each lad clutches a string anchoring a brightly colored balloon bobbing to and fro in the wind. The entire procession appears to be from an innocent time long past. As the parade rounds the cul-de-sac and approaches the second house from the end, each child turns, smiles, and waves toward a window on the first floor.
Inside, beyond the billowy curtains, propped up in a hospital bed, sits a frail, ninety-two-year-old Genevieve. Her kind eyes dance with delight as she waves to the children. It’s uncertain whether she knows any of them, but that doesn’t matter. What does is the long-absent and much-needed joy these children seem to bring her.
The last girl, holding a single daisy, stops and beckons Genevieve to join the parade. Amused and tempted, Genevieve chuckles for a moment before a wave of sadness erases her smile. Her eyes drift to an old black-and-white photo hanging on the front wall. In it, a young girl with a soft brown bob that frames her cherubic face. She, too, wears a frilly white dress, white lace socks, and patent-leather shoes, and holds a posy of daisies.
If You Rebuild It, They Will Return (excerpt)
The rebuilding phase began with daily trips to the—luckily not so far from home—Home Depot. As a special treat for Mom, I always stopped by McDonald’s for a berry smoothie. And though she always requested their latest “Collectable” trinket, the smoothie was all she got. Lucky for me, her disappointment melted with her first slurp of the chilly delight. While her lips never left the flexible straw, her curious eyes followed me back and forth as I carried load after load of materials down to the basement. “What’s going on?” she asked. “I’m redoing the basement.” She furrowed her brow. “Who’s paying for all that?” “You are,” I said. And every trip to Home Depot sparked the same conversation.
Halloween Delayed
Halloween, both a strange and wonderful tradition, conjures up mostly fond memories for me. Strange because the night before—Cabbage Night to us in New Jersey. Mischief Night to others—we smashed pumpkins, toilet-papered trees, shave-creamed front doors and egged everything in sight. And yet wonderful because the next evening we returned to those same houses—in disguise—said, “Trick or treat,” and collected a sweet reward. Since we did no serious damage, we felt no guilt.
The First 6:00 am Wake Up Call
Mom called out my name, which was unusual. Early on, and more often than not, she forgot who I was—lending credence to my “Wiping Butt Causes Amnesia” theory. In any case, I jumped out of bed in my stocking feet and flew down the newly varnished and extremely slippery stairs. It’s a miracle I stayed right side up. I slid into her bedroom, my heart racing, my lungs gasping, only to find her in bed, wide awake, and perfectly calm.
Is That Your Picasso in the Outfield?
Springtime brought the birds, the bees, flowers, green grass, and the start of baseball season—a big deal in our house when I grew up. Dad was a Pony League coach, my two older brothers played, and in my youth, I attempted to. And while America’s pastime bonded most fathers and sons, it drove a wedge between Dad and me.
Eight Glasses
Mom wakes up all peppy. She waves her finger at me. Gen: I have not had one glass of water since I’ve been here. All they give me is that small glass with juice. Mark: I’m the “they” and I’ve tried to give you water, but you don’t like it. I’ll get you some now. Gen: Make it cold! I return with a glass. She guzzles it.) Gen: You’re supposed to drink eight glasses a day. Mark: Where did you hear that? Gen: I don’t know. A long time ago. Mark: Well, you’ve got seven more to go. Gen: (dismissing me with a wave) No thanks.
Salt, Pepper, and a Drop of Whiskey
My brother Michael, six years my senior, was the first to witness our mother’s unconditional love for the tiniest member of our family. In the late 1950s, we had plenty of cats, six by my count. So, when Mom brought home two baby mice—one white and one black—a perfectly reasonable question to ask would be, why? After all, this was enemy territory and Salt & Pepper, nothing but easy yet tasty prey. However, our cats were well-behaved and, in fact, welcomed the fresh additions with open paws, as did Michael. And so began his love affair with these furry little creatures.
Never Doubt a Mother’s Intuition
It’s not hard to empathize with others when you’ve experienced your own difficulties. I suffered from asthma as a child. Mom told me I nearly died at two years old. I remember many things, even at two, but I guess I blocked that near-death thing out. A combination of corticosteroid injections, suppositories, inhalers, and pills kept me breathing, and alive. And though wheezing and gasping for air was no fun, I did enjoy certain aspects of the disease. If an attack came in the middle of the night, Dad gave me piggyback rides in the dark. We traversed the living and dining rooms while I steered by tugging on his ears. Left, right. Right, left. My poor father kept this up until the medicine kicked in and I fell back asleep. But I fought hard to stay awake because I never wanted those rides to end.
Give Me a Break (excerpt 2)
During the darkest and most stressful moments in the snack food business, I often relied on my mantra. It also turned out to be quite useful in my new life as Mom’s caregiver. On the cusp of losing all hope, I didn’t go negative; I went positive. And if I said, “I love my job” over and over again, I just might believe it. If not, on to wine, preferably red, and plenty of it.