Mama, If Only We Could Have Coffee Now...

Oh, Mama, I wish we could meet again.  I would tell you over and over how much you influenced me in all the important ways.  I would ask you questions I never dared ask when you were alive.  As I look around my home and see piles of books in every corner, I remember how you shared with me your love of books, how you took me to the library, and taught me the way to escape into literary worlds that I would never see except in my mind's eye.  You taught me to love books more than 50 hears ago and I love them still.

"Never judge an Indian until you have walked in his moccasins," you said.  At first I didn't really understand what that meant but I do now.  When I see a homeless woman I think about what her life was once like and how many steps she took to where she is now.  Maybe she did the best she could with what she had.  Maybe she didn't have a kind husband or children and family who could help take her of her.

You were an abused wife and an alcoholic, Mama, and that has influenced my life in profound ways. 

 I wish you could know that I got a bachelor's degree, a master's degree, and a certificate in addiction counseling not just so that I could understand what you went through and to help others who have the same disease.

You taught me that answers are not always simple.  I used to wonder why you didn't leave Dad who was so violent and mean to all of us.  I understand now.  You had no money, no family who could support you financially, and very little self esteem.  There were no battered women's shelters in those days so you stayed to keep a roof over our heads.  You paid a huge price and only in my later years did I recognize how big a price that really was.

Oh, Mama, you were a quiet woman who showed us little affection.  When I was older I asked you why you weren't a "huggy kissy" mama and you courageously told me.  You said you had been brought up in an Irish home and people were not necessaily affectionate but you also shared with me how much you loved your children and wished that you could have had more.  I was sort of shocked to think you wanted more.  I knew that Dad thought we were all a bother and certainly didn't want any more kids around.  What a nice thing to learn that you enjoyed us all in the ways that you could. 

I'm 60 now, Mama.  You never made it that far.  All those beatings, the cheap wine (your only way to cope with the abuse), the years of unfiltered Kools...they got you in the end.  It is a weird feeling Mama, to have lived longer than you did. 

I wish you could be here with me now, having a cup of coffee (your favorite thing, remember?  We used to have to hide the coffee pot when Dad came home; what kind of crazy person would resent another person's drinking coffee?).  If you were here now, I would ply you with lobster which you also loved.  I would take you to see Johnny Mathis whose records you played over and over.  In honor of you, Mama, Nancy, Jean and I went to see Johnny Mathis at the Music Circus in Cohasset a few years ago.  He sounded just like those records you played so many years ago.  Yes, Mom, he's still alive and doing concerts.  Frankie is gone now though.  I know you loved his voice too.

And, Mama, I would show you my writing on Gather!  Nancy and Paul also write here.  Three kids out of four who write regularly is pretty special.  When you used to sit in the livingroom at home, books spilling in piles around you creating your book review columns for the local newspaper, I learned that writing was fun and could be lucrative.  I remember when you were asked to publish a children's book by a noted publisher and wish you could have done that.  I would give anything to have the scrapbook of all your columns for the Scituate Mirror but it disappeared in the many moves we made.  I do not have one single example of your writing.

I am grateful that I know not to smoke, don't have the disease of alcoholism, and have never been physically abused.  I'm single now after two marriages.  You remember the little boys, Billy and Andy, who used to come with me to visit you at the nursing home?  Knowing that your family name was Pudge they nicknamed you Grandma Fudge.  They're all grown up, Mama.  You'd be so proud of them.  They, too, have your compassion and caring so your legacy lives on.  

And so I think of you on Mother's Day...you taught me so much and left me gifts.  Though parts of you are alive in each of us kids and in your grandchildren, I love you, Mama, and miss you every day.