Mama Mia

Memory:

Anyone who truly knew my mother, often called Norma Marie, by my father; Ma, by by brother and real husband; Mama, by my daughter, and GiGi, by my grandchildren, knew she passionately stood up for the "underdog", loved animals and defended her kids like a rabid "she-bear." But we also knew she had a slow burning temper hotter than her red hair, that would explode like a Molotov Cocktail, a sniper's grenade, or a suddenly erupting volcano whenever she had taken enough. She could be standing in a room working on her ironing, and some small thing or word would take her past her limit and "the grenade went off." Mom was never dull.

My mom had a sweet and loving side to her that was genuine, and it was the one she preferred those outside of our walls to see. But there were just so many sides to her, and most of them were good ones (many of which I see in myself and my daughter). She loved people with a love that could border on religious adoration, but it was suffocating. And, if mom were ever crossed, she could put up a barrier that only apology after apology could start to tear down.

She was so passive on the outside, but so stubborn and fierce if she thought she was being told not to do something. It set off a charge in her that couldn't be stopped even when she knew it should be. Like the time at age 78, when she married a man who was totally blind and, unknown to her or us, bi-polar and crazy. This was particularly dicey because mom was also blind. Mom was told by his family and hers not to move away from Maine and live in Oregon all alone with him. But that was all it took. Once you told her not to - she had to. Two years later my real husband and I moved out to Oregon to ship her crazy husband back to Maine, and help her with her divorce at age 80.

It would be difficult to pick a "recipe" to be my Mom. For one thing, she loved food; all food; any food. Yet you would never have pictured her to be a good cook, unless you had lived with her for 40 years, as I had. When my brother, Johnny, and I were kids, the best we could hope for most of the time was Kraft Macaroni and Cheese or Campbell's Soup. On a good day, we'd have some kind of cheap cut of meat, canned vegetables and french fried potatoes and not necessarily all at the same time.

As I grew up and she actually had more food in the house to cook with, I found out my mom was a darn good cook. She could make the best scalloped potatoes, creamed broccoli soup, banana bread and the lightest, fluffiest fried fish I have ever tasted to this day. I don't have recipes for these, because she never wrote them down, and I was always at work when she made them. Her food became our language of love. As she went into her mid-80's and, until age 91, she became my child. Food was again our love language, but now I cooked for her and she ate everything I made as if it were her favorite dish of all times.

When she was 89 years old she took the horrible decision to go into a nursing home out of my hands, and told her doctor she was ready to go. That was the purest act of kindness and love my mom ever did for me (I only hope I have that kind of courage and selflessness for my daughter when the time comes). Once again, food was our bond. I went to see my mom in the nursing home every day at lunch and evening meals on the way home from work. She could no longer feed herself so I did it for her. Once again, my mom surprised me. She became a picky eater in the home and would eat only the things on her tray that she liked. I had never seen this side of her before. She was never what you expected her to be.

I won't pretend that it was easy caring for my mom all those years. I wondered at times if she would outlive me, and I would die at her nursing home with her. I'd feel so guilty for thinking like this and nothing ever seemed normal. But when she did die in her nursing home bed, I knew I had done my best, without regret. But there was regret. I looked down at her, and realize the saddest part of her passing for me was that I had been grieving and missed my real momth - the one who saw and remembered me - for at least 10 year. I looked down at the same face I had seen evey day for lunch I sang her favorite song to my real mom who had been gone for years, "I'll Be Loving You Always" - "not for just an hour, not for just a day, not for just a year, but Always."

Recipe:
Food; all food; any food.

Thought:
I learned the hard way from my mom that parents do the best they can with what they have and that just has to be good enough, because we'll only do the best we can with what we have when we're parents.