For My Mom

My mother passed away in the early morning hours of April 14, 2020. I could not be with her and yet, we were never really apart. 

My cousin Doug reached out to me with condolences and I was suddenly transported to my 5-year old self; hanging with Doug, Steve, and David on weekends, the big family get togethers at my grandpa Hobbs' house in Oneonta, NY, my mom and her sisters and brothers and their spouses in lawn chairs watching their kids race around the yard, playing games, insane with sweat and shrieking laughter. It prompted me to see if I could commit a few memories of my mother to the virtual page...

Pancakes for Dinner

I never felt poor growing up but we certainly weren't rich. With my father stationed overseas in Germany, my mom, my sister Lauren and I lived in a ground floor apartment down the street from my grandpa Hobbs' house. Occasionally, the food budget called for a vegan night or two for dinner. Okay, I didn't know what a vegan was or even if that word existed then. Anyway. No meat. Not even spam. 

We'd have pancakes for dinner. But here's the kicker…

We didn't have any maple syrup, either.

Instead, my mom would put a spoonful of sugar on my pancake, then add some hot coffee with milk from her cup over the sugar. With a couple spoonfuls of coffee you could then spread the coffee-sugar mix over the pancake and… Bon appetit! 

So sweet and delicious! 

The Perfect Front Yard

We lived in Security, Colorado when my father was stationed at Fort Carson and - following deployments to Germany and Kentucky - for a few years after he retired from the Army. We lived in a cul-de-sac that flooded when it rained in the spring, in a 3-bedroom, 1-bath house that had a spectacular view of the Rocky Mountains, including North Cheyenne Mountain and Pike's Peak. 

My mom kept an immaculate lawn, waging a tireless war against dandelions and crabgrass. (My father had a home movie camera and projector like so many dads of the 60s. He took footage of mom digging dandelions out of the yard. He thought it was hilarious running the film backwards, to make it look like mom was "planting" the dandelions back in the yard. I don't remember mom laughing at that. In fairness, not really that funny.) She also maintained small flower beds around the house with perfectly arranged plants local to the harsher climes of the region like hens and chicks. There was a horned toad that would make an appearance now and then, hiding ineffectively among the stones and succulents. Having grown up on sci-fi movies that featured gigantic creatures - ants, tarantulas, 50-foot women - I feared that horned toad and what it could become.

Perhaps mom was competing with our neighbors, the Morrisons, and their perfectly trimmed hedges. Maybe a lawn was something she just couldn't have living in apartments and in base housing and she just wasn't going to miss out on it.

It was our first real home and she made it beautiful.

Potato Pancakes and Spaghetti Sauce

I loved my mom's potato pancakes so much I would volunteer to grate the potatoes for her in an effort to encourage her to make them more often. I was somewhat surprised when she agreed (mom was a bit of a control freak but I guess there's a gene for that, um, based on personal experience). Hand-grating 5-pounds of potatoes is something of a chore and while it may seem menial in its dimensions, I had learned from my mom that there's a right way and a wrong way to do anything; even the simplest of tasks. I took great pride in being my mom's potato pancake sous chef. 

I took her recipe for potato pancakes (latkes; not the abomination created from leftover mashed potatoes) with me when I left for college and have since passed it on to my daughter. 

How good was her recipe? 

A few years ago, when Vickie was working at the Women's Studies program at the University of New Hampshire, her boss - we'll call her Mara because, well, that was her first name after all - hosted a Christmas party for the office at her home. I offered to make potato pancakes for my contribution to the potluck. I hesitated briefly in making this decision, risking cultural appropriation in bringing latkes to a Jewish home. Then I remembered - as has been the case quite often in my life - that I really didn't care. If they were offended and refused to eat them there would be more for me! I filled two large cookie sheets, edge-to-edge with golden brown potato pancakes, and brought them to the party. I greeted Mara, who seemed delighted by my contribution to the menu, and popped them in the oven to warm up. I then wandered off to find a beer and pretend to be civilized, hoping to find someone who might be more interested in talking about the New England Patriots than Picasso's blue period (Mara was an Art History professor).

By the time I returned to the kitchen, my potato pancakes were nearly gone! The one or two that remained were in the process of being consumed by Mara's two teenage sons. By the evidence available, and by their declaration of deliciousness in regards to the amazing disappearing potato pancakes, I think they may well have eaten all of them. 

I loved my mother's cooking so much as a child that when I left home I feared I might well starve, a feeling sparked in part by a terrible spaghetti and meatball experience in one of those rare occasions when we went out to a restaurant to eat. In prepping for my childhood's end, I made sure I took down my mother's recipe for spaghetti sauce, too. 

Mom did ultimately admit to using her Betty Crocker cookbook to make her culinary magic. I think she realized I was going to make her write down recipes for all of my favorites. There's a well-worn copy of Betty Crocker atop my refrigerator - a gift from mom - right next to the Vegetarian Epicure (source of the recipe for eggplant parmesan that has become one of my specialties) that Vickie brought with her to our kitchen. No, I'm not a vegan but I do eat less red meat now. And a lot more eggplant.

Stage Diving Christmas, The Easter Creel, and the Death of the Easter Bunny

Ah! The Holidays! Just a few touching moments curated from a lifetime of sugar-fueled memories…

One Christmas - when I was 3- or 4-years old - through methods both subtle and sinister, I had divined that the prize of all Christmas prizes - the Mickey Mouse film strip projector that I coveted past the boundaries of seasonal avarice - would be mine. The Hobbs family tradition was to have presents for all the grandchildren under a large and impressively decorated tree in the front room of my grandparents house, and, on Christmas eve, the extended family would gather and grandpa Hobbs would hand out presents to all the good little boys and girls. 

And me.

When the appointed hour came, ignoring tradition or perhaps blinded by weeks of anticipation that had thrown my childhood brain chemistry out of balance, I dove (literally leaving my feet) into the pile of presents. Before I could locate the present I knew to be the Mickey Mouse film strip projector, I was dragged by my ankles from the pile of presents by my not at all amused mother. For my violation of social conventions (not to mention family tradition), I was informed that I would get my present last, after all the other cousins were given their presents. I cared not, as long as I was assured the Mickey Mouse film project would ultimately be mine.

Years later, I would tell Vickie in the early days of our marriage that I was a perfect child (often in response to some horrific, Animal Farm-level story about her own childhood). When Vickie met my mom for the first time, she found a moment alone to ask her if it was true. Was Michael a perfect child? After the briefest moment of consideration, mom said, "You know, he was a perfect child."

I think she must've forgotten that particular Christmas eve when she answered that question.

Around that same time, I got the best Easter basket ever. It wasn't, in fact, a basket but instead a fishing creel with chocolate eggs and jelly beans nestled in a bed of green plastic grass. I loved going fishing with grandpa Hobbs and fishing with my cousins when we would visit the camp grandpa had on the St. Lawrence River and we could walk from the camp right up to the banks of the river.

Naturally, I was incredibly excited that the Easter Bunny knew me so well.

I rushed into my mother's bedroom to share my joy. Look! Look! The Easter Bunny brought me a fishing creel!

Groggy, barely awake, she squinted at the object of my excitement and mumbled, "Oh. So that's what it is." And promptly returned to her slumber.

Huh, I puzzled. What did mom mean by that? How had she seen my Easter Creel before this very moment? Had she encountered the Easter Bunny during his visit? But my joy soon returned to overtake any mundane considerations of provenance regarding my Easter Creel. It was time for jelly beans! And later there would be fishing!

My second favorite Easter memory also provides a key lesson in parenting.

We were living in Colorado and had been out shopping as a family. Me and my sister Lauren mostly weren't shopping so much as waiting in the back seat of the family's faux wood-paneled Mercury station wagon. As my parents prepared to leave the car on the last leg of the shopping trip, parked in front of Woolworths, mom turned back to us and said, "While we're gone, whatever you do, do NOT look in these bags" which were located in space near her feet. 

As soon as Lauren and I saw dad and mom disappear into the Woolworth, we fairly jumped into the front seat to see what was in the bags. It was, of course, all the raw materials for Easter. I must admit, I was disappointed. I was already in on the whole Easter Bunny "thing" and given mom's urgent tone I really expect something far more strange, exotic, and possibly (oh please, oh please) dangerous.

Lauren immediately realized the truth. "Mom and Dad are the Easter Bunny!" she blurted, her eyes, I noticed, looked just a little bit crazy. I quickly closed up the bags and using the language of older brother's everywhere, informed my sister that I would kill her if she said anything about this. "Mom will feel really bad knowing you don't believe in the Easter Bunny," I said. And threatened once again to kill her if she said anything. "If you say anything about this, I will kill you."

Easter morning comes. Lauren and I are already deep into the chocolates and jelly beans when my mom and dad get up. "What did the Easter Bunny bring you all?" mom asked.

"Ha, ha! We know you're the Easter Bunny!" Lauren announced, ignoring my repeated threats of bloody murder.

Mom immediately wheeled on me, the oldest, the faithful lieutenant and said, "We trusted you!"

Ouch. Still hurts.

Was it wrong of me to realize she said this directly to me and that I inferred her to mean Lauren could not be trusted (and clearly, she couldn't be, even under penalty of death)? Just me trying to snatch a small victory from the jaws of I'm not mad I'm just disappointed? Yes and yes.

The lesson for all parents everywhere? Never, ever, ever tell your children not to do something and then leave them unattended. Trust me. They're going to do it.

Also, tell your children the truth as early as possible about Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, Luke Skywalker, et al. It really takes the pressure off. Okay, not Luke Skywalker. Let them learn that one on their own.

My Favorite Shirt

Mom was a relentless house-keeper. She did laundry every day. And when she put the clothes away she'd simply stack the clean clothes on top of the clothes still in the dresser drawers. The shirt I wore on Monday would be on top of the shirt drawer on Wednesday. 

This meant I could wear my favorite shirt three times a week - Monday, Wednesday, and Friday!

It was a green paisley print with pearl snaps, white cuffs and a white collar. It. Was. Awesome! I was in high school (we'd moved back east, to upstate New York) and I was painfully aware of how not cool I was. Except when I wore that shirt. 

Okay. Still not cool but perhaps all we ever need is the illusion of cool.

I also had a favorite pair of pants. They were bell bottoms with a large houndstooth plaid pattern of blue and grey. Try to imagine it. I dare you.

And yes, I wanted to wear them together. Green paisley with blue and grey plaid. I say 'I wanted to' because after I actually got out of the house once wearing my favorite shirt and pants together, mom took to waiting at the bottom of the stairs when I came down to leave for school and stop me and say, "No! Back upstairs! Put on another shirt or put on another pair of pants but you are not going to school dressed like that!"

Favorite shirt on Monday, Wednesday, Friday.

Favorite pants on Tuesday, Thursday.

I wish I still had that shirt, even though I know it wouldn't fit.

The pants? No.

I Could Go On

You know I could. 

Mom probably deserves better than what this poor correspondent can provide. She wasn't perfect but she was good. She was the wife of a 20-year Army veteran and made all the sacrifices that come with that gig. My father served in combat during the Korean War before I was born so I can only imagine the anxiety and fear mom had to deal with during his deployment. She had to move halfway across the country multiple times, leaving her family in New York to visit far away lands named Georgia, Alabama, California, Colorado, and Kentucky, with a two-year tour in Germany following the John Kennedy assassination for good measure. 

She raised four children and - if I may say so - she did a pretty good job of it. My brother Scott and my sisters Lauren and Lisa are good people, better people than me, I think. (Okay, I could be wrong about that.) She tolerated me learning to play the trumpet and it took me a long time to learn how to play the trumpet. She enrolled me in swimming classes when I was fourteen because somehow this was a skill all men needed to acquire before leaving home. I did almost drown in that class and I still don't know how to swim but I knew she only wanted the best for me. And I didn't drown so there's that. She taught me to cook, to be kind, to work hard for what I wanted, and not to wear prints with plaids.

I'm going to miss calling her and having her ask me about my kids.

Love you, mom. Godspeed.