Mom Graduates from College, 1967

My mom and I graduated from college the same day, June 1967. I graduated from Fordham in the morning; she graduated from Hofstra in the afternoon. She is beaming with pride in my accomplishment; I on the other hand look sulky about her much greater achievement. Mom's father died when she was 17. Because he has been ill so long, he wasn't able to get life insurance. Although mom was a brilliant student, she had to give up her college plans and attend secretarial school to help support her family. She tried to go to college at night, but got pneumonia and had to give it up.

When Mark was 5, she returned to college. Knowing her only as a mother, not an intellectual, the family was staggered by her straight A average. In 1969 she got her master's degree in American History and taught high school. Fortunately, she was able to teach at our local school, just down the block, so she was available to my younger brothers when they came home from school.

I recently found all the A papers she wrote for college and graduate school. I might transcribe some of them.

Young Grandma

Mom was only 50 when Rose was born, 51 when Vanessa was born. I had to wait until 62 to become a grandmother. Look how young she looks. She was an incredibly energetic grandmother, the kind who takes their grandchildren to Europe. Teenage Vanessa once commented: "I could even visualize you and dad dying, but grandma is immortal." Sadly, she  died in 2004 and didn't meet her three great grandsons and her 6 great granddaughters.

The downside of women's having children after they are settled in their careers is that their parents are older. Their children might not be grown when the parents have to confront the dilemmas of elder care. My grandmother was 47 when I was born. She lived long enough to meet 23 great grandchildren. Of course, her children had their children much younger as well.

My mother, my aunts, and their friends had their children young, then went back to school and embarked on a new career in their forties. For the most part, they did well. My Aunt Rosemarie went to law school at age 40, and went on to be chief counsel to the president of Stonybrook University.

Wartime Love Letters

Mary and Joe, March 6, 1944; honeymoon

For Remembrance Day, Mad Hatter published a fascinating post about boxes of wartime letters she found when remodeling her old house. Her post has special resonance for me because I have 20 plastic boxes full of letters my parents wrote from November 1942, when my dad was drafted, until February 1946, when he came home from France and saw me for the first time. I keep postponing doing something with themt. I started a blog of the letters, Mary and Joe: World War II Love Story, but I haven't kept it up. My father particularly was a wonderful writer, who never wrote anything but these letters. Mad Hatter inspired me to go back to that project.

My daughter Rose wrote this about the wartime letters several years ago. She included excerpts from the letters that I am not including here.
In my grandmother's house, past a stone Mexican statue named Harry, up the front stairs and to the right there is a bedroom. In this bedroom there are a pea green carpet, a bed with yellow and orange flowered sheets, and a cracked blue dresser. This dresser, unlike every other bureau and closet in this house, does not contain any seventies-style ties, old scarves, or early feminist t-shirts. Instead every drawer is filled with letters.

Joe lived in Jamaica, Queens, with his parents and six younger sisters and brothers. His college yearbook said of him, "Even his own brilliance could not fathom the enigma that is Joe." Mary lived in Queens Village. She was the second child, and the oldest girl, in a family of seven. Her high school yearbook described her as, "Sincerity coupled with bubbling vivacity, scholastic excellence with literary talents, athletic prowess, sparkling wit." She would not have a college yearbook until many years later, because her father had died without much life insurance when she was seventeen years old. Her father's brother squeezed together the money for her older brother to continue school at St. John's, but Mary was just a girl.

Mary and Joe had met the summer of 1942, on a raft at Loon Lake in the Adirondacks. He was 28, she was 21. A week later, back in Queens, he took her to see Bambi. They saw each other often in the three months after Bambi became Prince of the forest, and before Joe was drafted. He kissed her for the first time on the day he left for the army.

They will get engaged the night before her 22nd birthday in August 1943 and will marry the next March. The wedding will not be fancy, since it was planned in about four days and no one had much money anyway. The reception will be in Mary's backyard. Joe will go off to war in Europe, though his bad vision will ensure that he never faces combat. They will have their first child while he is away. There will be short letters to Baby Mary Jo, my mother, enclosed with the longer ones to Mary. Then in 1946, when Mary Jo is eight months old, Joe will finally come home and the letters will end.

They will have five more children, and the children will have fourteen kids of their own. Joe will die of Alzheimer's disease in May of 1987. Mary will become a lobbyist and counselor for victims of the disease and their families. She will become even more involved with her church, and even more of a rock for her distressingly heathen children and grandchildren. Mary will die in April 2004 of Progressive Supranuclear Palsy.

My grandparents' generation has been called "The Greatest Generation." They survived the depression, they fought Hitler. Yes, they did, but many of them also contributed to horrible racial injustice, and a few of them dropped the bomb. I suppose that talking about our parents' and grandparents' moral superiority is an improvement over not trusting them because they're over forty, but it's not much of an improvement. It would be far more honest to say that they did some very good things, and some very bad things. They had fewer toys, and certainly they wrote better love letters, but they were more or less just like us.

To put it another way, generation schmeneration. I'm not going to even try to judge. Instead I will sit here and read these letters. I will learn that my mother's mother is more than the grandma who babysat for us almost every week for ten years, and who is always inappropriately freezing things. I will learn that my mother's father was far more than the sick, confused old man I remember.

Grandma Mary

My mother was only 52 when my oldest Anne was born. I had to wait until 62 to become a grandmother. Look how young she looks. She was an incredibly energetic grandmother, the kind who takes their grandchildren to Europe. Teenage Anne once commented: "I could even visualize you and dad dying, but grandma is immortal." Sadly, she didn't live to meet her two great grandsons and her great-daughter. By year's end, there will be six great grandchildren.

The downside of women's having children after they are settled in their careers is that their parents are older. Their children might not be grown when the parents have to confront the dilemmas of elder care. My grandmother was 47 when I was born. She lived long enough to meet 23 great grandchildren. Of course, her children had their children much younger as well.

My mother, my aunts, and their friends had their children young, then went back to school and embarked on a new career in their forties. For the most part, they did well. My Aunt Rosemarie went to law school at age 40, and went on to be chief counsel to the president of Stonybrook University.

Christmas Eve at Grandma's House

My daughter the writer wrote this description of a family Christmas Eve as part of a college application essay.

We’re in the midst of our annual Christmas Eve tree-trimming bash at my grandmother’s house. My father and my uncle Gerry are bringing in the tree, and my sisters and I are breathlessly awaiting its unveiling. I’m afraid that the reason is not that we’re waiting for this magical season to weave its spell over us. We get as sentimental as anyone over Christmas, but right now we’re wondering what geometric figure the tree will most closely resemble. My grandmother is very frugal. The result of this is that her trees are always cheap, but they also tend to have rather original shapes.

They bring the tree through the door, set it in the stand, and cut the netting around it. It does not disappoint. It’s, it’s...it’s nearly a perfect cylinder! My sisters and I begin hanging the ornaments. They consist of a few beautiful heirlooms, some traditional Christmas balls, many, many plastic multi-colored plastic disco balls, and a good number of styrofoam-and-yarn-elves which have been mysteriously decapitated over the years.

The traditional meal of tortilla chips and salsa is served. Much to everyone’s chagrin, but to no one’s surprise, Grandma has frozen the salsa. She has a rather touching faith that the best thing to do for any, and I do mean any, food is to stick it in the freezer for six months. Fortunately, the chips escaped unscathed.

My father places the angel on top of the tree, and we step back and admire our handiwork. It’s may not be one of man’s great artistic endeavors, but this tree has character, lots of character.

Reading with Dad

Dad is reading to Stephen, Michael, and Peter. The date and ages puzzle me. Michael must be at least three; Dad is reading from a huge book. But if it is 1959, Peter would be 7 and Stephen would be 10. Stephen looks younger than that. I love Michael's pjamas. Were we expected to be dressed for bed before Dad read to us? Did Dad always keep his tie on after he came home from work?

I remember the curtains and the lamp better than the couch. I can't figure out what Dad is reading. Surely it is not the family bible, which is that color. Looking back, Dad and Mom didn't spent much time reading picture books. We were exposed to much more challenging books when we were very young. Mom also went out of the way to take us to the Hempstead Library because the Uniondale Library was so inadequate. She let us take out more books at a time than any parents I have met in my entire library career.

When Mom and Dad visited me at the hospital after Vanessa was born, they bought children's books as a present.

My Mother and Fibi

I hope no one takes the following the wrong way. I am sitting at the dining room table using my ibook, looking across at my mom sleeping in her recliner in the living room. In many ways her daily life seems to resemble that of Fibi, our eleven year old cat, who is sitting on her lap. Mom enjoys eating, welcoming a variety of foods. She enjoys being around people and being touched and stroked. She is touched so much more now than when she lived alone as a widow from 1987 to 2000. I am playing Bach's St. Luke's Passion on the stereo. Mom likes the room warm. In fact the only complaint she reliably makes is if she is too cold or our hands are too cold. She gets more awake and animated when there are visitors or a change in routine; she is pleased when they sit next to her, hold her hand, tell her how good she looks.

She stills wants her gray hair touched up because she cares about looking pretty. She enjoys showering and being clean. She seems to enjoy being outside, notices trees and flowers. She seems content though her daily routine is totally different than it was when she was younger. What her inner life is, I can't guess. For all I know, she could be having thrilling dreams; certainly she doesn't seem to have nightmares. She looks peaceful when she is sleeping.

When I feel overwhelmingly sad about how Mom has changed, I remind myself that I don't feel sorry for Fibi; she is just older, not the energetic, exciting cat she used to be who used to walk across our curtain rods. But we still love her, enjoy her, love to touch her, and are very glad she is around.

All the years Mom was healthy, she wasn't overly fond of Fibi, who is a rather temperamental cat. But now they both have mellowed and spend most of their days together. Fibi seems to know Mom requires gentleness. I don't mean to insult my mom in the least. I am trying to reframe her experience to make it more bearable for everyone. Cat lovers would understand.

Fibi seemed to be searching for my mother for weeks after her death. Her personality seems to have permanently mellowed.