LET ME TELL YOU ABOUT MY MOTHER by Rhoda Marshall

My mother lived to be 99. And until she was about 98 she had all her marbles. When she was 94 she gave up her apartment and moved into a senior hotel in Long Beach. It was a very nice place, not too big – not too small. She could talk to people and participate in whatever limited programs they had. The dining room offered menus with several choices at each meal and she never complained about the food. Of course, she had a very small appetite and was easily pleased because she didn’t eat much. I think that after a lifetime of cooking, she had lost all interest in food.

I called her every day.  One day when she was living in the hotel for about 2 years, and about 96, she sounded kind of down so I asked her if she was okay and she said- in a really not okay tone- that she was okay she guessed. I persisted and she said she wondered how long she would have to go on living. Nothing was any good anymore. I said “Mom, why not just relax and enjoy yourself? You deserve it. Look”, I said, “you don’t even have to make your bed in the mornings, or shop, or cook, or worry about cleaning the house. What more do you want?” “I want”, she said, “to be 90 again.”

At some point, in some way, my mother met a man there. A new-comer. I have no idea how it started but he and she became quite close and she even asked me if she could bring her “boyfriend” to the annual family Christmas party. Of course she could. We were all dying to meet him. And of course he came with her.

Well, it seemed that Bill, that was his name, was just a kid of 89 and kept teasing her for being an older woman, and so much older than him. And my mom just wanted to do what a lot of women did down through the ages – shave a couple of years off the top.

My First Food by Cristina Mazzella

 One of my first memories of food is that of my mother jarring tomatoes in our small apartment in the South Bronx. I must have been about four years old… It was late summer, and the entire hallway, kitchen and living room were taken over by crates and boxes of tomatoes. As the days went by, the acidic smell of the tomatoes mixed with that of the moist cardboard, filled every corner. I remember her working so hard, late and into the night. I remember her setting me up for a late night bowl of cereal: my seat was a crate and my table a box of tomatoes. The smell permeated the taste of the sweet milk and cereal, changing it to something strange but not unpleasant.

Throughout the process my grandmother would stop by to inspect her work: the critical eye of the veteran scrutinizing the new foreigner, judging her for not even being Italian and trying to jar her own tomatoes…

As the days passed the smells changed with each step, and the boiling stage brought our small, 5^th floor apartment from hot to unbearable. I was watching my mother and noticed how tired she seemed. I wondered why, why was she doing all this? So late one night, the light coming in from the kitchen pulling me from sleep, I shuffled in and asked.

“Why? Why baby? Tomorrow I will show you, I promise.”

The next day was a Sunday, and my mother made the typical Italian “Sunday dinner” for my family (including my aunt and uncle, my cousins and my grandparents): pasta with tomato sauce, meatballs, eggplant parmesan, pork and sausages. (Now, I doubt the memory I have of what that dinner tasted like came from that day, because my mother has made that meal many times since, and the description I am about to give most likely comes from the culmination of enjoying a lifetime of that deliciousness.)

The meal was perfect: a silky tomato sauce, ground meat sautéed in white wine and garlic; perfectly browned, moist and firm meatballs that melted in your mouth; pork so tender that the fork slid through it like warm butter…and so full of flavor that people’s eyes closed as they ate it; plump, juicy sausages that had just the right amount of crunch with a firm outer skin… The table was quiet. I looked around to see everyone just, eating. No talking, no commenting, just forks moving in plates. I think I remember my uncle make a kind of humming noise as he chewed… Finally my father put his fork down for a moment and said, “My god honey, this is delicious!” My grandmother offered no compliments, but her empty plate spoke volumes and she shuffled uncomfortably in her chair. My mother shot me a quick look and with a sparkle in her eye and responded, “it’s the sauce I jarred myself!”

My grandmother raised an eyebrow. My next bite tasted of satisfaction and victory.

The Goddess by Lisa Maxwell.

      "Come on Lizzy, let's go for a walk!"

      "Okay mom."

      I brushed the sand off my sticky arms and legs and jumped up out of my post swim stupor, leaving my damp towel askew in the sand. My siblings, Anne, Linda and Gray were all lost in their own worlds in half-sleep states, oblivious. Everyone's hair was still wet and tangled from our salty swim.

     The breeze danced around over my skin as sand continued to fall off the parts of my body I hadn't swiped. Mom was wearing the same faded one-piece bathing suit she had worn the summer before and the summer before that.

     The straps fell loose around her brown shoulders and she was carrying a small plastic beach bag. I trotted beside her, my eyes squinting from the sun, riveted to the sand, sidestepping baby conch shell pods and fly-covered seaweed piles, scanning every inch of

beach.

     The sky was neutral in color, and the seagulls swooped in my peripheral vision. The smell of decaying sea matter wafted in the air. We were on our quest for the most perfect shells and pieces of sea glass, heading west into the sun down our beach, not a soul in sight.

     "Look Little Bits!" her pet name for me, "Over there!" I studied the sand in the direction that her finger pointed and finally saw the beautiful bottle green gem poking out of the beach debris, ran over and scooped it up.

     "Thanks Mom. Ooohhh, it's beautiful!" I rubbed my fingers over the sea-smoothed edges, marveling at how much they had been worn over an unimaginable length of time.

I held it up for her to see, and even though her Venus body was back lit her smile beamed. I dropped it with pride in to her bag. We would walk about half an hour one way, and half an hour back. Just the two of us, not talking much, delighting in the prizes we would find to add to our collection. Our standards were equally high, not accepting anything the beach yielded that wasn't perfect.

     It was our time alone together, and she was my goddess.

Lisa also sings beautifully.  Check out her Return to Jazz Standards on CD Baby.

LIVER AND ONIONS

     I was raised by a totally devoted yet diverse cultural entity named Fran and Carol. Fran was a decedent of Italian and French Canadian (very stubborn and sometimes a little wicked). Carol was German and Irish (also stubborn, and mostly just stubborn)
     Our family was a group of huge eaters and Carol was going through a period of self-exploration by renovating a Colonial home (by herself) and baking fresh bread every day. We ate like Kings and of course it was mostly – Italian. Pasta with everything! Tomato Sauce for all!!
     Occasionally however, Carol would wake up completely Irish and resent her three children’s Italian identity. (We were all quite dark).On those occasions she would decide to cook authentic Irish (whatever that is). She would never tell us, just surprise us as we sat for dinner.
     Imagine getting to your favorite part of the day and being told we were having Corned Beef? Irish Soda Bread? (yuck pass the butter). But the worst of the worst was liver and onions. We would all complain and finally she would arrive at the table with a heaping plate of dried and curled liver with slimy onion s all over the top.
     We would immediately gather condiments and proceed to disguise this unbelievable turnabout in dining. How could she make us eat this? We were not allowed substitutions.
     “Pass the salt” Steven would say. “Pass the catsup” another would yell. “How about Peanut butter”?
Carol was getting angry. How dare we begrudge her a single meal of “Irishness”. Why were we so selfish and rude?
      “Hey look at how high mine bounces” I yelled. Now she was mad.
And today I think how really badly I behaved that one particular Irish day. Why did I hurt her feelings just in an effort to make the others laugh?
       I think I will make it a goal this year to learn how to cook liver and onions and surprise her on her birthday. I wonder if she will remember? I hope she doesn’t get the catsup out of the fridge.

--Debbie Russo is the owner of both A Royal Flush, a portable toilet company that serves Massachusetts to Delaware, and Bridgeport Bio Diesel, a new CT based company that converts kitchen grease into renewable fuel

Diet #1789 by Alexandra Townsend

This was the 1,789th time my parents were going to lose weight. Which meant no carbs that week. No delicious bread or yummy pasta. The Italian in me started to wither. Can one survive without bread? Or maybe that month was no sugar. Damn, no candy or cake.

Either way, it meant dinner would be questionable. It would be something that I didn’t like. That, I could guarantee.

I came downstairs with dread. I looked at my mom and with a big, giant, shiny used car salesman’s smile she says, “Its Meatloaf” What? No pasta or buttered noodles. (Standard Russo fare in the 80’s)

I hate meat. It always makes me gag (insert gag face here) I have never had meatloaf and I know my life was better without it.
She says, “It is this great new recipe. Weight Watchers. It has apples in it.” Yeah, like that is going to seal the deal …

I love apples. They are my favorite food. I had apple buttons on my sweaters as a kid. Do you see where this is going?? I wasn’t fooled. This meal was going to suck.

She slices up this gray, yucky meat and there are all these colorful specks inside. Christ, this is really going to suck. Apples couldn’t save this. Chocolate and gummy bears couldn’t save this.

I take my first bite and I can’t control it. My mouth starts to water and my throat closes up. I am definitely going to puke. All of the sudden my mom looks at me. “You are ridiculous. It isn’t that bad.” My dad’s face starts to turn red and that vein in his forehead pulses. I know this isn’t going to end well. He is getting pissed!

He starts to yell and I don’t really remember what happens next. I probably blanked in fear! But I am pretty sure it was ugly. I am sure that, like a brat, I gagged and cried until I was sent to my room. This would, of course, get me out of eating the meatloaf.

All that matters is that to this day my mom still defends hat horrible meatloaf and I still stand by my gag face. It was awful.

Alexandra Townsend- I am not a writer, I just play one on TV. Not really, but I do love writing on my blog. I have been blogging for a couple of years now and I am officially hooked. Enjoy the ramblings of a slightly unstable person (I kid, I kid) by visiting http://runningjustasfast.blogspot.com.

Today is the day I start tommorow

If I don't get a good 71/2 hours of sleep a night, I walk through the next day like I have a hangover...which isn't possible since I gave up drinking about the time my daughter first hit the baby bottle. So I had a drag-ass day today because I went into NYC last night and got to bed a big two hours later than I usually do. I had so much to do today and all I could manage was returning audio tapes to the library.  I think back to when Charlotte was a baby.  Well, she was a good baby--she slept through the night.  At least, as far as I know she did.  Anyway, I'm waiting for the day to be over so I can start fresh in the AM.

changing from MoMoir to Auntoir

O.K. enough of Charlotte who doesn't even read my blogs which have all pretty much put her in a starring role.  (Her favorite role.) From now on I'm going to blog about my nephews and nieces.  I have a brand new booky best friend. Mr. Kieth Spaulding (last name withheld). He confessed to me this weekend that he now reads fiction.  Not just any fiction. But he just finished Freedom by Jonathan Whatshisname.  And he liked and hated it as much as I did. Poor Kieth. He is now on my You Have To Read This Now List!!!!! It's so nice to have a nephew who reads especially when you have a daughter who won't give you the time of day. PS. I just bought a kindle and am waiting for Skippy Dies to download. A warning to future Kindle purchasers: this is not an instant download. It took about ten minutes. I want my money  back.

The right couch, at last!

How pathetic is this? The only news I have to share is not even about my daughter, it's about her couch.  She picked it out, had it delivered and there it is. Ta-dah! A very nice brown couch. And it came with extra throw pillows. How do I know this? Because she sent a picture. Or is it called texting a picture?  That doesn't really make sense because texting is supposed to be words, right?  Well, anyway, she's very happy with her new couch.  And now I don't know what the next big thing is going to be.  I'd like to be able to blog about what she's thinking, feeling, dreaming, planning but all I have is the brown couch. I hardly even get news of Bailey the dog anymore.  Well, a brown couch is better than nothing. Stay tuned.  She starts her Christmas shopping soon.

The wrong couch Part II

So I called Charlotte yesterday with what I thought was a terrific solution. "Instead of rushing into buying a couch (which is the biggest piece of furniture in your apartment besides your bed, I informed the woman who invented feng shui) why don't you buy a few bean bag chairs until you know what you really want?" This is how she responded to my suggestion: "1. I'm not rushing into anything. I've spent a month shopping.  2. I know exactly what  I want.  3. Why would I spend money on bean bags when I could spend it on a couch? 4. Since you say you have trouble buying a couch why don't you get a few bean bag chairs yourself?"  What compelled me to offer her the  BBS. (Bean Bag Soution)? I think it was my way of keeping the Mother-Daughter Dialog going.  And the number one rule in the MDD is:  Say something stupid so your daughter can feel smart and superior.

The Wrong Couch

I talked to Charlotte last night.  She sounded very happy which, of course, makes me happy.  She is couch-shopping.  A very difficult task. I never bought a couch. I still have my Grandmother's Victorian...not exactly love seat...but a couch you definitely don't love sitting on.  I pretend it's because I am so in love with Victorian furniture but really it's a deep-seated (forgive the expression) fear of buying the WRONG COUCH.  Because after you select it, pay for it, have it delivered (or God forbid) load it up yourself there it is sitting in your living room taking up all the space and it hits you:  This purple paisley faux-velvet sectional is THE WRONG COUCH.  It's like getting the wrong face lift.   What are you going to do about it? It's done. It's over. It's looks awful. And everyone is going to see you made the wrong decision.  And now my daughter is bravely going forth from one discount furniture store to another looking for THE RIGHT COUCH. Charlotte, Queen of the removable cushions!

It's all about me

It started out about her, it really did. It was all about Charlotte, the light of my life.  But when she kept presenting herself as "the Mystery Girl" (what is she thinking, what is she doing, what is she feeling?)...Well, naturally I turned to the second most fascinating subject: me. What am I thinking, what am I doing, what am I feeling? This is supposed to be a mother writing about motherhood--describing her child in exquisite detail.  I keep coming back to me in not-so-exquisite detail.  I'll try and stay on topic in the future. But it's hard. I keep getting in the way.

Read all the juicy details onMOMoirs help solidify mother-daughter bonds - Westport News www.westport-news.com

I have multiple personalities.

Thank you dear Jack for figuring out how I had more that one blogspot and that's why I couldn't get my blogs onto my website.  I have so many different names now Linda Urbach Howard Clark Momoirs Madame Bovary's Daughter I can't keep track. And just to make matters worse I just joined tweet. 

MoMoirs Makes The News

I finally made the local papers and it wasn't for driving under the influence. Check out the sunday issue of the Westport News or the Fairfield paper. My friend Karen wrote me up royally. When I went online I didn't recognize the headline: MOMoirs helps in mother-daughter bonding. I thought, oh that's nice for some mother and daughter. They're bonding. Her opening paragraph was about how if your house was on fire the first thing you would rescue would be your photo album. And then she quotes me as saying "one MoMoir is worth a thousand pictures". Quoted in an article. Maybe I should get a press agent. I even sent the story to Charlotte. I hope she's not mad at me. It's one thing to post blogs on a website than no one ever sees. But this is in the actual newspaper in the actual town where spent her ("stop staring at me") teenage years. People are actually going to see this. How embarrassing is that, Charlotte?

Spying on My Daughter on Facebook.

I read in the news how Facebook is giving out all kinds of private information and that you better watch out or people/companies/schools are going to pick up things about you that you don't want them to know.  Well, my daughter could work for the CIA.  Every once in a while I check her Facebook page. It's really not stalking...it's just...well I guess you could call it spying.  I just take peek, I don't leave a message and I try and cover my tracks.  This is how I find out some very revealing details like:  "Productive day"..."working doubles"..."need a vacation". She has no idea I'm doing this unless she reads my blog which as you can tell by her Facebook entries, she's much too busy to do.

The Privacy Issue Part II

Having posted two blogs about my dear daughter written ten years ago on my brand new website, I realized I had better clear them through her.  I dreaded having her see what I wrote.  This is a girl (woman) who really, really cherishes (make that guards) her privacy.  I was all set for her to say: "You can't put that stuff on the web. That's my life! Blog about someone else." The fact that she's my only child and that I had written a book, set up a website, created writing workshops all for and about Moms would definitely put a damper on my efforts.  I was all set to create a fictional child just so that I would have something to blog about.  So late last night I called her and told her to look at the website with particular attention to the blogs.  This is the email I got back from her: "Those are fine...no worries. Nice website by the way.love you. talk to you tomorrow. Charlotte."
This is the girl who wouldn't let me read her high school yearbook. I could look at the pictures, but I had to close my eyes when it came to her friend's inscriptions.  I love this girl.

invasion of privacy issue

Charlotte with Cigarette

I find a picture on the floor in her bedroom. (“What were you doing in my bedroom?”)  It’s of Charlotte and her friend Sarah taken during our recent trip to Costa Rica.  Charlotte is smiling. In her left hand she has a drink.  It looks like a fruit slurry to me.  In her right hand is a cigarette. A cigarette! A cigarette in my daughter’s hand looking oh-so-natural! My stomach turns. I am a radical ex smoker.

When she would come home and occasionally smell of cigarettes it was always from everyone else’s smoking.  When I smelled her breath it was sweet and tobacco free.  Now as I think back, maybe it was too sweet. Maybe she brushed her teeth, or took a breath mint.  Now I have to confront her on this. I know she will have an explanation. What I don’t know is whether it will be a lie or not.

Her explanation of the picture with the cigarette:

“I was just posing. It was actually Sarah’s cigarette”

“Sarah smokes?"Sarah is on the tennis team.

“No, not really. See it’s a full cigarette.”

“It’s lit,” I point out.

“I don’t smoke. I never smoked. I’m not a smoker.”  End of story.  And I believe her. Or more precisely, I want to believe her. Oh, boy did I ever.  And then out of nowhere apropos of nothing she says:

“ I may want to major in early childhood development and teach elementary school." This is the first time she’s even mentioned a major or even college for that matter.  I tell her she would be a wonderful teacher.  And she would. She would also be wonderful undercover agent. She seems to demonstrate a knack for throwing people off the trail.

Mean to My Mother

Mean to my mother.

October 16

Saturday Charlotte drove down to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina to live. That means she’s doesn’t live here anymore.  Even though she left her 600 piece shot glass collection, her 45 purses, her stack of periwinkle blue pillows, her bathroom full of every kind of lotion, face cream, lipstick, etc. etc. She is gone. 

I didn’t call her in the morning. I didn’t call her at lunch. I almost called her at one o’clock. And then I patted myself on the back for not “stalking” her as she put it…and I figured  that since I managed to not make those earlier calls I had earned the right to call her.  And of course all I got was her voice mail.

Yesterday she left me a message that she was glad she was there and she missed me. But today already she doesn’t miss me, she doesn’t have her phone on so I can talk to her, she doesn’t call and she’s moved on. 

But it’s O.K. I’m O.K Because all I have to do is think back to my mother and how she let me go... all  the way to Paris, all the way to New York, and never said a word…something that always drove me crazy.

(I had turned off the radio to write this. Now I have to turn it on again…WCBS news …I need someone talking in the background otherwise I feel lonely. And that’s the last thing I want to feel because there’s not much I can do about it.. As many phone calls as  I’ve had today…as many good friends as I can count on to listen to me…I always have to hang up the phone and then there is silence and that’s a reminder that I am alone. Yikes.

I was so mean to my mother. She was so sweet. So giving. Or rather, so sacrificing. Always doing, doing, doing for me. Stop doing, I wanted scream. Stop caring. Stop patting me with little soft hands. Pat, pat, pat. So soft and smooshy. She was such a  a push-over. My father was hard-edged and selfish. And he got everything he wanted. And Mom got hardly anything. I wanted to be like him not her.

And yet OMG, I just realized that I am like my mother with my daughter. There’s  nothing I won’t do for her.  I am a push over. I am so soft-handed and smooshy with her.  And I find myself wanting to  do, do, do.