MY MOTHER

This is a tribute to my mother.

MY MOTHER

My mother died December 3, 1961 in St. Mary Hospital, Hoboken, New Jersey, while I was living in San Mateo, California. Her death filled me with great remorse and sadness. After moving west in 1954 and getting married in 1955, I saw her only a few times afterwards.

Angie and I went to New York in the summer of 1957 six months after our first child, Jamie, was born. Holding our new infant delighted my mother beyond description. Angie, on the other hand, was petrified when my mother placed Jamie on the fire-escape landing to allow her to enjoy a breath of good old Hoboken air. It saddened me to return to California, wondering when we would meet again.

The next time was in 1961, six months before she died. Angie and I brought our four children, then ages 1, 2, 3, and 5 for a short visit. At the time, she marveled at Angie's motherhood skills. The memory of that delightful time gave me some solace.

When news reached me of her death, memories flooded my mind. The earliest one brought me back to early childhood. My mother read nursery rhymes to me virtually every night with a beautiful, lilting Irish brogue. By the time I entered first grade at age 5, she had taught me to read. It was her greatest gift to me.

She spoiled me in many ways. As an example, she catered to my very picky appetite, cutting away every bit of fat from my meat. In season, she squeezed fresh orange juice for me daily. Loose coins jingled in my pockets all the time. I never lacked for her love and affection

She rarely asked me to help around the house beyond cleaning the windows or polishing the dining room furniture a time or two. She saved all the money I had sent home from my days in the service, and would not accept any money for living expenses during all the years I had lived under my parent’s roof.

During the depression years, my family encountered financial problems. My father lost his savings, forcing my mother to find work as a lunch-time waitress at the exclusive Whitehall Club, near Battery Park, whose members were associated with the maritime industry. To reach the dining area, waitresses had to carry trays of food down a flight of stairs. It was a difficult job, but she performed it for years without complaint. Out of necessity, my mother gave me a great deal of freedom while growing up, a latchkey kid, but I never got into any trouble and never gave her any heartache. She trusted me implicitly, another great gift.

She took great pride in my school grades, always commenting favorably while signing my report cards. It did not seem to matter to her that I attended public high school instead of a Catholic parochial institution as had my siblings. Although she attended Mass every Sunday, she was not what I would call a very pious Catholic. Our home did not contain religious pictures or objects to indicate our faith.

Since she didn’t start work until mid-morning, she had time to prepare breakfast for me every work day. She arrived home around four, in time to make dinner, usually delicious but simple meals: broiled meats, boiled potatoes, string beans, carrots, peas or corn. Invariably, she would bring home a roll or two from the Whitehall Club.

We did not share too many experiences away from home. We sometimes went to The Bronx by subway to visit her sisters, Margaret Magner and Helen Heneghan. A subway could take us to one or the other relatives, but not both. As a youngster, the walk from one to see the other seemed interminable. Once, I boarded a subway train and she failed to get on. I got off at the next station and took a train back. She had the good sense to remain at the station, thinking I would do this. It made me so angry at the time. I was about twelve.

She loved to use Pond’s Lotion to soothe her hands. I can see her still, seated in front of the TV, watching all the great shows that aired in the early ‘50’s.

Her primary social life centered on playing bridge with a few friends at the church hall. At other times, she played bridge with my sister Helen, her husband, Joe Schmitz, and me. She had minimal skill, but loved the time we spent together.            

Her real passion was gambling on the ponies. For years, she placed small bets with a bookie near Wall Street. She and her friends would pool their pennies to make up a two-dollar minimum wager. If the nag won, she had to do all the bookkeeping to split the pot.

Regrettably, she never told me anything about herself. She never talked to me about her Irish upbringing or her early life. What’s worse, I never asked. It took years before others shed some light on this subject for me.

Mother wrote me many letters while I was in California. After she died, I shared copies of them with my sister, Helen, who had no idea she could write so prolifically and beautifully. I treasure them while mourning her.

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