Mama

Three years have passed since the death of my mother and not a day goes by that I don't think of her.   I used to think she was always going to be around and had convinced myself that eventually we would be in the nursing home together. Mama would still be making sure I was blowing my nose and wearing a warm sweater or cautioning me to slow down in my wheelchair. Greek sons have a special indestructible bond with their mothers and their mothers take special pride in their sons. Greek mothers seem to have a particularly strong affinity for the top Mom, the Panagia (Blessed Virgin), so they spend a lot of time praying to her to put in a good word for their son with her son. In Greek society, mothers of sons receive a certain amount of respect and deference.  There is probably not much that they wouldn't do for their sons and their love is unconditional.

Mama and I got off to a shaky start when I was born. After a very difficult labor she was presented with a prune faced, screeching, tiny, red baby with a funny shaped head, who was not very happy about being dragged kicking and screaming into a cold, uninviting world. Mom had never seen a newborn since it is a Greek custom to keep babies at home for the first forty days of life. All the new babies she had ever seen were fat, pearly white and smiling. She was  shocked and horrified that this ugly little baby in her arms was hers. As she later related "I told myself that you weren't going to be handsome and that I would have to do my best to dress you up nicely to make up for that." There is no love like that of a mother. Even for an ugly duckling. 

My Mom was always a proud woman. She was proud of her Orthodox faith, being Greek, her children, her husband. Her mission in life was to instill in us a sense of pride in ourselves and the importance of preserving the family honor. Mama was not a meek wallflower, hanging on her husband's every word.  Dad may have been the head of the family, but my mama was not hesitant about telling the head of the family her opinion. When it came to the big decisions in our family I remember distinctly our parents huddling together, whispering in fluent Turkish, which neither I nor my kid sister could decipher. Then my Dad would proudly announce the outcome of the negotiation like it was all his idea. 

Mama loved to sew. When she first came to America she worked in a sweat shop doing piece work. It was tough work. As was often the case with Mom,  she excelled at it. Funny, it never soured her on sewing. She sewed most of our clothes. She loved to make beautiful things. She painted, sewed, embroidered, worked with wood, and tired everyone out with her boundless energy. When we were kids, every Saturday she would take my sister and I on her rounds of all the fabric stores, looking for just the right fabric or pattern.  Most of these stores were owned by Jewish shopkeepers and she took particular delight in bargaining with them as if she was in a Turkish bazaar. Unlike most other customers, who wouldn't even dream of not paying the listed price, Mama would haggle until the merchants gave up exasperated, dejected and defeated. I remember one guy who grudgingly paid her a compliment by saying, "Lady, you're driving me meshugga, enough already, OK take it.  If all my customers were like you I would go out of business tomorrow."  

Mom did not believe in eating out, paying some stranger your hard earned money to cook funny tasting food in a filthy kitchen was anathema to her. She always  insisted that we bring our friends over for dinner even if it included most of the 2nd Marine Regiment. She would always politely ask them if they wanted a little bit of this or that, if they had the temerity to refuse, she would just totally ignore them and fill up their plate. "Amerikanakia don't know how to eat so we have to teach them," she instructed. Mama always knew best.

Mama wasn't exactly thrilled when I joined the Marines, she was hoping I would be a doctor. I don't think even she realized what God had in store for her during the next twenty-two years. It is never easy being the parent of a son serving overseas in harm's way. It took a toll on her. I remember the morning we got the news that over two hundred Marines were killed in a bomb blast in Beirut, my leave had been cut short and I was getting ready to travel back to Camp Lejeune where I was a company commander of an infantry company. Some of my friends were among the dead. Mama, who was usually talkative in the morning was quiet, fighting back the tears and white as a ghost. The mothers of Spartan warriors used to send them to war with the words: "Return with your shield or on it."  I think my Mama was just praying I would come home in one piece, with or without the shield.

Mom got her driver's license when she moved to Maine at the tender age of 62.  At age 88 she continued to drive though she had a few run-ins with the local police department. Once she got pulled over for going "a little fast."  Mom got out of it by inviting the police officer for coffee and baklava (Greek pastry). "He was a good boy and so nice."  Another time she got a parking ticket, she marched over to to the police station, baklava in hand and, you guessed it, the desk Sargent tore it up. I knew cops liked donuts but who would have thought that baklava was their Achilles heel?

Funny, it was Mama who was the strong one when Baba died, not me. She comforted and put her arm around me. She was the one who whispered into my ear to tell me how much my father had loved me and wiped away my tears. Life for Mama after my father's death was lonely though she was surrounded by family and friends. It was the loneliness of sleeping in an empty bed and not being able to confide in your life's partner your fears and joys. She finally moved out of the house they had shared after his passing. She had lingered there as if  he might someday return to sit in the garden that he loved, even for a short time.

My wife Anna and I begged her to come live with us. We had plenty of room. "Two women cannot cook in the same kitchen, " she said wisely. She moved into a nearby apartment building for retirees and she proceeded to make her small apartment her own. She sewed curtains, hung pictures of her family throughout and placed her icons above her solitary bed.  Mama was no wallflower. Within a few weeks she had made plenty of new friends. She played cards, invited neighbors over for coffee and food, talked with a steady stream of people on the phone. She would invite her friends from church over for formal dinners when she would break out her best china and her embroidered tablecloths. She was, as one resident put it: "the happiest person here."   

Mama's constant companion during her last year was "Cloudy" the parakeet. My son had given him that particular name because he was blue and white, resembling a cloud. I bought him for her thinking she might enjoy him as much as her brother Elias enjoyed his parakeet "Budgie."  It was a match made in heaven. I have never seen a bird so enamored with a human being. His cage was next to her bed. In the morning he would emerge and wake her by flying onto her head, then walking down her nose and pecking at her lips. After a full day together, he would allow her to gently caress him in her hand, kiss him and then place him in his cage.

Mama was always working on something.  A week before her death she confessed that she was more tired than usual. Assuming the parental role, I admonished her for doing too much.  Easter was fast approaching, I took her to church and we talked about her coming and staying with us through Holy Week. I kissed her and gave her a hug after dropping her off. Little did I realize it would be the last time I would see her alive. 

On Friday, she spent most of the day cooking for the luncheon after my father's upcoming memorial service  and she built two window boxes for the tomato plants she had bought.  That evening she played cards with her friends and retired early saying that she didn't feel well and was going to get some sleep. The next day her next door neighbor went to check on her and she didn't answer her door. Her blinds were still down at midday even though she always awakened at 5 AM for her morning coffee. The neighbor called the police and they in turn called me to inform me that she had died. My younger son, Chris and I had been out shopping and we were driving home when we got the call. Chris could sense something was wrong from the look on my face as I spoke with the police officer.  I was stunned. Chris began crying when he heard the news and I am not exactly sure how I managed to drive us to her home. I don't remember the trip there. One of Mama's friends comforted Chris while I walked up to her apartment, my heart beating out of my chest. I entered and found her lying on her bed. She looked like she was sleeping peacefully, her icons and oil lamp above her. I reached out to touch her face. It was cold as ice. It was Saturday, the day when our Lord resurrected Lazarus from the dead. I broke down and cried like a baby. It would not be the last time. She had left me suddenly, without any warning. So much left unsaid, and no time to say our good byes.

The hardest part was trying to comfort my inconsolable son, then breaking the news to my sister, wife and older son. Anna was in Athens, she wanted to fly home to be with us and attend Mama's funeral. With her father in the hospital, fighting for his own life, I insisted that she stay put. The living had more need of her than the dead.  My sister drove up from New York. She sent an email before leaving:

My dear brother,

I know you will appreciate this quote from John Quincy Adams who spoke about Abigail, his mother upon her death.  "She... has been more to me than a mother.  She has been a spirit from above watching over me for good, contributing by my mere consciousness of her existence, to the comfort of my life... Never have I known another human being, the perpetual object of whose life, was so unremittingly to do good." 

Those are my feelings exactly, and I am sure yours. If we are anything, it is because of her. Whatever successes our families' have had,  it is a direct result of her goodness. Let us pray that we can continue her good works and pass on her strength and love to our children and to our children's children, from one generation to another. That is our parents' legacy. This is our purpose in life.

Somewhere I read that an act of love is like a pebble that falls in a pond.   The rings, which represent love, spread out infinitely and touches all in its path.  It is an never ending pattern of goodness and love. Our mother has bestowed this gift on us. May she rest in peace. Until we are all together again, in God's glory, forever and ever and unto the ages of ages.

Your sister. Katina

The wake at the funeral home was a celebration of her life surrounded by her children and grandchildren. The mourners just kept on coming, everyone touched in some way by her life. For our small community she was the uber yiayia, handing out food, hugs and love, unstintingly to all who crossed her path. During the last years of her life she had distributed most of her worldly possessions, planned and paid for her funeral and that of her husband. She counseled her children to feed the multitudes well. "Make sure you give them more than those little sandwiches and some potato chips" she insisted.  And so we did, with the help of many others who loved her.

Happy Mother's Day Mama, may your memory be eternal. 

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Comments

[greg birbil]

We must be brothers, we seem to have had the same mother, the part about the sewing brought me to tears.

[Stavros]

Greg,

From what I know of you from reading your blog I think in many ways our mothers were in fact cut from the same fabric. Today I took my mother's sister, bowling. She is 94 and she beat me twice. Wouldn't it be nice if we could tap into all that boundless energy?

[maria]

my mama was unique, because in her greek diaspora neighbourhood, she was the only 'old' greek mama (at age 45) to get a drivers licence and actually use it - people still tell me how amazed they were to see what clearly looked like a greek immigrant woman of the early years driving a zippy blue suzuki as if it were second nature

[Stavros]

Even old Greek Mamas have a need for speed.

[GGW]

Thought I'd posted a comment here on Monday but it's not there...
Beautifully sensitive article Stavros, very moving. Think all Greek mothers are made of the same materials, an inordinate amount of love for family, sometimes to the point of self-sacrifice.My Mama used to feed everybody, from the mailman to the movers who came to pack the boxes when she finally decided to join us in Greece. I could never get over how despite not knowing too much English - she was a stay at home mother - she used to bid with all the Chinese vegetable vendors at the local markets and somehow she always understood what they were saying... I on the other hand didn't...
Aionia tous i mnimi...

[Stavros]

Ah yes, mamas have a sixth sense, they know what is in our heart and they communicate on a different plane, almost telepathic.

[petros]

Amazing, I also had the same thoughts that I would end up with my mother in the same nursing home. She has gone on her journey 8 years now, and not an hour passes, not a day goes by , that she is not in my thoughts.

[Stavros]

Ela Petro,

For the longest time, I continued to think of my parents as being the strong, vital people they were when I was a kid, even when they no longer were. When I finally admitted to myself they no longer were, it was an admission of my own mortality and the fact that I too was aging. They are forever a part of us even after they are long gone, just as we were part of them. I think I understand them more now than I ever did when I was younger.

[voula]

Your mother was a beautiful kind woman. She was very proud of her family. I'm sure if she could read your words today she would be beeming and glowing with pride.
The day she pasted away is a day I will never forget. She touched many people.
May her memory be eternal.