Today is my mother’s birthday. She would be 91 years old today.
I’ve been thinking about her lately, especially as I kneaded the bread dough on Sunday. The year before she died, she and I made Greek Easter bread together.
It was the first time I had made this cake-like bread. Ma’s hands were stiff from the rheumatoid arthritis she suffered from, so I kneaded the dough, enjoying its feel and yeasty aroma. I remember that day for many reasons; the companionship and common purpose we shared, the anticipation of family coming to our house the next day for Easter dinner, the conversation that comes when women bake together. I also remember how much the yeast rose. We were both astonished at how it grew and that we were able to get two very substantial loaves where there should have been only one.
I’ve also been thinking about my dad, who passed away 43 years ago last Thursday. Holy Thursday by the Orthodox calendar. He died on a Holy Thursday in April. Another April 12.
As I thought about the bread making and the hymn learning, I thought about other things I learned from my parents. The sit-down lessons of childhood, the practical lessons of living, and I thought of the last lesson Ma and Daddy gave me together. It was 43 years ago, in a hospital room on a bright April day. I was nineteen.
Daddy was bedridden, jaundiced and swollen with cancer. His was barely able to communicate, his voice all but gone. I was home for spring break. I spent every day at the hospital, our last time together. My mom worked as a cashier, standing on her feet six to eight hours at a time, yet she came to the hospital each day.
My parents, like most of their era, were not demonstrative with each other. They didn’t hug or embrace in our presence. Though I knew they loved and respected each other, I don’t recall more than a peck on the cheek for affection.
My dad was fidgeting that day, unable to get comfortable, in pain, his feet jerking under the bed covers. Without a word, Ma got up from her chair, pulled the sheets up off of his feet, and rubbed them. Now, my dad was never barefoot. He always wore shoes or slippers. Always. I felt a little embarrassed. A few moments passed and I felt Daddy looking at me, his eyes waiting until his and mine locked. In a raspy voice, barely over a whisper, he said to me
“See. Your mother can barely stand on her own feet, yet she is standing here rubbing mine.”
My father was still giving lessons. He was acknowledging what a caring woman my mother was, respecting her and honoring her selflessness and sacrifice. He was showing me the way to an adulthood he would never see me reach. My mom was showing by example, though I know she never thought about it. She was just doing what she could to ease his pain and, in doing so, showing me compassion and love.
The lessons are always there, my friends. The lessons are always there.
“He was showing me the way to an adulthood he would never see me reach.” Absolutely beautiful post, Penny. Beautiful. Thank you.
Thank you, Teresa. I appreciate it.
Penny, I needed to read this today. Thank you for writing such a gorgeous ode to your parents.
That is such a nice thing to say, Andra, and I thank you.
Penny, I am moved to tears…really. I couldn’t even begin to tell you how many ways this touches me, but your final words, “the lessons are always there” somehow really grabs me, because it is so true. We have accumulated so many mental snapshots over the years, and I am amazed at how often, nearly daily, I do receive a little “lesson” from people/past occurrences that I didn’t feel were all that significant at the time. It’s sometimes in the “review” that I finally get it!
What a tremendous loss to lose your dad to Cancer when you were still so young. And then your dear mom. I’m sure this day is very bittersweet. You share such lovely memories of both. I hope you have as much time as you need to be mindful and comforted today. Debra
I think that is true for most of us, Debra. It is those mental snapshots, isn’t it, that we truly remember? Those are the pictures we really take that are formed through our own lenses.
It was to all of us, Debra. He was the glue that held the extended family together. My mom died 19 years later. Still young, but not as young as my dad. What made it especially rough was that Daddy died three weeks after being admitted to the hospital for tests. Mom died in two weeks, also from cancer. My joy has been remembering the time I had them and all the lessons and love they gave me.
Today was a good day, filled with purposeful activities. It is good to remember, and then to move on. You are so sweet and understanding, Debra. Thank you.
(I saw that you won the Phillippa Gregory book. Yea!)
Oh Penny, this is such a sad tale. I was young when my mother died, but how you coped with the tragedy of your dad at 19 I can only imagine. What lovely people your parents sound to have been. I suppose all we can do is be grateful for the time we have with such lovely folk,however short. Fondest thoughts, Janice
It was sad and confusing, Janice, but we made it through and I think my sister and I became more compassionate toward others because of it and it made me a stronger person. You are right. We need to always cherish the time we have. I appreciate your thoughts. Thank you.
I am truly sorry for your loss. We never forget the special moments we shared with our parents and the lessons learned. I also stop and remember anniversaries of deaths, not in a sad way now, but with more love as time passes. My mother was my best friend and we spent so much time laughing and having fun. I see things that she would have liked and she comes back to me in a flash. She would have especially liked Downton Abbey!
You may be sure that your parents were very proud of you for many of your accomplishments in life, especially for carrying on the family traditions. Have a blessed day and thank you for reminding us of our mothers and fathers.
I do, too, Marilyn (though it may not have sounded so here). They are still with us, just in a different way. I’ve had times where a day will creep in and I’ll be feeling a bit reflective or melancholy and wonder why and then realize it is a birthday or anniversary. Isn’t it comforting to think of your mom enjoying Downton Abbey? My mother loved Upstairs Downstairs and was miffed when it ended. She would have loved to see it air again. I’m so glad you mentioned Downton and gave me that thought.
Thank you. My dad, especially was big on family. That is a good thought to end my day. You are so welcome, Marilyn.
Penny, this is so moving. To lose your father when you were so young, and the way he kept teaching you. And the loving spirit of your mother. I was touched by the description of bread-making, it is so intimate and beautiful, with ‘the conversation that comes when women bake together’. No wonder the bread rose so splendidly, yielding two loaves where there should have been one! What a beautiful metaphor for the power of love. And the love of your parents is yeasted in you, continuing to rise to many occasions.
I too had loving parents, and I always remember them on their birthdays in April and July. How lucky we are to carry such heritage.
Thank you, Juliet. I treasure that thought of the yeast and arising to occasions. I’ll remember that, and you for it. It was such a memorable day we spent together, and it pleased Ma so to be able to pass the recipe on to me.
We are so lucky, aren’t we? The best gift we have is their love and then passing it on through our children and grandchildren.
Beautiful, Penny: the lessons are always there, as you say. It’s just having our eyes and ears open to receive them. Hope you have a joyous orthodox Easter.
Thank you, Kate. Sometimes these memories sit still for awhile and come to us when we need them and are receptive to them.
It was a joyous Easter. Thank you.
What a lovely tribute to your parents! Thanks for sharing your memories of them.
Tornadoes quite a distance from us – this time. The season isn’t over though! We continue to have a beautiful Spring.
You are so very welcome, Joyce. It is good to share such good things.
It is such a relief to know you weren’t close to the tornados. This has already been a long storm season, hasn’t it? We have some storms coming in tonight. The rain will be good, just hoping it is just that. A good rain. Enjoy the beautiful Spring.
Shedding tears, Penny–this is a beautiful, loving post.
I hope that someday, one of my boys may recall a fond memory and be moved to speak similarly of me on my April 18th birthday…..
Thank you, Karen.
I’m sure they both will, Karen. Happy Birthday. Our daughter Katy is the 16th and grand-nephew Jake the 14th, so there is much joy in April. Much joy, indeed.
Penny, this is such a touching, sweet post. I remember so well how you lost your Father during spring break. I also remember my own immaturity in wanting to help, but not knowing what to say or do. It was such a difficult time for you. Your Parents would be very proud of the woman that you have become and I know they will greet you in Heaven.
Those fond memories sustane us and take the edges from the sorrow. Your memories of your parents have been a blessing to you and your family and as you share them here, they are a blessing to all of us.
Oh, Janet, we were so very young then. You helped me by being you, making me laugh and letting me be silly. Then a few years later it was your mom and I felt the same for you, so far away. We made it through and were stronger for it. Thank you, dear friend. Thank you.
They do sustain us and I am so fortunate to have the memories to share – and such a captive group to share them with. My parents both, in their own ways, shared their own memories. Growing up, our kitchen table was the epicenter of not only my immediate family, but the extended family as well.
Beautifully expressed .. the lessons and memories remain and sustain us — and I hope we can pass them on.
Hi, Sallie. I hope we can pass them on as well. It is harder with families so far apart in distance, isn’t it? A challenge technology makes easier. Thank you.
Such a beautiful, poignant, loving post, Penny. I too have tears in my eyes as I type as you have brought back to me my own feelings when my father died 34 years ago tomorrow. I wasn’t as young as you, but still only 32 and wishing we could have kept him for much longer. I was so moved by how devotedly my mother nursed him until he died in his own bed. These memories shape a lot of who we are.
32 is still very young to lose a parent, Perpetua, and 34 years can seem like just yesterday, can’t it? I’ll be thinking of you tomorrow, knowing you have your abiding faith but still feel the loss of your father. Your mother’s devotion and care is such a tender example that I am sure has followed you into your life. These memories do shape us and I think make us stronger.
This post was really extra special Penny. Your family always sounds so wonderful to me and the way you tell their story, yours too, I feel like I can see them right before my eyes. I’ve been thinking about my mother a lot lately too because, although she died in 1999, her twin brother my Uncle Bud just died last week at the ripe old age of 90 and I can’t think of all my memories of him without thinking of my mom!
I’m so sorry to hear about the passing of your Uncle Bud, Janet. It is so sad when the last ties to our parents die. Your mom’s twin would make it all the more poignant. I’ve found that, no matter how long they have been gone, that pain and then the fond memories are always close to the surface.
Thank you.