Over
dinner the conversation rambled into different topics, one of which was my
tastes regarding fish. My in-laws and their five children immigrated from the
Azores (the island of San Miguel), Portugal in 1966. Judy was the sixth and
last child. She has the distinction of being conceived in Portugal and born in the
US. They all love fish, especially bacalhau
(bah-cah-yah). This is a very salty cod dish that my side of the family has
great fun mocking and making jokes about. My nephew, Josh, calls it “bacla-hurl.”
When it is being prepared, I can smell it from my car before I come into the
house.
This
all led to my likes and dislikes in fish and other foods. I began reflecting on
my upbringing, and shared some of these memories with the ladies.
Shortly
after I was born in New Haven, Connecticut in 1948, my parents separated,
leading to divorce in 1953 or thereabouts. My mother had worked for Chance Vought
Aircraft Company during World War Two. After the war ended, and seeing that the
marriage was in trouble, she had to find work to care for my brother and me. She
was hired as a secretary for the man who invented the scissor lift, also called
a cherry picker. Being on a limited income, and not having any social programs
to help single moms, she had to really watch her pennies. So part of our diet
included some fish. I probably developed a dislike for it for two reasons: 1)
The strong fishy smell and taste, and 2) The ridiculous number of bones you had
to pick out, or so it seemed to my young mind.
It
was at this point in our sharing that my wife suggested that I retell the story
of driving a car when I was three. Actually, I’m not sure how old I was but I
couldn’t have been more than four. My mother would often have to run errands
for her boss. He would give her his car keys and off she’d go. On this
particular occasion she had my brother John and me with her. I’m guessing my
brother was picked up after school and she got me from the sitters. Anyway,
whatever errand she had to run, we were now back at her boss’s house. He lived
atop a hill with the road leading up one side and down the other. She parked and
told us to stay put. John, who is five years older, was sound asleep on the
backseat. I was in the front seat.
As
my mother stood at her boss’s front door she looked back at the car and noticed
it had started rolling forward down the hill. In a panic she took off running to
catch the car, but it continued to roll faster, leaving her behind. At the
bottom of the hill the road required you to turn left or right. About halfway
down the hill the car suddenly made a right turn into someone’s yard. The car
rolled by the house on one side so closely that it sheared off the water meter.
The man of the house was sitting in his living room, startled to see a car go
by his window!
My
mother had continued running after the car, losing her shoes in the process. In
the meantime, the car rolled into the backyard and stopped right where the yard
was held back by a wall that dropped onto another level of yard. The car
teetered on the wall in a most precarious manner. The man in the house came out
and carefully removed my brother and me from the car. My mother was nearly in
hysterics at this point. My brother slept through the entire ordeal. I, on the
other hand, was behind the steering wheel grinning away. Whether I was sitting
or standing, I couldn’t tell you, as none of this is in my memory. It has been
suggested that I possibly released the break which started the forward roll; or
if the brake had not been set, and all that was holding the car in place was
the stick shift engaged, then I may have popped the gear shift loose. The end
result was the same.
Personally,
I like to think the Lord had one of his angels give the wheel a yank to the
right so it would slowly roll to a stop. Apart from the damaged water meter and
some cosmetic damage to the car, all was well.
I
can only imagine what was going through my mother’s mind as she chased after
this runaway car. Her first child, a boy, was stillborn. My brother, her
second, was scrawny and didn’t appear to be too healthy (that all changed). My
mother’s third child, a girl, had spina-bifida and only lived a couple of weeks
(they didn’t have a cure for this problem in 1945). She and my father were
strongly counselled against trying to have any more children. So when I came
along I decided I liked it perfectly well there in the womb. The hospital in our
hometown of Milford, Connecticut did not have a doctor who knew how to perform
a caesarean birth. So it was off to New Haven and a large hospital with a more
experienced staff of doctors. Having lost two of her four children, then to watching
her remaining two boys blissfully rolling down the hill, must have been
literally heart-stopping for her.
Mom
was released from the bonds of earth last March at age 98. I miss her, of
course. But I especially missed her today as I remembered the stories. But I am
so happy for her because I know she has been able to hug and kiss the babies
she lost these seventy-plus years ago.
I
loved my mom for her courage in toughing it out through life’s challenges and
setbacks. Not once did she fail in her duties as a mother. I’m so very
fortunate to have had her as my mom.
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