Today would’ve been my mom’s 88th birthday. She was just shy of twenty-nine when we first met. I have come to know a fair amount about her life before that day, before I entered the picture.
She was the middle child in a strict German Catholic family. Born in Greensburg, Indiana, but raised in Indianapolis after a move early on. She went to St. Joan of Arc, had a beautiful singing voice, and loved music. There was a rumor she could have gone to Juilliard, but instead she ended up in a convent for six years.
Eventually she left the nunnery, moved to Chicago, and met my Oldman. That is when I arrive at the scene.
My mom didn’t leave behind much fanfare. No big accolades. No grand legacy in the way the world defines it. She was a lonely middle child who carried a sadness that never really lifted. Depression? Maybe, but Catholics and Germans back then didn’t bother with labels like that. You got up, said your prayers, worked hard, washed your face, rarely muttered a laugh, and went to bed. Then you did it all over again.
As I get older, I’m starting to understand her better. I’m climbing into the same years she once lived through, and it’s helping me piece her together. In 1997, she was my age... 59. That is hard to believe. She seemed old back then, but now, standing in her shoes, I see things differently.
At 59, she had been off the bottle for a couple years. Still bitter about her divorce. Jealous of her younger sister, who was happily married to a successful man. Still stuck in the shadow of her older sister, another nun, only that one never left the convent. She rarely spoke of her father, who died when I was young and she often blamed her mother for most of her misfortunes.
I’ll tell you a story.
Four years before she died, we were heading to my in-laws' house in Hinsdale. She had been visiting from Indianapolis, driving me crazy, and she had already pushed my wife’s anxiety to the brink. My mom was in the back seat of my Suburban, wedged between George and Fritz’s car seats. There was enough space, don’t worry.
George had been recently diagnosed with autism, though we hadn’t told many people. He was having a tough day, acting up like kids on the spectrum can. suddenly, my mom, in that sharp, guilt-laced Catholic voice, said,
“John... there is something wrong with this kid. He needs help!”
I hardly talked to her for the rest of the visit. I’ll give my ex credit, she handled it better than I did. I took Ma to the train station the next day and didn’t say “I love you” when she left.
Four years later, she died.
I never got the full story on what cracked my mom’s foundation before I ever came along in Edgewater in the Summer of 1966. What I do know is this, she was a good person. She helped more than she hurt. She had a strong faith. She just never learned to love herself, and that made it hard for her to truly love others. She went through the motions. That is the painful truth about Cecilia Marie.
From August 3, 1937, to May 6, 2016... she lived a life built on faith, obligation, and pain. Her foundation was built from German stone and Catholic duty, and somewhere along the way it got fractured.
I loved my Ma and she did the best she could with what she had. She gave me my Catholic roots and through her own faults, showed me how to become a stronger man.
As time rolls on, I’m starting to understand who Cecilia Marie really was. When I look back, I don’t dwell on her faults. I honor her faith. I remember the kindness she gave to the people who crossed her path.
We are all flawed.
Maybe that is why I chose a simple quote today from Shakespeare’s Hamlet. A tragedy about a broken person with a heavy heart,
“Adieu, Adieu, Adieu… Remember me.”
I drew a smile on the sun today. Let that grin stretch your shadow between 5:47 this morning to 8:06 tonight. This week brings the last post-eight o'clock sunset until March. Don't kill the messenger. Just prepping you now so you have time to adjust.
Now go have a Sunday Funday full of Gusto...
...and a fanfuckintastic week.
