Mom was a bit untouchable. Reserved. Lauren Bacall and Jackie Kennedy demeanor. Not aloof. Just naturally cool. Staring into the distance threw us off. She wasn’t paying attention to us, we thought. But a “Harump,” or a “Tsk tsk,” reminded us that she had magic radar, jotting down a history we won’t get to review until we sit down with her in heaven.
I usually share a story or poem when offering a tribute for relatives we love. I’ve done that twice already for Mom, so enough of that. For Mom’s 100th birthday, gone 27 years ago, I thought a generic homage would be better.
We all have distinct images of Louise, the mother of us seven blessed offspring. One immediate image is her sitting, legs tucked, on a couch, reading a mystery novel or a cookbook. She cut an iconic figure, posing for a statue carved lovingly by Michelangelo.
Mom read, sat, smoked, and sipped her favorite white wine while people around her did all kinds of things, from watching TV to racing around the house on imaginary horses.
Louise drove a car or sat in the passenger seat with the same focused demeanor. She was always the steady, same-wondering woman. Not intense, not dismissive of others, and certainly not dangerous. Rather, zeroed in on some ineffable thing out there in the distance. If you asked what it was, she might not answer.
Each of us superseded her passion-managed limits differently. I remember her silence more than the infrequent outbursts. Not sure, but that was probably true with all of us. If she got exceptionally angry, it was probably pent-up angst over distasteful behavior from someone she loved deeply.
We didn’t take it to heart. Not sure about that either. I don’t remember any of us needing therapy. More than one sister and brother corrected me, but it may have been teasing—something Mom didn't do very well, while we have all become professionals. Weird how that happened. Maybe we need therapy after all.
Mom was not always sitting, of course. Her walk, though, usually meant duty, something to get done. In the 1950’s, everything took lots of time. Hand whisks and forked egg beaters, a litany of stirring, sweeping, and gathering essential ingredients.
Eventually, vacuuming with an overly heavy machine for a tiny mom did help pick up everything from sand to fingernail clippings. A larger freezer space helped. So did the microwave. On-hand popsicles and ice cream bars, only available earlier from the singing trucks, provided rare treats that never came by in the winter. She could package saved-up pre-cooked things along with doggie bags from a restaurant. Mom never ate those things. Leftovers lacked class.
I grew up and left home for the eating-out years, the ready pizzas, and something called “takeout.” The lucky last of the litter had no idea about their largesse. Mom became less active, because that wasn’t always the norm.
Some of us remember her diving off the edge of the pool at Los Alamitos, smooth, hands clasped in front of her, dropping into the calm surface of the water with barely a ripple behind her. She did that at lakes, too. Even in the ocean. Effortless, followed by a few smooth strokes, and then a sashay back into a chair, wrapped in a towel. Happy.
I can hear her mumble, “The pool was a good idea, Jack.”
Louise Marie Cosgriff/McKay Pearring also used to lie on her back on the living room floor when we had little kids in the house. I remember the youngest, Molly and Lisa, crawling all over her, vague memories of each of us doing the same thing. Lots of giggling going on. It was out of character in one sense, and entirely Louise in another. She seemed to love it. A low, throaty giggle. A cigarette chortle.
Mom’s inhale on a Chesterfield was an epic event. I don’t know how she did it. I smoked cigarettes for five years and tried to copy that. She dragged on a cig like she was at the doctor’s office, with long and slow exhales. The smoke flowed out of her nose and mouth for what seemed too long. The cigarette would have an inch of ash after the first drag. Truly amazing. Likely one of the reasons I quit early — besides Joanne’s disdain. I didn’t have the chops for smoking as my mom did.
Christmas presents were a big deal for Mom, too. Presents at any time, really. She would open the most meaningless things and be immediately thankful, smiling graciously. “Oh, thank you.” You could barely hear the “you,” and we always hoped she meant us. “Thank you,” just like “I love you,” from across the room.
“Oh, Jack,” was her ready refrain to anything Dad did. Not flirty. Not really upset. Just, “Oh, Jack.”
She didn’t swear. Not really. Damn was about it, and she used it appropriately. “Damn it, you had me worried. Don’t ever do that again.” Straight delivery. No hyperbole. Just the facts. The demure feminine version of Jack Webb’s Joe Friday. Some of us made her say “damn” more than others. I got confirmation of that. “I only remember ‘Hell’s bells’” said more than one sibling.
Still, our Mom was a bit untouchable. Reserved. Lauren Bacall and Jackie Kennedy demeanor. Not aloof. Just naturally cool. Staring into the distance threw us off. She wasn’t paying attention to us, we thought. But a “Harump,” or a “Tsk tsk,” reminded us that she had magic radar, jotting down a history we won’t get to review until we sit down with her in heaven.
I don’t remember Mom threatening me, not even “When your dad gets home.” She was a genius at the little comment. A “Really?” or a “We’ll see about that” was about as corrective as she got. Almost all of us thought we were the black sheep in the family at one time or another, though me being the only one to hear “Damn it” might land only on my resume. Mom’s disappointment made passive-aggressive look like Disneyland rides.
I could be wrong. When I chat with the sibs about Mom, which is eerily seldom and unfortunate, Mom’s lovely side papered over all of the unsure things about her.
I know this. There were three Louises. The Laurie, John, and Mike Mom. The JD and Lindy Mom. The Lisa and the Molly Mom.
You can envisage the three by her cooking. Fish sticks, fried sliced potatoes, homemade Thousand Island Dressing, and Kool-Aid for the older three.
Then there was the casserole Mom for Lindy and Jim — as James David, now “JD,” used to be called. I got to be around that version of her in short, delicious periods. She kept jars of cooking chocolate and Hershey kisses on the counter. It was shocking. Party chips and dip and canned soups, canned corn, and Maraschino cherries. Very different menu items. I worked jobs in high school, played sports, signed up for theatre, and missed most of that Mom. Teenagers can be stupid.
Our Lisa and Molly Mom was elusive, a woman deep in her own thoughts. Mom told me, with rare fear, that she was unsure who the President of the United States was. That was a very strange lunch, back home for a bit, when she told me. She was fighting demons, she said. Turned in on herself a bit.
Following her carotid artery surgery, she called me with big news. She knew who the President was. Both of us laughed at that. She didn’t think anyone noticed, and she might have been right.
A little while after that last phone call — Mom clear in her thinking, sure that the extra blood getting to her brain was repairing her view of everything — we got the news that she was in the hospital, stroked, intubated, with just days to live.
Dad was a shell of the confident, when’s-the-next-party guy, sitting next to her shrinking body in the hospital. He spoke positively about the color of her urine, wanting to be hopeful. He was crumbling, and we all knew the baton was passing to us. That was 27 years ago. Since then, Louise has met more family arriving in heaven than I can list folks in the passed-on generation. Only Aunt Joi sits as the remaining torchbearer.
People didn’t notice this one thing about her, but I think Dad’s head was twice Mom’s size. Not only was he twice her size, but his head ballooned over hers. When you look at pictures of them, you’ll never see their heads the same way again. The hair on mom’s head fluffed outward, but even when dad’s skull went bald, his cranium was massive compared to hers.
For birthing so many large kids, she was the tiniest mother I knew. My friends' mothers looked like giants next to her. She got even tinier over the years. Aunt Joi, also quite short, made her feel normal.
Heaven’s not like here, in that way. Our Church tells us we don’t get our bodies back until the great resurrection after the end of the age. Ominous stuff. That works out fine for our pondering, thoughtful, staring-off-into-the-distance mother. The character of the Spirit life fits her just fine — reserved, speaking in whispers, prompting her progeny with prayers and sighs.
Mom’s waiting for us to reunite with her. She’s had plenty of time imagining our arrival. Can’t help but want Louise to smile at me again, forgiving, grateful we belong to her, and she, the holy marker of Mother Mary in my life, is now not worried about a damn thing.