A Story about My Mom

My mom passed away a few months ago, in August. I miss her every day, but this is not to mourn my mother. I’ve done that, so now it is about celebrating who she was. To give a small illustration of that I’m going to tell a story that happened about 15 years ago.

Mom was all about her family, taking care of us, being with us. There was no one she’d rather spend time with than her children, grandchildren and great grandchildren.

My siblings and I like to get together and play games. We’ve had poker nights or hours of 500 Rum. We also enjoy board games, especially trivia games like Trivial Pursuit. Mom always played too. She was good at cards, pulling out a full house when you thought your 3-of-a-kind was good or laying down 3 aces in 500 Rum with a sheepish smile. She struggled more with the trivia but liked to play because she said she learned so much during the game.

One night, years ago, we were playing Trivial Pursuit and one of the questions mom got, followed by the answer she gave, will remain with me forever because of the boisterous laughter it produced.

This was the original version of Trivial Pursuit. Mom landed on the science category and I was reading the question:

Where is the medulla oblongata located?

The answer is the brain. My brother, sister and I gave each other looks that indicated we all knew the answer so we’re just waiting for mom.

I watched mom’s face as she scrunched up her mouth and said “Oh boy” under her breath. She dropped her eyes to the floor as she thought. After about 30 seconds she looked at me and said, “I don’t know . . . Italy?”

The laughter that followed was unrestrained, and after her children’s heads dropped to the table because we couldn’t breathe, mom joined in. Soon all our faces were red from lack of oxygen. I looked at mom and she said, “I guess that’s not the right answer.”

I found enough breath to say “No, no it’s not.”

Bad jokes were bandied about like:

I hope to get to Italy someday to see the medulla oblongata.

I hear the medulla oblongata is beautiful in the spring.

Is that where the Pope sleeps in the Vatican?

When I was finally able to speak I said, “The answer is the brain.”

Mom replied, “The brain? I’d rather go to Italy.”

And the laughter started all over again.

Miss you mom.

The Story's Title's Blog's Post

“It was Jessie’s cousin’s girlfriend’s babysitter, that’s who gave me this recipe. I knew I’d think of it eventually.”

Matilda went back to mixing her ingredients in her favorite ceramic bowl, a tune humming between her lips. Her husband Lionel sat at the dinner table sipping a beer, looking confused. He turned to his wife.

“Where did you meet this woman?”

“At the carnival last week, remember? You were working late so I went with Sheryl, Dan, Hank and his wife’s nephew’s chiropodist’s daughter’s vet.”

“Ok,” Lionel muttered. “But . . . but how did you meet the woman with the recipe?”

“We were on the merry-go-round talking when I was tapped on the shoulder by an elderly lady who turned out to be my great-Aunt Sylvia’s second husband’s granddaughter’s best friend’s niece’s step-brother’s dance instructor’s mother.”

“Wha . . .”

“Anyway, this woman, I think her name was Francine, knew your late Uncle Dave’s mechanic’s girlfriend’s ex-husband’s son’s golden retriever’s groomer’s wife’s insurance agent, Gabe Frinkelman.”

“Sure,” Lionel muttered. “Who doesn’t know Gabe Frinkelman?”

“She was telling us a story about when Gabe got out of the army. He went to Vegas with some friends and met Wayne Newton’s manicurist’s daughter’s teacher’s third wife’s second ex-husband’s pastor’s great-Uncle’s flying instructor’s girl-friend’s high-school classmate’s cellmate’s sister’s pot dealer’s brother. Can you imagine meeting a celebrity like that?”

“Yeah, sure. But what about . . .”

“Oh, right, the recipe. It turns out the pot dealer’s brother moved here a few years ago. He met my friend Jessie’s cousin and they started a band together, The Neighbor’s Squirrel’s Nuts. One night while playing at that bar on route 46, Gary’s Guns, Groupies and Guacamole, Jessie’s cousin’s girlfriend brought along the woman who babysits for her and also Mrs. Thompson’s son’s shop teacher’s on-line girlfriend’s psychologist’s heavily medicated soon-to-be ex-wife.”

“I need another beer.”

“The pot dealer’s brother and the babysitter hit it off and started dating. That night I went to the carnival they had intended to stay in and watch a movie on Netflix but the babysitter got a phone call from her sister’s brother-in-law’s step-daughter’s nephew’s volleyball coach’s private detective’s father’s bookie’s wife’s neighbor’s goddaughter’s fiancé’s mother’s dentist’s dominatrix’s son’s classmate’s brother’s parole officer’s boss’s mistress’s nanny’s ex-con ex-husband’s ex-wife’s ex-best friend’s ex-boyfriend’s sister and were invited to the carnival.”

“Holy shit,” Lionel said, his hand slapping his forehead.

“We met them in front of the fried pickle stand, got to talking and I mentioned I was looking for a good casserole recipe.”

“Don’t care anymore,” Lionel said.

“She put my email address into her phone and a few days later sent me this recipe.”

“Beer. Need beer.”

“She told me she found it in a magazine from a high school classmate’s brother’s daughter’s son’s cat’s vet’s office. She also said . . .”