Funny What We Remember

My mother turned “90” at the end of February. My four siblings and I started planning her birthday celebration before the calendar flipped to 2023. Mom’s wish was for us to host a small luncheon, locally, and invite family and a few of her close friends that live in the area. 

So, on January 19th, thirty of us gathered in the back room at Lucca’s, a popular Italian eatery in downtown La Grange. A first cousin drove in from the North Shore with Aunt Dorrie, my mother’s ninety-five-year-old sister. My brother and I flew in Florida. Several grandchildren surprised their grandma by flying in from DC, San Diego, and Colorado. Carol, my mother’s friend since third grade, and Lucy, who I have known since I was a child, both made it to the party. One of the highlights for Mom was that two of her newest great-grandsons delayed their naps to celebrate with her.

Before the savory Italian meal was served, my twin sister, Jenny, kicked off a round of toasts and storytelling centering on Mom.  Many of us dug into our memory banks to come up with crazy tales about her. There were stories about the family cottage at Palisades Park, Michigan, reminiscences about Mom’s life with my dad–nicknamed “Chief” by one of us when we were in high school–and of course there were plenty of “teases and tattletales.” We roasted my mother about our strict upbringing, her propensity to misplace things, her creativity and artwork, beautiful singing voice, infectious laugh, and devotion to all things related to family.

Here’s one of the stories I resurrected to share with my mom. It emanates from the time when my twin sister and I were about to go off to college at Indiana University. It’s a classic example of the corny things my siblings and I remember about the “mothering” Mom administered:

A few days before Jenny and I were to drive to Bloomington with our parents for freshmen orientation, Mom shouted for us to come down from our rooms. I looked up from my packing and rolled my eyes at Jenny. 

“We’ll be right there,” I yelled back.

We both figured that our mom had an errand for us to run or a sibling to fetch from the Bath & Tennis Club. When my sister and I left for college, Mom would lose her two best errand girls. Thinking about all the favors Mom was now going to ask of our brothers, Patrick and Howie, made us snicker. 

Jenny and I were really excited about heading off to IU. For the first time in eighteen years, we would attend classes in whatever we felt like wearing. No more knee highs and loafers. No more stiff, white button-down blouses and gray plaid uniform skirts. Since IU was a Big Ten school, it had very few rules. No one had to call in if we were going to be absent. We could even chew gum in class! Jen and I knew Mom was nervous about us taking off to such a big school, but she seemed to find solace in the idea that we would be together. 

 “Let’s go see what Mom wants,” I said.

The two of us descended the large staircase in the two-story foyer. We chattered about the things we needed to pick up from Venture, the Oak Brook superstore. At the landing, Jenny patted the back pocket of her jean shorts. 

“I’ve got my list. Whatever it is Mom needs, we can pick it up when we’re out,” she said.

We heard clattering in the kitchen and found Mom behind the kitchen island, the back of her dark head framed under the oversized pot rack where tarnished copper pans dangled like fish on a line. Next to her at the sink, a couple of overturned frying pans dried on a rack. Below those, the dishwasher splashed and hummed, and the only thing that remained from breakfast were the loaf of hearty wheat bread and butter dish propped by the toaster. 

Jenny and I came to a standstill, elbow-to-elbow, on the outside of the narrow island. Mom spotted us and turned, edging close to the wooden countertop which separated her from Jenny and me. 

“How’s the packing coming along, girls?” Mom asked.

“Just a few more things to pick up from the store,” I said, “and a bit of last-minute laundry to stick in the suitcase.” 

I kept my face neutral, not wanting to appear too eager about leaving home, but my heart bounced with anticipation.

Jenny asked, “Do you need anything while we’re out?”

I spied two white gift boxes tied with an abundance of curled, colorful ribbon set off to the side. Mom’s smile widened as she slid them across the walnut-colored countertop towards Jenny and me. I caught my twin’s quizzical glance and telegraphed my own curiosity. We had a family farewell dinner planned for the night before our trip to IU. I couldn’t imagine why my mother was giving us these packages now.

“Open them at the same time,” Mom said.

I slid one end of the tightly tied ribbon off the small box and glanced at my mother. Her pretty face assumed that pensive look that gift givers hold, a mixture of expectancy over how a present will be received and the pleasure of having selected something deemed right for the occasion. Wonder lit a fire in my belly. I peeked at Jenny to make sure I was on track with her, tugged the remaining ribbon free, and tore into the box.

I unfolded a flap of white tissue and stared at the wrinkled and sheared ends of fabric layered there. 

A startled, “Ohhh,” slipped from my lips. 

I tried hard to harness the giggle chomping to get loose. I recognized the scattered scraps within the white tissue as the tail ends of the aprons my mother had worn every evening as she cooked our family’s supper. 

Mom rubbed at the tears clouding her brown eyes. “The gifts are symbolic of course. I just wanted you girls to know that since you’re heading off to college, I’m letting go. I’ve cut my aprons’ strings. From here on out, you’re free to make your own choices.”

Mom’s corny gift and her spontaneous show of emotion sent Jenny and I scuffling around the island where we encircled her in a hug. 

“I’ll miss you girls,” Mom repeated, melting into our hold.

Jenny and I assured her we would miss her too and that we would call every Sunday night. We reminded her for the hundredth time that we’d be home in a few short months for Fall Break. 

“I know. I know,” Mom said as she reached for the boxes and closed them, stacking them neatly on the counter.

As I watched her do this, I wondered what one does with the ends of apron strings. Did our mother plan to reattach them to the old aprons? Or were they ours to take up to our rooms later, to hide under a bed or at the back of a closet, only to rediscover in the future? What would I think of the strange gift then? Would the apron strings still make me feel guilty about claiming my independence?

At the end of my long tale, I asked Mom, “Do you remember doing this? And whatever happened to the apron strings?”

Mom laughed easily, shrugging her stooped shoulders. “I don’t remember doing any of that, but if I had to guess, I bet I sewed the strings back on!”

“That’s what I thought,” I said, smiling with her. 

A longer version of this same story will appear as a chapter in my forthcoming memoir tentatively titled, Making an American Family; it will be released in the fall of 2024. It’s a coming-of-age memoir, and a prequel to my first book, Twice a Daughter: A Search for Identity, Family, and Belonging. 

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