Mother's Day Freewrite

My mom and brother during a family vacation to Prince Edward Island, August, 2004

It’s Mother’s Day in Astoria, Queens.

Walking to the gym this morning the sidewalk in front of the florist was overflowing with potted houseplants, perennials, and small shrubs. It took me a minute in my pre-coffee haze, but the unprepared fathers buzzing around helped me to catch on. A man leading with his large belly was cutting off the older Latin man trying help him with his morning purchase. “No, you don’t tell me what I want” he barked, “I tell you what I want”. My pace didn’t slow, but I was reminded how much happier I am now that I don’t do retail any more, especially on holidays such as these. Be nice to your mother but be a rude bastard to everyone else on the way to her house? Oh, sure, that makes perfect sense. I’m sure she’d be very proud. But then again, perhaps in part it’s those people for whom we have created national holidays like this, or at least created all the ridiculous hype. Those unfortunate souls who don’t appreciate the matriarchs in their family enough the rest of the year that then they have to scramble and try to make up for it come some random Sunday in May. You know, we all come from a mother, every single person on this planet. And I’m not saying that everyone has the best relationship with their mother, but in the end you got to realize that all you got is family. I hope that we don’t need to have a national holiday to be reminded of that. Shouldn’t this be a time of celebration and love and gathering, and not scrambling to make up or make due or make right in lieu of 11 months and 29 days of not doing what you are supposed to as a good kid? But, then again, I guess my situation is not normal, and I forget that.

I am a very fortunate person in that I have a wonderful relationship with my family. My parents and I are buddies, always have been, always will be. As we all age we only seem to relate better to each other and get closer sharing our different adventures, our hopes and fears, our stories that make us who we are. So I don’t often think much of this day. I mean, sure, I called my mom. If I hadn’t I’d be fucked with a layer of guilt so thick I might not be able to breath otherwise. She has a gift that way. The thing is, I talk to my mom a lot. So yeah, I called when I got home from the gym. Mom was going to take Nanny out for a drive of the north shore. My grandmother on my mother’s side lives with my parents for most of year now during the warmer months due to it being cooler up here compared to Florida and the case of cancer that is slowly spreading. My Nanny is a fighter, and even cancer won’t slow her down. When my mom said she was worse this spring I expected to find a certain person when we went out east last weekend. Of course I was proven wrong by the strong women in my family once again. Nan was halfway through the laundry and had already done all of the morning dishes. She bounded up the stairs faster than I’d seen in ages and grabbed me with a strong hug and kiss. So, today they were off to the north fork, the land where Nanny and Pop-pop had their piece of the pie and raised their three kids on the water. From Southold, NY, my mom couldn’t wait to get to Alfred College upstate. And at the age of 19 she knew there was more to life than that so she up and moved to New York City. She came to the city with little else but $9 dollars and some change, no joke. Her first roommate was a woman named Nancy and they lived in affordable housing for young women. She worked on the stock exchange during the day and tended bar at night. I’m guessing that is where her workaholic nature really came into its own, but the reality is it probably dates back much farther. Some years later she would notice an advertising writer who frequented her establishment. Supposedly she made him a damn good martini, and the rest was history. They would leave the city to raise a family out on Long Island, this time on the south fork. They surrounded themselves with other artists and writers and free thinkers and loving families. They found their own piece of the pie, a 20’ x ‘20’ shack in Amagansett, NY, and would soon have two kids of their own, Gian Carlo and yours truly.

My parents and both sets of grandparents were always around. Family dinners and get-togethers were main staples growing up. In summer we would go out on Pop-pop’s boat or go fishing out at little Albert’s. My friend Rory would come over to play on Sundays especially, hoping that Grandma Feleppa was making her infamous homemade pasta, meatballs, and sauce, which of course took all day to prepare. So as we all got older and as my grandparents health deteriorated, my parents only did what was natural. They all stepped up and took care of their folks as they hope their kids will take care of them. My aunt took in and cared for my grandmother when she had cancer. I think I was 12 when Florence Pizzi Feleppa passed away. To this day I don’t know anyone’s meatballs that compare. My grandfather, Doc, would end up coming to stay with my parents when he became ill three or four years later. He passed away right before Christmas in the downstairs of our house on Indian Wells. Pop-pop passed one of the following falls and the service was small. We stood in the gray morning and smelled the salt spray off the Long Island Sound. That was the first time “Amazing Grace” made me weep. I can’t imagine how tough it must be to be alone after so many years of being with the one you love most. But, like I said, Nanny’s a fighter. She has great-grandchildren to watch grow up, she has her own stories to share, and she’s not stopping any time soon if she can help it.

I was glad to hear they were going for a drive today. My mom doesn’t take enough days off for herself and Nanny always loves to see the old stomping ground so I was glad the day provided the perfect window of opportunity. My dad wasn’t so sure about being stuck in the car all afternoon but I told him to take his camera along and shoot some pics and that that would be fun for him. He appreciated the suggestion and said he would. I felt bad that I wasn’t there to join them, but all us kids went out last weekend and had a hell of a time catching up, eating and drinking up a storm, and turning into total mushes staring in amazement at beautiful little Ea Mimm. We’ll get out there again soon.

My mom strayed from her mother’s house to find herself and establish her own identity. I did the same, as did my brother, as will our kids years from now, much to our dismay I’m sure. But we all come back. How can you not? Remember, we all have a mother after all. And even though we might think the apple falls far from the tree, we know deep down it really doesn’t. My mom is just as much of a workaholic as my grandmother. Coming to my own 31^st Birthday I can’t deny any longer that I am a workaholic just like my mother before me, and her mother before her. And even though we get crazy with our lives, we realize the strength and fortitude that comes from a good family, and we force ourselves to slow down and enjoy that peace and comfort, even if only for an afternoon drive.

Happy Mother’s Day, moms, you deserve this and every other day in your honor.