If Ma’s issues were being addressed today, her life and that of her children might have been easier. But in the 1950s, women’s issues and emotional wellbeing weren’t a top priority. Her comfort fell to us and Dad.
And so, speaking for myself, I felt responsible for her happiness even at an early age. Dr. Phil would have a field day. Yet I know we are not that unique. We were your average, dysfunctional, co-dependent family trying to avoid conflict. We rarely succeeded.
Ma and Dad would spend 70-plus years together, but they didn’t belong together as a couple. Need I say more? They are gone now, and, in spite of her verbalized wish that he would disappear, a mantra we listened to our entire lives, when she finally said goodbye to him the cumulative regrets poured out. He was 92 when he passed away – their unhappy life together was over.
Because their marriage failed them, Ma turned to her children to fill the space that should have been her husband’s. Thus we became our Mother’s soul mate, pal, and buddy. One spends a long time figuring this all out.
There were good times, too. Honestly there were. Ma loved to laugh and we loved to see her happy.
She grew up loving the movies. As her mother cleaned the theater between shows, Ma was allowed to watch the films for free. An early form of employer-provided child care.
Later on she watched all the old black-and-white movies that were broadcast on TV, teaching us the names of the actors and being one of the first film critics we would know. Her opinions were very strong. She hated Betty Davis, John Wayne, and James Cagney. She loved Sophia Loren, Cary Grant, and Rock Hudson.
TV was a big deal. We were taught not to ask her anything as she watched Gunsmoke, Wagon Train, Perry Mason, and many afternoon soap operas. These were the staples of her life. These were her cultural outlets and her distraction from pain.
Ma was also a reader. An insomniac her entire adult life, she’d read well into the early morning hours authors like Frank Yerby, Pearl Buck, Taylor Caldwell, and Agatha Christie. I know because we shared a bed most of my childhood.
I loved cozying up to her at night, feeling her warmth, the smell of talcum powder, touching her lovely dark hair. She was peaceful, and I was happy for that. For hours, I wouldn’t move, wouldn’t disturb the calm façade. Earlier in the evening after a long day of housework, cooking, laundry, she relished a sit-down with a cup of instant coffee and a cigarette.
As a kid, I became the official errand girl. Several times a day, I’d be sent to one of the markets that once dotted the main drag of Onset village. Her neatly written list and money would be tied in a linen handkerchief. I’d give this to the shopkeeper who’d then collect the items, bag them, place the change and list back in the handkerchief and send me on my way. Once I got home, Ma would teach me how to count the change back – a lost art.
We had a TV when others in the neighborhood did not, so when Elvis was featured on the Ed Sullivan Show our living room became the place to be. What excitement, the females of all ages were panting over his image on the tiny screen. Afterwards they seemed exhausted and glowing. I didn’t understand what they were all talking about, but it seemed so important and thrilling. I was a witness to the power of Elvis.
Early on, Ma taught me the basics of good housekeeping; domestic tranquility ruled her home, and I picked up the importance of keeping a home clean and orderly. I learned to cook simple meals and starch and iron everything from undergarments to sheets. She took pride in a home free from dirt, and I followed her example putting great emphasis on these tasks.
Order carried through the holidays. Christmas trees were decorated with each ornament having its own spot. Tinsel was made from aluminum and reused so it had to be handled gently. She showed us how to place individual pieces at the end of every branch. It was so painstakingly slow but resulted in a resplendent finished product.
I have only a gauzy memory of Ma doing her own shopping. By the time I was 10, she stopped leaving her property line, eventually not even smelling a breath of fresh air unless someone left a door open a bit too long. Imprisoned by extreme anxiety and depression, her laughter became harder to induce, her anger so ready.
We drifted apart as I became a teenager. A pretty common thing between parents and children, but for us we stood on opposite sides of a great breach. I left home at 18 years old. She felt my departure was treason. I felt it was an escape. She was a mother however, and when I really needed her, she was there in essential ways.
When my son was born, she taught me how to change diapers, keep him bathed and warm and how to treat colds and sore throats. Her practical nursing abilities seemed boundless. She knew a little bit about a lot of things. She needed to pass along these wisdoms. It was all she had to give, and they have stood the test of time. And, oh, how she loved that baby.
Years later when she was again able to leave the boundary lines of her tiny home, I took her on numerous day trips and two overnights out of state. These were a really big deal for her (and me, too, if I’m being honest).
I’d drive until I was exhausted, covering hundreds of miles. She was amazed by mountains covered with forests, farms dotted with cows, leaves in fall color, and rolling coastlines. I wanted to give her a chance at seeing the joy. At 70 or so, old habits of thought are hard to break, but I believe she tried. By then, she was in her 70s.
When I married and moved to Mattapoisett, I continued to spend as much time with her as my schedule would allow. She appreciated every moment without ever saying so. I knew she didn’t take my time for granted.
You never know when the last time for doing something is, in fact, the last time. So I don’t know the last time I took her out for lunch and shopping, but I do know we would have enjoyed it. We’d laugh, maybe cry, I’d listen to her laments about my father, well-worn terrain I endured.
She never tired of telling me the same anecdotes about her childhood. They were peppered with joy and pain. She had the freedom to roam from morning to night, but also the responsibility of caring for her ailing father while her mother worked. She recalled the gas explosion in Onset when her mother spent the entire day searching for her youngest beloved son, fearing he had been killed, and then the flooding relief when he was found unscathed.
So often did she relive her own childhood, I can recite the stories as if they are mine. I’ve spent thousands of hours as my mother’s companion and confidant. I listened to it all, but now cannot recall the sound of her voice.
The last few years found her confined to a nursing home where unfamiliar hands attended to her every human need. She could do nothing for herself. She spent her final days wandering the streets and back alleys of her mind. Strokes and old age, deafness and heart failure made speaking very difficult for her. She tried. I listened. We managed. Sometimes we shared only a few words as I spent the time rubbing her face and hands with lotion, massaging her feet that no longer walked. Touching is so critical.
Visiting her was so emotionally difficult for me but so necessary. I promised myself I wouldn’t miss her. The lies we tell ourselves. The void she left is slowly filling – slowly. Ma passed away peacefully on January 23, 2014, when no one was looking.
We didn’t have a shared religious system to comfort us. We won’t be meeting on the other side. But I’ll always remember we held hands as she took me along with her, back to 1930 when she skipped along the streets of Onset free from pain, youthful and laughing.
This Mattapoisett Life
By Marilou Newell
Thank you for sharing your story. My childhood was similar, in the Portuguese-north end of New Bedford. My Mom was the glue that held our family together. My Dad was a hard worker and a hard drinker, always with his friends at the Madeira Club. He was a functional alcoholic. There were days that he would go to work with a hangover, but he always worked. He was never the same after being in the US Army in World War II. My older sister and my two other brothers, we survived it all. Sadly, all of our friends came from dysfunctional families, too.. I am 76 years old now. Looking back at my life, I know it could have been worse, but God knows it could have been better.