Eulogy for My Mom
Journaling helps the healing process when there’s a loss.
If this had been written with pen and paper, you wouldn’t be able to read it after my tears spilled over the ink.
I’m 55 and sadly, like many in my generation, I grew up with a fair amount of family psychological and financial trauma.
Now’s not the time or place to dive into that, but my saving grace was always my mother, who sadly just passed away at the young age of 78. At least way too young to die.
If you’ve ever experienced, read about, or knew a Jewish mother, then you know that there’s little than delights one more than her kids, and later grandkids.
As the first born in my entire family of aunts, uncles, and cousins, I got the Jewish mother praises more than others.
According to Mom, everything I touched turned to gold. Everything I did was great. I was the most this. The most that. The best this and the best that. Even though more often than not it wasn’t true.
While all her never-ending praises were more than a tad overboard, my mother is one of the main reasons I excelled in life. She made me believe I could do anything I put my heart and mind to. To not give up. To aim high and achieve. She set excellence as the floor not the ceiling.
She gave me the confidence to believe that even though we grew up with very little. Even though we had our electricity shut off when my parents couldn’t pay the bills. Our phone lines disconnected. Even though we never got to go on vacations. Or buy fancy things. Even though we had to eat liver and onions once a week. Or ride around in Mom’s Caucasian flesh-colored Datsun 210.
There was nothing that could stop me from achieving anything I wanted.
Thank you, Mom, for being my cheerleader. I will forever hold you in my heart and mind. I will forever be grateful for your unconditional love.
Mom had been pretty sick the last two years, in and out of hospitals at least 15 times. I never knew if any particular ambulance ride to the hospital was her last.
Her organs finally gave out and the most recent visit would be her last.
Recently, one of my closest friends who lost his mom suggested I journal about memories of Mom. It was some of the best advice I’ve ever been given. While nothing fully prepares you for loss of a close parent, the writing over these past few months for sure moved me to a place of reflection and appreciation instead of just sadness and depression.
Here are some unedited stories I wanted to share to tell you about my special mother. I apologize in advance for any typos or mistakes.
The Egg Launch
It’s not that I did anything too awful, but I definitely had a mischievous side as a kid.
When I was 12, my friend Kenny and I thought it would be a funny idea to take two dozen eggs to my second-floor bedroom, open the window that faced our neighbor’s yard, the retired Johnsons, and then launch eggs at Mr. Johnson while he cut his grass on his riding mower.
Eggs kept raining down from the sky as Mr. Johnson tried to figure out where the hell they were coming from. One after the other as they exploded on the ground all around him. After every launch we would duck below the window so he couldn’t see us. But after the 6th egg attack, we emerged to start again and he was looking straight at us.
Busted.
Less than three minutes later, there was a knock at the door. Mr. Johnson told Mom what we had done.
“Get down here,” Mom half-yelled at us.
We slowly made our way downstairs where Mom was waiting for us. We all sat down at the kitchen table.
“Shame on you! You know you can’t do that,” Mom started out seriously in a loud tone, which quickly turned into her familiar loud laugh. Mom couldn’t punish me through her laughter. That was the end of our egg attack on Mr. Johnson. And the end of Mom’s 10 second admonishment.
Mom always had a sense of humor.
Mom the Umpire
I had played baseball in the Shadywood Baseball League in Columbus, Ohio since I was six years old. Mom attended every, and I mean every game, regardless of how bad I was.
Mom never missed anything of mine. Plays. Sports. Graduations. Choir concerts. Awards. You name it.
I was the smallest kid in school, so baseball coaches stuck me in right field until 4th grade when I finally learned to play well. Mom tells me than when I was in 1st grade, I used to dance in the outfield while the game was being played, oblivious to the fact that there was an actual baseball game taking place.
The summer of 1979 seemed like every other one. Baseball games two days a week. Practice on most of the off days. Everything running along smoothly for our Indians baseball team.
We showed up on Field 3 to start our game against the Blue Jays. But one problem. The umpire was a no show. The coaches began talking and it looked like the game was going to be canceled.
That was until Mom stepped to the plate, pardon the pun.
“I’ll do it,” my barely 5’3 heavyset Mom volunteered to be the umpire that day.
I put my head down, whispering under my breath, “Please don’t do this. Please don’t do this.”
Mom had never umpired and knew very little about sports.
But umpire she did.
As was typical, at least back then, the male coaches were pretty aggressive with umpires.
Yells of “Oh C’mon!” or running out on the field to yell at an ump for a bad call were quite common. But on this day, the complaints were worse.
“Do we need to get a man in there! Jesus! What a bad call!”
When I stepped to the plate for my first at-bat, things got really bad.
“Ball One!” Mom shouted as the pitch went straight down the middle.
No way Mom was going to call strikes and allow her golden child son to strike out.
“Ball Two!”
“Damnit, Maxine,” one coach screamed out.
Fortunately, I made contact with the next pitch and hit a ball to the outfield for a base hit. No way I was going to let Mom deal with angry coaches anymore. And no way I was going to let her get away with putting me on base with a walk just because she was my mother. Mom didn’t have it in her to accept anything bad for me.
We’re Headed to the Bars
Like every other straight kid, I was girl crazy in high school. But I didn’t really care for most of the girls in my school.
So, every weekend from the time I got my driver’s license at age 16, one of my best friends Mike and I would drive down to the Ohio State campus, which in 1985 had more bars per square inch than any place in the nation. Back then, bars would stamp your hand after you paid and showed your license.
I concocted a scheme to bypass the need for a driver’s license. We would walk by the bar and see what color and shape they were using to stamp that night since they switched colors and designs often. They used stamps so if you wanted to leave the bar and come back in, you didn’t have to re-show your ID.
After seeing what stamp was being used, we’d go back to the car, take out our pack of markers, and draw some semblance of the same design on our hands. We would then smoosh the drawing so it looked like we just sweat some.
We would then return to the bar, show our hands to the bouncer, and each time he would let us in as if we had already been inside the bar earlier.
No cover charge or license needed. We would then dance the night away, sing along to our favorite songs, watch college girls not realizing they definitely knew we were just teenagers, and repeat this every weekend.
One time, Mom asked me what I was doing a certain Saturday night. I paused, but I figured I should tell her the truth.
“I could do what Mike is telling his mom and tell you we’re going over a friend’s house, but instead so you know where I am, I’ll tell you the truth. We are going to Ohio State campus bars on High Street.”
“What? You’re too young for that.”
“Mom, I’m not drinking. I’ll be safe. I just want you to know where I am.”
“Oh ok. But be careful.”
Mom always trusted me even when she probably shouldn’t have. She just could never say no to her first son.
Punishment
I rarely lied to my parents.
But there was one friend who was an habitual troublemaker who sometimes convinced me to cross the line.
One Friday evening, when Mike’s (different Mike) parents had gone out of town, he asked if I could spend the night. My stricter dad said yes but on one condition. That since his parents were out of town, we needed to stay at Mike’s home.
“Deal,” I told him, knowing that the chances of that were slim.
Sure enough, my friend suggested we go for a joy ride in his 1970s muscle car and get in some trouble. We were only 16 at the time.
We drove around his Columbus suburb of Pickerington. We stopped to eat. We honked at girls. We raced down country roads.
In the meantime, Dad had called Mike’s house. Not once. Not twice. But a dozen times. This was long before cell phones so there was no way to reach people other than to call their home phones. He left several messages on their answering machine. At 9:00 p.m. Again at 10, and another at 11:30.
When we returned to his house at 1:30 a.m. that summer eve, Dad was waiting in Mike’s driveway. Shit was I in trouble.
“You’re not permitted to leave the house for two weeks. No video games. No going out. No computer. No T.V.,” Dad yelled as he pulled me into his car.
As crazy as it sounds, I hadn’t been grounded for more than couple hours before this.
After the first day of pure agony, when Dad was at work, I begged Mom for forgiveness.
“I’m sorry. I won’t lie anymore,” I pleaded with her to end the punishment.
“Ok, you can leave, but don’t tell your father,” Mom relented.
And that was the one-day end of my two-week punishment. Mom couldn’t bear witnessing my suffering.
She always just wanted me to be happy above all.
Mom the Baker
When a Jewish boy turns 13, he has what is called a Bar Mitzvah. It’s a Jewish coming of age tradition where he’s supposed to take on the more responsibility of no longer being a little kid.
Mine was set for March 20, 1982.
The problem for our family was that Bar Mitzvahs, at least the parties after, are super expensive. You typically invite all your friends and classmates. Family. Parents’ friends. It’s a party of 200. Almost like a wedding.
There’s often a luncheon after the daytime Bar Mitzvah service and then an evening party with dinner, a DJ and other entertainment. And then a Sunday brunch for out-of-town guests.
As you can imagine, a family like ours, with virtually no money, would have an incredibly tough time figuring out how to pay for such an event.
That didn’t stop Mom.
Instead of hiring an expensive caterer to make sweets and desserts for the luncheon and dinner, Mom baked and baked and baked for two weeks straight, filling our and our neighbors’ freezers with an endless supply of appetizers, cookies and pastries, saving us thousands of dollars if we had a caterer or bakery make them.
Our Sears oven was in use for hours a day every day. Mom baked before she left for work and when she got home.
It was the same for Sunday brunch, which we had at our house to save money. For 40 guests packed into our tiny house. Mom made egg souffle, fruit trays, more desserts, and a variety of other dishes to serve to our out-of-town guests.
While dinner at my Bar Mitzvah party was just pizza Mom ordered, Mom ensured that my friends had just a good of time that they had at the fancier parties my wealthy friends’ families threw.
As nervous as I was that my Bar Mitzvah party would be “less than” other Jewish kids, nobody noticed any different after Mom’s hard work.
I still remember nearly every detail of the Bar Mitzvah, luncheon and dance party. All because of Mom.
The Permissive One
“I’m headed out for the evening,” I told Mom and Dad as I grabbed the keys to Mom’s 1984 Bluish-Gray Subaru.
“Ok, but I need you to be home by 10:30 p.m.,” Dad quickly responded in normal strict fashion.
By the time I got my driver’s license, I’d be lucky if I made it home by 1:00 a.m. any given Friday or Saturday night. Getting home by 10:30 was simply not possible.
Mom knew that, so she whispered to me when Dad wasn’t listening, “just be quiet when you come home so he doesn’t hear you.”
She was always determined that I enjoyed life regardless of our circumstances.
Mom the Fashionista
Ever since I was a little kid, Mom loved to buy me clothes.
When I was four, and we lived in a lower income housing complex, she even hand made me a suit from fabric. Colorful stripes and all. It looked expensive but it was just fabric Mom bought and sewed.
Since Mom didn’t have money, most of our clothes came from sale racks at TJ Maxx and Marshall’s, and our winter coats from Burlington Coat Factory. I recall standing in long lines each fall at the JC Penney Outlet store’s annual sale to get good deals. Hundreds of people waited in line before the door’s opened each year. Like how people used to camp out to get concert tickets. Only this was just for cheap stuff.
Mom was so excited to get us clothes that she often bought stuff on layaway since she couldn’t afford to pay for them all at once.
Nearly every dollar Mom earned went to stuff for me and my brother.
When I was 13, Mom bought me a knit shirt made by a brand called Knights of the Roundtable. The shirt had a man on a horse, sort of like Ralph Lauren, except the horse had all four legs facing forward instead of the Polo horse logo with two legs.
Mom found it for $9 at some discount chain when I wasn’t with her.
“No way am I wearing that fake,” I regretfully reprimanded Mom.
“Oh c’mon. Nobody’s going to know it’s not Polo,” she tried to calm me.
“I’ll know!”
Then I ungratefully handed her back the shirt to return.
I was a fashion snob in the making early on.
Bacon and Crab
Jews who follow more of the Jewish traditions and rules don’t eat pork or shellfish.
We weren’t so religious in our household, so we grew up eating both, although as an adult I since stopped.
While we couldn’t afford to eat shellfish too often, once every six months, when Alaskan crab legs went on some super sale, Mom would splurge and make them for us.
I think by age 14 every one of our forks was bent, as we used them to pry open the crab legs each time, never using the same ones. We literally would stick one of the fork prongs inside the opening in the shells and crack them open.
There weren’t many Jews or any other minorities in our lower middle-class neighborhood. But one of the few Jewish families besides us was a young Moroccan Jewish family who lived directly across the street. They were the first brown Jews I had met.
One day, the father of that family, Moshe (Hebrew for Moses), had come to our house to borrow something and Mom was cooking crab legs. Most brown-skinned Jews from the Middle East keep more Jewish traditions than European American Jews. Still true today.
As a result, Moshe hadn’t smelled shellfish cooked before. He stuck his nose up, and shouted “what disgusting smell is that,” as he ran outside, later telling us he was never coming in our house again.
My friend Mike’s family was more traditional than ours so he didn’t grow up eating pork. But every time he came to our house, he begged Mom to make him some bacon.
“I promise I won’t tell your parents,” she always reminded him.
Mom was more interested in making all the people around her happy. In her own way, she figured what better way to honor God than to always be kind to God’s children.
My mother was loved by nearly every person she touched. Generous. Loving. Full of laughter and kindness.
Hand-Me Downs
Even though we had almost nothing, Mom taught 5th grade in an inner-city elementary school where most families had far far less than us. Ohio Avenue Elementary School was located in a poor Black neighborhood on the way to downtown Columbus.
Each school year, she would take me to her school to help make the year’s themed bulletin board before the year began. Pac-Man name-tags one year. Superheroes another.
On more than one occasion, Mom would have poor students over to our house for dinner. I would drive in the car with Mom to take students back to their houses many times.
Mom told us that some of the kids had to wear the same clothes to school several times a week. So, she started giving clothes we grew out of to families who needed them.
It was a major lesson to not complain about our lot in life. We could work hard and try to change things, for sure, but she always taught us through actions and her contagious smile that we weren’t on this planet to kvetch about circumstances
She also always reminded us that no matter what our seemingly severe problems were, there were people who had far more to confront. And we should do our job to help.
I vividly remember the car rides with her students today. I can still picture their beautiful faces.
Mahjong
When I got older, Mom started playing a Chinese tile game from the 1800s called Mahjong.
I’m not sure why it became popular among middle-aged to older Jewish women, but old American Jewish women play the game in droves and have been since the 1950s. There’s even a national society of Mahjong founded by American Jewish women.
Every Wednesday night for decades Mom and a group of other Jewish women would get together, rotating hosts, and play Mahjong for money.
I don’t mean real money. We didn’t have real money.
Mom and her friends would bet $0.50 or a dollar. And then spend the night playing round after round of the game, gossiping for hours in between.
That was probably one of Mom’s only faults. She loved to chit chat.
Oh, if I could’ve been a fly on the wall for those games.
One evening in around 2010, Mom then in her mid 60s, called me franticly excited.
“You’re not going to believe this.”
“What,” I asked, thinking something great had occurred. Mom played the lottery every week so I thought maybe she won a few thousand dollars or something.
“I just had a huge win tonight at Mahj!” Mahj is what Jewish women call it for short.
Knowing a huge win betting quarters and dollars couldn’t be much, I entertained her anyway.
“What do you win”
“$5!” she boasted. She was serious, too.
“Now you can get that house you always wanted,” I teased her as our family often used humor to move through life’s challenges.
Mom, the Culinary Teacher
Mom loved to cook. But because both our parents worked, they often didn’t get home in time to prepare dinner.
I was what they called a latchkey kid.
When women finally entered the workforce in droves around World War II, many kids arrived home from school to an empty house. Kids had their own latch keys to get inside their houses, sometimes worn around their necks. Hence, the name.
I was such a kid since at least the 3rd grade, although we had regular keys by the 1970s.
That meant I had to cook dinner for me and my younger brother.
Some nights, that meant nothing more than Stouffer’s TV dinners, where I’d heat them in the oven, literally put them on TV trays, and watch hours of television.
Batman, Star Trek, The Andy Griffith Show, Gilligan’s Island, the Jefferson’s, Good Times, and then as we got older, The Great American Hero, Chips, Sanford & Sons, Knight Rider, Miami Vice, The Cosby Show, Different Strokes and Benson.
Our favorite TV dinner Mom bought for us was the Mexican one. Cheese enchiladas, rice, beans and a chocolate brownie. Not sure how the brownie dessert became Mexican but we liked it.
Occasionally we’d pour a large can of Chef Boyardee Ravioli, or Chunky Soup, in a saucepan and heat it up for dinner.
But when I was feeling more “creative,” I’d prepare dishes Mom showed me how to make over the years.
That’s how I learned that almost all of Mom’s culinary creations were recipes from the side of some product Mom bought at the grocery store. I think that’s how many American families who didn’t have money cooked.
Her cornflake chicken, it turns out, involved nothing more than soaking chicken quarters (the cheapest part of the chicken) in Wishbone Italian Dressing, then putting each in a paper bag filled with Kellogg’s Cornflakes crumbs, shaking the bag to coat the chicken, and then after all the pieces were coated, baking them in a Pyrex dish at 350 for one hour.
Or how about her “orange” chicken. Ready? Pour a bottle of Russian salad dressing over chicken quarters and bake at 350 for an hour. Voila!
If we had leftover Turkey, we’d make something super fancy called Turkey Curry, a recipe found on the back of Campbell’s Cream of Chicken Soup. Put frozen Birds Eye broccoli spears on the bottom of a pan, then put pieces of turkey on top, then mix up some mayonnaise, cream of chicken soup and curry powder, and pour that at on top. Then bake for 30 minutes or so.
By the time I got to law school, Mom regularly called me for recipes, knowing that I had stepped up my cooking game and graduated beyond cornflake chicken and recipes on cans and boxes. Cooking had become one of my favorite hobbies and still is thanks to Mom.
Had it not been for Mom showing me how to get around the kitchen, I doubt I ever would have learned how to cook.
Mom the Jewish Santa
When Chanukah rolled around each year, my brother and I knew we were each going to get 8 presents. One for each night. And not just socks.
Despite not having money, Mom made sure we got cool gifts each year. I later learned Mom was living off credit card debt back then just to make sure we never felt left out.
She usually started buying gifts in September since she wouldn’t be able to buy them all at once. Then she would “hide” them so we wouldn’t know what we were getting.
And by hide, I mean put them under her bed or on the top shelf of her clothing closet. Occasionally in the trunk of her car.
But every year, the presents would be in one of those three same places. And every year, we’d start searching for presents before Halloween.
By Chanukah, we already know every present we were getting and had to feign excitement and surprise.
I didn’t quite appreciate until adulthood what a gigantic struggle and sacrifice it was for Mom to make sure we got to have a special Chanukah each year even though we weren’t rich. It was the one time a year I felt rich. We got just as good of presents as everyone else.
When my brother and I had our own kids, and she showered all 9 grandkids with present after present each Chanukah and birthday, I made sure my kids knew that Grandma’s gifts were the most special. Not because she got them something they needed. They didn’t need anything. But because they came out of genuine deep love, and real sacrifice and struggle. I still can’t figure out how she was able to send so many presents.
When Mom was healthy enough to travel and visit the grandkids in their home cities of St. Louis and Denver, she would show up with two giant suitcases each time. One filled with her own clothes. The other with presents for the grandkids.
It’s the Teacher’s Fault
Up until 5th grade, I had gotten mostly A grades with zero effort and zero homework.
I was especially good at math.
The first half of the year, Mr. Dow gave me all As and actually started teaching Algebra to some of the kids who were extra good at math.
But after winter break, we had a student teacher show up at class. She was a college student and took over teaching our class under Mr. Dow’s wings.
She gave out a lot of homework. Since I wasn’t really the homework type back then, as before, I didn’t do any.
When Mom opened up our grade cards in the mail two months later, I heard a gasp of shock.
“Get in here!!!”
Apparently, the student teacher had given me a C in math of all subjects.
“What happened? How did this happen?”
Mom continued to press.
She couldn’t bring herself to accept I would ever get a C.
In our house, a C was considered failing. And a B still resulted in a talking to. Mom would not tolerate anything less than an A.
Then something clicked in Mom.
“You know what? This obviously is the student-teacher’s fault. She has no idea how smart you are. You’re way too advanced for this. What does a college student know anyway. You were probably bored in class.”
I was off the hook even though I really hadn’t done the homework and probably deserved the grade.
Mom remained then and until the last “I love you,” my greatest fan.
You’re the Best Lawyer in America
Mom didn’t stop showering praises on me after I graduated from law school.
Early in my career, I had helped win a major trial in court and there was a write-up in the newspaper. I cut it out and mailed it to Mom since I knew that would make her happy.
But what came next was classic Mom.
“I got the article. You’re the best lawyer in the country,” Mom boasted to me.
I had only been practicing law for 7 years and quipped back, “I’m not even the best lawyer in my law firm. And anyway, you’ve never seen me in court so how would you know?”
Mom didn’t pause.
“I don’t need to see you in court! I just know!”
Mom never stopped making me feel special even when I knew it was just Mom being Mom.
Mom the Teacher to Remember
How many of us can remember and recoginize every one of their elementary school teachers 40 years later?
If I ran into my school teachers from the 1970s and 80s on the street today, there is zero chance I would know who they were.
But Mom touched so many children’s souls when she taught 5th grade for over four decades, that it was commonplace her former students as adults would immediately know Mom when they ran into her.
Many kept in touch with Mom over the years.
Ten years ago when I was visiting Columbus, one even told me that Mom’s kindness as a teacher in elementary school still had a profound effect on her.
I’m going to miss you dearly, Mom.
If there’s a heaven, which I believe there is, you for sure are up there baking a cake for someone’s birthday. Or making sure the other souls have what they need. You’re laughing and chatting with strangers. Bragging about your sons.
You’re up there making new friends, like you did on Earth. Black ones. White ones. Young and old.
I would’ve liked another couple decades with you, but I cherish the over five decades I got to have you in my corner.
I love you, Mom.
If you have suffered a loss or are about to, I cannot recommend enough, whether you’re a writer or not, to journal about the things to remember and honor the person. The impact on my heart and soul has been very healing.