Ma

Ma, My Dad, Pa

The cheery thought for today: Everybody Dies.

Thank God, this thought wasn’t brought about by any specific person passing away today. It’s just that I was reading a biography and it mentioned how much the main character enjoyed Christmas dinner at his grandparent’s home. I stopped reading and thought about the many wonderful Christmas (and Thanksgiving and Easter) dinners I’ve enjoyed in the company of various relatives. Then, when I resumed reading, the next part of the story was about this guy’s grandfather kicking the bucket, and that started me thinking about all of the people I miss.

My mind raced around, recalling many folks who gave me love but who are no longer around for me to say "Thanks!" to. That’s not a big problem for me - one thing about both sides of my family is that we tend to say things like "Thanks" and "I Love You" before it’s too late, and we’re also very big on hugs and kisses – but I’d sure like to be able to say it again, anyway, to a few folks in particular. Here’s one.

MA

On my father’s side of the family, the great majority of folks haven’t lived to collect much of their social security or retirement.

Ma and her children - David, Jimmy, Loretta, and Tommy (my dad, who looks

gigantic because of the big difference in ages between he and his

siblings. In reality, he stood about 5'10".)

My father died when he was 62. His sister was even younger, and so was his brother, David. There were four siblings, and the only one of the four still remaining is my Uncle Jimmy. He’s a stubborn bastard – an admired trait among the Sullivans, thus I mean that in the nicest way possible – so he’s not leaving until he’s damned good and ready. Pa, my grandfather on that side (two good stories about him here and here) lasted until he was 69, if my math is correct. His father died in his thirties.

My father’s mother, Ma, was the first person who died. That is, she was the first person whose death touched me profoundly and made me struggle with the concept of never seeing someone again in this life. I was 9 years old. She was 56.

Dinner at my Mom's parents, with Sullivans invited guests.
From other end of table, on left: Uncle David, Uncle Jimmy, My Dad,
My Mom, not sure but may be my Grandma Drown, Auntie Ba (to some Retzie,
to others Loretta), Pa, Ma, again not sure.

The cause of death was listed as cerebral hemorrhage, but she had a few other problems that no doubt contributed. She had a big loving heart spiritually, but a weak one physically. And she was severely crippled with rheumatoid arthritis. In the photo above, with everybody gathered around the dinner table, she’s easily recognizable by the odd angle of her hand as she eats. She always had such wickedly crippled hands when I knew her. I don’t know how long she had to deal with that disease before I was born, but I never heard anyone talk about the onset of it, so I’ve always assumed it was a given, pretty much always there.

Christmas 1960 at Ma & Pa's. L to R: Friend of Retzie, Retzie,
Grandpa Drown, Mom, Me, Tippie, Ma, Pa.

I have scattered warm memories of her, but only scattered. As I say, I was 9 when she died. I remember her cooking fantastic fish dinners when I came for a visit, always mackerel or trout, rolled in egg and corn meal and then fried in a skillet. Much of my love for seafood stems from those aromatic dinners. And, on Easter and other holidays, she and Pa would cook up gigantic feasts; huge green and yellow ceramic bowls full of mashed potatoes, carrots, turnip, corn, cauliflower (the only one I didn’t like), and rich gravies to pour over the potatoes and whatever meat accompanied the vegetables, usually a succulent roast of beef.

I guess it’s no wonder why reading a passage about holiday dinner would trigger a memory of Ma for me.

Sometimes we drove to their home, but often we rode the long-since-gone elevated train to Forest Hills and then took a bus. For a kid, that was much the better option. A car was just a car, but the elevated train was an adventure.

At Hialeah Racetrack, Florida, just a couple of months before her death.
 Me (snazzily dressed, as always), Ma, My Dad.

At the time of her death, she and my grandfather were living in the Beech Street public housing project in Roslindale, a section of Boston. These days, you might be taking your life into your hands going into that complex. Back then, it was considered a decent place among the city’s housing projects, though it certainly wasn’t without crime problems. There’s always some crime among the poor.

(I'm not saying the poor are the only people who commit crimes. It's just that they're the only ones with any excuse to do so.)

Ma and Pa were, in retrospect, about as poor as church mice. Pa was a hard worker, but he drank, liked to gamble a bit, and he smoked four packs a day. Ma was burdened with her various infirmities, thus so was Pa, and God bless him. The thing is, though, they kept a nice home, no matter the money situation. It was always clean, you were always welcome, and food was always on the table for you if you paid them a visit. I never heard anyone moaning and groaning about some sort of bum deal they had gotten from life. They didn’t blame; they just did what was needed and got on with it. I admire the hell out of that.

I distinctly remember the details of hearing about her death. She was in the hospital, and it was no secret she was very sick. On that day, I was outside, playing in our back yard, when my mother called for me. I came around the side of the house and immediately knew something terrible had happened. I don’t know if it was the look on my mother’s face or just an instinct, but I knew. My mother waited until I got to her, then hugged me close, saying, "Ma died." I burst into tears.

After that, it gets foggy. I spent the next day with my other set of grandparents while funeral arrangements and such were made. They took me to Mystic Seaport, a naval and shipping museum in Connecticut. It was a place most boys would have found fascinating, and I did, too, but my reverie was broken on a continuing basis as the thought of Ma being dead crossed my mind again and again. I was turning it over and over in my head, trying to grip the fact that this woman who was such a huge figure in my life would no longer... be.

Me, Ma, Aunt Jeanne (my mother's sister)

She’s been dead 42 years now. 42 years! When I was born, she was six years younger than I am today. How in hell did I get to be as old as my grandparents were?

Thanks for the fish dinners, Ma, and for the Easter baskets. Thanks for letting me roll around on that bed in the spare room, the one that had the bedspread with the little white bumpy pom-poms on it. You kept your pet canary there, and he was swell in his own little birdie way. Thanks for an overstuffed flowery couch to hang out on while you watched "As The World Turns", and for keeping pillow mints and butterscotches and other snacks (Cheez-Its!) on hand for me to nibble on. Mostly, I think, thanks for making my entire world, when I was in your presence, a warm and comforting embrace.

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As I started this little rumination on morbidity, I had intended to write about a whole bunch of people aside from Ma, but I kept recalling little details, so, along with the photos, my reminiscence concerning her stretched out to fill the space. That’s not a bad thing, I guess. Each important person in your life shouldn’t have to share any sort of limited space. I’ll write about those other folks later on.

Everybody dies, but the best folks live on in your heart forever.

Soon, with more better stuff.