Mother's Day Memorial
Remembering and holding fast to that which is good
Happy Mother’s Day is not something we say in our family, at least, not to each other. Twenty-seven years ago, my sister Helen’s oldest son, Peter Baldwin, was killed in a car accident at the age of eighteen in the wee morning hours of Mother’s Day. John, Rose, and I were in France at the time for the christening of our friends Nathalie and Michel’s firstborn daughter. I’ll never forget the terrible phone call from our son Joe that propelled me to the airport to attend the saddest funeral ever.
Afterward, at the gathering at my sister’s house, my mom and sisters Mary and Helen approached me and said, “Grab your bag. You are going to the airport. We got you a return ticket.” Numb, I did what I was told.
With mud on my shoes from the cemetery, I was a crumbled, weeping mess, slumped against the window throughout the flight. Somehow, I got myself from Paris to the train station in Belleville in a dark haze. When I saw my friend Nathalie at the station, leaning on her stroller with baby Eugenie inside, I realized that life goes on. The christening was a blessed event that eased my pain and brought light.
Mother’s Day in 2019 was just a few days after Mom passed away on May 9th, not long after she received Last Rites from the local Catholic priest. We all sat around her bed at the nursing home, playing pinochle (her favorite card game) and listening to show tunes she enjoyed, like “Memory” from Cats. When the opening strains of the Phantom of the Opera filled the room, a cardinal came to the bird feeder—family legend is that it was Peter to escort her—and she breathed her last labored breath. She was 94, and all her children and grandchildren surrounded her with love in her final days.
This year, my sister Helen’s daughter Caitlyn hosted a barbecue commemorating what she called “Pete and Grandma Jo’s Heavenly Birthday.” We sang. We toasted. Caitlyn and her family provided lots of tasty food: grilled chicken, vegetable kebabs, burgers, hot dogs, sausages, and beverages. Many stories were told as we sat outside, regaled by harrowing tales from Pete’s buddies about their teenage years on Palmetto Street in Philly. They are now grown men with grown children. Life goes on.
I made Melba Toast for the party. It was Mom’s go-to snack for events, a Stouffer’s staple that satisfies almost everyone since it is just bread and butter. Mom was a pro at making it, and I followed the Stouffer tradition. I made it when I got my first job at Stouffer’s, starting on Mother’s Day in 1964, because, in our house, you were at work with her if you wanted to see Mom on Mother’s Day.
Honor your mother, or her memory, this year, and find joy in the simple things, like Melba Toast. Here she is making a big batch in 2017.
Beautiful tribute to family and Mama Jo, a real gem❣️
love this tribute