Please excuse my self-indulgence, but I think there’s a nice lesson here.
It begins with a story my mom often tried to tell, but couldn’t because she’d choke up in laughter. It was about the time she swore she saw a UFO around 2 a.m. then decided she had to call the newspaper and break the news. Calling the number in her Rolodex for the Detroit Free Press, she breathlessly told her story, only to be rebuffed by a grumpy voice on the other end.
“Gee, lady, that’s great.” Click. End of conversation.
She couldn’t understand the paper’s utter disinterest until my dad checked the number. “Honey,” he said grinning, “you just woke up the paperboy.”
That was my mom, always finding herself in some sort of Lucy Ricardo-style misadventure. And laughing uncontrollably about it afterward. No matter how bad the situation, she always figured it would make a good story someday. Which was fortunate, because life gave her lots of opportunities for good stories.
As the youngest of five from a broken home, she was shuffled from one Detroit foster home to another during the Great Depression. Along the way, she witnessed the death of a crying infant at the hands of one physically abusive foster mother, was sent packing by a second foster family when, despite her prayers, they chose to adopt another child instead of her and spent one winter making the long, cold walk across the Ambassador Bridge from Canada to Detroit to get to school. This all before she finished second grade.
Eventually, she was hired out as a live-in mother’s helper for another family. Her first Christmas there she got up excitedly in the middle of the night to look at the presents under the tree. Discovering that none were for her, she quietly opened and looked at each gift, then carefully rewrapped them and went back to bed. She was ten years-old.
But she never complained. Instead she found the humor. Car troubles, sledding mishaps, ill-advised K-Mart Blue Light Special purchases – all brought on tear-inducing laughter. Ask anyone who knew her and they’ll remember two things – her ready willingness to laugh at herself and her ability to make anyone and everyone feel special.
It was a wonderful gift all too rare in this age of talk show psychotherapy, where every childhood slight is an excuse for adult angst. And it was a gift she readily shared.
We buried my mom two years ago today. Among the hundreds of friends and family at the funeral was one quiet young man no one had seen before. He was keeping to himself at the luncheon following the service. Curious, my dad asked him what had brought him there.
It turned out that mom had spotted him sitting alone at another church function several years earlier. She had come over and spent about an hour chatting and laughing. In that short time, she had made him feel so welcome that when he heard she had died, he just had to pay his last respects.
As my dad related this to us, choking up he said, “That was your mom.”
Yes it was. A simple woman with a simple gift, doing her small part to spread joy and goodwill. And the lesson? Life really is what you choose to make it. Choose well.
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