Of Ash Trays, Picnic Benches, and Horror Movies

With the passing of my mom, my sisters and I have naturally been doing some reminiscing as we look through her photographs and possessions.

In her china cabinet, I found two very old ash trays.  One was actually quite pretty -- made of what I believe is called "milk glass."  Now my mom had not smoked since about 1972, when she was diagnosed with Hodgkins' disease.  My mom really loved to smoke.  She started when she was 14 years old (1947).  She and her friends used to sneak down to the creek behind their Catholic high school to indulge themselves in this past-time.  Upon being diagnosed with a disease that was most often fatal in those days, though, the doctor unceremoniously told her, "Quit, or die."  Quit, she did.  And took up incessant gum-chewing instead.  Eventually, she gave that up, too.  Dental problems, you know.  Anyway, finding these ash trays, which nobody had used for AT LEAST 40 years, made me laugh.  Why?  Because my mother was anything but a pack rat.  My mother did not keep useless things.  She tossed old stuff with a vengeance.  Finding that she had kept these ashtrays was, therefore, quite intriguing to me.  Remembrances of a carefree, slightly rebellious youth, I suppose.

And hanging out with my sisters, remembering our childhood, brought back memories of incidents long-forgotten.  Like the time I purposely dropped a picnic bench on my foot to avoid getting in trouble with my mother.  I was probably about 8 years old.  My younger sister and I were playing in the back yard of our home, when I did something that made her extremely angry.  I don't remember what I did, but it was most likely mean and nasty.  My sister yelled and cried, announcing that she was "going to tell Mommy."  I was terrified of this.  This could not be allowed to happen.  My mother could be pretty fearsome when we got in trouble, and I wished to avoid her wrath at any cost.  "Don't tell her," I pleaded.  And then I got an idea.  "I'll do something to myself, and then we'll be even," I told my sibling.  This was agreeable to her.  So I took our picnic bench, which was made of solid wood, and tipped it onto the top of my foot.  Man, it hurt like hell.  But, my sister was satisfied that justice had been done, so it was worth it.  To me, anyway.  What I did not count on was an absolutely enormous bruise forming on the top of my foot, which of course was quite visible to my mother when she spotted it one evening as I was getting ready for bed.  She demanded to know what had happened, and the whole story ended up coming out.  I think I got a spanking.  So, in the end, I guess I got two punishments instead of one. 

As I looked through the house with my sisters, I also recalled all the great parties my parents gave.  My parents loved parties.  I remember New Year's Eves as a little girl, when us kids were put to bed and then all my parents' friends would come over.  There was wonderful food laid out on the dining room table -- stuffed veal pocket, lovely rolls, salads, salami and cheese, olives and pickles.  And in the kitchen were all the makings of any kind of "high ball" one might desire.  In the living room, swing dancing would be going on.  My dad was a kick-ass swing dancer.  Now, you might wonder how I know all about what went on at these parties if I had been put to bed.  But, I ask you, why in the world would I stay in bed?  I used to quietly sneak out of bed and down the hallway, where I would take up my post.  The end of the hallway provided a great vantage point to see all the action.  I would sit there, curled up in a tiny ball so as to make myself less visible, for what seemed like hours on end.  I also used to take up this secret hiding place in the hallway when my mother would watch horror movies on the TV in the living room late at night.  My mother absolutely loved horror movies, and I was quite curious as to what they were all about.  My most vivid memory is of a scene in which some woman was being buried alive by being covered with large stones by a bunch of mean men.  I really didn't understand why this woman didn't just whomp the asses of those mean men.  They didn't seem to be armed or anything.  To this day, one of the things that most pisses me off in movies and TV shows is when women get grabbed by men who really aren't that formidable- looking, and they just scream and flail around.  I guess they are waiting to be rescued by Ben McKenzie (See?  I found a way to talk about him.  Ha!)  Somebody needs to talk to these women, though, because Ben McKenzie just might not show up.  But, I digress.

In some ways, this past week has been really hard.  I have missed my dad greatly since he passed away about two years ago, and I am now missing my mom.  I am really blessed to have had them as parents.  They were really good people, and tried to teach their kids to be really good people.  But, they were also a lot of fun and a little bit edgy -- and that makes me smile.

Rest In Peace, Marilyn Argenti

Last week, I spoke about my mother.  I described how she had been struggling mightily after open heart surgery.  I am very sad to have to say that she passed away yesterday, during the early morning hours.  She will be greatly missed.

My mom was one hell of a woman.  She lived through many things that would have defeated a lot of people.  Her family struggled with poverty during the Great Depression.  She saw two brothers go off to World War II (thankfully, both returned home safely).  She had a failed engagement at a young age. Her first baby was stillborn and she had a subsequent miscarriage.  She told me that she had made her peace with being childless before finally becoming pregnant with me after about six years of marriage.  She dealt with having Hodgkins' disease in her thirties, while she and my dad were in the midst of building their own business.  She raised three daughters and had five grandchildren.  She nursed my dad through leukemia and was with him when he died.  And she lived (pretty independently) for three years after suffering a heart attack that -- according to her doctors -- would have killed most people.  My mother was tough.  Much tougher than I. 

In fact, she would often say as I was growing up, "You have to be a little bit tough in life."  And one of her favorite stories to illustrate this was of her oldest brother, who enlisted in the Army during the Second World War.   He wrote home to their mother and basically said, "I am going to join the paratroopers.  I hope I have your blessing.  But, if I don't, I'm going to join anyway."  Join he did, and he was part of the 101st Airborne when they invaded Normandy on D-Day.  (If you don't know what the 101st Airborne is, and if you don't know what D-Day is, and if you don't know what the Invasion of Normandy is -- then your education is sorely lacking and you had better find out. )  This uncle of mine told my father that he considered every day of his life after D-Day to be a "bonus".  That was how bad it was falling out of the sky in a parachute on that fateful occasion.  My mother liked to tell this story as an illustration of being "tough" because she considered her mother to be tough for being able to handle this.  After all, how many mothers these days are considered tough when they have to send their sons off to college -- where they have meal cards and sports facilities and counselors to talk to if they get home sick?  And -- just so you know -- I am in a glass house here.  I shed plenty of tears after dropping my son off at school.  My mom also considered her brother to be tough for volunteering for this job.  No shit, right?

Along with teaching me to be tough, my mom taught me to create an orderly and enjoyable home life.  A place of respite for the family to return to after a "day in the trenches".  No matter how hard things got -- in my father's job, in our family finances, with anybody's health, in the extended family, with Richard Nixon and his antics, with Jimmy Carter and his inane moving of Daylight Savings Time so that everyone's lights were on during the day instead of in the evening (anyone remember that?), with gas lines, with the sexual revolution -- my mother made sure we had a secure, dependable, and usually fun domestic life.  Each and every day she made most excellent meals, our clothes were always clean (ironed, even), and there was a routine to the housekeeping so that things were pretty darn spotless.  We had swimming lessons, music lessons, and great birthday parties.  She also sewed most of our clothes when we were growing up.  She even made us "belly tops" -- our term for halter tops or half shirts -- the ones that show your tummy off.  Take that, modesty police. ;-)

My mom was also an avid movie buff and reader of books.  The movies she liked?  Rosemary's Baby, The Exorcist, James Bond, the Mad Max series (she had a crush on Mel Gibson), and Woody Allen.  The books?  All the most popular fiction the library had to offer and Rose Kennedy's autobiography.  There is also a closet in her room full of what my husband calls "bodice rippers".  You know -- those paperbacks, whose covers are graced by illustrations of beautiful people with their clothes falling off.  My mother always insisted that it was a waste of money to buy books, especially if there was a good library in town.  But, she obviously made an exception for these romantic tales and anything by Ian Flemming.  My sisters and I are going to have to battle it out over these... Tee-hee. ;-)

My mom, as you can see, was quite a spirited lady.  And I'm sure St. Paul is now finding this out.  She always had a few issues with him.  And I'm sure he is hearing from her even as I type.

May you rest in peace, Mom.  See you on the other side.