On January 22nd of every year, I write about my mom. This year, instead of something new, I may just take two or three from the past, in memories, and repost. Unless I edit, any references to age would be wrong. She was 62 when she died, I was 44. She’d be 90 today.
I guess that the only other reference would be the years gone, which would be 28 years today. Over the years, I’ve tended to use the same photos. This one was taken in 1983. I’m using it twice in a row for these. It was taken the day of my law school graduation ceremony.
My sister appears in this one in two different ways: one in a general way and once regarding the transformation of our relationship from brother and sister to estranged. While it would be good if it changed, both of us feel we’re right and the other is wrong, and there seems to be a belief an apology is necessary when it’s not; neither ever will nor should we apologize for our beliefs. We both know our parents would want to see it restored, it requires a first step no one seems willing to make.
This was written on January 22, 2019. I have a lot of these. I chose these because they came up in my memories today on Meta.
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It was 22 years ago today, almost to the minute my mom died.
I write something about this every year for both my mom and dad. Those who have followed the page will not learn much new information. It’s done in memory, of course, and it’s therapeutic for me. It gives people insight into me if that may decide to retain me.
Going through some pictures, like the one shown here, it struck me what a short period of time she was around after I graduated from law school. Not even 14 years and now, she’s been gone 22 years. Six years later, in 2003, My Dad would join her. Speaking of the picture, I kind of look like a priest in it. I’m far from being priestly though.
Heck, for years, I didn’t have the outfit they made us wear for graduation. It was really four pieces, and I gave those away when I graduated: one to Mom, one to my grandmother, another to my daughter, Krystal, and the final one to my daughter’s mom.
So, while I try to keep things on this page related to the law as much as possible I somewhat broke that self-imposed rule writing one year about grandfather’s passing on January 5th in 1970. January isn’t my favorite month. With my parents though, there is a relationship to what I do today and my Mom, although it’s difficult to separate the two of them in writing this.
It was my Dad who suggested I go to law school. My Mo supported of the idea and remained one of my most ardent supporters both during school and after I graduated. It was surprising in a way because of something I would learn later. I overheard a conversation my Dad had with my in-laws about my parents being concerned during my first year of college I’d never make it through school. Looking back, they were right but still, it was shocking to hear so many years later.
They weren’t alone either. In my big end-of-year meeting, my guidance counselor in high school suggested I not go to college because I wouldn’t make it. Looking only at my grades and attendance, she was right.
My thought was and remains that she wasn’t looking at the right stuff. There was more than just school to consider. Despite being right, I wrote a nasty note about her in my 10-year class reunion book because I was in law school and sure as hell showed her. Thinking back, I hope she never read it because, as I said, she was right based on the criteria she reviewed. Apologies to Mrs. Welch.
I do owe a debt of gratitude to my parents in different ways. My Dad was of the no-quit school of life. With hard work, all obstacles can be overcome. This is not to suggest my Mom didn’t believe in hard work to get ahead. She certainly did. They just had different styles to get to the same end. She was the emotional one and prone to empathy. He was quietly empathetic and moved ahead with little display of emotion.
I’m told not showing emotion is a bad thing, but I picked it up from him. It doesn’t mean it’s not there below the surface, where others cannot see it. It is. Plus, I overcame it and thank my former wife, Cheri, for it. It’s a long story and not important here.
My Mom had a flash temper, but not often. As calm as I am from my Dad’s side, I’ve been known to lose my temper. I get it from her, or maybe it’s just how I am.
There were differences between them, though, and the first one I remember, when I was eight years old, my Dad was hoping for a Nixon victory, and my Mom was for the new kid, John Kennedy. The differences they may have had did not drive them apart. Instead, it made them stronger and they worked as a team. What caused the differences in that instance is the same as between my sister and me. We’re two very different people, and it may have to do with timing and upbringing. We were brought up differently because we are individuals.
My sister and I have been estranged since the 2016 election. For my parents, an election didn’t diminish the sense of family first, and that’s one thing that was so very important to them. Knowing the relationship my sister and I have now would tear their hearts out, and knowing my mom, she would do what she could to repair it. It doesn’t require an apology, and neither of us will do it. It would mean putting it aside and moving on.
For a little over four decades, my parents worked together despite coming from different backgrounds. He was nine when the depression started. She was born five years after it started.
It was different for both of them. He grew up in the small town of Mantua. His family had a garden, and life wasn’t so bad, according to him, his father picked up work when he could, and for her family, there was just enough work to be had.
She was raised in Cleveland. For her, there were the soup lines we see in old photographs today. Plus, there was no garden, which my dad always said made a difference for his family. I don’t know what he meant today, except they always had vegetables. Vegetables are better than what was probably watered-down soup. Maybe he meant the vegetables could be sold or bartered.
Through it all, it instilled the sense of standing by family. It is a lesson I will never forget. While my sister and I may disagree on certain things, she remains my sister, and my love for her is not lessened as a result. It could change over time.
Mom dropped out of high school. She got a job working for Ohio Bell and as a beautician. The hours were long, and I remember how she had to make a choice every day, using the dime she allotted each day. Either buy a Coke for lunch or take the bus home. Actually, the bus dropped her off quite a few blocks from where we lived. I would race up the street on a toy tractor my grandfather got for me to meet her, and we’d make the trip back to the house together.
This is how life was for four long years, but we moved to Mantua. For those that don’t know, Mantua was and remains a small town of about 1000 people.
Our new home was small, about 700 square feet or so. The only heat was a stove in the living room. Yes, we were poor, but I didn’t know about it. About a year later, my sister came along. My guess is she remembers less of that place than I do. What I first remember after she was born was that they gave her my bedroom and put me in an even colder backroom. It was converted into a bedroom.
We moved out a few years later to live with my grandparents above their bar, seven people in a two-bedroom apartment, for a year while we built a home. I say we because much of the work was done by my dad, but the whole family was involved in the evenings and on weekends.
Mom always regretted not having finished school and took courses years later. Ironically, she received her high school diploma the same year as me. I didn’t know that until after she died. Dad had gone to college in Indiana and at Case after WWII using the GI Bill. Later, my mom went to college, a university where my sister worked. If I remember right, it was my sister who presented our mom’s college degree to her.
The thing is, education to my parents was critical. They both wanted it for my sister and me. As my Dad said so many times, no one can take it away from you. I always accepted it, and it seemed important at the time, but now, I’m not so sure exactly what he meant.
That may have been a good time for him to add, “I could apparently throw it away or something.” Or maybe the more intelligent you get, the less wisdom you have. I’m not sure. So, over the years, they saved money for my sister and me to go to college. My sister excelled from the beginning. Me, not so much as mentioned, at least not at first.
So I graduated but then took odd jobs in a sense. My guess is dad suggested law school because he felt it would give me a chance to do something else rather than work a string of dead-end jobs. So I took a shot at it. I took the Law School Admission Test, applied to one school, and was accepted. During all this, my sister kept going to college, collecting degrees culminating in her doctorate.
What I do know is that both of our parents were proud of us. We accomplished what they had hoped we would. My sister was the president of a college but is now retired, but I guess she still teaches. Whether I’m right or wrong, she’ll never know because she won’t see this.
My parents would come down to Lancaster to watch hearings, but the one I remember most was a four-day custody trial I had. I’d only been out of law school three years, and for some reason, the case had a great deal of public interest. Before the trial, other attorneys told me I couldn’t win. Every day, 10-20 people, including my parents, sat in the courtroom watching.
It was my first big case, maybe the most memorable one I’ve had in my entire career. Because my parents were there, I was determined to do a good job but would have done my best regardless. Of course, I wanted to win as much for my client as I did for my parents and me. I’m competitive that way.
It was important to me after all the two of them had sacrificed for me to be standing in the courtroom those four days. The outcome isn’t important (it really is, and we did win); it was necessary to let my parents know their willingness to stand behind me during difficult times when some parents would have thrown up their hands in surrender did make a difference.
In 1996, she was diagnosed with cancer once again. In January 1997, she was admitted to the hospital and stayed there for 11 days. She had beaten it before, and I, always the optimist, believed she would again. I spent every night at the hospital with her. My sister was there during the day, and dad was there most of the time.
By January 21st, I actually believed she had it beat. I came back to Lancaster that evening and called the hospital. My dad was on the phone, but I was able to talk to her through him. I told her I loved her, which he relayed to her, and in the background, I could hear the exact same words from her. All was well.I called my sister immediately to let her know mom was talking. She called, but mom was no longer lucid.
But I was wrong. All was not well. The next day, she took a turn for the worse. Dad had been at the hospital for about 40 straight hours if memory serves me correctly, and, at the urging of my sister, left to get some rest at a hotel we had for him. The thing is, he didn’t go to the room, he went for a walk. I got a call from my sister around three in the afternoon. A decision had to be made about life support. It was something my mother was against, but I felt the matter of her life and death was a decision my dad should make. My suggestion was to do the life support and try to find our dad.
He did show up and made what I’m sure was the most challenging decision he ever made. The life support was removed. I received a call from my sister of the decision. The process had already started. I went outside and sat alone on the front step, tears rolling down my cheeks. Cheri was comforting but knew I wanted to be alone and respected my wishes. My mom was dead, or so I thought. I didn’t know then that removal of life support didn’t mean a person died immediately. My sister, Cheryl, called back later to tell me mom had died. In a way, she died twice that day as far as I was concerned.
Over the next year, on every conceivable holiday, I got a card for my mom and wrote to her about what was happening with the family. The cards were then sealed and remain so today.
I made two promises to my mom on the day of the funeral and kept both. Today, my thoughts were of her and also my dad. To say they remain loved and missed is an understatement.