This is a favorite photo of my older brother Edmund and me with our beautiful mom when we were kids.
When I reflect on my life, I know that I inherited many fine qualities from both of my parents. But in contemplating my musical and literary gifts, I know that my mother was, far and away, the major influence.
Growing up, my mother, brother, and I spent many happy hours at the kitchen table in our Maltby Street apartment in Shelton. Often, Mom sat before a small round mirror, removing or putting on makeup. I especially remember Saturday evenings when we watched in utter fascination as she readied herself to go to a dance or a ball with our father. Mom was a glamorous lady for sure!
It was at that small, round table that Mom sang us songs and recited poetry to us. When she was a student in school, teachers required students to memorize and recite poems. For my mother, I have no doubt that memorizing and reciting poetry was a labor of love. Years later, she would recite poem after classic poem to us as she applied lipstick or mascara: “The Charge of the Light Brigade” by Alfred, Lord Tennyson, “The Children’s Hour” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “O Captain! My Captain!” by Walt Whitman, and so many others. Edmund and I delighted in those kitchen table performances.
Even better, as a schoolgirl Mom had, herself, penned some of the poems she recited to us, and my recollection is that they were creative and beautifully written, replete with well-conceived rhyme scheme and meter, the work of a talented writer. I’m so very sorry we didn’t have the foresight to put her words down on paper and save Mom’s poetry for our children and grandchildren.
In my novel, What are the Chances?, which is loosely based on my parents’ childhoods during the Great Depression and their romance during World War II, I imagine my female protagonist receiving an award for writing as she graduates eighth grade:
…Mr. Larson speaks once more. “Boys and Girls, we have an award that we haven’t given before. It is for the student most likely to become a writer. It isn’t often that we have a talented writer here at Lafayette. Before I announce the recipient of the award, I’d like to read one of her many fine poems…”
…From the moment Mr. Larson read the first words of her poem, Cecilia had felt her face begin to heat up, and now, as she approaches the stage her face is as hot as the cast iron gas stove in the Alberino kitchen. As she walks down the center aisle and hears the applause to her left and right, Cecilia feels dizzy and unsteady on her feet. She and Miss Whitworth make eye contact as the principal hands her a gold embossed certificate with her name and the words, “Most Likely to Become a Writer,” in a shiny black type font.
To my knowledge, my mother never received such an award. She would have loved it, though.
Unfortunately, Mom’s was a life of stolen dreams. Furthering her education wasn’t to be, never mind becoming a professional writer. Mom told us that she quit school as a high school senior. When I asked why, her eyes would glaze over and she would simply shrug and say with no small amount of irony, “I had to paint the backhowsa.” (“Backhowsa” was a fractured Italian version of backhouse or, in normal English, outhouse.)
Growing up, it never made any sense to me. She had said she loved school, and she had often spoken of teachers with deep affection. Why would this very literary woman – a poet and a lifetime reader – quit school when she was so close to the finish line?
In What are the Chances? I paint a picture of a girl whose father died when she was a small child (as my mother’s had) and who is so poor that she is left without much hope for the future. Add to that, Cecilia Alberino is utterly humiliated by the fact that her family uses an outhouse rather than an indoor bathroom with a flushing toilet and that she has indeed been delegated the task of painting the “backhowza.” In utter hopelessness, embarrassment, and frustration, Cecilia quits school. I don’t know if it happened exactly that way, but it very well may have.
While my mother didn’t dream for herself, she did dream for us. My brother and I both became teachers, an occupation I know she would have loved for herself. In my case, I chose her favorite subject area – literature. I even became the entertainer she would have loved to become. And today, I am also the writer I know it was her dream to become.
Thank you, Mom! It was only through your love and inspiration that any of it was possible.
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