It was a weekly occurance....Sundays to be more precise. I would be smashing my silly putty into the comics section of the Indiana Post Tribune, my sister would make claim to all the sales inserts, Dad would steal the headlines and try to sneak off to the toilet, and Mom...well, she would start spouting off from the obituaries."Why, did you know that Jimmy Solveski passed away? I knew his sister Ethel. We used to steal red apples from Mrs. Guzzi's backyard. Mr. Guzzi had gout you know. I wonder if their son, Milo, ever married...he was..."
"Oh wait, look here. Margie Kopelka died. You know, she was married three times? She and her last husband, Walter, had that one eyed German Shepherd that used to chase Uncle John down the alley on his way back from the liquor store, not that he drank, but Henry Chibo did, and..."
"Aw, Mr Plotz finally passed on. He used to be that kindly man on Pierce Street that always passed out popcorn balls on Halloween. One year Danny Dabriak cracked a tooth on one and his mother Stella sent Agnes Plotz the bill. Can you believe that he..."
Mom would go on like this for what seemed like hours. I think she had some odd connection with just about everyone in Northwest Indiana. My sister and I never really knew who in the world she was talking about. I just went on stretching putty around my fingers, occasionally sticking it up my nose, while my sister ripped at coupons for "Gee Your Hair Smells Terrific" and "Pamprin" My dad? Well...he had the right idea...escape...but sooner or later he would show up again..usually at the first whiff of bacon.
Since then, so many years have passed. But I tell you, at 87 years old, my mother still calls me every Sunday to let me know the latest from the obituaries. And oddly enough she doesn't even live in Indiana anymore. I tell you, the woman has powers.
But you know...somethings changed. The names Mom reads off...I know them. I knew them as my friend's parents, old neighbors, or even as classmates. Sometimes I find myself telling stories about hiding in Mr. Baker's garage eating lemon slices or playing along the ditch behind the old Zubrack house... I can weave my way through a family tree.. and like a dot to dot puzzle, make connections...and pull up memories.
I get it now...why Mom spent her Sundays reading and talking. I also get why my dad slid off away. Sometimes it's painful to remember...sometimes it's healing...and sometimes it takes you back to a time of laughter and youth.
So...if Mom doesn't call first on Sundays..I call her. She will remember the lemon slices and the forbidden ditch...and she will listen.
This brings back memories! After church on Sunday, my mom would put on her pajamas and spread the paper out on the bed, and spend the afternoon reading. And woe be unto whomever grabbed a section of paper before she was done with it! Although she never read the funnies, so I just had to fight with my dad and sister.
We don't get any papers today, just get all the news we need off the Net, and I think we're missing something because of it.
It's true. With this family we are all in different rooms on laptops. The news IS the net....and often we don't share it because we each have our own little bubbles...yet another tradition fading...I wonder if that makes us sound old?