All is Forgiven

 

A period-appropriate look for the 1938 Santa Claus

Tomorrow is another one of those days.

Holidays, in almost any form, can be dicey business emotionally, especially for those who have lost someone.

Thus, Mother's Day isn't always the happy-slappy day one might think it is.

It can also hurt.

It's a day -- whether one is a mother or not -- to remember Mom. This will be my fourth without Nancy, for instance.

But, if I may, it is Susan's first without her mother Jane. I'm thinking of her.

For some of us, we don't have a mother to celebrate with.

So keep that in mind as you proceed with your day tomorrow. It's worth noting.

As I think of Nancy Adams, not every story is peaches and cream. Or, in her case, spaghetti and meatballs.

The year was 1994. It might have been in the fall. I was still living with Mom, getting ready to move out in early '95.

I came home in the evening but I don't remember if I was just coming home from work or had a class that night.

Either way, something was up at the house and she was upset.

She had been on the phone with ... well let's say it was another family member.

And, apparently, the conversation had turned tense.

I could tell you the details -- somehow, I was involved only remotely -- but Shakespeare taught us that discretion is the better part of valor.

I can tell you, because it matters, that the conversation went south. Bad.

I walked out of my room and Mom was seething.

"Mom, what's going on?

And she exploded, flying down the hallway.

Within minutes, she went to her car, with me running after her.

Now, she was screaming.

And she was gone.

I walked back into the house, utterly dumbfounded.

I called the person she fought with and all I learned was that the conversation turned profane. That led to phones getting slammed down.

She came home a short time later and I can tell you with certainty that this was extreme. She had snapped but calmed down

I let it go and elected to just avoid her and the topic. She had made herself clear that she didn't want to talk.

Sometime later, a box showed up for me.

The Cat sniffs the Santa Claus figurine, featuring a 
number 5 in the McAuliffe font used in 1938

Inside was a statue of Santa Claus, dressed as a member of the 1938 New York Yankees. It was part of a series with the 1950 Philadelphia Phillies and the 1923 New York Giants.

It was, in effect, an apology. A peace offering for my taking shrapnel in the crossfire of the dustup.

While touched, I felt awkward and even a little embarrassed. She said she wanted to do it but I said it wasn't necessary.

Of course, I still have it and think of her every time I see it. In fact, I packed it up today in preparation for the move.

But back tin 1994, the whole thing was so unusual.

Oh, it wouldn't be the first or last time, but this was different. As I said, it was extreme.

I've never tried to tell you that Mom was perfect. I don't know any mother that was or is. They -- like all people -- are flawed.

But they're also pretty damn great. They're also rock stars for bringing us into the world, raising us, nurturing us, and generally putting up with us.

While our relationship got especially complicated later on, especially during her final years, I was always proud to be her son.

Happy (early) Mother's Day to the moms of all types. Thank you.

And know that we're missing the ones that aren't with us.