Breakfast 55, the MOTHER of all breakfasts. I remember the Loyola boys always arguing that their mother was better than another student's mother. Well quite simply, they would have lost. At my advanced age, I present my mother Jane Francis Furrer Magee as the GREATEST of all-time.
Today would start the way most of Jane's days have started -- with Mass. My mother has started most of her days with Catholic Mass. Recently this past year, when one priest decided that his way was correct and all others had to toe the line, I actually did the Math for my mom. She went to Mass at St. Dominic Savio over 18,000 times. It really is incredible. Right now I feel pretty accomplished, that I have bought someone breakfast 55 straight days. I worked hard to do this, I worked hard to make this happen, sometimes putting others first to make breakfast happen. Somewhere in the 1970s, my mom had a year where she would have gone to Mass 200 straight days with maybe in the same year a streak of over 80 and over 60. No matter what her commitment was that day: God was first and her family a very close behind second. But that is kind of unfair, because she spent the entire Mass praying for our family and many others.
We turned right onto Watson, "Clear on the left, Clear on the Right" my mom still tells me how to drive and cannot help herself from joining in. We drove under the Frisco bridge and the conversation stopped. I knew what she was doing, every single time she passes Resurrection cemetery (we lived literally right across the street most of her adult life), she starts praying for her own list of dead. My cousin Rick who died this month has to find a place on this list. If you ask her, she will tell you exactly where he fits in. It is the same list every day, until sadly she adds another. She adds a name on purpose in an exact spot, so tomorrow she will remember. There is an order to her prayers and she does not miss anyone. The most special name on her list will always be her grandson, who died the day he was born. He is buried in Resurrection. She includes her parents, her brother and sister, a young boy from the parish who died way too young, at times the list even included an actress from Days of Our Lives I think. I feel like I almost should not be in the car as this moment of my mom praying is too Holy, too perfect, too reverential. Somewhere on Mackenzie, we have made the turn (still driving along Resurrection Cemetery) and she starts talking again, I know her prayers are over for now.
To be safe on her journey to her new Church, Seven Holy Founders, my mom drives right by St. Dominic Savio. Now tragically empty leaving its loyal parishioners to scatter into the wind, never really get a chance to share, to wave, to say goodbye. This is NOT what community looks like. I sometimes defend the Catholic Church to people. It is very hard to defend the action of one stubborn priest. Now that he has his vision in a new combined parish, he might just see that it is nothing like he envisioned, it is broken, tragically broken and parishioners of both parishes are not happy. The diaspora of St. Dominic Savio parishioners wander the churches of south county never again having their own homeland.
We carefully walk into church from the parking lot, my mom holds onto my hand for balance for the short journey. It is nice. In 1965, she held my hand as she walked me into St. Dominic Savio 1st grade. I was unsure of each step and I held onto her hand to make sure I would not fall. Each step was an adventure, up Holyoke, down Navajoe, up Pebble Hill to the parking lot and then across the parking lot and up the steps. This probably only happened once as the next day it was my sister's Mary's job. Wow, today we have video of everything, I would love to see video of that day.
We entered into Seven Holy Founders, and my mom pointed out a man I did not know. That is Wayne Nolan, she said, a member of the diaspora. Quickly my mind races, I think of my Ugandan friends in America and how they clung to each other for strength. I think of the refugees on the borders and just when they needed their mother for strength. We separated them. We separated them. I want to hold my mother's hand even harder, and she has already began her preMass prayers. A very organized way to get more prayers into this time than just the Mass. Making the ordinary--extraordinary.. That is my mother -- Jane Magee. But I think about it now as I write these words, I am even angrier over the family separations, then I have ever been. Maybe holding hands with my mother makes me realize how truly cruel this punishment is.
My mom greets total strangers with such ease and comfort. It is amazing, because she is sometimes fearful about our world and our city, but she will greet total strangers with a wave and a smile. I know years ago, when she went to Dierberg's her response to "Paper or Plastic?" was "My son is teaching math in Uganda." Now all these people are her friends. On Saturday, I had to hug the Cake Lady Teresa, because of course Teresa is praying for me, so is the Deli Lady, and the checkout lady, and the receptionist at the Podiatrist. She connects quickly to all these people. This IS what community looks like.
Last night, my parents erased episode 3 of Yellowstone. I was short and unforgiving to my father when he explained what had happened. Why? Why? I drove to Wehner Park in Shrewsbury and walked across the soccer field. Both of my parents were not in their chairs, this is unusual. I grabbed an iPad, google the question, and soon had Episode 3 on the Paramount app, I then chromecasted it to their TV. This was regular TV, but soon I watching Boobs, with my mother, still a strange experience. Usually you have to be careful when you rent a British DVD. I still remember telling my mom and dad that Hear My Song was a great movie. Somehow, I totally forgot the full frontal nudity in like the VERY FIRST SCENE. Sorry for the diversion, Boobs still do that to me. The selfless act of getting their TV show for my parents was not me. It was Jane. I sometimes realize that when I do something so completely selfless, it is really just my mother inside of me. WWJMD. And hear is the thing, it only takes a few minutes. Literally, often less than 5 minutes to help another human being. My effort on all of this TV problem was maybe 12 minutes, and I was not doing anything else anyway.
My mother is 86 and she refuses to slow down. Her entire life is for her husband and her kids and her grandkids and of course for Ollie, the first great grand kid. She is completely happy and lost in her service for others. It is not really about Jane. I think she taught herself to like chicken legs, because every bucket of Chicken for 40 years she took the piece that no one wanted. And I have not even told you about her "giving things up". My niece had a peanut allergy attack as an infant/toddler. My mom loves chocolate, so she did not have one piece of chocolate until Nora's first communion. Like seven years with no chocolate. Extraordinary for some people, ordinary for my mother. I remember once, when I was unemployed I asked her if she wanted an ice cream drumstick. She made some excuse, but I knew right then she had given it up until I found a job. She went to the store bought a pack of 12 drumsticks knowing she would not have one of them. I made her promise before I gave her my latest health diagnosis, that she could only give up something for 2 weeks. Rwotcamo is the Ugandan expression for the "Chief eats last" meaning only after everybody was fed, did the Chief eat. I have adopted that as my mantra in big groups and also in Biloxi. There is a some selfishness in it, as I know I can then grab as much as I want. My mom has lived Rwotcamo in everything she does her entire life.
I just saved this piece, because I realize I am going to keep writing. You may want to take a break and come back.
"You have to have a sense of whimsy, John" are some of the best words my mom has shared with me. And she says this several times a year. To me, it means to have the courage to be weird, to have the courage to be your own self. Let your freak flag fly. I hope that I have passed this through to my students. I know Frank Hellwig revs up my whimsy. I know Kate Sellenriek charges up my whimsy. I know my niece Kelly shakes her head but always laughs at my whimsy. Of course, my mother would embroider the nicknames of hundreds of Biloxi girls onto bandanas. I cannot tell you how many times I have walked in the front door of her house with a weird idea. Sometimes she does not even understand my idea, but 5 minutes later she is helping me or in the case of the bandanas doing it all herself. She supports my whimsy more than any other. My mother was right next to me (of course, on her dining room table) when I made my duct tape sport coat. My dad just sat in his chair shaking his head, who are these two weirdos.
My mother was my Den Mother is Cub Scouts, I think my brother was in that den but I cannot remember. For a Christmas meeting with all of the parents, each den had to sing a Christmas Carol. That was too simple for my mother, so she made us practice and taught us one in French. "Il est nay, le divine enfant, joo a see bow, a see la musetta." Those words are still in my head.
Il est ne, le divin Enfant,
Jouez, hautbois, resonnez, musettes;
Il est ne, le divin Enfant;
Chantons tous son avenement!
(we never knew how to spell them, we just learned the words)
A bunch of nine year olds sang it flawlessly. In my mom's den there was a young man named Mark who had some emotional and behavioral problems. He was harmless, but acted out and was just really his own spirit. This was before 1970 and there were not as many resources for kids like Mark. I remember Mark stealing the afternoon newspapers from every lawn on Holyoke on his way from school to my mom's house for a den meeting. My mom saw this and fixed the problem, I do not remember how she fixed it, but she did. Mark was usually off task from the rest of us and my mom always steered him back in such a kind and loving way. He might have been an outcast or a weirdo in another group, my mom made sure Mark was one of us.
It was simple--she just loved him every minute she was with him.
I am crying now, tears are streaming down my cheek. I stop to catch my breath.
Could it be that every single thing I have given to my students, every act of kindness was because years ago my mom loved Mark?
Yesterday, I had lunch with two of my favorites, Holly and Michele. I know they will read this. So for them and all mothers, just remember every act of kindness, every act of selflessness, every act of compassion ripples through the pond. Years from now your children will walk your same steps effortlessly, because they saw your stride. Hayley and Shelby your kindness, your steps are because you saw your dad take those bow-legged steps your entire life. I know you follow the steps of your mother also. Molly Milford how can you not be kind after you saw the example of Tim and Rita. I can literally write a hundred examples here, and if I write this tomorrow, it might be different with other loving parents I have seen.
I was prepared to write more, but in the end we can do no better than loving each other. I am thinking the way my mom loved Mark is the cornerstone of this entry. We need to love the people in our lives especially the ones who may need our love just a little bit more.
In my 30s, I found out that there was school that you could go to become a film maker. I did not know these schools existed when I was 18. I think deep down we all want to be film makers and tell our own story. I do not have the song for the end of this movie yet, but it is sung by an angel, (maybe if I think about it, I will add it later).
The camera catches the back of us, as my mother and I walk to church this morning. As I help her step up onto the sidewalk from the parking lot, the film dissolves into her walking me up the steps of St. Dominic Savio, I am wearing a suit. We bought it from Sears! A young boy named Mark is there and she greets him with a smile and a hug. He laughs. Then as she lets go of my hand, she sees an 8 year old girl... maybe from Guatemala, my mom is herself again. The camera catches the back of an 86 years old taking each step slow, she says softly to the young girl, "It will be okay, let's go find your mother." They continue to talk and the young girl turns to my mom and smiles.
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