My mother’s parents were born in Germany, emigrating to America while still young. They ran a grocery store in New Jersey, weathering the depression, two world wars and six children. My mother, June, was the next to last, having one older sister and three older brothers. Her younger brother, Eddie, was a millstone around her neck. Her older brothers shooed her away constantly, calling her bulgy eyes and telling her to take a bath. Her older sister Louise seemed to get the nice clothes, attention from the boys and had little time for her younger sister. Her Papa worked fourteen hours a day in the store, and seemed to June a stern taskmaster, to be feared instead of loved.
Her mother was kind and loving who unfortunately suffered from epileptic seizures. Once a month they would find her on the floor, shaking all over or unconscious. She died when June was seven, hitting her head on a coal stove in the kitchen. June cried for a week.
Years later, I came across a small portrait of mom’s mother. A studio picture taken in 1913, she had a beautiful face, her hair done up in a braided top knot held with a pearl comb. The black satin dress looked expensive with pearl buttons and lace inserts. The picture’s corners were brittled round and spots appeared in the faded background. I secreted the portrait out of the house to the studio where I worked and ordered the most expensive miniature offered. It was to be completely restored and printed on white celluloid. The face and hands would be hand colored with transparent oils and the background and dress painted with tiny brushes by an artist. When it arrived from the artist’s studio, I framed it in a beautiful gold plated lace-edged frame with a domed glass. Though measuring only three and one half inches by four and one half inches, every detail of her features could be seen clearly, even the color of her eyes. She looked just like my mother at that age.
On mom’s birthday, January seventh, I placed the wrapped box on the kitchen table. All through supper, she couldn’t take her eyes off that little box. Her guesses ranged from jewelry to playing cards, never coming close to the truth. Finally, she opened the box and just stared. Her big gray eyes got wet and shiny. A squeaky “Thank you” was all she could manage. No jewelry, no matter how expensive, could mean more to her than her mother’s picture.
I like to talk to strangers.
Tags: love, Mother