Instead of me writing about Mom, I'm going to cut and paste Maureen's and Theresa's memories of Mom that they posted last year.
Maureen posted this on Facebook:
Marguerite Luella Elizabeth Hogan Burns Sept 2, 1930 - May 11, 1990
- her silent laugh
- Mom and Dad laughing so hard at the Pink Panther that they were wheezing
- 'Mucho Freeo, Reener'
- Her calling Amanda 'Ree'
- warm cookies on the counter after school
- home-made bread
- full, from scratch dinner every night, complete with dessert
-her calling up the stairs: "MaryKayThomasTheresaMaggieTriciaDeniseandMaureeeeeeeen! like it was one word
- hand made Halloween costumes
- How she'd decorate the house for every holiday
- her appreciation for Tom Selleck which shocked me at the time
- her helping me with French, even though I laughed at her pronunciation
- Royal Rummy on hot summer nights
- Watching Dallas or the movie of the week
- Popcorn, especially smelling it after I went to bed
- "birdie my foot!"
- Mom shaking her butt to 'Me and Julio down by the schoolyard"
- And singing Juicy Woman instead of Gypsy Woman
- How scared she was of horses yet she got on one so we could go riding in Estes Park, CO.
- the spaghetti incident on our trip
- Listening to Masterpiece theatre
- Watching the Twins and Vikings
- Facts are facts
- How she pronounced her name: Mar-Guer-rite Lue-Ella...
- Her effective use of my full name at certain times
And here are Theresa's memories:
The first time I realized that my mother was beautiful was when she came home from Mass one Sunday morning wearing a brown dress, fitted at the waist, a pencil skirt and brown high heels. I was in her closet playing with her other high heels even though I wasn’t supposed to be there. I saw her walking toward the house and felt proud that she was so beautiful. I remember that her skin was soft and so covered with freckles that she looked somewhat tan, although it was just her freckles all mashed together. Her hands were elegant and slim with beautiful fingers. I loved the way her wedding rings looked on her hand. (She probably would have booted me down the block if she knew that I wore them to grade school one day. I don’t know why I did that. Can’t even contemplate the consequences if I had lost them). I loved holding her hands even as an adult. She always had perfume bottles on her dresser. Wing Song was, not sure if the other was Chanel. She did not seem to wear it much; the levels never budged. Maybe this is why I have enjoyed perfume so much as an adult.
During the summer in the grade school years, I have two favorite memories. The first was weekly treks to the library to get books. One or many of us sprawled out in the living room or on the porch reading. I thought she did this for our reading skills and vocabulary. She told me once, that she was such a slow reader, she wanted us to be more proficient; but it was also for her sanity during the summer. A way to keep us all quite, even if for awhile. The second was the game of Royal Rummy. Sometimes we played late, that being said, would mean till 11p.m. or so. We played wicked fast, no time for slackers; you had to bring your A game or you would get ‘the look’ from her. A huge bowl of popcorn and Kool-aid, that was living large.
Even though she never went to college, she did speak three languages. Well, at least she would help us with our verb conjugations or spelling. We mocked her for her poor pronunciation, although ours wasn’t much better. Still, she was always willing to help. When I started nursing school, it was overwhelming. Full time work, full time school a small boy and no money. She made me believe that I could make. I don’t know how, but somewhere along the way, I started to believe I could too. She was one of the few people, other than fellow nurses, who would allow me to tell her detailed events from the hospital. She never stopped me, no matter how gory.
Our house was small, not fancy, but clean and orderly for so many people. I never thought about the organizational skills it took to keep nine people going. I really found out how meticulous she was when I helped her by removing Christmas lights from the tree one year. Each light perfectly attached to the branches so as not to see the wires or cords or perfectly placed tinsel. Who does that? A lost art for sure. One time when walking in the back door, I noticed that Mom had wallpapered the back entrance- 12-16 foot ceilings. I asked her how she did this by herself. She was amazed too. She said she never considered the obstacles once she made a decision to do something. I see this trait in many of her children.
As I got older, I thought of her as a friend at times, not just my mother. But then I saw her with her true best friend, her cousin Pat, I realized that while we were friendly, I could never be her contemporary. The way she would interact with Pat was not the same as with her children. They were funny, irreverent and happy when they were together. We loved Pat, too, for being there for her.
My mother did not say that she loved me much during my life. In fact, I rarely ever heard it. But I knew to the core of my marrow that I was loved by her. That she loved all of us. We all have stories of her, some funny, some sad, some hurtful. Over the years, I have grown to better understand that the critiques were her way of trying to make me a better person, her way of loving. I have accepted that it was her way. I do not dwell on it. But it did not become my way with my son. I have noticed that all of my siblings are much more demonstrative and verbal with their children and families. Every one needs to hear they are loved. As I reflect back over my younger years as a mother, I wish I could have done some things better, I know Mom told me once while she was in the hospital that she had regrets of not giving us kids some things. Some of those were material. She might not have ever known the intangibles were the better gifts. Nativity, the gift of faith, the desire for travel and knowledge, the gift of a large family. I asked her once why she had so many children. She simply said, “Who would you not want to be here.” – She was right. I know she would be disappointed that her children have behaved so poorly towards each other over the years and yet. Still, we are our mother’s children. We do love each other, hopefully, we will be whole soon.
As the grandchildren came, she was freer with the love and hugs. As I watched her with my son, I was so happy that he had such a close relationship with her and was so clearly adored. Unconditional love is amazing. Sometimes I wished that she could have been that way with us, too. I wonder what she would be like with Aidan, especially since he looks so much like Shane or Michael in his independence. I can hear her saying “himself.” Before she died she had me drive her over to the Sandholms on St Pat’s day to deliver shamrock cookies. She wanted to ensure that her very Swedish looking grandchildren knew they were Irish too.
Every now and then I see someone who looks like her it catches my breathe, still after all these years. There is a longing and sadness. I told one of my co-workers that she was my hero. This was at the time when the song, “Wind beneath my Wings” came out. When I left the hospital the night she died, it was the first song that was on the radio on the way home. I had it sung a cappella at her funeral.
This is a hard time for me every year. In the beginning, it would start in April, a sadness, crying more easily. Now, I understand that subconsciously, I am aware of the date long before I acknowledge the anniversary of her passing.
Happy Mothers Day, Mom.
I miss you sometimes so much it hurts my teeth.
Pray for us.
Mare again:
I always thought it extremely fitting that her wake (okay, visitation) was on Mother's Day. It would be in her to own it that way.
RIP
