Missing mom on Mother's Day? This story's for you

On Mother's Day, I feel very lucky that my mom -- who died eight years ago -- left behind her own ideas about motherhood and mortality.

She ripped into her own mother, in a very funny way, in a letter she wrote to my sister and me when we were at camp. (Hear it on our Mother's Day Episode.)

There was a tragic reason for the friction in their relationship. When Doris was 10, her father was killed by a drunk driver. Right in front of their Wilmington Delaware home, after their Valentine's Day dinner. This united Doris and her mother -- not always in a good way -- for the rest of their lives.  Even after Doris left home, she and her mother wrote letters to each other. Every day.  Here they are before the sad times:

I had a much better relationship with my grandmother Clara. She cracked me up, especially with her endless crazy expressions which you can read here.  That sense of humor surely helped her survive her rough childhood as an immigrant, which we discuss in our family history episode. Just look at her.  How can you not love that 4'8" powerhouse?

I know Doris loved her too.  It was a vital, but challenging, kind of love.

On the other hand, Doris had no mixed feelings about my dad's mother Rose. Because Rose died when I was very young, I didn't really know her. And I've seen very few photos of her. But I did inherit the large charcoal drawing of Rose that used to hang over my dad's desk.  I worry that it might be thrown out by someone when I'm gone.  But at least I'm able to share her warm smile with you in the image at the top of this page.

When my mom was in her 60s, she wrote an article for a local paper about how much she missed Rose.  On Mother's Day, I feel happy to share it here -- honoring both my mother and her mother-in-law.  As I type her words, I hear Doris as if she were writing this 35-year-old article, hot off the press.

Who Will Remember Rose?

By Doris Small

My grandson called me early this morning. I knew when I heard his voice exactly what had happened.

"Ammy, I lost a tooth. And I got a dollar!"

"That's wonderful, honey. I'm proud of you."

"And I went to the Bronx Zoo and bought a pen -- green and pink and purple and yellow."

"It's so exciting when the first tooth falls out. I remember when your mom lost her first tooth."

And I did remember. And I also remembered what she didn't get a dollar. I think it was a dime. But that was a long time ago. More than 30 years, and values were much different.

All day long I was haunted by that early morning call. At first I didn't recognize why this particular event -- a lost tooth -- was making such a strong impression on me. And then I realized that I wasn't thinking about my daughter or my grandson -- I was thinking about Rose.

Rose was my mother-in-law. My own mother was a feisty little person, widowed when I was 10, proud of me, proud of my children and grandchildren -- but she wasn't Rose.

Rose was the personification of what a grandmother should be. She was round and soft and vulnerable. Married to a domineering man who had outgrown her intellectually and socially, she carried on with her own activities, compensating as best she could.

She was active in the local garden club -- could take a bunch of weeds and turn them into a stunning arrangement. She headed a child development group, always striving to do the best and the most for her children. She chaired a community to aid the local symphony orchestra. But best of all, she was the hostess whose home was always open to any stray soul who needed succor and comforting.

And Rose was Nana to my children. We didn't live in the same town or even the same state, but Rose was an omnipresent grandma. Her impeccable taste was evidenced every time a package arrived with outfits for all four children. I still remember some of them, particularly little red dresses trimmed with black velvet for the girls.

Rose never came to visit without first loading up the car with all sorts of edible goodies. Knowing we were on a limited budget, she always managed to include those items I would hesitate to purchase. Her special baked goods would bring cheers from all members of the family. And I would sigh contentedly over the standing rib roast she would unobtrusively tuck into my freezer.

Rose went into declining health before my children really came to know her as a person. She was tremendously overweight, which complicated all her other physical problems.

Her final visits were painful, as she needed a companion to take care of her needs. She didn't always recognize all of us, but I truly believe that she knew when I was near. Of all the family members, I was most like Rose in my "nesting" instinct, my lack of outside career orientation and my spirituality. We never discussed it, but I felt she was aware of a bond of mutuality.

My children, now all grown, mature and successful adults, often refer to Nana, but she passed away before she could become part of their lives. My grandchildren don't know who Nana was.

And so this morning, when my grandson called, I had an eerie sensation. He knows me today, but will he remember me as I am now when his children ask about Ammy?

Who will remember Rose? I know when I ask that questions, I am really asking, who will remember me?

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Join the bunch of us who remember Doris. Listen to our Mother's Day podcast episode about her.