Mothers’ Day

Fule for Thought

 

I know the upcoming weekend is a special one for moms all over. It’s a time to show gratitude and love, on this one day. My mom was a little Yugoslavian lady, who immigrated here in 1950. Because of her difficulty, she had to do some menial types of jobs, mainly as a chambermaid in Banff. Each day, she would get up early and head off to a full day of cleaning up others’ rooms. 

She met my dad, who immigrated from Hungary, in off all places, Calgary! They settled in Canmore, where he mined, and she was a chambermaid. It was a tough life for them, the mine often closed for periods of time, and money was tight. Even tougher, was the treatment she and dad got from certain people. If you immigrated from Europe after WWII, you were known as a “Displaced Person.” 

Eventually, to locals, that was shortened and became a title to label immigrants. My mom told me how she cried at being called a “DP” regularly, and that the townspeople could be quite mean. 

We weren’t well off, but my brother and I never knew it, because our parents made sacrifices for us. They would eat much cheaper cuts of meats, so that we’d be well fed. They made their own rugs on a loom in our garage, and having a vegetable garden was essential. They’d find a way to always make sure we got nice clothes, while they made things last, and last. Sometimes, I even had to be at work with mom, because a sitter was unaffordable.

Those of you who are, or have already raised a junior high child, know how difficult they can be. If you were able to read last week’s column, you know all about junior highs. This was my tough time, too. My parents instilled a strong work ethic in us, and they wanted Gary and I to go to University. Even though they did so much for us, and all my friends were welcome anytime to visit, or eat, I didn’t always appreciate it. In fact, I’m ashamed to say that I sometimes felt embarrassed that my parents were in the minority with thick European accents. I cringed when school forms came home to be read and signed, and I often had to write out the response, so that they could copy them. Rather than be understanding of their struggles, I didn’t always react well.

In Grade 9, I was “class president” and we hosted a Christmas Dance. Other kids’ parents were also chaperones, but I had trouble accepting mine being there. One parent asked if I was going to dance with my mom, but I laughed it off with:  “no, she’s too short for me!” After the dance, I arrived to home to a sad sight. My mom had waited up for me, and was crying. She said she felt humiliated, and in tears, asked if I was “ashamed of her!”  

I tried to apologize, and finally realized how immature I had been. We had always been close, but my actions had REALLY hurt that. I spent a long time “mending fences,” and trying to be better as a son.

Fast forward to 1983, and I had applied to teach here in Strathmore. Debbie and mom had become great friends, and mom had finally gotten a “daughter!” We were all on pins and needles waiting for a call from Dr. McKinnon regarding my teaching application/interview.  

Even now, he still remembers my mom screaming for joy, when I repeated that I got the job! It was all she ever wanted for me … to not have to work hard, physical jobs, but above all, to NEVER be a miner! She and my dad helped me get settled in my first apartment and remained thrilled. She even thought that when they retired, they could come to Strathmore, because “the vegetable gardens would be so much better”!

On a Wednesday in the summer of 1985, (their wedding anniversary!), she was told by a specialist that she had bone cancer and that it had spread through her body. She had been suffering in pain since the fall of 1984, but no tests showed it until that July. 

She missed our wedding that Saturday, and was never able to come home again. They moved her to Canmore’s hospital where she fought very hard to stay alive. On her last Sunday, she even told us that she might still beat the cancer! She died on the first day of school in 1985, and Deb and I rushed  home. We hurried into her room, to find her body still there, wrapped in a sheet for pick-up. We were mortified, no one had prepared us for what we saw … and we were destroyed, seeing her like that.

Her funeral was on the following Saturday, a snowy, cold day. As we drove away in the limousine, I kept looking through the back window at the lonely looking casket, waiting to be lowered. I even snuck out of the house full of relatives … I couldn’t bear the thought that she’d still be left where she was; but they had buried her casket … and again I cried. 

She wouldn’t suffer anymore, but she had only turned 58, and all she EVER wanted, was to retire, and become a grandma. 

Over the years, I’ve told my kids stories of her, showed pictures and 8mm movies, so that “Grandma Mary” could stay alive somehow, in their memories. We’ve visited the cemetery, but the kids know I can’t bring myself to see my parents’ graves very often. And now, as Mothers’ Day approaches, I think of the unselfish mom, who worked hard her whole life, and never got to rest much. I also think of that junior high dance in December of 1974. I’d dance with you now, mom, and I really miss you. Maybe we’ll get a chance to have that dance someday …

 

(“Fule for Thought” is a slice of life humourous column that will appear in the Strathmore Times, written by long-time resident, town councillor, high school teacher, coach, husband and father of two – Pat Fule. If you would like to get in touch with Pat, you can send him an e-mail at Pat.fule@shaw.ca)