written at 3am on Monday, for my moms wake. If you missed it, heres what I said. (Plans to write some short stories eventually, to better flesh out who she was...) Its long, so be prepared: :) We’re sitting at the kitchen table. It’s almost 2 in the morning, and I’m about 7 years old. “You’re not rolling them small enough. They need to be equal sizes or they won’t cook right.” In my estimation, the equality among rum balls was over-rated, and frankly, I was tired and just wanted to go to bed. And yet, there I sat, with my mom and twin brother Johnny, rolling that 8000th cookie, because after all, we needed “just one more batch.” (The bonus was sneaking a bit of dough here and there—might as well imbibe if I had to be a part of this cookie-making dynasty.) Yes, I say dynasty, because we didn’t just make a few—we made millions. Stacks upon stacks, resting between wax paper in the white Tupperware container and the holiday trays and the rows of uncooked dough waiting to be placed in the oven. We’re sitting at Poplar Creek. Its a warm summer night and we’re all waiting for Neil Diamond to begin, all decked out in matching white pants. Yes, all 6 of us. In matching white pants. Enough said. We’re riding in the brown paneled, yellow station wagon. I’m about 10. It’s a long trip up to the lake, and we 4 kids sit packed like sardines in the back seat. As we traverse the bridge and make it to the campground, excitement rises. Only need to get that tent up and we can head down to the water for fishing. She teaches me how to hook the worm through the body twice so it doesn’t wriggle off (yes, all on my own—“you want to fish, you have to put on your own bait”). We weight the line and cast it, throwing far out to the left. My first fish caught, helplessly flailing about (no worries-we throw them back) and she shouts out “You got one!” with a huge smile lighting her face. We’re sitting in the kitchen. It’s almost 2am. I’m about 11. “You need to chop the celery much smaller or it’ll be too chunky.” Tears run down my cheeks as she dices the onion; Neil Diamond Cracklin’ down with Rosie in the background. We stir in the potatoes (“don’t wait too long, or they’ll get brown, and then we’ll have to throw it out”) and taste…not enough pickle juice. Add a bit more, stir, taste. Not enough salt. A pinch or two, stir, taste, repeat. Finally, a nod and a wink. Job well done. We’re sitting on the couch. I’m about 12. Captain Stubing steers the ship; we laugh at Gopher’s tribulations while scarfing down a bowl of butter pecan ice cream, trying not to spill. It’s a treat to stay up late and eat in the living room—we know we’ve got it good. And she laughs right along with us. We’re sitting in the kitchen. It’s almost 2am. I’m about 13. Swap garlic for celery, oregano for onions and you get the point. That gravy tasted better than any I’ve ever had, and she made it the same every single time. Vats of it spilling onto the stove, dipping our garlic bread (“just one more bite, cause we need to save it for the mostaciolli”) and filling our bellies til we just couldn’t move. Not a bad Italian cook for a Lugan, I’d say. We’re sitting in the kitchen. I’m about 16. “Put those books away and call your friends. You need to have fun, too, Laur.” She chats with me about learning and living, cautioning not to be so hard on myself. She reminds me that being happy is just as important as being smart, and clears the way for me to go. We’re sitting at the table. It’s about 2 am. I’m about 23. A stack of cards sit in the middle, jack face up on the pile. “You playing the game or reading a magazine?” She sounds just like Grandma Mary, always griping at me to put the reading away. A worthy competitor, she beats me again, about 5 trillion points to my 2. Not forsaking that sarcastic response, she smiles. “Better luck next time.” We’re standing in the living room. I am 27. She straightens my veil and hugs me close, proud to be by my side. Beaming, she squeezes my hand, as she looks into my eyes and says, “You look beautiful.” When we walk down the aisle a few hours later, her arm is hooked in mine, with my father’s on the other. Together, they shelter me with love, on this, my wedding day. We’re sitting in the hospital. It’s about 12am. I’m 31 years old. I’m ready to push and I look to her; she smiles and hugs me close. “You’ll be ok, honey. You can do this.” As she gets up to leave, she kisses my forehead, saying, “I’m so proud of you. I love you.” And I watch as, an hour later, she cradles my oldest and firstborn son for the very first time. She can’t stop smiling and crying all at the same time. A Grammy filled with pride. We’re sitting at my dining room table. I’m 39. My children run through as we talk about camping and family and friendship and life. She calls my son “sausage boy” for the 100th time and laughs. We all laugh. That smile. That laugh… That was my mom. As I sat down to write this I kept thinking, “How do you summarize your mother’s life in such a way that does her justice? It has to be right. It has to be. Do you write a list of adjectives? Do you capture snippets of time? How can you saddle the impact a mother has in just a few short paragraphs? How do you know it’s right? I could stand here for days sharing specific memories throughout my life with her and still not say all of it. And the thread that keeps running through this is her story. One of my mom’s favorite songs was “The Story of My Life” by who else? Good ole’ Neil. “Youre the story of my life, And every word is true, Each chapter sings your name, Each page begins with you.” And that’s what my mom was about. Stories. Stories of love and of humor and of challenges and of growth. These examples I mention are just glimpses of a life well-lived and a life well-loved. Sandra Marilynn DeJulio was one of the strongest women I have ever known…and also the most vulnerable. Her Lithuanian blood sure rang true—for better or worse. In card games and party planning and working and play—she was who she was, and never strayed from that. Take it or leave it. You didn’t like it, too damn bad. That camper was gonna be scrubbed clean anyway. Though many have probably thought my mom was nuts for always wanting everything “just so,” (and believe me, all of us would probably agree), I realize that it was mostly because she wanted things done right so they would be special for everyone else. And while her version of what “right” looked like differed from ours, I appreciate the fact that we mattered that much to her. The only thing that mattered in this world to my mother was to love and be loved. She lived for nature, paying attention to the little aspects of life that most people don’t even notice. She had an innate sense of the beauty in this world and made sure we saw it too. She lived for fun and games and laughter and joy. She lived for love. Plain and simple. Nothing else was more important. What this life is really all about. I miss my mom. I think about her all the time. I picture her in my head and I talk to her and I feel her around me but it’s not enough. I want her back. I want to hear her say, “Laur, get me some tea, will you?” as she curls her hair in her living room. I want to watch her hug my kiddos and tease my husband and correct my father and me when we try to tell her that she’s got the name of that restaurant wrong. I want to sit with her on the couch and laugh at that stupid tv show, as we wonder why we’re watching it all and she grabs my hand and holds it tight. I want to wrap my arms around her and feel her warmth and hear her say, “I love you” one more time. But I know I can’t. So I take the next best thing. Of the myriad of well wishes and support we’ve all received from all of you, one of my friends wrote about my mom’s legacy, and how who she was and who she is shows through in all of us. And I believe that’s true. Father Piotr talked about the circle of love that surrounds her and how she gave that to us as we stood around her hospital bed holding hands and spreading love. Her doctor spoke of the love we gave her as we passed her onto love in God’s arms. And the love that she and my father shared…unlike any other love I’ve ever seen. Their beautiful sense of each other, and how to love, permeates everything. And I know she’s here. I see her in my son Matty, her humor and intelligence lighting up his face and “warming his heart” as he said to me yesterday. He’s in on the joke, he can throw it right back, and he holds his head up high. In Lukey rests her sensitive side. He feels deeply and cares for others in a way that most don’t even consider…my mom to a “t.” Sofia has her spirit. Full of love for all she meets, and she’s not afraid to stand up for what she believes in, no matter what. And Gracie—oh, that little peanut—as feisty as can be. My mother’s determination and steadfast beliefs shine through in Grace like lightning. I got her heart. Her kindness, her compassion, her wisdom, her passion, her humor, her strength, her spirit. All wrapped up in that huge heart of hers that the doctors and priest kept saying was just so strong. As the rest of her body just couldn’t keep fighting, her heart stayed strongest of all. A rock. That’s what my dad said to describe her. A fortress, with strength on the outside, and inside—full of heart. And I can’t think of any better way to describe her. On my birthday every year, I call my parents to thank them for giving me life. And mom, wherever you are, I want you to know that I value that life more than anything else in this world. You made it meaningful. You matter. You are so, so, so, so loved. And all of us will carry your beautiful spirit and your extraordinary love in our souls forever. You are a blessing in every sense of the word, and I love you, ma, with all of my heart. Save me some gravy and a spot at the table right next to you, ok? I love you, Mom...xoxo, Laur
Posted on: Fri, 18 Apr 2014 01:33:23 +0000
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