Chocolate Mama

Some women have a favorite perfume brand, like Chanel.  Other women have a favorite fashion designer, like Gucci.  My mother Rose Marie, though, has a favorite brand of chocolate, See’s Candies. 

I remember the days when my parents would buy a variety of chocolates—Cadbury, Lindt, Godiva, Ferrero Rocher, and See’s; they covered their wooden coffee table with boxes filled with little paper cups of assorted chocolates.  One by one, they sampled chocolates from each box, evaluating each one for the best texture, sweetness, richness, creaminess, and chocolate quality.  The winner, hands down and every time, was See’s Candies. 

My mother was born on September 1, in 1928 on a farm in Pine Creek, a little hamlet in Southern Wisconsin.  Her mother was Florence Jereczek, a tiny woman with big opinions.  Her father was August Jereczek, a not-too-tall man, lean and truly in love with his wife.  After Florence died, he used to reminisce about how her hair was fluffy, kinda like a Brillo Pad.  Then he’d smile and look up at the clouds.

My mom had three sisters with whom she clucked like hens whenever they got together and over the phone on a regular basis.  She had one brother who sported red hair and an Irish temper, but they were close anyway.

Mom graduated from high school with a practical attitude.  She didn’t think she was smart enough to be a nurse, and she loved to count and think about money, so she became a bookkeeper.  She met my father, Paul, at a dance in the nearest town across the state line, Winona, and they dated for seven years before getting married.  You see, he was a farmhand for his grandfather, and my mother didn’t want to marry a farmer.  Finally, my dad joined the Air Force in the spring, and they got married the coming September. 

Paul’s dream was to have nine kids, like one of his uncles.  From Alabama to Minnesota to California to England, they pumped out babies one by one until they reached ten.

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Now that my mother is 92 and I am a senior citizen myself, I am reflecting more than ever on how much I appreciate her.  I am grateful for so many things:

• My mother visited me when I was two and in the hospital for an eye operation.  When she left, she kissed me on the cheek and told me she loved me.  I thought that was generous of her, considering that she still had more kids at home to love;
• My mother felt sad when President Kennedy and Elvis Presley died;
• My mom danced the polka like a top with my lanky father around a dance hall;
• She introduced me to my dozens and dozens of aunts, uncles, and cousins who mostly look like a different version of me;
• She bought a goat to milk when I was born because I was lactose intolerant;
• She showed me how to make butter and ice cream by hand, and how to skim the cream off the top of pasteurized milk and eat it from the same spoon;
• My mother taught me the names of numerous flowers and home-gown fruits and vegetables;
• She allowed me to decorate every room in the house with Mason jars filled with wild flowers;
• She worked on the school board of my high school;
• My mom convinced me that I was a good clothes folder and ironer so I could stay in the laundry room folding mountains of clothes and getting some alone time. (I’m still good at folding and ironing. Hire me;
• My mother at first resisted, but finally smiled when my dad sang “Smile a little smile for me, Rose Marie:”
• She demonstrated to me what commitment and loyalty mean;
• She gave me her fur coat so I can pretend that I’m as pretty as she is;
• My mom loved my two children as much as she loved her children;
• She treated motherhood like the greatest profession that ever was or will ever exist because raising children is building a community;
• She illustrated how to develop both male and female friendships;
• She showed me that forgiveness may be hard, but it can also lead to future love and happiness;
• She loved money and slot machines even though my father hated gambling;
• She loved each and every one of her children even though we are as different as color crayons stuck in the same box;
• She can talk to my husband Bob about golf even though she’s never played it herself;
• Her white hair is as pretty as cotton candy and her skin as lovely as fresh bread from the oven;
• She didn’t try to understand the Bible too well because “that’s what priests are for.”

My mother didn’t think she was smart, but, in her view, average intelligence provided more options.  She didn’t think she was beautiful, but in my eyes, she was a lovelier Polish version of Sophia Loren.  She wasn’t a great cook, but she canned enough tomatoes and pickles to feed an army.  She filled enough jelly jars to supply every church bazaar and Catholic summer camp.  My mother wasn’t extravagant, but she played slot machines like they were on the endangered list. 

What my mother was is sweet—the See’s Candy kind of sweet—rich in flavor, a little funny with not too much sugar.  She didn’t require special treatment like refrigeration.  You could put my mother on a dark shelf and, in no time at all, her shelf would become your favorite place to find comfort and unconditional love.