A Tribute to My Mother

 Happy Mother's Day

to all mothers

and a loving tribute to mine...

Frances Longo Walsh - 1915-1966

MOTHER

In loving memory of Frances Longo Walsh (1915-1966)

 

I recall the way

my mother’s whole body jiggled when she laughed,

her sweet, shy smile,

that she understood Italian, but never spoke it,

the utter simplicity of her desires...

never asking for or receiving much

and not once complaining.

She had all she wanted, a home and family.

 

I remember the helpmeet working side by side

with our father, clearing the land

and building our stucco home.

 

My mind’s eye sees her plucking

chicken feathers in the backyard,

walking uphill home from the bus stop,

huffing, puffing;

scratching her itching back

against the bedroom door frame;

camping, just to please us children,

though it was more work than fun for her.

 

Recall, as if it were yesterday,

the flowery apron over her housedress

with its chain of safety pins

and her elastic band bracelets,

and Mother, standing at the stove, stirring

the bubbling red sauce in the big enamel pot.

 

Little Mommy, four-foot-ten and overweight—

She served herself the skimpiest portions,

never ate dessert, but occasionally gave in

to one indulgence: a crusty Italian bastone

from Minardi’s, sliced and spread with a pat of butter.

 

Hindsight reveals her quick on her feet

in the yard goods department at Quackenbush’s,

where customers remembered her

for smiles as quick as her feet.

 

When she arrived home, she changed her clothes

and aired out one of her two work dresses

on the clothesline off the back porch.

 

In retrospect, I see her

rolling her dark hair back into two neat curls

above her forehead,

applying red lipstick to her upper lip,

bringing both lips together to transfer color

to the lower, then, blotting.

 

Never attended high school, but

she could add columns of numbers

rapidly, in her head.

She read the newspaper nightly,

and completed the crossword puzzle.

 

My memory flashes to her relaxing evenings

in our parlor, in the old tufted chair,

watching Alfred Hitchcock or Lucy or

Barbara Stanwick in, “The Big Valley”.

She never missed the easy crooning of Perry Como.

He was her favorite. (He’d been a barber, like her father.)

 

I remember it pleased our father

that she always waited up for him

till he arrived home after working

the night shift at Wright’s.

 

Yes, I still see clearly, her dear kerchiefed head,

which Gramma remarked, made her look

like a peasant in a babushka.

 

Remember trying to convince her to hike her hemlines,

wear “Kiss Me Pink” lipstick, update her hair style,

learn to drive.

 

Flashback to hear her inviting my date

to come in for a cup of tea at our kitchen table

when he brought me home.

 

Vividly, I recollect the day

she was curled up tight on the couch.

She didn’t want me to call the ambulance,

though her hernia was strangling,

didn’t want to spoil plans

my sister and I had with our friends.

I disobeyed. The doctors operated just in time,

before gangrene set in.

 

My mind’s eye still sees tears in her eyes

when she came to my wedding

without my father.

 

And I remember her joy

to learn both daughters were pregnant, however,

 

she died before her grandchildren were born.

 

Oh! How much her grandchildren have missed

for never having known her—

 

which is one of the reasons

I’ve written this poem

Maude Carolan

*The above poem was originally published in the Paterson Literary Review.

Would you like to read more poems?

"Behold the Lamb...poetically"

by Maude Carolan Pych

is a book of poems

about the Birth, Death & Resurrection of Jesus,

written over a period of 30 years.

It is available online

at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, CBD, etc.

www.maudecarolanpych.net

A Poem About Mother

 Happy Mother's Day

I'm posting a photograph of my mother at my wedding in 1964.

This was before we were enlightened about not wearing animal furs for fashion.

My poem is about Mom donning a mink stole this solitary day in her life.

Frances Longo Walsh 1915-1966

A MINK FOR MOM

 

Mom had no interest in fashion—

At home, she wore a cotton housedress

with a bib-front apron over it

trimmed with a bit of rickrack or piping

Two work dresses were enough

one to wear, one to air on the clothesline

There was nothing fussy about her

She didn’t mind if her coat was a bit frayed

around the cuffs. It was warm

Didn’t care if her clothes

were up to the minute

if her hemlines were the right length

if her lipstick was a popular shade

or her hair, the latest style

 

Mom hardly ever got all dressed up

except on the rarest occasions

a New Year’s Eve, perhaps

when she would put on

her black dress and pumps

a rhinestone necklace and earrings

from the back of her bureau drawer

and to us, she looked like a queen

 

That’s when she and dad would go

with our neighbors, the Komorowskis

to Tammany Hall Bar in Secaucus

It was owned by Henry B. Krajewski

the pig farmer who repeatedly ran

for president, then governor, then senator

although he never won an election

They would have a rollicking

good time drinking Polish beer

and eating pierogis and kielbasy

and come home in the wee hours

with noisemakers, silly hats

and Krajewski’s latest campaign buttons

 

When I was planning my wedding

Mom did all she could to help

She worked part-time at Quackenbush’s

and was able to order the gown

of my dreams using her 20% discount

We selected my veil, my shoes

shopped for this, bought that

She made it all about me

 

but I wanted it to be about her, too

so we found a lovely blue gown

its bodice embellished with sequins

(I don’t think my mother had ever

worn a gown before

or anything with sequins)

Then we shopped for accessories

and waited for the big day

 

My fiancé had given me

a beautiful white fox stole to wear

on our November wedding day

then I learned his mother

planned to wear her mink

(This was in the ’60s

before animal activists picketed

and protested the wearing of furs)

I wanted my mom to look just as elegant

as my mother-in-law

so I rented a stole for her to wear

 

Unaccustomed to such luxuriousness

I could see she felt awkward

watched her squirm and fidget

unsure about what to do

wrapped up in all that finery

 

but I also knew she felt cherished

deeply, deeply cherished

 

I still have a photograph of her—

my mom, my queen

mother-of-the-bride…in mink!

 

Maude Carolan Pych

For information about ordering Maude's books

visit her website at www.maudecarolanpych.net.

maudecpych@gmail.com

God Bless Mothers...Young & Old

 Happy Mother's Day!

My dear mother, Frances Longo Walsh

on her wedding day.

OLD MOTHERS

 

Never had the opportunity--

missed the privilege

of doting upon my old mother.

Mother died

of a heart attack

at fifty-one

 

Watch with envy--

sweet old mothers

with rosy rouged cheeks

and charming smiles

carefully navigating

footed canes

or wheeled walkers

Dutiful daughters

accompany them

pleasantly

in doctor’s waiting rooms

taking their tweed coats

making small talk

about the grandchildren

and what Aunt So And So

will be serving

the church ladies for lunch

Blessed daughters

who left beds unmade

dishes in the sink

who listen attentively

to doctor’s instructions

see that Medicare

and supplementary insurances

are processed properly

who assist them

with their coats

and to their cars

stopping at pharmacies

on the way home

 

Maude Carolan

Note: The above poem received an honorable mention, several years ago, in the Allen Ginsberg Poetry Contest.

"Behold the Lamb...poetically!"

by Maude Carolan Pych

is available online at Amazon and Barnes & Noble.

www.maudecarolanpych.net

 

My Mom is in Heaven...

In Memory of My Dear Mother,

Frances Longo Walsh...

Frances Longo Walsh

Mother Wasn't Fancy, But...

she’d sit at the kitchen table

in her bib-front apron

and cut slits into the radish tops

making them look like

little red roses

and present the tiny beauties

on a plate on the dinner table

Mother wasn’t fancy, but

she’d peel a cucumber

then take a fork

and score the length

all the way around

then slice it into discs

that looked like edible flowers

and toss them into the salad

Mother didn’t fuss with baking, either

but she’d stir some chocolate pudding

in a pot on the stove

layer it alternately

with graham crackers

in a square pan

put it in the refrigerator to set

and call it icebox cake

On Saturday evenings

we’d all be in the parlor

huddled on the sofa

or curled up in the overstuffed chairs

watching television

She’d disappear into the kitchen

and assemble toasted English muffins

with a dollop of tomato sauce

a slice of mozzarella

and perhaps slivers of pepperoni

put it under the broiler

for a few minutes

then present us with a tantalizing platter

of English muffin pizzas

or she’d take store-bought shortcakes

fill them with a scoop of ice cream

top them with strawberries

and maybe a squirt of whipped cream

and voila…

Nothing fancy—

Mother wasn’t a bit fancy

but she certainly had a fancy

for simple family love

Maude Carolan Pych

To All the Busy Moms...

Let's see

if we can give a tired mother a break

this Mother's Day...

ALL THE WOMEN I KNOW ARE TIRED

I see it in their strides

their slumped shoulders

their shuffling feet

as they drag themselves

through their tasks

I see it in their uncovered yawns

their dull expressions

the darkness below

their lusterless eyes

All the women I know

are weary, drained

unfocused

they stare into refrigerators

they stare out windows

they stare at papers

they try to remember

what they intended to do next

All the women I know

shower rather than bathe

drive rather than walk

phone rather than visit

They dream about

what they hope to do

when there's

time

All the women I know

are sleep deprived

up too early

down too late

rest-less

as they try

to get it all done

They can't get it all done

there's not enough time

All the women I know

are tired

Dog tired

especially during the holidays

because they love, they

shop and clean

cook and bake

wrap, decorate

send cards

invite

invite

invite

They're exhausted

especially those who go to work

especially those who go to work

and have children

especially those who go to work

and have old, ailing parents

All the women I know

fall asleep over teacups

in the evening

or over a book

or over the bills

or in front of the TV

All the women I know

believed the lie

drilled into them

in the '70s

that they could do it all

be it all

have it all

all what

all is nothing

when they languish

in their shoes

Maude Carolan

The above poem won an honorable mention in the Allen Ginsberg Poetry Contest and was originally published in the "Paterson Literary Review."

My Beautiful Mother

Frances Longo Walsh  1915-1966

SHE WOULD’VE

In memory of Frances Longo Walsh

Aunt Carol said

she could picture my mother

with grandchildren on her lap

She was a grand mother

so it stands to reason

she would’ve been

a grand grandma

an aproned, house-dressed

simple stay-at-home grandma

without fussy hair

a rock-a-bye

buxom, ample lapped grandma

with strong cradling arms

and plenty of time

a soup simmering, sauce stirring

let’s-eat-in-the-kitchen grandma

who would’ve gone down on the floor

to build wooden block towers

in primary colors

for her grandkids to topple

who would’ve comforted their cries

changed a thousand diapers

wiped a bunch of noses

given a million kisses

who would’ve read Mother Goose

sang Twinkle, Twinkle

offered Lorna Doones

She almost was—

She was counting the days

but died

while her two daughters

were expecting

Maude Carolan Pych

Elyas Joud - Born May 7, 2016

Congratulations to my step-granddaughter, Natalie Carolan Joud and her husband, Rado, on the birth of their son, Elyas, in Germany, May 7, 2016. God bless the three of them!

God bless all of you beautiful mothers!

Your comments are always welcome. Just click on "Comments" below.

A Tribute to My Beautiful Mother

The following poem is in loving memory of my beautiful mother, Frances Longo Walsh, who passed away in 1966 at the age of 51. The poem was published several years ago in the "Paterson Literary Review."

Frances Longo Walsh

MOTHER

In loving memory of Frances Longo Walsh (1915-1966)

I recall the way

my mother’s whole body jiggled when she laughed,

her sweet, shy smile,

that she understood Italian, but never spoke it,

the utter simplicity of her desires...

never asking for or receiving much

and not once complaining.

She had all she wanted, a home and family.

I remember the helpmeet working side by side

with our father, clearing the land

and building our stucco home.

My mind’s eye sees her plucking

chicken feathers in the backyard,

walking uphill home from the bus stop,

huffing, puffing;

scratching her itching back

against the bedroom door frame;

camping, just to please us children,

though it was more work than fun for her.

Recall, as if it were yesterday,

the flowery apron over her housedress

with its chain of safety pins

and her elastic band bracelets,

and Mother, standing at the stove, stirring

the bubbling red sauce in the big enamel pot.

Little Mommy, four-foot-ten and overweight—

She served herself the skimpiest portions,

never ate dessert, but occasionally gave in

to one indulgence: a crusty Italian bastone

from Minardi’s, sliced and spread with creamy butter.

Hindsight reveals her quick on her feet

in the yard goods department at Quackenbush’s,

where customers remembered her

for smiles as quick as her feet.

When she arrived home, she changed her clothes

and aired out one of her two work dresses

on the clothesline off the back porch.

In retrospect, I see her

rolling her dark hair back into two neat curls

above her forehead,

applying red lipstick to her upper lip,

bringing both lips together to transfer color

to the lower, then, blotting.

Never attended high school, but

she could add columns of numbers

rapidly, in her head.

She’d read the newspaper nightly,

and complete the crossword puzzle.

My memory flashes to her relaxing evenings

in our parlor, in the old tufted chair,

watching Alfred Hitchcock or Lucy or

Barbara Stanwick in, “The Big Valley”.

She never missed the easy crooning of Perry Como.

He was her favorite. (He’d been a barber, like her father.)

I remember it pleased our father

that she always waited up for him

till he arrived home after working

the night shift at Wright’s.

Yes, I still see clearly, her dear kerchiefed head,

which Gramma remarked, made her look

like a peasant in a babushka.

Remember trying to convince her to hike her hemlines,

wear “Kiss Me Pink” lipstick, update her hair style,

learn to drive.

Flashback to hear her inviting my date

to come in for a cup of tea at our kitchen table

when he brought me home.

Vividly, I recollect the day

she was curled up tight on the couch.

She didn’t want me to call the ambulance,

though her hernia was strangling,

didn’t want to spoil plans we had with our friends.

I disobeyed. The doctors operated just in time,

before gangrene set in.

My mind’s eye still sees tears in her eyes

when she came to my wedding

without my father.

And I remember her joy

to learn both daughters were pregnant, however,

she died before her grandchildren were born.

Maude Carolan

Happy Mother's Day to all mothers, everywhere! God bless you all!!!

Remembering My Mom on Mother's Day

 Photo Credit: HappyHolidays2014.com

THE COAT

Mother was satisfied

with the two dresses

she alternated wearing

to her salesclerk job

at Quackenbush’s.

When she’d arrive home,

she’d change into a house dress

and hang the dress she wore

on the clothesline to air.

Mother was satisfied

with her old winter coat.

It was warm enough.

It didn’t matter to her

that the sleeves

were beginning to fray.

Whenever there was

leeway in the budget,

she bought for us.

She could wait.

She was satisfied.

When I turned sixteen,

my first job was at Woolworth’s.

I was paid ninety cents an hour

to work after school and Saturdays;

brought home twelve dollars a week.

I gave a portion to my father,

bought my own clothes,

paid for bus fares, lunches, books,

and saved.

One day I saw it

on a rack in The Mart,

a nice gray wool coat

with neatly folded unfrayed cuffs.

Nothing fancy,

just new and neat

and on sale.

I wrapped it for her birthday,

January eighth,

but gave it to her

in early December.

It was the first time

I’d given her

more than a trinket.

Maude Carolan

The year was around 1960, five years before my dear mother passed away. That was a very long time ago, but memories of her are still very much alive in my heart. This poem was previously published in the "Paterson Literary Review".

Celebrating Grandmotherhood on Mother's Day



Aiden Thompson reading "The Action Bible"

 

GRANDMOTHERHOOD

(Aiden spends a weekend at Grandma's)

 

Beneath blonde covered silver strands

which cover the gray that really matters

I've learned grandmotherhood

is motherhood's just deserts

 

It's the bright red maraschino

that crowns the sweet cream of life

 

It's the reason I actually smile when in a blink

two-year-old Aiden tosses the spare roll of Scott

into the bubbly bathtub

or when he quietly tugs at the vertical blinds

when he's supposed to be horizontal

and I find panels strewn

on the floor around the porta-crib after naptime

or when he presses a mysterious button

on the TV, disabling it

so he can't watch Sprout

or his two-headed dragon friends

 

I never make much of a fuss

about bedtime or broccoli

(Mommy and Daddy can on Monday)

 

I just tousle his sandy hair

and  tell him how cute he is

how impressed I am with his new words

and how well he sings

the alphabet song all the way to "Z!"

and "Next time won't you sing with me!"

and I do

 

We go outside

I blow soap bubbles in the breeze

We run after them, laughing

as we catch or clap them in our hands

then I put him in the stroller

We go around the block

as we always do

My neighbors are surprised

as they always are

at how he's grown since they saw him last

 

"Come, Aiden.

Grandma made chocolate chippers"

After the cookies we'll read Dinky Dinosaur

then I'll put a CD in the player and we'll dance

I'll do silly steps I'd never do on the dance floor

and you can make up steps of your own

We'll make cow and lamb and crickety noises

and maybe stick our fingers in our ears

 

In the morning we'll go outside

I'll show you the golden daffodils

blooming in my garden.

They'll be trumpeting a song

only we and God can hear

 

and if we want to, Aiden

we'll sing along

 

Maude Carolan Pych

 

 

"Grandmotherhood" was written when Aiden was two-years-old. He's nine now. He does Tae Kwon Do, plays the piano, takes hip hop lessons and plays soccer. Aiden celebrated his First Communion a few weeks ago. We gave him "The Action Bible" as a present and he's been reading it over and over again. God bless you, Aiden, and God bless all my precious and wonderful grandchildren. I love you all sooooo much!