A MOTHER'S DAY SPECIAL
First Published Here Aug. 5, 2001
Ann Jillian
Mama & Me:
A Loving Memory
Stage Mother? Well, Maybe More Like A Living, Loving
Force of Nature!
Ann with "Mama" Margaret
fabulous Mama Nauseda
By ANN JILLIAN of TheColumnists.com
LAST MAY, I passed by a candy store all decked out
with delectable decorations, reminders of the next holiday coming
upon us: Mother's Day. Like an old firehouse dog when she hears
the alarm bell ringing, I jumped at the thought of purchasing
some tasty morsels of appreciation.
They were everywhere--all the beautiful sentiments, all the lovely
gifts geared for the sweetest of people, the first of all deeply
meaningful relationships in our lives: "Mama," "Mom,"
"Mother," "Mommy." Whether or not the name
is familiar, formal or playful, one can't help saying the word
with reverence. To form it on our lips and utter the sound evokes
a feeling of warmth and security and boundless love.
I stared at the confections, covered in gaily colored wrappings.
Gentle colors to match her gentlest of hearts. Bright hues to
match her lively personality and vibrant love of life. Lavender
and pale banana custard yellow ribbons artfully tied the box.
"She'd like that," I thought.
I remembered how Mama happily brought home a package when
I was about 7 or 8 years old. Doing everything with a flourish,
she revealed her treasure by whisking the cover off the box,
sending the tissue flying into the air and then gently wafting
to the ground. A dress of lavender and pale to golden, yellow
hues lay proudly on her lap. I could see she was thrilled with
her choice for me. There was a delightfully conspiratorial twinkle
in her eye as she searched mine for a hint of approval. Of course,
I thanked her with hugs and kisses, I loved her and didn't want
to disappoint her. How could I tell her that, I guess, I just
couldn't get "into" the "Iris" color combination
yet?
Today I love that blend of colors and look for every reason to
use them.
As I stood by the candy shop, a happy lady flung open the doors
and emerged with a ribboned tribute in hand, releasing the agreeable
aroma from within. Briskly, she returned to her car and sped
away into the sparkling day, I presumed, to a dear lady somewhere
eagerly awaiting her visit. This was a sweet holiday, indeed.
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Every advertisement, every aroma, the happy chatter on the radio, all left me standing at the threshold of a million memories. Gently, I stepped across. As I did, I found myself passing a young girl and her mother. The girl was dressed in a leotard and tights with a little diaphanous skirt. Pink toe shoes were tied together and slung over her shoulder. They were both giggling. It was precious.
I recalled the first time Mama introduced me to the world of ballet. It was in Cambridge, Mass., my home town. It was an overcast day and Mama took me to a movie theatre in the area. The building was two stories high and New Orleans style, black and white. It was cold outside and though we were bundled up, we were glad to get inside and waited patiently, but excitedly, for the feature to begin.
There, in the dark, I saw my first image of a dancer. A beauty with red brown hair and a pair of bewitched, red toe shoes that danced on their own when placed on the maid's feet. Oh, she danced and spun around, leaping, pirouetting with abandon until, exhausted, she collapsed. I looked over to see that Mama was looking at me to see my reaction. We both smiled and she hugged me tight.
That night I dreamed of the red shoes, and my mother and I twirling until we collapsed. Mama always woke me up with kisses and a silly little song to start my day. I remember her chuckling because all I could talk of was the RED SHOES... through breakfast, to the administering of the cod liver oil (which she always gave me with a Seven-Up chaser. To this day I still detect cod liver oil when I drink Seven-Up), to the last moments of the day. Chatter, chatter and she never lost her patient smile.
Without my mother's vision I would never have been in the entertainment business. If she saw an opportunity, she seized it. When she saw talent she gave it the support and encouragement it needed to grow. Piano lessons, violin lessons, dance lessons. She provided me with the basics. What I would make of them would be up to me.
My own toe shoes never quite performed like the "red shoes," but I paid my dues in them and years later was, indeed, dancing and spinning in the movie "Gypsy" and on the Broadway stage in "Sugar Babies."
And my musical backround served me well as a child and teenager, in a long list of credits that would require a knowledge of music...Mama, my guardian for all of them, proud as could be of her "baby."
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ready to start her career in show business. |
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While Mama was not exactly a domineering Mama Rose-type from "Gypsy," she was wistfully living, through me, the life that her own old world and strict European parents would not allow her to pursue.
She loved to dance. She
would be moved to tears at the sound of beautiful symphonic music.
Her thrill of the movies and appreciation of an actor's skills
were evident, as well as her confidence in her own publicly undiscovered
abilities. "I vas born for stage!" she would state
proudly (in a heavy Lithuanian accent). I believe she was.
Yet, from the beginning of my burgeoning career, whatever "profits"
came of it, my mother would re-invest them in me. More lessons,
a good education in a parochial school, clothing, medical expenses,
etc., etc. Anything left over would be put into the family "kitty"
( that was not too often). Not a fur coat was to be found in
her closet. No weekly scheduled appointments for hair and nails.
(Not that she wouldn't have liked those appointments, they just
were not top on her priority list). Nor was she slovenly in appearance.
She prided herself in how she looked. Clean, well groomed, with
a leaning toward feminine, but tailored clothes.
And that laugh! How I loved to hear her laughter! The sign that
all was well, and my life was grounded in good spirits.
If my life was grounded in good spirits, it was also, on occasion,
simply "grounded." A strict disciplinarian with a fast
and furious "no-nonsense" approach when tackling trouble
(imagined or otherwise), she would face it head on and mince
no words in the process. It brings to mind an episode during
the 60's.
I was about 18. Picture a girl sporting the latest trend of piggy-tails
and big, innocent, long-lashed eyes, in not so innocent looking
hiphuggers and ribbed body-hugging "poorboy" sweater,
putting the last strands of bangs in just the right place--33
years before Brittany Spears--sporting a style very much the
same.
Mama had apparently just
answered the door and confronted my "date"...a dancer
from my dance academy with long hair, wearing a mesh t-shirt
and cut-off jeans, sandals and slightly more than one day's stubble
on his face. His arm was bandaged from donating blood.
I wondered why there were no "how do you do's," just
a firm shutting of the door.
"Vat is dat?!?" she demanded, pointing to the
front entry, as she conveniently blocked my exit at the bathroom
door.
"That's my date, Mama, please..." as I squeezed by
to the front door with Mama close at my heels. I opened the door
to reveal my date wearing a quizzical look, his silhouette framed
by a red VW van parked in the driveway in the backround.
"Oh no you dunt! Vat do you tink dat is?!" she
pointed to the vehicle behind him. She meant business.
"My van?" he queried.
"Dat is a sex-pit on vheels," she exclaimed,
"leaf and dunt come back!" were the last words
he heard as she yanked my embarrassed teenage body back in the
house by the piggy-tail.
While I was mortified at the time, today I say, "Way to
go, Mama, pretty sharp! Thanks."
We did everything together. She was a fine artist. She delighted
in introducing me to painting and various methods of drawing.
We painted, drew pictures and compared them. She used to do a
neat thing with plaster of paris and silhouettes cut out of black
paper. I can visualize them so clearly. Then there was a fabulous
colored pencil drawing of a voluptuous "nude" woman,
reclining sensuously on an inviting chaise--hints, perhaps, of
the Mama it was not my business to know. Every time I peeked
at it, I felt I had entered the private, passonate domain of
an intensely "charged" woman. If I had been slightly
older and more mature, I would have known how dear the memory
of these articles--and who they represented--would become and
I would have painstakingly saved them. "Woulda, coulda,
shoulda..."
Suffice it to say, everything about my wonderful mother mesmerized
me. When I grew older we shopped until we dropped (even if, sometimes,
it was only window shopping because it was all that we could
afford). That seemed to "mesmerize" both of us.
An outing of particular delight was the yearly shoe sale at Ohrbach's,
a department store on Wilshire Boulevard in L.A. that no longer
exists. Ohrbach's was known for this event. We had to be there
as the doors opened or our chances of getting the best, most
unusual shoes from all over the world would be ruined. We were
lucky. Somehow we never got trampled. Ooh, she was good!
We took trips together. Everywhere. I drove. I had to, Mama didn't
drive. Mama's first introduction to the "ignition"
was met with a horrified yelp. That ended her instructions from
my father whose reaction was as priceless as her yelp. (I'm sure
I didn't help matters any with my laughter, rolling in the back
seat, holding my sides.)
My mother and father were married for 63 years. One time, when
I was headlining in Las Vegas, I brought my parents out there
and set them up in the hotel where I was performing.
Dad loved to play cards and we were a little concerned because
he was rather advanced in years and we thought the excitement
might be too much for him. Nonetheless, we couldn't "hover"
over him, he had his pride, and we let him make his own choice
to play for awhile while Mama, my husband and I went for coffee
and a "sweetie."
A couple of hours later, he hadn't come to the coffee shop. He
was nowhere to be found at the tables, and at this point we were
beginning to think he might be under the tables, unnoticed by
the frenzied gamblers. Or maybe he was in his and mom's room?
No answer.
Visibly shaken, Mama kept
repeating, "Oy, my God..." over and over. We
went up to my suite to wait for his appearance, but to no avail.
Hotel security was called to open the door to his room in the
event that he was in there and needed help, but it was empty.
It was now almost 3:30 a.m., and we were justifiably upset and
worried. The sudden squeal of sirens on the street, outside our
windows, didn't help any. We peered below to the drive and our
worst fears came to the surface as we viewed a paramedic truck
parked with its lights flashing, right at the entrance of the
casino.
Mama was perspiring and repeating prayers under her breath, sometimes
inaudible, sometimes swelling to a wail. All of us made a bee-line
to the elevators and headed to the ground floor. The casino floor
had emptied. Only a few frazzle-haired, hollow-eyed patrons remained.
Still no sign of our mischievous octogenarian.
Suddenly, with all of our hearts in our throats, the familiar
sound of coins hitting a steel cup turned all of our heads in
the direction of the slot machines. There, hidden by the forest
of gleaming apparatus, with only a cap seemingly floating atop
it all, stood my gleeful father hypnotized by the money-gobbling
equipment.
We heaved exclamations of relief, and Mama, still loudly praising
the good Lord for this good fortune, scurried to her wayward,
sheepishly grinning spouse. With a loving burst of his name,
"Joseph!" and tears in her eyes, she reached his side
and slapped the side of his arm, with a chastising, "Look
vat you do to me!"
What a night. What a pair.
Mama drilled the importance of getting my check-ups into me at
an early age, and I never forgot it. Her bout with breast cancer
gave me hope when I had mine, 31 years later. She was my "flagship."
It would be important to note that my mother never had a recurrence
and we lost her 41 years after breast cancer, three weeks short
of her 90th birthday, of Alzheimer's Disease.
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enough to see her survive breast cancer--and give birth to a son, baby Andy. Here they are all together. |
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She taught me about God and His creation, and to see His Almighty Hand in every blade of grass, to every breath we take.
I do, Mama. I see Him in every part of my life and thank Him for being there. I thank Him, especially, for giving you to me. I love you. Always.
©2001 by Ann Jillian Murcia. The images are from Ann Jillian's private collection of family photos. All rights are reserved by the author.
You can comment on this column or contact Ann JIllian with an email to: talkback@thecolumnists.com
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