She was small in stature but mighty. My mom, a petite blonde was born in Mamaroneck, New York. Wanting to study art in college, she came to Buffalo, New York, and met my dad in her painting class at Albright Hall in the early 1940’s. Mom tells the story that while at their easels in class one day, both trying to get the angles and perspective correct on the still life set up before them, my dad dropped his paintbrush on the floor. Bending over to retrieve it, mom impulsively swiped his backside with her paint-laden brush, hoping to get his attention. Such a daring, flirtatious gesture back in those days! I have the feeling my dad didn’t need that splat of color to notice her – she was a beauty. But that bold moment paved the way for dates, correspondence while dad was serving in the Navy in WWII, and later a marriage proposal. While waiting for dad to finish his tour of duty, mom worked several jobs back in her New York City area, including a stint as an artist for Terrytoons. Among the many cartoon characters she helped animate were Tom and Jerry and our favorite as kids, Mighty Mouse.
Fast forward to the mid-1950’s, with my siblings and me sitting around our small black and white television screen on a Saturday morning and watch cartoons. Mom would point out to us which adventure scenes she illustrated whenever The Mighty Mouse Playhouse was on the television screen. This was long before computer-generated images. Every character’s movement was hand drawn and painted on acetate.
I was one of five children born to Evelyn and Robert – or “Blondie and Chick”, their pet names for each other. Mom’s artistic abilities were evident in our home, not only in the bright orange painted walls of the living room, but in the iris paintings in their bedroom (a favorite flower in her garden). But with five kids to raise, there wasn’t much studio time for mom. She did give me an occasional drawing and painting lesson with paints and clay being the usual holiday gifts. Mom’s mother, who we called “Nanny” taught me to sew, embroider and knit. I grew up making doll clothes from her fabric scraps and developed an appreciation for the arts.
So when dad took early retirement and they moved into a small, one floor home to make it easier to care for mom – who suffered from rheumatoid arthritis – he made sure one bedroom was set up as an art studio. Most days if the sun was pouring through the little windows of that room, you could find them painting together – mom with her flowers or seascapes, and dad with his boats and landscapes. I remember one visit to the little back bedroom and trying to devise a strip of fabric to wrap around mom’s badly crippled hand to help support the paintbrush so she could continue to paint. The arthritis was progressively getting worse. Her favorite palette knife was now too difficult to manage. I think of that day whenever I use her brushes and tools in my own artwork. I am now in my mid-fifties. Slowly over the years, I have been fortunate to find my work in private and corporate collections around the world. I know I'm blessed to come from good genes!
Early in my art career I had many questions for mom. When I began to exhibit professionally, I pleaded with her to have a “mother-daughter” show, but she always declined. Finally, we did manage one exhibit together at a small, outdoor art show in our community. That was more her speed, being somewhat modest and shy about her work. As kids, we were always crazy about her art, and were thrilled one year when each of the sisters received a small watercolor of our birth month’s flower. I’m not sure if our only brother got one too. She taught us all about the fragility of nature in her delicate floral depictions.
Mom’s health was increasingly becoming a serious issue. For more than 30 years she suffered from rheumatoid arthritis which began in her early 40s. Over the years, we helplessly watched mom go from using a cane, to a walker, to a wheelchair, to being bedridden. But one thing remained constant – she never complained. At all. Not ever.
My siblings and I would talk about that many times over the years…how could someone be in that much pain for so many years and not lose her cheerfulness or gentleness? That’s the lesson I learned from my mom – her quiet acceptance of what she had been given. Make the best of each day down the path of your life’s journey. My dad was there every step of the way. Their love and affection for each other was evident each day of their 47 years together. It was especially touching to witness the tenderness in my father’s eyes as he would kneel beside her bed to hold her hand and whisper, “Hey gorgeous” or “love you Blondie”.
Mom also gave her gentle wisdom whenever I had something on my mind. Often times I’d visit and sit on the edge of her bed and chat. Sometimes I’d show up to wash and set her hair while climbing around all the soft pillows that cradled her fragile body in her bed. Gradually, she had become too weak to do personal grooming herself, and these moments gave us another chance to talk about things. She would know if something was bothering me, and would gently help find an answer. Even her young granddaughter felt the same soft guidance that came from a visit at her bedside. She expressed it beautifully at mom’s wake when she asked in her innocent child’s voice, “Who’s gonna be the glue in our family now that grandma’s not here?” When her mom, my sister, answered her with, “What’s wrong with me?” she immediately responded, “No, mom! Grandma was glue, you’re only Scotch tape!”
She may have been a tiny wisp of a woman, but she sure was mighty to us who loved her.
