Before I write about my mother’s hidden treasure, I would like you to know about my mother… who was herself a hidden treasure.
Anna was born October 15th, 1902, the sixth of ten children. She was three months old when she arrived at Ellis Island in the arms of her mother while her four brothers and one sister followed closely behind. This family of immigrants from Kiev, (The Ukraine) were met by Abraham Bockman, who left Kiev a year earlier to set up his tailor shop in the heart of New York City, where Macy’s department store stands today. After five years and two more children, Abraham sold his tailor shop and moved his family to the town of Fallsburg in the Catskill Mountains for just about the rest of their lives.
Anna won spelling bees at grade school, loved picking huckleberries, and was in charge of taking care of her now nine brothers and sisters. Her very dark eyes and hair attracted the country boys during her first (and only) year in high school. At age 17, she left her family, walked to the railroad station and boarded the 9 a.m. Fallsburg Special to New York City to start a bookkeeping job for one of the prominent companies of the growing business districts on the lower east side.
Anna lived in an apartment with loving friends of Abe and Jessie (The Schwartzes) who became her “other” family for the rest of her life. During those days, her claim to fame was dating Sammy Fain, before, of course, he composed such songs as “I’ll Be Seeing You,” “Love Is A Many Splendored Thing,” “Tender is the Night,” “Let A Smile Be Your Umbrella,” and many more. At age 19, Anna met and married her blue-eyed, red-headed sweetheart, Mark, and became “Mom.”
I didn’t know why at the time, but Mom was not one to show physical affection for her children. I never remember any hugs or kisses or excitement over school achievements. I do remember her wonderful cooking and baking for us and how she cared for us when we were sick. I can truly say I never remembered being scolded or neglected of care. As my brother Stan said so many years later that no matter how distant we thought she was, we never doubted her love for us.
She did come to some school plays I was in, but never talked to me about it afterwards. Because Dad was the opposite, I supposed her indifference did not affect me as much as it could have. I was wrong. I begged for her attention in so many ways, and I was obsessed with her very being throughout my childhood; I didn’t realize it then, but I clearly see it now.
I saw my mother in every “vulnerable mother” movie. Ma Joad, in the “Grapes of Wrath” was my mother. None of my friends understood why I cried uncontrollably as I watched her suffer through such poverty and tragedy. I couldn’t bear how she bounced around in that old broken down Ford jalopy. No matter how much Henry Fonda loved her, I loved her more. To this day, my mother has the face of Jane Darwell in many of my dreams. I felt that way about James Cagney’s mother in the movie I believe was called “White Heat”…a little Irish lady, always wearing an apron, as though all she wanted was to serve him a bowl of Irish stew and he would stop murdering people…”He is a good boy.” I cried every time I saw Hattie McDaniel working so hard cooking, cleaning, sweating, and giving advice to the white folks who never appreciated her. I ached with love for my mother, Hattie, who always wore an apron too.
One day when my mother’s brother, Uncle Jim, visited, he gave mefive dollars for my birthday. In those years, it was like a fortune for a child. I looked at Mom, and I looked at the five dollar bill, and I told her if she would take a walk around the block with me, I would give her the money. She said yes, we took the walk, she took the money and not a word was said during that walk. I was a bit disappointed, but it was okay because we were together side by side, and I liked the feeling.
It was easy to remember my childhood, but not so easy to re-live it. I chose to take a closer path with my own children, but at times I made the mistake of re-living my years of sadness and confusion by exaggerating my emotions to protect them.
When in 1990 we moved to Florida, Mom was 88 years old. The nursing home we chose was only a few minutes from our house, and I was able to visit her every day. She was confined to a wheel chair, and the walks we took outside the Home’s grounds had views of the Chain of Lakes. Her mind was sharp, and we talked about family, the “good ol’ days,” how Dad was the best, and what she was going to have for lunch…a far cry from Uncle Jim’s five dollar walk.
One Sunday morning, I had to tell Mom that I was going to visitmy new grandchild (her great-grandchild) in Illinois, and I would be back in four days with lots of pictures. Accustomed to my daily visits, she looked frightened, and her eyes were sad. I wanted to call the airlines immediately and cancel, but I just could not do that. I was in Illinois for two days when I received a phone call that Mom died.
I wanted the last hours of her life to be with me. Did she wait to die until I left to avoid the last emotional words she could not express? I bet she did. After all these years, I would love to have told her I knew the hugs and kisses were always there. I just never saw them.
Mom may not have had the traditional hidden treasures of rose petals pressed in a book or love letters tied with a ribbon. Her secret was loving her children too much and never being able to tell them how much.
