my kind of Mother's day

It's been a long time since I've been to my Nonna's house with both her and my Mom in it at the same time.

There was a time when we used to spend almost all our Sundays and major holidays on Vianney. And sometimes you would even walk in on a random week night and she would already have served pasta and meatballs to my Uncle Sal, who would be absently flipping through the newspaper or some bills with a toothpick in his mouth. And you knew your plate was on its way; regardless of whether you came in looking for food.

Now, I wonder if she would even be able to turn on the stove and make that same perfect oily plate of pasta like she used to. A part of me will always want to believe she could. The rest of me has its doubts.

Still, you can tell she is still proud of that house and not at all lost once in it. And there's no way she was going to let us do all the work. I think my Mom was on her case before she even had a chance to bend down and pull out a handful of weeds on her way to the front door. "Ma, don't start!'" she would simultaneously shout to my grandmother and the rest of the street, warning that she would not tolerate any eventual complaints of pain later that night. My grandmother did her best to assure my Mom she was doing nothing, really - which did little to reassure my Mom, let me tell you. Meanwhile, I was trying to discourage my Mom from picking up the heavy Hibiscus plants due to her bad knee. She did it anyway and I didn't protest. Figured all three of us suffer from that same, somewhat perfectionist do-it-yourself affliction.

So while we re-potted all the Oleander plants my grandmother insists should be put out and cared for every summer, she went about tidying the garage, checking on the leftover preserved peppers and  mopping our muddy footprints nearly every time we passed by. It was driving my mother crazy, but it just made me smile.