“What’s up, Chicken Butt?”

I don’t know the origin of this greeting – probably from some childhood game.  But for me, it was how I began every phone conversation with my Mom.  We spoke nearly every day. Sometimes I’d call on my morning hike and sometimes when I was making dinner.  The conversations weren’t necessarily long or deep, but I loved the ritual — knowing what she ate, what she was watching on tv, how many card games of 500 she had won, what the weather was like.  

There are also specific phone conversations I recall — whenever I booked an acting job; calling her in tears when I met a handsome man (now my husband) — “I think this is the one, Mom.  Say a prayer”; calling her with the news we were engaged. 

In the last year or so, Mom’s response to “What’s up Chicken Butt?” would often be “Nothin’ much.”  Which worried me a little.   Her world had gotten smaller and smaller —  from the post World War II home I grew up in, to a single level townhome, to a one-bedroom apartment in assisted living.  

But she accepted her smaller world with not only grace, but gratitude. I suppose this was ingrained in her, growing up on a farm in Wisconsin with seven sisters (affectionately and forever called “The Straight Eight”) — children of Tom and Rose who instilled in each of their eight daughters not only a remarkable work ethic, but an attitude of pushing forward in the face adversity.  I think it was because of this upbringing that my Mom never complained. 

Oh, she had opinions about people and things (I think I get my black and white nature from her), but she never complained about her situation, or the lack she might have experienced.  She had to put food on the table for her five kids.  No time to complain.  

She was both my Mom and Dad, since my parents divorced when I was a little girl and my father wasn’t present for much of my growing up.  In thinking back on her life, my siblings and I have numerous stories about the things she did on her own to raise five kids after the divorce, at a time when the “D” word wasn’t discussed in public.

Mom never sat down.  For a time, we didn’t have a car, so she walked over a mile to her job as a waitress at a strip mall steakhouse.  And she pulled a little red wagon behind her to bring home the groceries.  She stood on a ladder to paint the second story of my childhood home.  She cleaned the house every Saturday, and as my siblings and I got older, we helped, learning the art of dusting baseboards.   

Mom just did these things — because they needed to be done (well, I question the baseboards needing to be dusted, but I digress).  She didn’t look for praise or assistance from anyone.  She just kept pushing forward.  

We eventually got a car after my Mom and older siblings threw every bit of spare change they had in a makeshift bank — an empty ice cream bucket with a slit in the cover and the words “CAR FUND” written on it in orange magic marker.  They saved for what seemed like years.  And when they had enough money, Mom chose a purple Plymouth Duster.   Yep, she was cool, too.   

Here’s another remarkable thing:  there were always gifts under the Christmas tree and food on the table seven nights a week, which must have been exhausting for Mom.  We even had special birthday dinners.  Ok, mainly Spam Burgers — a delicious combination of shredded Spam and Velveeta cheese melted on a hamburger bun (before you judge, try it).   But our “golden birthdays” were celebrated in style at a real restaurant.  In hindsight, I realize now Mom must have saved for weeks for those special outings. She sewed many of our clothes when we were young. Sure, I wore elastic waste band pants until I was a freshman in high school, but Mom made them. 

She loved a scary movie (we went to see Silence of the Lambs on opening weekend during one of her visits to L.A.).  Mom couldn’t pass up a Dairy Queen Buster Bar (or anything sweet). 

She was passionate about her teams — first and foremost, the Minnesota Twins and the Minnesota Vikings.  We somehow got tickets to go see a live Twins game when I was a kid. I’ll never forget being mortified as Mom stood and screamed (multiple times) at the play on the field.  How embarrassing!   And then the realization not too many years ago when I was back in Minnesota to watch a Vikings game with her, what is now referred to as the “Minneapolis Miracle.”  I was screaming (and crying) at the television, right along with her.   One of the things I inherited.

She was a woman who often spoke in wise pronouncements.  When I was going to remodel a bathroom with black tile, she said “DON’T DO IT. You’ll see your blonde hair all over that tile.” Well, I didn’t listen, I got the black tile.  And she was right — blonde hair everywhere.  When I couldn’t find the keys to my apartment in Los Angeles, my gut told me to call Mom — that somehow she would know where my keys were.  Sure enough, 1900 miles away, she helped me find them in a coat pocket I had worn the day before.

For her 80th birthday, we roasted Mom by making a list of her ‘words of wisdom’ — the phrases she used to say that still ring in our heads today:

“Who was your servant last year?”
“Were you born in a barn?”
“I’m going to crown you.” 
“Sometimes I wonder about you.  And then again I know.”
“You make a better door than a window.”

Hearing us call out these phrases, she laughed at herself and the memory of each of them.

We left out a few — some that probably came from my Grandmother and some that she learned from her own life experience: 

“Doesn’t that just frost you?”
“I’m sweatin’ like a butcher.” 
“Cheese it boys, the cops are coming.”
“He’s as Irish as Paddy’s pig.” 
“Do it now!  What are you waiting for?” 
“I could have cried.  But what good would it do?”

Another of her favorites was, “It’ll be fine.”  She somehow made you believe that it would be.   Many years ago after breaking up with a boyfriend, I received a box in the mail.  Inside the box was a teddy bear with a note that read: “Something to hold onto if you feel lonely.”  She understood heartbreak first hand.  I think the break from my Father was something that always hurt her deeply, although I’ve always felt there was a kind of love between them even after the divorce. 

During the last couple months of her life, Mom added a few new words of wisdom, some new expressions to her vernacular.  Sitting with her at the hospital she would often say to my sister, “Don’t worry about me.”  When the doctor or nurse would ask her how she was doing (and she clearly wasn’t doing well), she would still reply, “Pretty good.” And when the EMTs came to her apartment to take her to the hospital (for her final trip), she invited them to “Have a seat.”

One of the first questions someone asks when your Mom dies is, “How old was she?” If you give a number that’s over 80, I suspect most people feel a little relieved.  If one has made it to anything over 80, you’ve had a long life.   And when my Mom passed away and I responded to the questions about her age with the answer, “96”, I saw the relief on people’s faces.  But I wanted to add, “You don’t understand.  She was my Mom.  How does life go on without her?” 

Yes, she was 96, but as a dear friend reminded me, that just means I will miss her even more because I had her for so long.  

There’s a famous quote attributed to a newspaper reporter on the passing of President Roosevelt, “Now we are alone.”

And the loss of Mom truly feels like I’m alone, I have lost my bearings.  As my brother said, she was the center, heart and soul of our family. But I can hear Mom say, “Don’t worry. It’ll be fine.” 

Someday, I know I will see her again.  I’ve thought about that meeting and I imagine being able to ask her once again,

“What’s up, Chicken Butt?”  

She’ll say, “Have a seat.”  

And she might even add, “You make a better door than a window.”

Mommy, you are the strongest woman I’ve ever known.  I love you so much.