Gwen’s mother, Bertha, and I had a good and loving relationship all the while I knew her. She put a lie to every mother-in-law joke ever told.
It didn’t start out that way. Initially Bertha was not in favor of Gwen getting married; saying that she was too young and immature. As I would come to see later, this was a convenient explanation. There was more to it than that. Because of her mother’s stated concerns, and, in spite of the fact that at the age of 19 she was working as head bookkeeper at a construction company that had in excess of 300 employees, Gwen worked hard at proving she was ready to assume the responsibilities of being married. On one occasion she wrote me about two days during which her brother and his wife had been visiting with their two boys, ages three and one. “The kids are driving me crazy,” she said, “but I’m proving something to my mother!” And, prove it she did; when Gwen set her mind to something she always saw it through.
When I first met Bertha I was taken by her non-stop approach to living. Like her daughter she was petite, filled with energy and had an ever-present smile on her face. Often, as she would lie asleep on a couch after a busy day of caring for those she loved, I would comment to Gwen that her mother had only two speeds, wide open and dead stopped. She was of Italian heritage and adopted that culture’s profound love of family. She lived for her family. Initially, she was not pleased with my intentions regarding her daughter.
As my new bride and I were preparing to leave our wedding reception, Bertha took me aside, saying she had something she wanted to say to me. “Aha!” I thought, “This will be my official welcome to the family.” I had given up expecting any sort of welcome from Barney, although he did man up and walk his daughter down the aisle in church and then put her hand in mine.
Instead of the anticipated welcome into her open arms, what Bertha said was, “John, Gwen is now your wife, but never forget that she will always be my daughter.” My initial reaction was one of anger, but I resisted the impulse to try to convince Bertha that I would always love, cherish and care for her daughter, and that she needed to let go. A while later, as Gwen changed from her wedding gown at her parents’ house; I had time to think about what Bertha had said. Over the course of the year preceding our marriage I had many opportunities to observe Bertha’s interaction with her daughter, and it was obvious to me that they were best friends. Then it all became clear to me. Bertha’s initial resistance to our decision to get married had nothing to do with Gwen’s age, and it had nothing to do with me. It all had to do with the fact that she was losing her best friend, and she was going to miss her terribly.
I always tried to be sensitive to that special mother-daughter relationship, and it continued to flourish throughout our time together. Overall, it was never much of a concern, although on a couple of occasions Gwen and I had some “silent movies” around the house because I thought Bertha had overstepped her boundaries in some matter, usually having to do with child-rearing practices.
During the sixth year of our marriage, Gwen, who was six months pregnant at the time, was diagnosed with Type I diabetes and we lost the child she was carrying. It was Bertha who comforted and consoled me when I called to give her the news. It was also Bertha who boarded a bus to Ann Arbor and stayed with us until we were back on our feet. My mother was battling cancer at that time, and, when she died in 1974, Bertha became my surrogate mother, a role that she filled admirably until her own death in 2004.
Our daughter, Jeanne, was born in Manitowoc, Wisconsin, in August of 1965. Shortly thereafter, I loaded the car with our belongings and drove to Portland, Oregon, to begin a year of graduate studies.. Barney and Bertha took Gwen and our two children home with them. Two weeks later Gwen flew with the children in tow to Portland to join me. I’ve always felt that the bond between Gwen and her mom was tested during those two weeks. Although she never said anything about it directly, the first thing she said when I met her at the airport was, “I have never been so happy to see you as I am right now!” I couldn’t help but notice that the love for me she expressed was tinged with a sigh of relief that more than a harrowing flight with two small children had ended.
Having said all that, I loved Bertha dearly, particularly her zest for life. She enjoyed playing games of all sorts, from badminton to pinochle. I was pretty good at pitching horseshoes, but it wasn’t uncommon for her to beat me at it. She loved to dance, and would fly around the dance floor with me when a polka was played. She was a great cook with an even better sense of humor. After eating one of her meals, I complimented her on it, commenting that she must really like cooking. “John,” she said, “of all my wifely duties, cooking is real low on the list of things I enjoy doing; right next to sex.”
We lived in Marquette from 1998 through 2004, and were able to spend much quality time with Bertha when she was diagnosed with leukemia in the year 2000. Once again that special bond between mother and daughter came to the fore as Gwen took her to doctor appointments, helped her with her medications and assisted her sister, Patti, who, following a divorce, had moved back home with her parents, and was the primary caregiver.
On a bitter cold morning in January of 2004, the telephone rang at 5:30 a. m. I picked up the receiver and heard Patti say, “John, we lost mom this morning.” My tears told Gwen what the call was about. Two days later, at her mom’s wake, I was not surprised when my wife, a somewhat private person who didn’t enjoy speaking before a group, insisted on kneeling beside her mother’s casket and leading the gathering of friends and relatives in reciting the rosary—still her mother’s best friend.
And, I was proud to kneel beside her.
Happy memories of you and your mom, Dear, enjoy.
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