From the Pastor’s Heart

Mother’s Day is a few short weeks away. I would like to share with you an article that first appeared in The Erie Times on May 10, 1980. It is an article by retired editor Larie Pineta and has been reprinted many times since. It is a little lengthy but certainly worth the time and space. The article is titled “On Mother’s Day, tough guys don’t cry!

“Pa was really a funny guy when he was being secretive. He did secrets in super-exaggeration, with a lot of looking over his shoulder, and ‘shushing,’ and whispering in my ear. One of Pa’s whispers could be heard about two houses away.

We clearly understood that this kind of deportment was his idea of how ‘American’ secrets were handled, especially since the words were always in heavily-accented English.

He came swinging up the street after making the turn by No. 5 Firehouse, where he greeted all the firemen sitting in the doorway, all of them in mustard-colored coveralls. The big LaFrance pumper in the main bay of the firehouse sparkled like a fine watch. Some days Pa would stop and talk to them, but today he just waved his lunch bucket and kept going until he spied his son roller-skating on the street.

Pa didn’t have to holler for a kid’s attention. He just stopped and looked. That meant, ‘I’m waiting and you better get here awful fast.’

So I skated over, jumped the curb and let my skate wheels sink into the lawn.

Pa went through his ‘secret’ sequences, looked to see if Ma was standing right there (which was hardly likely) and reached into his pants pocket.

‘Hair is monee. You go Laffer’s flower plece and ged your Mama flowers. Sunday is Mudder Day.’

Pa said it in a whisper that left my ear ringing. Now Ma would have to be stone deaf not to hear that, but she wouldn’t let on anyway.

‘Can I skate ver to the Laver aFlower Shop, Pa? I won’t get hit,’ I assured him.

‘Only on sidevak. Vatch for car. Dan ist okeh,’ Pa said, cramming money into my shirt pocket and watching until I buttoned it.

I tore off down the street with that peculiar ‘scraech-clik-scraech’ that iron skate wheels had on a sidewalk.

‘Hide em ven you ged back,’ Pa said in his stage whisper when I was about four houses down the block.. Then he turned and whistled that off-key, tuneless whistle that he had when he was doing something secret.

Sunday morning Pa was up early, stropping his straight razor with the ivory handle, taking his time to get an extra close shave. The night before he had gone to Paroby’s crowded barber shop on Pennsylvania Avenue between 9th and 10th, and his ears were a good inch lower than when he sat down in the chair.

Pa and his son left for church earlier than the rest of the family. Pa took care of all the candles in church, and I would pull on a white altar boy’s cassock.

Ma was waiting at the door as we left the house and pinned on the flowers, a ritual only she could do.

As we walked along East Avenue, I suddenly noticed something different. Every year Pa and I wore red carnations. Ma explained that a red carnation meant that your mother was alive. Pa saw my puzzled look and asked, ‘Vat’s mettar?’

‘Pa, you have a white carnation this year. How come? Did they run outa red ones, Pa?’

Pa reached down and took my hand. He knew I didn’t like my hand held, but he was holding it so tight I couldn’t pull it out of his big, calloused mitt.

‘Dis yars I am vere vite flowers. My Mamma ist die,’ Pa said walking along, looking straight ahead, holding my hand.

Now, I understood that Pa’s mother lived in what everybody called ‘The Old Country,’ and that Pa had never seen her since he was 15 when he came to America by himself.

‘How do you know she died, Pa?’ I asked, watchinghis face.

‘I ged letter from brudder. He say my Mamma ist die,’ Pa said, his voice getting sorta soft and shaky.

‘How come you didn’t go to the funeral, Pa?’ I asked, trying to wiggle my crushed fingers a little.

Pa didn’t say anything for about a half-block.

‘Ven man come to dis country, he leaf femly sometime fareffer. Ist too far go beck. His femly is har in Amerika,’ Pa told me, speaking slowly. He dropped my hand and rested his heavy hand on my shoulder.

‘Did you have a good mother, Pa?’ I asked, suddenly realizing that Pa was looking the other way.

‘Yah, sure. I am hav best Mama. Gut voomans,’ Pa almost whispered, and I saw his huge left hand reach up and brush across his eyes. ‘She vas chantle ledy. Mek me studie buks, Ven my Papa vant spenk me, she tail heem, ‘No, he ist my boy. I spenk heem.’ She geef to me gut vans, and she vas kry, too.’

I looked up and I could see that Pa’s eyes had tears in them. I never saw my Pa with tears—–ever!

‘Are you crying, Pa?’ I asked incredulously.

Pa took out his neatly pressed white handkerchief, blew his nose and quickly wiped his eyes.

‘Whose kry? Tuff guy don kry. I tail you dat lonk time ago. You and me are tuff guy. I em hev somtheenk een eyes. Dat’s all,’ Pa Said, almost buckling my shoulder with a whack reserved for ‘tuff guys.’

It was many years later, and the old man in the hospital bed was in a coma.

He was at least 84, but that was his secret. And despite his years, his hair was still mostly black, his arms and chest still showing the muscle of a younger man.

Dr. D’Angelo met me at the door to the room. He shook his head, ‘Not this time, Larie.’

Ma and I stood beside him and watched his labored breathing. He seemed to struggle to say something, and I bent close, sure that I would hear Pa say my name or the name of his beloved Sylvia.

Pa said one word before he died. He opened his eyes just for a moment and said the word “MAMA.”

I learned something in that moment, something about the priority of love. A single last word that was a message, an endearment, an order, a benediction. And this year when I wear a white carnation for the first time, I will remember what Pa said, ‘Tuff guy don kry.’

And I am almost as tuff as Pa.”

Some people ridicule Mother’s Day as a lot of sentimental drivel. They say that it is nothing more than the creation of the greeting card companies and the florists. And, to be perfectly candid, there are many ministers who shun this day because, they say, it is not a religious holiday. And therefore Mother’s Day is left out.

Well, of course, we must admit that there is sentiment to this special day when we have an opportunity to honor the women who have taught us what it means to love. At least I pray that is your experience.

I too can say with Larie’s father when he was asked if he had a good mother…”Yah, sure, I am hev bast Mama. Gut voomans!” My mother is the Martha of the Bible, always serving others. I think if you look up the word hospitality you will find her picture.

She loved and cared for her husband, my father, my children’s grandfather until the day he died at a much too early age. She buried her oldest son, when he was only 48. And now her father lives with her as she cares for him in the final chapter of his life. And every Sunday when she is able she can be found in her little country United Methodist Church worshiping our great God from whom she draws her strength and peace. Yah, sure. I am hev bast Mamma. Gut voomans. And I will wear my red carnation proudly on Mother’s day.

I am double blessed because I have another “gut voomans,” the mother of my children, my wife Nancy, who also knows the word sacrifice when it comes to her husband and daughters.

I pray you will join me on Mother’s Day so we might honor all the women of our church for they too are “gut voomans.”

Not just on Mother’s Day but every Sunday we are given the privilege of worshiping our awesome God who loves us even more than our mothers.

In His service,
Pastor Russel