Pittston Dispatch // PD Columnists // Maria Heck - Mother's Daze

Sunday June 14, 2009 | 01:00 AM

I lost my mother this week. And not the way I used to lose her every Thursday at The Food Fair when I was five. I’ve really lost her. She’s gone and I will never be the same.

I can still see my mother every time I look in the mirror. I am the very image of her; the same face, frown, jowls and hairline.

I have always been the child who resembled her most and who, strangely, has most of her personality traits. This may be a good news/bad news scenario…but I think I incorporate the finest of her within me each and every day.

Her voice plays on a constant loop inside my head. Now, instead of calling her with questions ranging from: “How long to bake a turkey that I’ve never thawed out? Can I serve meatloaf for Thanksgiving? Why the hell not?” to “Does putting a piece of Scotch tape between your eyes really stop frown lines? Then will duct tape work even better?”… I ask the questions to the sky.

And sometimes, I hear the answer swirling in the air around me.

My mother was a no-bull, call-a-spade-a-spade kind of broad. I’d like to think I am the same.

She did not suffer fools gladly and if you ticked her off, you would know it in a matter of 4 seconds. She was as honest as the day is long and I learned long ago that if I didn’t really want her opinion on any matter ranging from weight to boyfriends, I should never ask the question.

I’d ask my dad instead. He knew how to blow sunshine up my skirt.

My sister and I called my mother either Big Dot (an oxymoron, as she was about 105 pounds on a bad day) or, and this was my personal favorite: The Polish Falcon. She despised both monikers and as a result, we only referred to her as either under cloak of night or behind a slammed door.

The lessons my mother taught me are as indelible upon my soul as a cosmic tattoo. If mothers only realized how much of what they say is engraved on a child’s mind well into adulthood, they would speak more carefully and with more precision. I listened hard and learned well.

My mother taught me early and often not to expect things that were clearly unattainable so as not to have a big, old blanket of disappointment suffocate me at every turn. These were items of both a tangible and ridiculous nature; a monkey, longer legs, a shorter nose, an indoor pool. She’d say: “Oh Maria, sh#t in one hand and wish in the other, and you tell me which comes first.”

I never actually put this one to the test, but I got the point nonetheless.

My mother taught me the merits of proper English. She abhorred dangling participles, incorrect prepositions and run-on sentences. The bane of her existence was the term “I should’ve went” instead of the proper “I should’ve gone”. I cannot tell you how many of my friends flatly refused to speak in front of my mother. No one was exempt from her grammatical corrections: the plumber, our priest and God help me, even my fourth grade teacher.

Additionally, we could never say “I’m done.” Her response was always; “A turkey gets DONE in the oven! People are finished! You’re not a TURKEY, are you???” I was so confused at that point, I started looking for feathers and a wattle.

My mother taught me not to hang onto extraneous “things”. Life was about the people and the experiences, not the stuff.

This is why when I married and moved to away, she used the opportunity to rent a dumpster, into which she unceremoniously jettisoned my Barbie Beauty Center, my Barbie Camper, my Giggles doll and most painful of all, my coveted Barbie Dream House!

When I came home to visit and went to the attic to peek at my old treasures, all I found was Skipper’s head rotating around the closet with the dust motes and Ken’s swim trunks. I screeched and she looked at me levelly and admonished: “You do not need a Barbie Camper. What the hell does a 28 year old woman need with Barbie accouterments, anyway? It’s not good to be so attached to things. You’ll feel free once you let go. Free!” Like I had a choice.

But to this day, I’m not a hoarder. And she’s right, I do feel free. Like I have a choice.

My mother gave great fashion advice, based on her own self. I looked so much like her that she would say things like: “That green color looks HORRIBLE on us! Sallow! It makes us look too sallow! Throw that away immediately. Something in a coral would suit us better.”

Guess what? The woman couldn’t miss. I still look like a crap sandwich in green. I really do.

My mother gave excellent relationship advice. When I was in fourth grade and had my first unrequited crush, ending in hiccupping sobs, she assured me not to fret because “every pot has a lid. You just haven’t found your lid yet. ”

Although, when I did find my high-school lid, she cautioned me not to marry my now-husband because we would just “breed a colony of midgets”. (Her exact words).

She wanted to ramp-up the gene pool in the way of height, and so far we were lagging pathetically behind. Well, we did marry… and we did indeed breed a colony of midgets. Sorry, Mom. Maybe my boys will marry Amazonians.

My mother taught me to be fiercely independent because she allowed me to fall down and make mistakes. She did not coddle. She taught me not to settle, not talk back, to show respect. She did not tolerate gum-snapping, slouching, sitting on tables, using a cup without a saucer or making a bed with a lopsided sheet. She taught me life.

Girls: be good to your mothers. When you lose them, you lose a real and true part of yourself.

I pray my Polish Falcon has flown upward and onward and is looking down on me right now. I still need her protection.

And for now, I’m done. I mean, I’m finished.

Good bye, Mommy. I love you.