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WILKES-BARRE — Yesterday, Sept. 25, was my mom’s birthday. Elizabeth Kraszewski O’Boyle would have been 96.
That is had she not died on May 10, 1968, at the age of 42.
Yes, I am eternally sad that she lived such a short life. And I have many extremely selfish reasons for missing her. She taught me so much. And with my dad, they provided everything I needed to know to live life in the real world.
As I write this, I fight back the tears. Even 53 years after her death, I still get emotional when I think of her and my dad. I wish I could have had them both in my life for many more years, but that’s not the way the story was written.
I always like to tell the story of my mom’s love of art. My mom had a genuine appreciation for life and people, and she sincerely loved art. Her dream was to one day stand face to face with the Mona Lisa — Leonardo da Vinci’s masterpiece that hangs in the Louvre in Paris.
Sadly, my mom never got to see the Mona Lisa. She died the day before Mother’s Day in the year I graduated high school. I often think how many other “bucket-list items” she never had time to scratch off her list.
In 2000, I decided to take a trip that would include a stop in Paris and a visit to the Louvre and a date with the Mona Lisa. It was a trip to London, Paris, Rome and Florence, and was filled with memories that will last a lifetime. It was a trip my mother would have absolutely loved.
So I was a little nervous when I entered the massive Louvre to begin my tour. I remember walking past the great masterpieces – “Winged Victory,” “Venus de Milo,” Rembrandts, Renoirs, van Goghs, Michelangelos, Manets and Monets. And then we walked through one gallery into another and we were told, “The Mona Lisa is displayed in this room.”
I got emotional and I choked up a bit and realized that I was about to stare into the eyes of the world’s most famous painting. But I was not going to view this lovely lady alone. I was going to look at the Mona Lisa through the eyes of my mother.
On this September day, Elizabeth Kraszewski O’Boyle finally would get to see her favorite painting.
It was more than emotional for me. It was an experience that I didn’t want to end. I wanted my mom to be there and in many ways, through my DNA and my faith, she was.
For the last 53 years, I have celebrated my mom’s birthday without her. She was the best role model and the best person I have ever known and even though she had been sick for three years, her death was devastating to me and my dad — the other best person I have ever known.
Not one day has passed since her death that I have not thought about her. The memories are vivid and always will be — she has been with me every day of my life in everything I do.
Our house was somewhat unique — three people and four good legs among us — I had two of them, my mom wore a brace on her left leg and my dad lost his right leg in World War II. And trust me, I was the least productive of the three of us when it came to household chores.
The youngest of nine children born of Polish immigrants, my mother was far ahead of her time. She saw the good in everyone, regardless of race, religion or status. I learned many lessons while growing up on Reynolds Street in Plymouth — lessons that live within me as she does.
Another story that shows my mother’s heart that was filled with compassion is about a kid next door. The family was of little means. They had three children — one was mentally challenged. His name was Chuckie.
Every summer day in our neighborhood the Mr. Softee ice cream vendor truck would drive through, dispensing ice cream, milk shakes, sundaes and smiles to kids in need of their daily sugar fixes. I was no exception. Every day I would ask my mom for money to get a Mr. Softee treat.
My mother would always comply, but always with a condition — I first had to ask Chuckie what he wanted and get it for him. And I did — Chuckie would request his usual — a vanilla cone. Once I delivered that to Chuckie, then and only then would my mother give me the necessary financing for my treat. And all this would happen in full view of my neighborhood pals who were already slurping shakes or shoveling down banana splits.
But it was a lesson learned, as was the case so many times with my mom. She had arthritis, and her hands and fingers were bent from the illness that had to register insufferable pain that she never allowed herself to show. Still, she would sit on the front porch and stitch old socks together to form a ball that we used for stickball in the street. Whenever we would tear the cover off of one of these stocking balls, she would have another waiting.
She taught me just about everything — to be kind to people, to respect people’s feelings, to listen, to help, to care. And to love her cooking — oh, how I long for her vegetable soup with homemade noodles.
She did what she did best — what all moms do. She reassured me. She comforted me. She loved me.
She still does, as I do her.
Reach Bill O’Boyle at 570-991-6118 or on Twitter @TLBillOBoyle, or email at [email protected].