My mom, Koutsie, at age three… the waters off Greece, in the background.

Spent a little extra time on Facebook this morning, reading so many sentiments from friends about their mothers. Those still alive and well. Those, aging… battling to enjoy their remaining time on this earth. And those who have passed. It is interesting, touching, and sometimes, tearful reading.

My mother couldn’t understand the game of baseball or add a column of numbers, to save her life. On the other hand, she was a supreme judge of people’s character, spoke eight languages (five fluently) and demonstrated love, kindness and concern for every human being she met. When my dad need absolute quiet, to do his writing, she made sure he had it.

In many ways, our family of three was a typical 1950′s – 1960′s unit. Daddy worked. Mom was a homemaker. I grew up with much of care in the world. Saying my mom was homemaker doesn’t really cover it. Her relationships spanned decades and covered the globe. When she passed away in 1996, my dad received phone calls and condolence letters for months, from every corner of the planet.

As a first-generation American, it’s impossible to understand what it’s like to grow up in another country, culture, and time. Born in Athens, Greece, my mother, and her family lived through World War II, surviving ‘the occupation’ by Nazi Germany. She would describe how non-combatants would search for cover and use anything they had, usually pots and pans, to cover their heads.

She would lend a hand or offer help to a close friend or a stranger, whether asked or not. Laying in a hospital bed, during the last few days of her life, my mother would point out the pain or discomfort of a patient in an adjacent space. Her own pain or discomfort took a back seat to concern about someone else’s plight.

My mom’s good intentions were often appreciated and sometimes viewed as meddling. When she would complain about her good deeds being rejected, I would point out that sometimes it’s better to leave well enough alone, if not asked. Of course, it’s ironic that I seem to have inherited that exact trait and am no better at keeping my distance.

The photo (posted, upper right) is my mom, at age three… bounding up the stairs, with waters of Greece in the background. It was my dad’s favorite. He had it blown up to poster size and mounted in his office.

The caption it deserves is one word: Carefree – It captures her warmth and spirit, even at such an early age.

High Society soundtrack

To this day, I see many things through her eyes and hear things through her ears. Watching an old movie, like The Five Pennies or High Society puts me in a time machine. Listening to Fats Waller or Frank Sinatra invokes her harmonies. Tomorrow night, Jessica and I will watch a PBS Special about Johnny Carson. Wish my mom could be there, too. Something would hit our funny-bone (often launched by Steve Allen) and we’d laugh uncontrollably ’til as tears streamed down our cheeks.

Enjoy your thoughts about your mom, today. And if she’s with you, give her a little extra squeeze.

Andy Ebon
First Generation New Yorker