Two past columns concerned levity, the idea of finding humor in an otherwise serious situation.
     That theme is fitting, as my mother typified the notion of taking an otherwise somber situation and injecting humor into it.
     Marie M. Trujillo, my mother, who died in October 2002, epitomizes more than motherhood. Seeing my mom in a nursing home, hours before she passed on to another life, affected me profoundly. They say that when death is imminent, people’s lives flash before them. But how about the survivors? In the time I spent watching her breathing become shallower, a torrent of memories came through me.


     Because Sunday is Mother’s Day, and a perfect opportunity to pay tribute to mothers everywhere, I hope that some of my recollections about my mother may trigger memories on your part as well.
     I continue to be amazed at how Mom would wrest humor from almost any situation. She was a staunch Catholic who went on pilgrimages to Rome, Quebec and Mexico. Certainly the tours were inspirationally fulfilling for her, but she remained a pragmatist. Though moved by the Pope’s blessing of the multitudes, she said the throngs reminded her of people gathering to watch the bat flight at Carlsbad Caverns.
     On visiting a cathedral in Mexico City, she noticed a group of ladies who had walked a distance of several blocks, on their knees. Ever the realist, Mom posited, “God gave those women a perfectly good pair of feet. What a way to ruin a good pair of pantyhose!”
     One of the eulogies for Mom contained the following reassurance: “I have no doubt that Marie is up in heaven organizing things, setting up tables for Bingo or Scrabble.”
     She loved Scrabble, playing weekly with her sister, Manuelita Lucero. They made up their own rules, we know, but as then-octogenarians they deserved some liberties.
     At the nursing home I chuckled over the time Mom got busted playing her other passion, Canasta. Get-togethers had to include Canasta.
     Mom got caught drawing a few too many cards from the pick-up pile—a practice she apparently had mastered since 1948. Deciding enough was enough, her daughters found it necessary to escort her to a private room where they conducted a search of her person. She’d tucked cards into an apron pocket.
    
    The scene took on the appearance of a Snuffy Smith comic strip, in which each of the card players has an ace up his sleeve. What was Mom’s motivation? An acute desire to win? No. In fact, on occasions when she’d raid the pick-up pile and nobody stopped her, she’d make it obvious by clearing her throat. Once, we all ignored her; served her right.
     It’s hard to keep score with rules like hers, but no matter; she simply wanted to liven things up.
     As I squeezed her hand, now with only a weak pulse, I remember how she’d laugh over foot-in-the-mouth happenings. In the early 50s, when she was license distributor, car plates needed to be bought in person. One man, who’d forgotten his car title, feared losing his place. He asked if he could return home and still reclaim his place in line.
     “No problem,” Mom told him. “But will you remember my face?” he asked. In what Mom swore was totally accidental, she replied in full view of dozens, “I could never forget a face like that.”
     Knowing Mom, I’m convinced it was an honest slip. Yet, 40 years after the faux pas, Mom still wondered whether the man’s feelings had been hurt.
     And we never forgot the time a contractor had laid out forms for two rooms we were adding and how Mom snuck out of bed in the dark and enlarged the planned rooms by rearranging the forms. She won that round, much to the consternation of the builders who’d already ordered the material and had to learn the fine art of splicing.
     The last recollection I had as Mom’s hour drew closer was her sense of planning. Once, some of us helped her and Manuelita set up dozens of tables in an east-west direction at the I.C. cafeteria for a family reunion. My sister and I, believing our work was done, waited outside for the elders, who assured us they were “just finishing up.”
     An hour later we re-entered to discover they’d rearranged every chair and table, which now went north-south. Why? “Well, it looks nicer this way.”
    
    Ever loyal, Mom developed a life-long friendship with Nea Escudero, who managed Taichert’s (formerly the Sorority Shoppe). Saturday coffee with Nea at Newberry’s lunch counter began a ritual that lasted into this century. Along the way, they acquired another coffee-mate, Mary Armijo.
     Well, Mom, I’m on deadline and I’ve used up my quota of words.
     Meanwhile, those of us left behind continue to be moved by the outpouring of support and love, especially by the Catholic Daughters of America, on the day we sent you to your final home.
     By the way, I’ve heard that the Hereafter has many opportunities for you to demonstrate your “people skills,” to organize things and to inject humor into everything. Thoreau would have regarded you as one who “marched to the beat of a different drummer.”
     Now just be careful how you handle the cards. Enjoy, Marie!
    
    *And to the rest of you who have lost a mother, who are a mother, or who have or have had a mother (and that includes just about everyone!), please make this Sunday very special.

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