I suppose it was wishful thinking in my column of a few weeks
ago. My stalwart mother, Big Daze, did not survive me. She died
peacefully in her sleep in hospice Feb. 2, 2007. After another
hospitalization following the one chronicled, she said she was
simply tired of living with her pulmonary disease.
I suppose it was wishful thinking in my column of a few weeks ago. My stalwart mother, Big Daze, did not survive me. She died peacefully in her sleep in hospice Feb. 2, 2007. After another hospitalization following the one chronicled, she said she was simply tired of living with her pulmonary disease.
I was my mother’s first-born. When she graduated from Cincinnati’s North College Hill High School in 1943 during WWII, she aspired to nursing as a profession, and, although a good Christian woman, was accepted at the Jewish Hospital School of Nursing. She studied diligently, married my dad, and in April 1947, delivered me with many of her nursing school classmates as observers.
I worked on Cincinnati’s “Pill Hill” during college, and it was not unusual for a woman wearing the distinctive cap of her nursing school to spy my name tag and ask “Hey, are you Daisy’s son?” When I answered yes, I always knew what the next sentence would be: “I was there when you were born!” And, in 1972, when my own son, Christopher, was born at Jewish Hospital, the OB/GYN nurse in attendance was one of mom’s classmates. When things got a little dicey with his delivery and I became a bit agitated, Florence told me “son, we got you into this world OK, and this one will be the same. Calm down.” I did.
My mother was a liberated woman before the phrase became popular. My father left our family when I was 14, and she was forced to return to work to support five children. She was hired as the practice manager for doctors Edward Alberts and Sidney Kay, obstetricians and gynecologists. She was very proud of both physicians and her job there, and managed the office for many years. They became lifelong friends.
Mom met John Bezpalec, my stepfather, through friends. They were married in 1965. On his deathbed in 2004, John told me that marrying my mother was the best thing that ever happened to him. He also told me that she cautioned him that before she said “I do'” he had to understand that he was not just marrying her, he was becoming father to her children. He smiled, and said “that worked out pretty well, didn’t it?” I agreed more than he ever knew.
My mother’s name was Daisy Ann. She was always “Daze” to her friends Using “Big Daze'” her nickname to her family, always caused a scowl to cross her face. It was not a reference to her size, which was average, but her manner.
It came about comically. One school day, my mother received a phone call from Mr. Billingsley, the school principal, asking why my sister Susan wasn’t in school. Susan was not home sick; she was cutting school, and my canny mother tumbled to that at once. She asked Mr. B “Just out of curiosity, is Mary Ann Rogers out today?” Mary Ann, my sister’s best friend, was.
She told him that she’d look into it, hung up, sailed out the door with a full head of steam, and pounded on Mary Ann’s front door, where the miscreants were hiding out. Mary Ann peeked out the curtains and gasped “Oh GOD, Suz, it’s BIG DAZE!”
The truants appeared at the principal’s office about 20 minutes later. EWB, usually a stern man, burst out laughing, and told my sister as she departed for detention “Hey, Susan, if your mom ever wants a job as truant officer, have her call me!” Susan wasted no time telling everyone of the incident, and my mother was “Big Daze” to her children forever after.
As grandchildren came along, mom retired. She enjoyed sewing, cooking, collecting owl figurines and especially gardening. She was an avid reader, and made trips to the library weekly.
Holiday events at her house were widely attended. She always went all-out with food, and her roast beef and side dishes were loved by all. The census often hit 30, and sometimes more. When she turned 75, she announced that she was too old to cook any more, and henceforth, my sisters would take over at their houses. But, she always showed up early to “assist” with food preparation.
Besides life, there is one precious gift my mother gave me for which I will always bless her memory. She read to me. Not just children’s books, but from a newspaper or a book she was reading. I followed the words, and learned to read. In first grade, I was shocked that other children couldn’t. That fostered a lifelong love of the printed word, and, collaterally, the words you read today.
Mom’s life began on April 2, 1925, two years before Lindbergh flew the Atlantic and ended 38 years after men walked on the moon. It was a marvelous time in human history to have lived, and especially as well as she did. Although saddened by her death, I am proud she lived, and most of all, proud that I was her son.
