Mother(in-law)'s Day

Don't get all snarky on me about me about mothers-in-law. Sure they've been the staple of Borscht Belt and late night comics' routines for decades But when my relationship with my future missus reached the point of official engagement, I faced up to the reality of dealing with my very own mother-in-law. I planned on only having one, so I wanted the relationship to go well. And it worked out quite well, thank you very much.

When I first met Eleanor, we lived on opposite coasts--she in a fancy apartment with a million-dollar view of Manhattan, me the poor kid from the Left Coast. My intended and I were a little older than many betrothed couples, but we were the same age, twenty-eight. Since we were the youngest siblings of our respective broods, our parents were also on the older side. My initial impression of my future mother-in-law was quite positive: she was lovely, energetic, enthusiastic and quite attractive for her age (whatever that was). The old saw is that if a young man wants to project how his bride will age, look closely at her mother. All signs looked good.

Mothers and daughters have their own unique relationships and histories, but we sons-in-law are starting with a clean slate. I worked hard to have a good relationship with my new "mom," which she made quite easy. I moved to the Atlantic Seaboard., didn't rush the engagement, pursued my masters degree, got married in a church she approved of. We bonded. The best part of our budding relationship revolved around the kitchen. Eleanor Larsen was a marvelous cook and hostess; I loved to cook while her daughter had little interest in the domestic arts. I relished the opportunity to learn, she had a knack for teaching. Simpatico.

Shortly after my wife completed her medical residency, we became parents of first one, then two perfect baby boys. These blessed events would inadvertently spotlight my mother-in-law's two charming quirks. The first was that she didn't care to be called "grandma." My wife's older siblings had come up with their own solutions: "Grammy," "Grandma Elly," and so forth. I could tell that these compromises were somewhat less than satisfactory for her. The real issue was her sensitivity about her age; there was no getting around the off-putting sound of grand-anything to her ears. We were saved by the creativity of my oldest, who took to imitating his grandmother's  habit of  effusive praise. Eleanor was wont to remark that our new home, our new car, our town and most everything else was "lovely, lovely, lovely." Young Alexander mimicked her compliments by marching about chanting,  "Lovey, lovey, lovey..." A new and satisfactory nickname was happily adopted by one and all (for those of you who are fans of Gilligan's Island, the ironic comparison to Lovey Howell was not lost on us).

Dear Lovey's second quirk was really the annoying manifestation of her obsession with youth. Thanks to her genes and the fact that Lovey was a non-drinker,obsessive walker and overall health nut,  she looked much younger than just about every other woman her age; but then, what was her age, exactly? She not only refused to tell, any discussion of matters that could or would narrow down the number of years she'd been a resident of the planet Earth were not fit for discussion,  ever. Sure, one could approximate, based her oldest son's age and so forth, but only at the peril of the ice-cold silent treatment that could quite possibly become a permanent state of affairs. I flirted with that punishment when I openly ventured that since Lovey and my father-in-law dated in high school, one could guess that she was within a year or two of...? My wife stopped that dangerous speculation in the nick of time.

Truth was, my wife's family had been trained  over the decades to ignore the issue completely. Lovey's birthday was never celebrated. Never. There is a family legend about a surprise birthday party that my innocent and surprisingly naive father-in-law planned in honor of a milestone, perhaps her thirtieth or fortieth birthday (whispered versions vary). Upon Lovey's arrival unawares, the guests yelled, "Surprise!" and the guest of honor silently turned heel and left, never to return. The date was never again acknowledged. Instead, every year a somewhat larger fuss was made and more significant presents given on Mother's Day. So the family tradition remained to the end of her days.

Both in-laws are gone now. When we visit  their final resting place, a peaceful memorial garden at their church, one can't help but smile. Their adjacent stones are simply engraved, "John W. Larsen, 1914~1990" and "Eleanor W. Larsen." Her birth and death dates are not noted. Lovey remains ageless even in death, God bless her quirky soul.