Everybody has a memorable story about my mom. The good and the Bev.
“Remember when she chided the server for not bringing enough breadsticks?” my British cousin Mark chuckled. “The wife and I still laugh about that, and about her love of Olive Garden.”
“I remember she’d get up at 4am everyday to start her day. She couldn’t fathom why—on God’s green earth”I or anyone else would want to sleep in until 7 or—GASP!—8am?!,” said my friend JC.
My mom was known for her matter-of-fact, no nonsense personality. You know the ol’ adage, “My way or the highway”? Legend has it she was the inspiration behind that. She also had a particular way of keeping things just so in the house. All items had an exact place, the minutiae of which only she would know. “WHO MOVED THE CANDLESTICKS?” was an oft-heard battle cry heard around Casa Bev. Fortunately, we could always blame the cleaning lady who foolishly moved them .07 centimeters to dust. Mom was very regimented. I blame her chronic OCB, Obsessive Compulsive Bev-Order.
Her love of the TV show “M*A*S*H*” knew no bounds. God help anyone who tried to interrupt the foibles of Klinger, Radar, et. al. When the reruns came on at 6:30pm — you knew to shut the hell up. She could never figure out why — out of all the bazillions of celebs I’d met — why I’d never interviewed Alan Alda. Go figure.
Not to mention, I’ve written entire blogs about her “black thumb”—her innate ability not to keep any living flora alive in the house longer than three minutes. If she picked up a fern at the greenhouse, the plant would muster all its energy to try and fling itself out of the back car window in a desperate attempt to save itself.
Mom was also the world’s best comfort food cook. She put the home in homemade. Sure, she’d grumble that no one else was helping or she was doing all the work, but she could spend days preparing a meal. For her it was a labor of love. I’m already in mourning about Thanksgiving, and it hasn’t even happened yet.
The one thing she couldn’t quite perfect? Pies. I once asked her why she only baked cakes. (Add record scratch sound effect here.) She shot me a look and said, “You are never to ask me about that ever again.” Apparently, she was referring to the Great Traumatic Crust Incident of 1968 which—to this day—no one will discuss. It happened well before I was born, but lives in infamy. My favorite part? She’s been gone nearly a year, and the family is STILL sworn to secrecy.
I think of Mom every day. Her less-than-subtle nuances permeate my routine. Just this morning I glanced up and thought, “You know, I haven’t wiped down the ceiling fan blades lately”
Who does that? I’ll tell you who”The Bevinator. And don’t forget the Murphy’s Oil Soap while you’re at it, dammit.