, we became instant celebrities among friends when care-packages of salami, provolone, biscotti and pizzelles arrived at our dorms. Other students got cheesewhiz and crackers, but we got the wondrously exotic and good stuff, along with the typical socks and other sundry items.

As we grew up, dated, had girlfriends and perhaps wives and children, we began to provide our mother with a reserved distance. Although she was respectful of our space and of our own respective lives, she was still very part of our lives. We provided such distance, at least superficially, lest the dreaded term ‘mama’s boy’ or some other oedipal aspersion might somehow unwittingly attach. In retrospect, that concern was just plain silly.

Through the yea

It had always made me somewhat uneasy. As a boy of 11, growing up in the ethnic conclaves of Eastern Ohio, it truly puzzled me. Those ubiquitous songs praising a mother’s love and devotion. They seemed to be everywhere.

Being a first generation son of Italian and Argentine parents and the oldest of four, it especially seemed a bit out of place. My uncles, after imbibing on festive occasions, would, in unison, sing Italian songs about the love for their long-gone mothers. Grown men, hard working ‘rough and tumble’ guys who were strong as oxes and loathe to show any signs of sentimentality, suddenly tearing-up and singing about their moms. Robust guys reduced to sobbing like babies. It was uncanny, almost embarrassing.

Burly steelworkers would peel open their meat and green-pepper sandwiches lovingly prepared by their dutiful spouses, yet the aria’s they sung at lunchtime were not songs regarding their wives, but often tributes to their mothers.

I even recall a somewhat famous 1950’s Technicolor Fellini movie featuring a sorrowful soldier, far away from home, lamenting the loss of his mother as he sat beneath a blossoming white Dogwood tree. I later discovered that Dogwoods are trees that have an especially resilient bloom and although they do blossom in the Springtime, provide nourishment to living creatures through all seasons of the year. At the time I had thought the movie was truly cheesy, but in retrospect, the metaphor has more meaning.

Growing up in 1970’s American culture, it was at times, to say the least, downright unnerving. The cultural enigma was unsettling. As an American, there seemed to be an underlying sentiment that although people loved their mothers, it wasn’t to be an omnipresent routine celebration. Ingrained into our psyche was the notion that a person grows up and those apron strings are severed forever.

There was one official day set aside to sing her praises, and that was that. I remember my Italian-born grandmother’s utter confusion upon learning that Americans had one day set aside dedicated exclusively to mothers. It didn’t quite seem to make sense to her. It was like setting a day aside to celebrate air, something around us always, and so crucial to our living that it was appreciated daily and didn’t require some formalized acknowledgement.

The word ‘mother’ was part of the daily lexicon. We had common phrases and proverbs referring to mothers, even music dedicated to peoples’ mom’s. My brother, who has a musical band, features reams of Italian songs, tunes, ballads, and operas, with ‘mother’ as a prominent central theme.

In view of this, each of my siblings and I were especially attuned to our mother’s love and unswerving commitment, her dedication at putting our needs, always, before her very own.

From making sure we were loved and well cared for, emotionally and physically, she’s been there. Growing up was especially memorable in that regard. In college, we became instant celebrities among friends when care-packages of salami, provolone, biscotti and pizzelles arrived at our dorms. Other students got cheesewhiz and crackers, but we got the wondrously exotic and good stuff, along with the typical socks and other sundry items.

As we grew up, dated, had girlfriends and perhaps wives and children, we began to provide our mother with a reserved distance. Although she was respectful of our space and of our own respective lives, she was still very part of our lives. We provided such distance, at least superficially, lest the dreaded term ‘mama’s boy’ or some other oedipal aspersion might somehow unwittingly attach. In retrospect, that concern was just plain silly.

Through the year

steelworkers would peel open their meat and green-pepper sandwiches lovingly prepared by their dutiful spouses, yet the aria’s they sung at lunchtime were not songs regarding their wives, but often tributes to their mothers.

I even recall a somewhat famous 1950’s Technicolor Fellini movie featuring a sorrowful soldier, far away from home, lamenting the loss of his mother as he sat beneath a blossoming white Dogwood tree. I later discovered that Dogwoods are trees that have an especially resilient bloom and although they do blossom in the Springtime, provide nourishment to living creatures through all seasons of the year. At the time I had thought the movie was truly cheesy, but in retrospect, the metaphor has more meaning.

Growing up in 1970’s American culture, it was at times, to say the least, downright unnerving. The cultural enigma was unsettling. As an American, there seemed to be an underlying sentiment that although people loved their mothers, it wasn’t to be an omnipresent routine celebration. Ingrained into our psyche was the notion that a person grows up and those apron strings are severed forever.

There was one official day set aside to sing her praises, and that was that. I remember my Italian-born grandmother’s utter confusion upon learning that Americans had one day set aside dedicated exclusively to mothers. It didn’t quite seem to make sense to her. It was like setting a day aside to celebrate air, something around us always, and so crucial to our living that it was appreciated daily and didn’t require some formalized acknowledgement.

The word ‘mother’ was part of the daily lexicon. We had common phrases and proverbs referring to mothers, even music dedicated to peoples’ mom’s. My brother, who has a musical band, features reams of Italian songs, tunes, ballads, and operas, with ‘mother’ as a prominent central theme.

In view of this, each of my siblings and I were especially attuned to our mother’s love and unswerving commitment, her dedication at putting our needs, always, before her very own.

From making sure we were loved and well cared for, emotionally and physically, she’s been there. Growing up was especially memorable in that regard. In college, we became instant celebrities among friends when care-packages of salami, provolone, biscotti and pizzelles arrived at our dorms. Other students got cheesewhiz and crackers, but we got the wondrously exotic and good stuff, along with the typical socks and other sundry items.

As we grew up, dated, had girlfriends and perhaps wives and children, we began to provide our mother with a reserved distance. Although she was respectful of our space and of our own respective lives, she was still very part of our lives. We provided such distance, at least superficially, lest the dreaded term ‘mama’s boy’ or some other oedipal aspersion might somehow unwittingly attach. In retrospect, that concern was just plain silly.

Through the yea

wing up in 1970’s American culture, it was at times, to say the least, downright unnerving. The cultural enigma was unsettling. As an American, there seemed to be an underlying sentiment that although people loved their mothers, it wasn’t to be an omnipresent routine celebration. Ingrained into our psyche was the notion that a person grows up and those apron strings are severed forever.

There was one official day set aside to sing her praises, and that was that. I remember my Italian-born grandmother’s utter confusion upon learning that Americans had one day set aside dedicated exclusively to mothers. It didn’t quite seem to make sense to her. It was like setting a day aside to celebrate air, something around us always, and so crucial to our living that it was appreciated daily and didn’t require some formalized acknowledgement.

The word ‘mother’ was part of the daily lexicon. We had common phrases and proverbs referring to mothers, even music dedicated to peoples’ mom’s. My brother, who has a musical band, features reams of Italian songs, tunes, ballads, and operas, with ‘mother’ as a prominent central theme.

In view of this, each of my siblings and I were especially attuned to our mother’s love and unswerving commitment, her dedication at putting our needs, always, before her very own.

From making sure we were loved and well cared for, emotionally and physically, she’s been there. Growing up was especially memorable in that regard. In college, we became instant celebrities among friends when care-packages of salami, provolone, biscotti and pizzelles arrived at our dorms. Other students got cheesewhiz and crackers, but we got the wondrously exotic and good stuff, along with the typical socks and other sundry items.

As we grew up, dated, had girlfriends and perhaps wives and children, we began to provide our mother with a reserved distance. Although she was respectful of our space and of our own respective lives, she was still very part of our lives. We provided such distance, at least superficially, lest the dreaded term ‘mama’s boy’ or some other oedipal aspersion might somehow unwittingly attach. In retrospect, that concern was just plain silly.

Through the yea

ucial to our living that it was appreciated daily and didn’t require some formalized acknowledgement.

The word ‘mother’ was part of the daily lexicon. We had common phrases and proverbs referring to mothers, even music dedicated to peoples’ mom’s. My brother, who has a musical band, features reams of Italian songs, tunes, ballads, and operas, with ‘mother’ as a prominent central theme.

In view of this, each of my siblings and I were especially attuned to our mother’s love and unswerving commitment, her dedication at putting our needs, always, before her very own.

From making sure we were loved and well cared for, emotionally and physically, she’s been there. Growing up was especially memorable in that regard. In college, we became instant celebrities among friends when care-packages of salami, provolone, biscotti and pizzelles arrived at our dorms. Other students got cheesewhiz and crackers, but we got the wondrously exotic and good stuff, along with the typical socks and other sundry items.

As we grew up, dated, had girlfriends and perhaps wives and children, we began to provide our mother with a reserved distance. Although she was respectful of our space and of our own respective lives, she was still very part of our lives. We provided such distance, at least superficially, lest the dreaded term ‘mama’s boy’ or some other oedipal aspersion might somehow unwittingly attach. In retrospect, that concern was just plain silly.

Through the yea

, we became instant celebrities among friends when care-packages of salami, provolone, biscotti and pizzelles arrived at our dorms. Other students got cheesewhiz and crackers, but we got the wondrously exotic and good stuff, along with the typical socks and other sundry items.

As we grew up, dated, had girlfriends and perhaps wives and children, we began to provide our mother with a reserved distance. Although she was respectful of our space and of our own respective lives, she was still very part of our lives. We provided such distance, at least superficially, lest the dreaded term ‘mama’s boy’ or some other oedipal aspersion might somehow unwittingly attach. In retrospect, that concern was just plain silly.

Through the years, our mother has remained true to form, a committed and untiring woman.

When all is said and down, mothers in general are typically our best friends, our biggest cheerleaders, our link to everything which is real and true. My sister and I, while talking recently, came to the conclusion that perhaps even as much as our own spouses, our mother is indeed our best friend. I hope that others feel the same way about their moms.

In this special season of rebirth, for those who have had the misfortune to have lost their mothers, I am sincerely sorry, memories will always provide a comforting and timeless link to that timeless person.

If you are fortunate to still have your mother, tell her you love her, everyday. Better yet, show her you love her. And most importantly, hold on tight, because like the dogwoods of this springtime- she won’t always be here.