Skip to main content

Don't Worry Mom

"Don't worry, Mom, if it is your time to leave this world and join Dad in heaven, rest assured I love you; we all love you. We will be fine; you've raised your children well. I will miss you deeply."

On October 30, 2018, at 2:15 p.m. Mauricette Elaine Ball (Bontemps) left this world, with her family by her side, in the comfort of her carefully crafted home, finally at rest.

My mother was born in La Rochelle, France, on February 16, 1934. She grew up in a metropolitan port with a population of about 60,000 in the late 1950s. Her life dramatically changed at 23 when she met a young man, Donald Lee Ball, from Canton, Ill., while working at the lunch counter on the Army Base where he was stationed in Lagord, France. They married and moved to the rural midwestern town of Cuba, Illinois. Together they raised an upstanding family. Well . . . 

Mother cherished her family deeply. There were no Dr. Spock books from the 1960s to instruct her on how to raise her children. Maternal instinct was her guiding light. She provided unconditional love for her husband, four children, seven grandchildren, seven great-grandchildren, relatives, and neighbors. 

For over 55 years, she served her family in the same carefully crafted home. Mauricette, known as Marci to her American friends, served her community as a cook at Cuba Elementary School, a housekeeper and caregiver for the elderly, and a self-taught beautician. She picked apples at Gillam's Pleasant Row Orchard in Cuba during the fall harvest for 17 years. She loved to knit and crochet blankets and scarves for her grandchildren.

Mom's energy was boundless. Her home and yard were always tidy. When she visited us in California, she insisted on cleaning, cooking, and doing the dishes.

"Mom, you're on vacation - relax," we would say.

She would just smile, nod her head, then do precisely the same thing the following day.

You always remembered Mom's phone number; that never changed. You always knew what address to use to mail her a postcard from worldly travels, and she cherished and saved everyone.

"I want you to call me before you leave for your next trip," she would say. Then, "Call me when you land safely." Always ending with "I love you, son."

Mom's home is plastered with photos, postcards, and Christmas cards, dating back to the 1950s, lovingly framed or carefully placed in a photo album every. Memories of Patrick, Ronnie, Rodger, Michele, and her beloved Doc. Weddings, graduations, high school yearbook photos, her brothers, her mother, her home in La Rochelle, France. Every picture has a story, every story a treasured memory.

As a family growing up, we always sat down to dinner together. But as her children grew and left home, her kitchen became a short-order Diner. When anyone would stop by for a visit, "Are you hungry, let me fix you something to eat," She was probably the best short-order cook in Cuba, Illinois.

"Don't worry, Mom, I had lunch today."

"But it's late; let me fix you something." And always, "I love you, son."

She always worried about her children. No matter how much we tried to assure her we were "ok," even on the telephone, she could pick up the slightest nuance in our voice and ask, "Do you have a cold? Are you feeling ok?"

We also witnessed pure joy whenever we returned to France. Mauricette insisted on taking her kids back to visit their Meme and Pepe. I was too young to really recollect vivid memories of them. I didn't even know their full names; Lucienne Marie Fernande Percot of Lagord, France, and Roger Jean Francois Bontemps, born in La Rochelle.

However, I remember the last trip to La Rochelle with my Mom in 1983. Once our plane landed in Paris, you could see the lights were turned on. Her posture changed, her facial expressions became animated, she relaxed. She stopped translating and was able to effortlessly express herself in her beautiful native French language. Her youngest brother, Jean-Paul Bontemps, was there to pick us up at the airport. The six-hour drive to Lagord was constant chatter; no English was spoken. It was as if someone had flipped on a switch to a power plant.

When we finally arrived, my uncle, Jean-Paul, looked at me, grinned, and said, "Bienvenue dans ma petite Versailles!" (Welcome to my little palace.) After that long ride, we laughed till we cried.

Her sister (in-law), Josiane, smothered us with big hugs and kisses. Then Mom really kicked into high gear. The chatter never stopped until bedtime, "Bonne Nuit, Patrick," Josiane would say, smothering us with kisses.

Mom always took time before bed to check on me and translate what was happening, what was planned, and who we would visit. Of course, she always spoke in French. With a bewildered look, I would wave my hand in front of her face and say,

"Mom, I can't understand you, English, please."

That frustrated her because I had been born in France; we moved to America when I was two years, six months old, and only spoke French. She would kiss me, "Bonne Nuit, I love you, son."

Just how much my lack of speaking French frustrated her, she never said. During yesterday's reception dinner, following her service, everyone was enjoying family fellowship, and I asked my aunt Charlotte, "What do you remember about when we first arrived in America?"

"Your Mom was very quiet; she only spoke hesitantly in broken English. However, you were angry; your world was turned upside down. You spoke no English; you would hide under Grandma's (her mother's) kitchen table and say, "Fima Pachi!" Mom would catch herself laughing, embarrassed. She translated, "Patrick is saying, leave me alone!"

Much later, Mom finally admitted to me that "fima pachi" really meant, in slang, get off my shit. 

Going through Mom's paperwork, I found the original Western Union Telegram sent to my Grandfather, Lawrence Ball, announcing our arrival at  Midway Airport, Chicago, 10:05 a.m., February 10, 1959.

So many stories, such a wonderful life. "Don't worry, Mom, if it is your time to leave this world and join Dad in heaven, rest assured I love you; we all love you. We will be fine; you've raised your children well. I will miss you deeply."
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Most Popular of All Time

The Gopher Problem and the High Powered Solution

Vacationing in Maine this week, just a short drive down the coast from Freeport, it is hard not to think about the outsized impact one frustrated outdoorsman had on the gear we all use today. Bad equipment can ruin a perfectly good day on the water or the trail, but it takes a special kind of vision to turn cold feet into a century-old empire. This is the story of the company we now know as L.L.Bean, but more importantly, it is a masterclass in integrity, learning from failure, and standing behind your work. In 1912, Leon Leonwood Bean faced a persistent problem: returning from expeditions in the Maine woods with cold, wet feet. Instead of complaining, he got creative. He had a local shoemaker stitch waterproof rubber soles onto the flexible leather uppers of a hunting boot. He called it the Maine Hunting Shoe and mailed a flyer promising perfect satisfaction. Then reality arrived. Ninety of his first 100 pairs failed when the rubber separated from the leather. Not an effective product...
Post a Comment
Read more

On Becoming Real

Some things get better with wear: old shoes, old friendships, and old books. Especially old books. A new volume arrives with crisp corners and a spine that hasn’t yet learned to bend. An old one has been somewhere. It has traveled through time in the hands of people who may no longer be around to tell us what they found inside. The copy of The Velveteen Rabbit (first published in 1922) on my desk is one of those books. My friend Don Hanley gave it to me. This late-1950s Doubleday edition features William Nicholson’s original illustrations and cream paper boards softened by age. Worn corners, a split spine, and colored tabs mark passages worth revisiting. Don didn’t hand me a keepsake. He gave me homework. When we talked about the book recently, he pointed me straight to the nursery conversation between a young rabbit and an old Skin Horse. The rabbit had noticed the mechanical toys around him—the ones with internal gears, bright paint, and stick-out handles that seem terribly impressiv...
Post a Comment
Read more

A Dog, a Beer . . . and the Ghost of 1912

Whenever you step into an American cathedral of our National Pastime built before modern ergonomics, municipal zoning, or crowd-flow dynamics, an unspoken understanding forms, creating a welcoming, timeless atmosphere. You trade legroom, sensible corridors, and personal space for the privilege of communing with ghosts. Last week, Lori and I made our pilgrimage to Fenway Park to watch our Chicago Cubs take on the Boston Red Sox (a taut 0–2 contest that felt spiritually tied to their 1918 World Series meeting). Staying just across the Charles River at the Courtyard Marriott in Cambridge gave us one immeasurable tactical advantage: we walked. While the automotive gridlock around Kenmore Square took on the character of the Siege of Yorktown—horns echoing across the asphalt like musket fire—we simply strolled across the Boston University Bridge, enjoying the river breeze and feeling smugly superior to everyone trapped behind a steering wheel. Fenway, built in the spring of 1912, holds rough...
Post a Comment
Read more

Paris – the End of Silence

✈️  In this special episode: Paris – the End of Silence Sometimes, connection arrives in the most unexpected form—not through grand gestures, but through a quiet voice carried by technology. In a Paris apartment, I finally understood my family’s words . . . and felt my mother’s presence in every sentence. Since I was a little boy, France has been both a beautiful and frustrating paradox in my life. Every six to nine years, my mother, Mauricette, would take my brothers and me back to La Rochelle to visit our French family. The moment we arrived, the air would fill with a sound I loved but couldn’t share in—the rapid-fire, musical rhythm of French. My aunts, uncles, and cousins would warmly sweep me into hugs and kisses, their words flowing like a lovely melody I couldn’t quite catch. I’d smile brightly, trying to communicate with my eyes and hands. But as soon as we stepped off the plane, my mother and her sister-in-law, Joséan, started talking animatedly. They were gone, chatting h...
2 comments
Read more