A Memory for Mother's Day: The King and My Mother and I

The King and My Mother and I

Mom was washing the breakfast dishes. The kitchen smelled like bacon and Palmolive. Thinking to my fifteen-year-old self, yeah-right, like this would ever happen, I asked anyway: “Hey Mom, do you want to see Elvis in concert?” She turned off the faucet and looked at me.

“What did you say?”
“Do you want to go see Elvis Presley? He’s playing at the Coliseum on July 19^th. Tickets go on sale today,” I said holding up the newspaper to show her.

She quickly stripped off her yellow latex gloves leaving them dangling inside-out on the edge of the sink. She rushed over to the table, took the newspaper from my hands, and slid slowly into the chair as she read the ad. Mom had no patience for nonsense and no time for fun. Money was tight. We never went out to dinner or the movies or got Carvel ice cream. We had only been on three vacations that I could remember. Go to a concert? No way!

Looking at the ad she said, “Your father won’t want to go.” It was the response I expected, the excuse she always used when she didn’t want to do something. Then she said something that shocked me, “Do you want to go with me? I’ll get tickets.” Who was this woman?

Mom hated both vanity and waste. She didn’t wear make-up and never got a manicure. She darned socks and used towels until they were threadbare. She made do with what she had and rarely bought herself anything new, but it was no wonder considering her history.

Mom had grown up poor and much too quickly. Her mom died of cerebral meningitis when she was five. Her dad was drafted into the army three years later. She and her sister were left with their brand new step-mother at their home in Yugoslavia during World War II. They were ethnic Germans. Their ancestors had lived in the area harmoniously with Hungarians, Romanians, Italians, Serbs and others for more than 200 years, and had never set foot in Germany. When Hitler attempted to have Tito assassinated a second time, all ethnic Germans were in mortal danger. They had to sleep in their clothes prepared to escape from Serbian Partisans at a moment’s notice taking only what they could carry. They escaped by train in a cattle car. Because it was safer to travel only at night, the journey took months. Many died along the way. 

In the meantime, her father became a prisoner of war. By the time he was released, he had fallen in love with a woman who worked at the prison. The woman became pregnant, so he started a new life with her and never returned to his family, nor provided any financial support. He left his young daughters to be raised by their step-mother in Germany, a country that was strange to them, among native Germans, many of whom didn’t want them there. My mother was nine years old. Her sister was ten.

After finishing eighth grade, mom went to work. She also began training as a seamstress. At fourteen, she led the life of a responsible young adult. Money came only via hard work and was to be spent wisely.

Mom became a serious, capable woman. She emigrated to the U.S. with my father and her stepmother in 1957. They worked hard all day and studied English at night. By 1959, she and my father co-owned a two-family home. Six years later, they purchased a home of their own.

Mom loved her home and enjoyed entertaining. All holiday gatherings were at our house. As frugal as she was, when it came to having company, she was a very generous host. The food was mostly homemade, but there were also some purchased delicacies. Beverages flowed freely. When anyone stayed overnight, Mom would have them take the master bedroom since there was no guest room.

Another indulgence was music. There was always music. Whether it was soft classical radio on a Sunday afternoon, or record albums that included Nat King Cole, Andy Williams, and movie soundtracks, the little blue light on our Blaupunkt was on. The only Elvis album was gospel music, including Mom’s favorite, How Great Thou Art. I knew Mom was an Elvis fan, but I didn’t think she’d go to a concert. She waited in the rain for two hours to get tickets. 

The seats were close to the top of the stadium, so Mom brought heavy binoculars on a leather strap which she placed over my head like a lei. When the lights went down, Elvis’s imminent arrival was announced with Strauss’s fanfare from 2001, Thus Sprach Zarathustra. Elvis was greeted by a tidal wave of screams and flashcubes. He was wearing a low-cut white shirt, glittering sequined vest, and huge black and white fringed bell-bottoms. The fact that he looked like a pudgy cartoon version of the 1950’s Elvis didn’t seem to bother his fans. There were rippling explosions of light everywhere he turned. His first song was The Wonder of You, the perfect opening for a king who clearly had affection for and was amused by his subjects. As Elvis sang, he bent down to accept gifts from fans in the front row, even kissing a fortunate few. A stagehand, dressed and coifed like an Elvis-wannabe, placed silk scarf after scarf on Elvis’ neck which he promptly slid off and gifted to adoring fans.

When Elvis appeared, Mom grabbed the binoculars, forgetting the strap was around my neck, and yanked them toward her. For most of the concert, I felt invisible which was just fine with me. Mom sat up at the edge of her seat, wide-eyed, with both hands over her mouth as though she couldn’t believe she was really there. From time to time she’d whisper, “What a voice,” or “He’s beautiful.” As she looked at him, I looked at her. I saw for the first time, not my mother, but a girl with a crush on a guy. I was happy to see this side of her, thrilled we had those feelings in common. 

Elvis belted out hit after hit and the hours flew by. His final encore was Mom’s favorite, How Great Thou Art. I stood beside my mother, my heart filled to overflowing, as Elvis’s magnificent voice filled the stadium one last time.

In the weeks before the concert, Dad, feigning jealousy, teased her quite a bit. When he came to pick us up in his white, ’67 Chevy Nova, he asked, “So, how was the concert?” Mom crinkled her nose, and said with a shrug, “It was OK.”

©2013 Rita Maniscalco. All rights reserved.