Remembering “Mother Rita”
April 3rd, 2008, 9:14 am · Post a Comment · posted by Brian
My long-time “adopt-a-mom” in New Orleans passed away a few weeks ago after a long, heroic and dignified battle with cancer. I was asked to deliver a eulogy at her memorial service. It was one of the tougher writing assignments I’ve ever received, but once I started, it was amazing how it wrote itself. She was an amazing woman and will be dearly missed by so many whose hearts she touched. Here’s what I said:
Reflecting on our dear Rita, a line from the film The Lost Boys always comes back to me. Not that Miss Rita had anything to do with a teenage vampire movie, but the line is certainly relevant.
“Every boy needs a mother.”
My “real” mom was naturally concerned when I decided to settle 1,400 miles from home. Sure, by phone call and the occasional visit home, she could fulfill her maternal duties.
But there are times when a boy needs an on-site mother. Fortunately, my buddy Derek Toten introduced me to Paul [Rita’s beloved husband, my “adopt-a-dad.”]. But I got something else out of the deal—I got that needed on-site mom in the person of Paul’s lovely Rita.
That I would get promptly welcomed into the family just seemed perfectly normal for Rita. I suspected she was practiced at turning perfect strangers into new members of the vast, extended Yacich family. Derek, for instance, knew right where the downstairs beverage fridge was. And soon, it was stocked with cranberry juice, my beverage of choice.
My real mom was relieved, and I don’t think a bit jealous, that I had a “New Orleans mom” I could turn to. As long as there was a mom on hand when I needed one, Mother was happy.
Soon Derek and I could joke over which one of us Mother Rita was most fond of. Mock sibling rivalries like, “Yeah, well Mom loves me best” only seemed to strengthen the large, extended family.
We, the newer kids, were fortunate that Kristi and her sisters didn’t seem to mind us being added to the family. But I knew I had really been accepted when I started getting invited to family celebrations and the “real” Yaci didn’t bat an eye when they’d find me at holiday meals. Miss Rita’s hospitality, after all, was simply part of Yacich family life. Strangers were only members of the extended family that hadn’t shown up for a meal yet.
And I certainly brought my share to the table. My assorted foreign students were made to feel just as at home as I’d been. Most were Germans, for whom Paul tried not to mention the war. (“I mentioned it once, but I think I got away with it,” he’d always say, quoting Fawlty Towers.) But we had some Finns, a Pole and even Alex, our token “Vulgar Bulgar” from Bulgaria. At the Yacich’s, no one was a damn ferner for long. They were just more family members who talked a little funny.
The many occasions on which Rita’s surrogate motherhood saved the day, brightened my outlook and strengthened my soul are too numerous to list, but two instances are always fresh in my mind. In the early ‘90s I moved not far from Bucktown and Paul and Rita’s Lakeview home. Soon after settling in to my new apartment, I was preparing to make a supersized batch of Great Grandmother Schnabbe’s hot German potato salad and Bratwürst for the International Food and Music Festival at Tulane.
With skillet at the ready, two “small regiment” sized containers of Bratwürst from Sam’s Club and a sack of ‘tators, I got started.
Then my stove blew up.
I made a frenzied call to Miss Rita in sheer desperation. “Come right over,” she said. Her oven was already warming up when I arrived minutes later. The sausages would cook much better and quicker in the oven, she explained. A large pot of water to boil the ‘tators was waiting on the stove top. My contribution to the German table at the International Food and Music Festival was saved.
On another occasion, when Alex, the Vulgar Bulgar, graduated with his doctorate, I thought an afternoon tea would be a nice, European way to celebrate the occasion. But I had never hosted a tea before, though it didn’t sound all that tricky. So I spent most of my time making the most fabulous pot of lemon curd for the scones. And that was about all I had prepared.
Again, Mother Rita to the rescue.
“Don’t you think we should boil some water?” she gently suggested upon arriving and checking in at the kitchen. All of her subsequent gentle hints and suggestions had me carrying things to the table or setting things out. Only much later did it occur to me that in her gentle, motherly way, Rita had commandeered my kitchen—and saved the day.
As I got to know her, and learned she welcomed my occasional requests for advice or assistance, and she and Paul had semi-retired from video production (as if you can ever retire from video production), I told her she needed to start a motherly advice service: Dial-A-Mom. Callers could:
• Push 1 for cooking tips;
• Push 2 for clothing repair hints;
• Push 3 for advice of removing stubborn stains;
• Push 4 for gardening tips or advice on rescuing plants that have been neglected too long; and
• Push 5 for cat care tips.
(Realizing that Paul might get envious, I also proposed Dial-A-Dad service. We would:
• Push 1 for advice on hooking up electronics;
• Push 2 for car repair help;
• Push 3 for sage stories about the war; and
• Push 4 for character-building parables about walking barefoot to school uphill, both ways, in the snow when he was a kid.)
My real mom passed away more than ten years ago. She never got to meet the wonderful, loving little lady with the big heart who helped her fulfill her mothering duties. But at last my real mom has met my adopt-a-mom, and I know she is heartily expressing her gratitude to Miss Rita for all she and her family have done for me.
I’ve been thinking a lot about Miss Rita this past week. Do you know what I’ve learned?
I came to the realization that a lady doesn’t need to have carried a boy for those first nine months to be his mother when he needs one.
