Remembering My Mother, "The Writer"

 

My mother, Rita Mary O’Donnell Fries, loved to write.  She wanted to be a writer and I guess you could say she was a writer because when she died she left behind a massive amount of loose-leaf binders and copybooks and stray pieces of paper filled with her words and little stories from her life.

Twenty-two years ago today, November 19, 1998, my mother’s spirit left her physical body.   I watched her leave that day and I knew for certain she no longer resided there.  Have you ever had that experience?  You can tell the person you know and love has left the premises.

What better way to remember my mother than share a random entry from one of her many journals.  This was dated
“Friday, January 5, 1979

It’s almost midnight. I was extremely tired and Charlie offered to finish cleaning the kitchen.  We had a marvelous evening with Donna, Marty Jr. and Shannon.  Marty, Sr. went out with the boys after work. He starts a new job on Monday and will be working out of Water Street.  He said this was not a party. The party is next week.   Joe Fries called tonight and said he was Santa Claus.  Little Shannon got on the phone and said:  “Hello Santa Claus, thank you for my presents and my doll.”

Donna brought in some beef soup which was delicious.  We had roast chicken, macaroni, grated carrots and zucchini. Marty grabbed a bite when he got home.  Donna and the children made cookies with me.  They gave me a beautiful cookie cutter set “The Twelve Days of Christmas”.  There are recipes for making Christmas tree ornaments using them. Marty and Shannon are a joy to have around.  Charlie fixed the electrical shooting game that George sent to Marty.

We saw Charlie, Jr. for a moment.  He was on his way home to Valley Stream with Helen and the children.  I gave him the dungarees Donna exchanged for me.  A Christmas present for Charlie the third.

I finished “Are You There, God? It’s me, Margaret” by Judy Blume.

A strange thing happened today.  A black dog that resembled “Blackie” followed the mailman from around the corner to our house.  Charlie asked if we could keep him.  I couldn’t refuse under the circumstances.  It was like Blackie reincarnated.  But, he didn’t stay.

Sharing my Story to Heal the Broken Child - 6th Grade Sr Delores Theresa

 

TUESDAY, APRIL 20, 2010

Sharing my Story to Heal the Broken Child - 6th Grade - Sweet Little Catholic Girl vs. Sr. Delores Theresa

This blog entry was written awhile ago but since I am trying to organize my "Sharing my Story to Heal the Broken Child" in somewhat of a chronological way, I have decided to repost this entry here. As you know from my last blog entry I have finally left the horrors of Sr. Christiana’s classroom, albeit a bit battered and scarred. In my opinion the abuse in 5th grade was shocking and severe even though I do not remember ever being hit physically by Sr. Christiana. Nonetheless, in my opinion, mental degradation can be just as bad or even worse. That was to change in the next school year.
Here is the true story, as I remember it, of an incident that happened to me as a student in Sr. Delores Theresa’s 6th Grade classroom. I stuck my tongue out and shoved a thumb into each ear, waving my fingers wildly.
It was an instinctive, immediate reaction, certainly not a premeditated crime. I needed to say a thousand angry words quickly. In one spontaneous split second everything I felt was expressed succinctly and with complete abandonment.
She was retreating up the aisle with her back to me, so I thought it was safe. She had proven once and for all, at my expense, that she was the winner and she was in charge.
Then it happened. My classmates let out a roar. They were my perfect audience. A bunch of 12 year olds on the verge of puberty waiting for any type of entertainment, any type of show. Their outburst was as spontaneous as my own - the result of years and years of severe and unnecessary oppression. Hearing their loud, silly laughter, she stopped in her tracks and pivoted in the aisle - rosary beads a weapon at her side as she flew back to me and stood towering over my desk. Her beet red face squeezed in an unnatural way into the antiquated pre-Vatican headgear would have intimidated General Patton. "What did she do", she demanded of my classmates. "Oh dear God," I prayed to myself in utter desperation, "please don't let them betray me". No one answered. No one said a word. I never loved a group of kids more than I loved those kids that day.
If you knew what provoked my anger, you'd have been on my side, too.