Happy Heavenly 76th anniversary.

You only got to celebrate 41 years on earth – but I know your souls are together somehow, I feel it.

I loved it when daddy would make me take him shopping for an anniversary gift (or gifts for any holiday really). He only went shopping for Mom. Everyone else was left up to Mom to handle. Always clever, daddy would make his mark unique – a new wallet stuffed with bills in every nook and cranny with the ultimate gift being a motorhome). He would make funny noises (his bird calls were epic), entertaining kids of all ages while the parents looked annoyed. If there was not a tag on an item, he would walk up to an unsuspecting clerk and pelt his query in rapid succession of “cuánto pesos, cuánto pesos, cuánto pesos?” While the clerk was trying to figure out what the hell this man was saying, and before they could respond he would emphatically continue with “tres pesos y no más” and would stare at the clerk while I apologized and explained he was just goofing all the while tugging on his arm in an effort to move the process along. Always an adventure.

Throughout my 36 years of your parenting, I learned a lot. I learned that some things each of you said or did were clearly mistakes – but that was how things were done in “those” days. I learned that at a young age, I could always count on my dance costumes being immaculately sewn and within a week after the recital, I would get to see all of the dancing photos my dad took standing backstage – displayed in a dark living room with the old projector shining on a wall. Hundreds of them each recital.

I learned from being the only girl for 13 years, that I was in charge of Mark and Larry. They were almost twin-like being only 17 months apart in age. I learned how to nurture and make up fairy tales and play games and just how to be with children. I learned that being the kid who took charge, I was allowed to take phone calls and make arrangements for Mom to deliver and pick up the 12 inch black and white televisions for Gdovin’s Tv Rentals. Back then, hospitals were not equipped with televisions so St. Mary’s Hospital was our biggest customer. Or, rather the patients were. (A fun fact: Mom and Dad sold the business later on to Al and Dorothy LaCount – Janet LaCount Tezak’s parents!)

Did you make mistakes? Oh hell yeah. Some big ones that still weigh on my heart. I know it weighed on yours as well when you took the time in your 1991 visit to Tucson to be with us as Bob and I renewed our vows in St Joseph’s Catholic Church, to apologize and I saw the tears in your eyes. But, it seems tears always make room for smiles. And so it did.

You both taught me how to act in Church and how to sit still. We were not given coloring books and toys to keep us occupied on Sundays. We were expected to sit and listen and learn. I learned that Sunday was a time to dress up – not in regular school clothes, but our good clothes. I got to wear my little hats and shoes with just a slightly taller heel than my normal shoes. The boys had cute button up shirts and little clip on ties. I enjoyed seeing you, Mom, in your dark crimson heels and one of your large brimmed hats. Being fancy was one of my favorite things. And when you did it, you did it well.

You both taught me some colorful phrases that I would never repeat here. It wasn’t because of the minor swear words – but more the construction of the phrases and how they were not so much as inappropriate, but more so, actually impossible! Yes, you both are responsible for my swearing. Never the unspeakable words people use today, but just the regular old cuss words. I remember I began swearing around age 10. And when I peppered my ramblings about my day with damn and hell and such, Daddy always looked at you, Mom, and would ask you “where in the hell did she learn to talk like that?” and your reply was always “how in the hell should I know??”

Mom tried to teach me to sew. She was less than successful. Dad tried to teach me to beat him in chess. Again, unsuccessful. But you did teach us to respect people and if those people were not close family friends or relatives, “Sir” and “Ma’am” were the expected greetings. Anything else would be met with Dad’s stare while he clenched his jaw or Mom’s glare with her one eyebrow raised. Either one we knew would result in a lecture, when we got home or in the car.

Dad, you had a unique way of teaching me NOT to be late getting home, by presenting me with one of your Great Books of the Western World where I was introduced to Plato and Socrates and Don Quixote. And went a step further by “allowing” me to write a report on the chapters I was assigned and then present it to the family by standing up and reading aloud. You also taught me about taking the vocabulary test in the Reader’s Digest – resurrecting that fun in Tucson during one of your visits, by giving Bob, Ricky and I a vocabulary quiz and taking it a step further by requiring us to come up with a word that the others did not know and using it in a sentence as many times as possible during your 4 day visit. Ricky was the clear winner with his word of the day – Fartknocker. I guess it was a noun (of sorts) referring to someone you found to be unpleasant. Ricky will still use that word, as did his father. From the Gardner-Gdovin dictionary,

Mom- you grew up an only child to a mom of 6. Three boys. Three girls. I am sure the other kids learned from you as well. But it is these things that you taught me that I hold dear to my heart. You were, for lack of a better word, a tomboy as a kid and as an adult. You said what you meant and made no excuses for that. Take it or leave it, you didn’t care if someone didn’t like what you did or said. That was their issue. You taught me not to back down. You allowed me, much to my father’s chagrin, to politely correct an adult if they were wrong. Not always a good thing but the lesson was, when you know you are right, don’t let them browbeat you into changing if you feel in your heart, it is right. You taught me to “be yourself”. I remember going to some school function and I knew the other mom’s would be in dresses and dress shoes and I knew you would wear your polyester pants and one of dad’s crisp white shirts. I also knew that for a school or scout potluck, moms would bring their sharing food in a nice blue casserole bowl or a pretty platter they pulled out for just such an occasion. I also knew that you would proudly carry in your spaghetti sauce stained white Tupperware bowl with your red jello and pineapple and bananas stirred in for taste and plunk that oversized thing right down in the middle of the table. If course, you could not forget the serving spoon with the big plastic handle sporting burn marks from previous meals. I would turn three shades of red, until I see the ladies standing up and serving themselves some good ole J E L L O and commenting, “oh I hoped you were bringing this!” That was you. Comfortable in any situation.

You both taught me love and commitment and loyalty. That lies, no matter how small, have consequences. That life is not always fair and that spreading the family funds for shoes and clothes and school supplies is hard. That fancy parties were fun, but even parties in the front yard with the sprinklers and slip and slides are just as fun and everybody always wants to come back. There is a reason that friends over several years and six kids always conglomerated at our house. They were comfortable there. They had fun there. They thought it was fun that Mr. Gdovin always rode his bicycle – even in the snow; and that Mrs. Gdovin would leave her turkey in the oven to run barefoot in the street and play football with the boys from the neighborhood.

You taught us how to survive on very little food at times and how to get through funerals. We all knew how to handle struggles because of you. But we also knew how to love and nurture and plant and cook and laugh. Those are important things that you don’t get from just a book. You get them by watching and listening and engaging. That is how I learned.

So here’s to you Mom and Dad. Perfectly imperfect. Irreverently believing. And living your life your way. Happy Anniversary.