By David Fortier
Come Sunday morning, the family will be dealing with an unforeseen but not necessarily unexpected event—Nana, my mom, a grandmother, a great grandmother, a sister, an aunt, a great aunt, a mother-in-law, a mentor and a friend to many—yes, a second mom to more than a handful of people—the matriarch of the Fortier clan, who passed on Sunday last.
She died at a rehab center where she had been recovering from pneumonia. Ironically, she was to have been released the same day but won an appeal to stay longer because, while she was recovering, she needed to build up her strength so that she could manage when she returned home. If I have a regret, as I am certain so many others who have experienced this might also feel, it is that I could not be there with her.
So, my mom and some memories. There are so many good ones. For that I am grateful. I am certain everyone who knew her has their own memories, and each is as special as these, so these are not exclusive. My brothers and all the grandkids and great-grandkids have their own memories. That understood, here are a few of mine.
Eva, my mom, for reasons of her own, tried with every fiber of her being to do what she could to support our dreams. For me, the dream was to write. As an aspiring author, and a dreamer, I had no idea just what that meant, but for a period it was tied to knocking out short stories and poetry on a typewriter, which was necessary if I was going to be able to submit my work to magazines. But I didn’t own a typewriter.
Growing up in a household with five boys, few resources (mostly financial especially with the downturn in the economy in the ‘70s), and little privacy (seven of us in a five-room rent), the idea of a typewriter was an extravagance. And yet, one day—birthday? graduation?–my mom lugged a used behemoth of a Remington electric typewriter from the car and presented it to me, for which I will be eternally grateful.
The typewriter was a great gift, but a bigger one was her faith in me and my dream of becoming a writer, which not only required a leap of faith on her part but an act of the imagination. Because she could see me as a writer, I was able to channel that belief in myself—despite all my trepidation.
Two days ago, I found myself rummaging through some of my file cabinets looking for her will (that is another story—I was certain I had filed it away for safekeeping). Needless to say, I did not find it.
What I did find were pages and pages of old stories, poems, notes, that I typed on that typewriter—pages and pages of writing on cheap newsprint in that elite font on metal keys against a black paten leaving smudges that indicated it was time to get out the rubbing alcohol and clean them up. Apparently, I let the cleaning go.
I don’t know if there is anything in those pages that deserves a second look. I do know one thing and that is while the effort may not have amounted to many published pieces, taken as a whole, therein lies her faith in me as an author and the hopes of a young heart.
On a different day, many years later when Mary and I were newly married with our first child in circumstances similar to my mom’s all those years before—we were in a third-floor apartment making due on limited and minimal income (I had recently left one position to take another for less money that would allow me to spend more time writing), when Mary and my mom conspired (at my mother’s instigation) to surprise me with my first personal computer, (a novelty at the time, and a necessity since typewriters make noise which makes life with a newborn difficult).
As oblivious as ever, little did I see where those questions she asked me incessantly would lead. “So, if you were able to get a computer what kind would it be?” Boy, could I dream—and research. I figured one day I might be able to afford one, so why not. I decided on one of those luggables—a Kaypro II with two floppy disks and a nine-inch fluorescent green screen.
It weighed 29 lbs., had a detachable keyboard, and WordPerfect software. The operating system was C-DOS rather than the Microsoft one that we are all familiar with. (Even then, I liked the underdog over the favorite.)
And on my birthday, who should appear at the door of our third-floor apartment but my mom with a used Kaypro II. I might as well have won the lottery. How many emotions cut through me, wondering how it was that I could deserve such a gift, total humility before such a gesture, speechless and emboldened.
I still have that computer, and many of the pages that it produced – this time on a dot matrix printer, and many stories on those old floppy disks that may or may not have been compromised over their years in storage.
These are only two stories about my mom. My brothers have stories of their own about times she appeared from nowhere with a gift to bolster them and encourage them often at times when they never expected anything from anyone. How fortunate for us to have such a special person in our lives. God bless you, mom.
Sunday night, the grandkids will gather online via Zoom from across the global, at least from California and Australia to discuss her service, reminisce, mourn, laugh and celebrate.
“Come Sunday morning” is intended to be a weekly review, a recounting of the past week and an anticipation of week to come. Among its features will be reviews of old and new books, sharing of favorite podcasts, some family news, Bristol events and happenings and issues surrounding education, work and community journalism. He can be reached at dfortier@bristoledition.org.
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