So this is the last post of February, the month of Clare. The recent and sudden death of a friend has me feeling a bit sad and nostalgic. We must remember that life is short and we need to treasure our memories and experiences. We really never know when someone we planned to see around the bend is suddenly taken from us.

Fortunately, Mom left behind a plethora of memories to cherish. As usual, I have invoked my siblings. I can never remember all that they casually tell me over a family dinner, but I will try.

Debbie: Debbie (number 1 child) shared a memory of visiting our grandma JoJo (yup, I’m named after her) when there were 8 or 9 kids in the family. JoJo had put oranges out at each place for breakfast. Debbie remembers being really excited because JoJo had given each kid a ball to play with. JoJo wasn’t one to give gifts, after all, she was on her way to having 52 grandkids (oh yes, 52 grandkids…that’s just grandkids, not great-grandkids). Since my mom was on the younger side of JoJo’s seven kids, she was nearly at 52 grandkids. Let’s face it, it’s impossible to keep up with that number of gifts. So, you can imagine Debbie’s excitement at getting an orange ball to play with. She was already devising games to play with her little brothers and sisters that involved the toys. When Debbie started expressing her undying gratitude and excitement, JoJo got furious. She yelled at Mom because the kids had no idea what an orange was. As Debbie started to toss the orange in the air, still not picking up on the anger in JoJo’s voice, JoJo came around and, inexplicably, took all the oranges back. Mom was nearly in tears, explaining that she couldn’t manage to peel 8 oranges and manage a newborn (there was always a newborn). Wasn’t a can of oranges just as good. Back in those days, everyone thought so. And so, most Weizeoricks grew up thinking that oranges, peaches, and pears came in cans. Vegetables were always frozen. Debbie was 8 when the 8th kid was born, so survival was key for Mom. It’s okay Mom, we survived on canned fruit and frozen vegetables, even if I always longed for a dog, so I could unload the lima beans I simply couldn’t stomach.

Larry: Larry (number 7 child) shared a story of the night he somehow convinced Mom to watch Midnight Run. You must remember, Mom never swore. So this movie would be a bit raw for Mom’s delicate Disney tastes. Inexplicably (that word twice in one post), Mom watched for over an hour. After that point, I guess she had filled her lifetime swear quota, so she stood up and declared, “I’m tired. I going to f*cking bed.” After a couple seconds of stunned silence, the room erupted in a chorus of shock, dismay, chiding, laughing, and high-fiving. To this day, that is the only known f-bomb Mom has ever spoken.

The Belt: One memory we all share is Mom’s belt. We all have humorous memories of the belt. By the time I joined the family, the “belt” had shrunk to a sad, shriveled 18 inch piece of leather with no buckle to speak of. I have no idea if it was once a robust, gleaming, proud brown leather belt with a handsome silver buckle. I’m pretty sure it didn’t start at 18 inches, even if we were a skinny bunch of raggedy kids. When none of us (and I mean none!) would move towards bed at last call, Mom (all 120 pounds of her) would come out yelling and waving the sad, shrivelled belt around, as if she wielded a weapon that was actually threatening. The only kid that I remember getting hit with the belt is Greg (number 8 child). Mom hit him for being difficult for Debbie one of the few times that Mom and Dad went out. While the belt was making contact, Debbie was yelling that he was the ONLY one that was good. Mom felt so bad about it, she never actually used the belt again. So it was sad, ineffective, and unused. And yet oddly, it remained a threat. An idle threat, but a threat nonetheless

Haircuts: To reduce haircut costs, Dad always cut the boys’ hair. At some point, Mom thought he should also just cut the girls’ hair, reducing the need to find other haircut options. So, all the girls in the family were called Tomboys. It was really just a nice way of letting us know that we actually looked like boys with our boy-like haircuts. You tried, Dad, you tried.

Nuns: Mom thought she had free time when she was done having kids, so she started volunteering. She volunteered through the church. She taught the alter boys for many years. Many of my friends can share altar boy training stories about Mom. That didn’t really affect me in any way. I was far more affected by her volunteering at the convent. I spent many hours idling away the time at the convent while Mom helped the nuns with various things I wasn’t involved in. Truth be told, I think those nuns liked to hear Phil and me toss a bouncy-ball around the cavernous marble hallways, even if they yelled at us to slow down. Mom would also take the nuns to the mall or the grocery store in our 15 passenger van. She would load that van to the hilt with nuns, back in the day when they wore full habits. Imagine the sight of 14 nuns piling out of the van in full habit at the mall. It’s an actual image of my childhood. Okay, Sister Helen and Sister Joan didn’t wear a habit, but the others did. And I was usually stuck sitting in the aisle because every seat was used by a nun. I was taken “just in case.” Just in case what? I was 10 or 12. Not sure what I would do, but Mom was always overestimated our abilities to adapt and assist in odd situations. Although, I did help Sister Joan get a bat out of the enormous entrance area of the convent, so maybe I underestimated my ability to help. I now have a long history with bats.

I am way WAY over my word count this week. It’s just hard to close out the month of Clare. It feels like saying goodbye again. February is the month of her birth and the month I last talked to Mom. She died March 8, but she wasn’t conscious after February. So Mom, here’s to you! You own my February. I will revisit you throughout the year, and share Clare-isms with my kids, but you will always have a hold of February in my heart. You have a way of warming the coldest month. And keep an eye out for Rex Appel. He’s a good man, a good father, a good husband, and among the most intelligent men I know (all you other guys can think you’re also on the list, but I won’t tell). He will be greatly missed around here.