Despite the stigma with such terminology today, my mom proudly epitomized the term “fiery redhead.” She was headstrong, opinionated, and had no problem telling other people (including her twin boys) her opinions on anything. She had strong views on how the world functioned, the value of hard work, and, above all, the need for her twin sons to have each other’s backs. I’d have likely disappointed my mom more by backing down from a conflict that needed to happen than by getting a three-day suspension for a fist fight in 8th grade (true story).
My mom showed love through action. She worked long hours as a single parent at a factory job so my brother and I would have amazing gifts at Christmas, new clothes for school, and homemade pizza for our birthdays. I have many fond memories of this once a year treat, which also happened to be one of the few foods she could cook (by her own admission). These pizzas, with her secret “hot roll mix” crust, were followed by a cake from Wissinger’s Supermarket, always done up in custom décor, courtesy of my mom’s keen ear and the store’s deft cake makers. She knew what we were into…and whether it was Star Wars, Gi Joe, or dinosaurs, it would end up being lovingly rendered in cake icing.
Dolores Tonkin died at age 56 just before Thanksgiving in 1988, when my brother and I were 15. Of all of the regrets in my life, the biggest one is never having a single adult conversation with the woman who had labored so hard to ensure that we were clothed, fed, educated, and set up for success. How I would love to hear her opinions of the choices made and paths chosen, or to welcome her into the home I share with my wife. What a gift it must be to see pride reflected in the eyes of the person who gave you life and sees their best work in you.
My mom started showing up again in my life when I hit my 30’s, at a time when I was finding peace with the grief and loss I had experienced as a child. I had just started as a volunteer for the Healing Patch, a wonderful charitable organization for grieving kids and their families. It was becoming less painful to think about my mom or to talk to others about her. I also noticed that my manner of speaking was becoming more direct, a trait my mom would certainly appreciate; truly, at times I did open my mouth to hear my mom coming out. I was finding peace with both my mother’s absence and my growing resemblance to parts of her.
I still wore my hair long and goatee big and fuzzy in those days, and in the summer something interesting would happen. Strands of red hair would pop out among my brown locks. Sometimes these hairs would get so pronounced they’d actually shine in the sun. I came to expect them as soon as the weather got warm every year. Even after I cut off my substantial mane, I’d still get red hairs bursting through my beard, a little spark of my mom’s fire right in front of me.
Over the past year or so, I’ve noticed the last of the red fade in my beard, seemingly supplanted by an onslaught of white hairs. While it makes me a little sad to think that symbolic connection to my mom has lost its intense color, it somehow seems appropriate today, on my 50th birthday to celebrate reaching the decade my mom was in when she passed. There was, after all, some white in my mom’s red locks when she arrived in her 50’s; what was red in me now is also white. The realization of this new shade of connection will make it all the easier to embrace the white whiskers rather than plucking them.
Today, as I mark the end of my first half-century on the planet, I give thanks to the woman who brought me into this world and who taught me strength, loyalty, and perseverance in the short time we had together. I accept the end of my red accents and, with honor, bear the white whiskers that mark this new decade.
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