This morning while visiting with Estelle I was, once again, reminded of why she holds such a special place in my heart - one usually not reserved for the "notorious mother-in-law."
The aides had just finished giving her a bath, dressing her, combing her hair and otherwise tidying things up when I got there. She was half-asleep and not inclined to talk much so we were just sitting there together being quiet. She suddenly opened her eyes and said, "Oh, you're back," and we began talking about "the terrible rumors," she'd been hearing about a car accident. Today she knew it was not true and that her children, most especially Mark, were all well and fine. I told her not to believe "rumors" and she pointed out to me that there was no way she could tell rumor from fact and the reason they called them "rumors" was because they were intended to mislead you from the get-go.
Her sister, Marlene, called at that point and after fumbling for my phone we called her back. They had a wonderful conversation together - Estelle was talkative and Marlene gave her a run down of recent activities and Estelle vocalized the wish that they all lived closer and could see one another more frequently. She told her the weather here was changing and definitely held up her end of the conversation. Afer they hung up Estelle closed her eyes for a bit and then opened them wide, turned her head, looked straight at me and said, as plain as day, "Well, that was the loveliest of interludes in an otherwise boring existance."
You have to understand, I grew up in the heart of Chicago in a rather poor blue-collar Irish-Catholic family who had little patience for my book reading or my attempts at what they considered, "fancy talk." Girl children were expected to do two things - 1) keep their mouths shut, and 2) get married and have babies. I grew up convinced that absolutely no one outside of maybe Jane Eyre really used words like "interlude" unless they were looking to get bopped in the eye socket. If you attempted to use a word like "interlude" or even one like "lovely," at the dinner table you would get one of two results, your mother would reach across the table and smack you upside the head for "getting too big for your britches," or your father would roll his eyeballs and tell you that you read far too much fantasy and not enough reality and threaten to take your library card away again.
When I met Estelle at my first Passover meal seven years ago I quickly realized that I could finally, finally use all those words that I'd always been slightly ashamed to know - my only fear was that I would mispronounce them because I'd never heard them spoken, I'd only seen them written. It soon became apparent, however, that Estelle was much too kind to ever even consider laughing at a mispronunciation.
While she never quite convinced me to do more than pretend to sip at the wine or actually (ugh, gag) swallow the horseradish she surely made me a willing and eager Passover participant with her wit and her warmth and her wonderous way with words.
She has lost none of it.
It may take her a bit longer to get it out, but it is still there and it is a joy.
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