Things I Never Asked You
This piece was commissioned as part of the In Our Own Words series, which seeks to share the voices and experiences of marginalized individuals. You can find all of the pieces in this series here.
By Cynthia W. Connell
Mom, where is your recipe for Macaroni and Cheese? It was the one you made with the brown, crispy top and the thick golden orange sauce. You remember, the one from your childhood that we would eat on cold winter nights when the sun had set before we sat down to eat. Mom, can you tell me where to find that recipe?
I pulled a blank flower covered card from the shelves of the local Dollar Store. What should I write about this week? She was finally home from the hospital, but who would read to her? I decided to keep things simple, but send lots of pictures. Even though she can’t hear my voice over the phone, she can still see.
Mom, where were you baptized? Did your mother dress you in that white linen christening gown made by your grandmother? You know, the one I wore when I was baptized as an infant? Was your mother happy that at 40 years old, she finally had a baby to wear that dress?
“Dear Mom, The weather is still hot. Do you have a window near your bed so you can see the beautiful bright blue sky of a Northwestern summer?”
Mom, did you have a secret crush on John F. Kennedy after he introduced himself to you while you were sunbathing on that Massachusetts beach? Did you wear pillbox hats like Jackie’s? Mom, did you cry when they killed him?
“Do you get to go outside this week?”
Mom, were you scared when you learned that the calls Dad was taking in the other room were coming from the White House? Did you think Dad would ever come back home again during those fateful thirteen days of October back in 1962?
“I was told that your Hospice worker helps you with trying to get up and around. Are you feeling stronger these days?”
Mom, were you scared when they killed Bobby and Martin? Did you worry about who might be next?
“I sent a picture of your great-grand baby playing at the beach with his cousin. Do you like their matching hats?”
Mom, did you think Hippies were a fad? What did you think of Janis Joplin or Jimi Hendrix? Did you vote for Nixon?
“My daughter-in-law says the baby is talking more and more each day. Can you believe he is already a toddler?”
Mom, did you regret being a housewife instead of having a career?
Were you in favor of abortion because you had friends who died trying to get one?
“Are you comfortable?”
Mom, did you have regrets when I moved away to college?
I hold my pen above the paper and struggle to think of another question to ask; something casual that doesn’t need a reply, because there will never be one. I can only think of the questions I waited too long to ask.
Mom, did you ever dream about my wedding or cry on the day I got married in the Temple because you weren’t a Latter-day Saint and couldn’t attend?
I want to say that we pray for her, or, if I could, I would find a Catholic Church and light a candle there, but our local Catholic Church shut its doors years ago.
Mom, have your grandchildren made you proud?
I am running out of space on my card. I am running out of time.
Mom, it is almost time to say goodbye, did I tell you that I love you?
“Take care, I promise to send you more pictures next week.”
If you have another week.
Ann Hinckley (left) and Joan Russell Watte (right) reunited Pancake Party Pals and Belmont Highschool Graduates of the Class of 1952. Seattle, Washington, 2014. Photo taken by Cynthia W. Connell.
Epilogue: My mother, Joan Russell Watte, entered Hospice care shortly before this piece was composed. No longer able to use her hearing aides, her caregivers suggested that I write to her weekly. As our communication ceased to be two-way, my mind began to wander to the many questions I had never thought to ask; the things that would have helped me to understand her better.
Mom was born in Lowell, Massachusetts during the Great Depression. She spent much of her childhood living with extended family members. One of these was her cousin, E. Neal Hartley, a child prodigy who began attending Harvard University at the ripe old age of 12. As he got older, Neal moved closer to campus, but faithfully returned home every Saturday for the family’s dinner of Macaroni and Cheese and Harvard Beets. Since college students generally love a free meal, Neal often brought his school friends on weekends. During the many years of his academic studies, Neal brought home a steady stream of the best and brightest students that Harvard could offer. Eventually, cousin Neal went on to hold a faculty position at MIT, while continuing his regular Saturday night dinner visits with accompanying guests such as the renowned mathematician Norbert Weiner. Mom always giggled, like a schoolgirl, as she recounted stories about her dinners with Norbert, who was brilliant, but the quintessence of the “absent minded professor”. Without attending a single university class, my mom grew up to be a staunch intellectual.
Their dinner conversations covered world cultures, the arts, and the current events of the day, but the subject of religion was never given a chair at the table.
At the beginning of her Senior year, Mom transferred from Lowell to Belmont High School. She made new friends and among them was a classmate named Ann Hinckley. During the early 1950’s, Ann’s family was at the center of Latter-day Saint community life in Belmont, Massachusetts. Ann made it a habit to invite my quiet, intellectual mother to join her and several other LDS friends for group dates. Whatever Mom’s misgiving on the subject of religion, it had no sway when the invitations arrived from Ann to spend an evening at the opera in the company of some handsome, well-mannered Utah-born boys attending Harvard. The dates were wonderful, but the thing Mom remembered most were the happy feelings she experienced when Ann’s mom faithfully waited up for the girls return home, no matter how late, then made them piles of warm pancakes before sending them upstairs for a sleep-over.
As I grew up, I noticed the conflict that existed between my Macaroni and Cheese Mom and her pancake-party side. She was deeply committed to intellectualism yet couldn’t quite explain away that unquantifiable experience she felt among the Hinckleys. Over the years, she never attended church services, but rarely missed the monthly meeting of the local LDS Relief Society’s Book Club and potluck dinner.
More than 60 years after her graduation from Belmont High School, I decided to look up my mother’s mysterious friend Ann Hinckley. Using standard genealogical methodologies, I located Ann in under two hours, only to find that my mother’s Latter-day Saint friend was living in Seattle, a mere 30 minute ferry boat ride away from my own mother. A few days later, Ann and Mom were reunited, picking up their friendship right where they had left off all those years ago. Ann passed away in 2022.
My mother passed away the morning of her 90th birthday, on 3 September, 2023.
Anne, I hope you’re listening. When my mom makes it to where you are, give her a good warm hug and a plate filled with spiritual pancakes. Make sure she gets an invite to the Gospel Book Club and a seat at its Heavenly Potluck dinner. I’m sure she’ll be bringing a helping or two of Macaroni and Cheese, with Harvard Beets, to make sure the dinner conversation is interesting.
Cynthia W. Connell is a multicultural author, educator, and cultural observer. The majority of her ancestors are a combination of French Canadian and Native Americans with a side order of Romanian Jews. If you come to her house, you will find bits and pieces of all the cultures that have impacted her life. She won the 2023 LDSPMA Spark Award for memoir.
