The Writing Mamas Daily Blog
Each day on the Writing Mamas Daily Blog, a different member will write about mothering.If you're a mom then you've said these words, you've made these observations and you've lived these situations - 24/7.
And for that, you are a goddess.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
The Spaghetti Dinner
My family fills four long tables in the gym of Saint Veronica’s. My six brothers, my sister, our spouses and children, my mother and father - we’re all here. Catie, my 15-year-old niece, had a gran mal seizure this morning and is barely conscious. She occupies a wheelchair, her head drooping forward, at the top of our row of tables. Catie and her 6-year-old sister, Annie, are disabled by Battens, a degenerative disease which is terminal by the late teens.
Two women in our home town somehow heard about the horrible disease and organized a spaghetti dinner as a fundraiser for Battens Disease research. Servers bring steaming bowls of spaghetti, two for each table, one with red sauce and one with pesto. Garlic bread, loaded with butter and paprika are already on the table, along with antipasto platters of celery, carrots and olives. The gym is packed. The dinner has sold out.
But the people keep coming. My brother Joe is like The Godfather, with men lining up to see him. All these men that I remember as boys keep streaming in. Boys that are men that love my easy-going brother, who played baseball with him, went to high school with him. Cops who were on the South San Francisco police department with him. They line up in front of Joe, each spending a few minutes saying how sorry they are. Doing that manly teasing thing. Lots of conversations start with, “Remember that time?”
I can’t take it. I offer to take the kids outside to the schoolyard to run off some energy. The dinner has raised $11,000. A drop in the bucket. I think of my son’s wealthy private school that raises $100,000 each year at their annual auction to provide more to children who already have so much. What can I do? I’m not doing enough. Near strangers are throwing dinners and I do nothing.
Corky, my sister-in-law, speaks after dinner. She explains the disease and talks about what life is like for Catie and Annie. She wraps up by talking about her other children.
“I’ve spoken a lot about my daughters, Catie and Annie. I need to also talk about my other four children – Tony, Kelly, Kerry, and Amy. These four children are my heroes. These four are in the trenches every day, taking care of their sisters, giving a life of service. I need to thank these heroes.”
Korky is my hero.
This dinner is another sorry ass memory for our collection of Batten memories. Will we end up treasuring these memories or hating them?
My Marianne Lonsdale
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Two women in our home town somehow heard about the horrible disease and organized a spaghetti dinner as a fundraiser for Battens Disease research. Servers bring steaming bowls of spaghetti, two for each table, one with red sauce and one with pesto. Garlic bread, loaded with butter and paprika are already on the table, along with antipasto platters of celery, carrots and olives. The gym is packed. The dinner has sold out.
But the people keep coming. My brother Joe is like The Godfather, with men lining up to see him. All these men that I remember as boys keep streaming in. Boys that are men that love my easy-going brother, who played baseball with him, went to high school with him. Cops who were on the South San Francisco police department with him. They line up in front of Joe, each spending a few minutes saying how sorry they are. Doing that manly teasing thing. Lots of conversations start with, “Remember that time?”
I can’t take it. I offer to take the kids outside to the schoolyard to run off some energy. The dinner has raised $11,000. A drop in the bucket. I think of my son’s wealthy private school that raises $100,000 each year at their annual auction to provide more to children who already have so much. What can I do? I’m not doing enough. Near strangers are throwing dinners and I do nothing.
Corky, my sister-in-law, speaks after dinner. She explains the disease and talks about what life is like for Catie and Annie. She wraps up by talking about her other children.
“I’ve spoken a lot about my daughters, Catie and Annie. I need to also talk about my other four children – Tony, Kelly, Kerry, and Amy. These four children are my heroes. These four are in the trenches every day, taking care of their sisters, giving a life of service. I need to thank these heroes.”
Korky is my hero.
This dinner is another sorry ass memory for our collection of Batten memories. Will we end up treasuring these memories or hating them?
My Marianne Lonsdale
Labels: Marianne Lonsdale
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