Simple Living with Wanda Urbanska

Wanda's Diary Entries

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

Last Thursday — March 12 — was celebrated as Girl Scout Day in much of the nation. At my home in Mount Airy, the day was hugely important for another reason. March 12 is the day that my mother, Marie Olesen Urbanski Whittaker, came into the world, more decades ago than I’m able to divulge. (Mother is of the old school about some things, including the fact that a woman of a certain age does not reveal her age.)

At my house a frenzy of activity ensued in the days and hours leading up to the big “do.” The sweeping of floors, the cleaning of counters and commodes, the straightening of throw blankets, the preparation of the meal.

A few weeks earlier, I had mentioned to Mother that I had clipped out the recipe for a delightful new chicken dish from the Winston-Salem Journal.

“Chicken!” she practically squawked. (I guess she’s “old school” about meats, too, and certainly never succumbed to vegetarianism.) I knew from her tone of voice that nothing less than beef would do on this special day. So while I headed to the supermarket with every intention of buying a rump roast for our party of seven, I brought home a London Broil. The butcher had suggested it; it was on sale, and I’m a sucker for both expert advice and a bargain.

Cama and Robert brought a lovely creamed spinach dish; Nick contributed nuts and dried cherries; Henry used the inside of an old birthday card, folded on the seam, to fashion Granny a “gently used” greeting card; all the guests brought flowers.

But the “girl in the cake” of the evening was the arrival from Springfield, Missouri of my six-foot, six-inch first cousin, Scott Kelley. Scott is the oldest child of Mother’s sister, Ruth. A war baby, Scott had bonded with Mother at a tender age; aunt and nephew have maintained a mutual admiration society for the many decades since. Scott is the son my mother never had. Imaginative, creative, eccentric and successful in business. Marie — with her forthright manner and unconventional views (except when she’s being “old school”) — is the mother he never had. Together, they celebrate a love of literature, off-beat experience and each other.

Unlike the skinflint I was in buying London Broil, Scott headed to the supermarket and picked up a couple of pricey bottles of Mumm champagne for the occasion. “Only the best for Aunt Marie,” he told me as we stood in line. A lovely arrangement of Bird of Paradise flowers had been sent ahead. He liked that he’d made this trip for a birthday in which Mother’s age ended with neither a zero nor a five. In fact, this year she was turning something-seven.

The evening, the food — even if the meat was a tad tough — conversation and company soared. Every birthday is a turning point, and all the guests agreed that this celebration marked a turn in time. Cama and Robert gave a progress report in their plan to move from Mount Airy to a retirement community in Winston-Salem. Nick seemed to be settling into his newish role as widower. New friendships blossomed. And Scott and I bonded, maybe for the first time. (I knew it when we were discussing the wedding of our Aunt Margaret eight years earlier in which we both remembered the exact wording of a toast offered by another first cousin.) Scott’s effort to travel many miles for an occasion like this, reminded me that when a loved one gets to “a certain age” — every occasion is to be celebrated; every one promises to make magic.