Mom Declares a Holiday

My mom was unique in many ways from her penchant for fuchsia lipstick, her love of purple, her overall fashion sense, and the way she walked. She also had another quality that was different from most other mothers I knew. Much like the federal government and the state of California, in our home, mom had the authority to declare a holiday. This was something she seemed to relish and would do about once a semester. It would go something like this the night before. “Well, Florence, I think it’s time to declare a holiday tomorrow, so we’ll just sleep late, get up at our leisure and do something fun.” Those words were music to my ears. I could sleep late on a school day? It seemed so naughty, but it was mom approved. So the next morning, after mom called in to work, and wrote me a “Florence was ill today” excuse note for my teacher, our adventure would begin. Sometimes our “holiday” consisted of going to Sigmund Stern Grove to sit on the park bench and listen to the band play 40’s music; other times we’d walk through Golden Gate Park, buy a bag of goober peanuts and toss them to the squirrels who would scamper after them, or take a shopping trip to Stonestown and eat lunch at a nearby cafeteria. My favorite trek was when mom said “I think we’ll go visit my sister Pat today. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen her. Aunt Pat lived across town from us in Visitation Valley, and it would take three bus transfers to get there, but oh, was it a special treat. The first stop after we were dressed and out the door was to walk down our steep Kearney Street Steps in North Beach where we lived, to the Victoria Bakery on Filbert Street where the most delectable assortment of Italian pastries awaited us. Mom, who was always weight conscious, first glanced over at me knowingly, then her eyes lit up and she became even more animated as she delighted in pointing to the calorie-laden chocolate eclairs, napoleons, and cream puffs in the glass case as the clerk proceeded, one by one, to put each in the box. Once the clerk wrapped them up, mom handed the pink box to me with a preemptive “Hold the box straight; you don’t want to crush those cream puffs—we’ve got a long way to go” and we were on our way to the nearest bus stop for the first leg of our ride. Once in Visitation Valley, there was yet more walking. I always skipped along while mom had a way of navigating in those spike heeled sling backs she loved to wear which most likely accounted for her “famous strut.” Finally, at our destination, Aunt Pat would be waiting for us with that warm smile of hers. Mom would immediately introduce the box of goodies and Aunt Pat, who like mom, also struggled to keep her weight under control, would peer into it and her eyes lit up and she became animated just like mom had done at the bakery. The thing that was unique about Aunt Pat was that she was the only person in the world who could make my mom let her guard down. I never knew my mother to have any close friends until much later in life. It was not unusual for her to go to restaurants and movies if not with me then by herself. Going solo never seemed to be a problem for her. But when she was with her sister, it was as if they were once again those two little girls, mom the older sister and Aunt Pat, born twenty months later on Saint Patrick’s Day, sitting on the front stoop of their family home in Noe Valley years before, laughing, talking, and confiding in each other. Aunt Pat was her usual funny unpretentious self, recounting stories of the people she’d met and the experiences she’d had during her travels. Mom would break in periodically with “Oh Pat you didn’t.” and Aunt Pat would say “Oh yes I did.”” Every story flowed easily and had a humorous ending. How could she find such humor in everyday life I wondered? I loved it. My mom, the more introverted of the two could finally relax in her presence and that made me relax too. Mom would say about Aunt Pat “My sister is such a card”. I just sat and watched them, laughed at Aunt Pat’s funny stories that bordered on bawdy, and wondered when they would break out the pink box full of goodies. Many calories and a few hours of laughter and pastries later, mom said we had to get back home before the rush hour began. In time to be there when dad returned from work. I’d always be sad at leaving because we were having such a good time and I knew it would be months, maybe even a year before we visited Aunt Pat again. Our holiday was almost over. It was back to reality, which meant school for me and work at City Hall for mom the next day.