THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, December 4, 1994 TAG: 9412050238
SECTION: HAMPTON ROADS WOMAN PAGE: 02 EDITION: FINAL
COLUMN: YOUR TURN
SOURCE: BY NANCY SCHLITT LUKIC, SPECIAL TO HRW
LENGTH: Medium: 70 lines
I WAS SEATED at a table in the bustling center of the Norfolk Waterside, trying to concentrate on what my 7-year-old son Jack was saying about what he didn't like about the egg roll he had been pushing around on his plate for about 10 minutes. Then I heard her voice.
Her warm, attentive clucking rolled over the top of the general din of voices that filled Waterside, as parents and children flooded the eating area looking for food after a long afternoon at KIDSFEST. What I heard was a mother's voice, rich with love, warmth and a degree of petulant concern that sounded so familiar to me that I moved my chair around to get a good look at the speaker.
I expected to see someone I knew, although I'm not sure why. To my surprise, I didn't recognize the hefty, dark-eyed woman, dressed in an old-fashioned black skirt with heavy black shoes (I think we used to call them orthopedic). Her legs were covered by thick, black cotton hose that I had not seen since I was a girl. She looked like a woman from another era.
She stood beside a high chair steadying it while a younger woman, her daughter I surmised from the dark eyes, lifted a small girl over the top of the chair and fitted her legs through the front.
I didn't recognize either woman, but there was something oddly familiar to me about the older woman that began to nag at me. My curiosity was piqued, so I continued to watch the two women and the child while pouring soda and trying to peel the egg roll for my son. The little girl upset a full glass from the table with a swipe of her arm and sent liquid cascading over both women, the table and the floor. Then I realized why I was so captivated.
As I watched, the older woman rose quickly from her chair and scooped up the little girl with a practiced stroke, while at the same time she grabbed napkins with the other hand to sponge up the table and the floor. Her motherly manner (that's the only way I can describe it) was almost exactly like my mother's.
I continued to watch transfixed as the older woman returned the little girl to her high chair and comforted her in a voice that sounded so familiar to me in tone and intention that I was surprised I could have forgotten it. But I had.
In moments, the first tears came to my eyes, and I forced myself to look away from the two women and the little girl who were now enjoying their lunch.
My mother died more seven years ago. I am not ashamed to say that I cried quite a bit the first couple of years after her death because I missed her not only as my mother but as my friend. But when I reached year No. 5, I said to myself, ``Time to stop crying. That part needs to be over.'' Not even the Mother's Day cards at the Hallmark store had gotten me to tear up since.
So the flood of tears and rush of thoughts about my mother that followed my encounter with the woman in black last weekend were quite unexpected.
I know for my son, Jack, it was a big surprise to look up from his egg roll to see his mother crying. But, it's funny. When he asked if anything was wrong, I only told him that I had been thinking about his grandmother. In characteristic kid fashion, he asked, ``Is that bad?''
``No, it's not bad,'' I answered.
No, I thought to myself. It's year No. 7 and the tears have returned, and that's not bad at all. Then I smiled at my son and turned my chair to the side so I could face the two women and the child, knowing in my heart that those tears of remembrance felt better than the moments I had ever felt trying to forget.
- MEMO: Nancy Schlitt Lukic is a resident of Virginia Beach. by CNB