Sunday, October 26, 2014, is Mother-In-Law Day. Mothers-in-law are a favorite butt of jokes for stand-up comedians. Rumble seats in the old coupes and roadsters were called mother-in-law seats because those who rode in them were out of the passenger compartment, and presumably out of the driver’s hair. If you google “mother-in-law jokes” you will have page after page of sites listed. A few of the less offensive ones are listed below:
Adam was the happiest man who ever lived because he didn’t have a mother-in-law.
My mother-in-law’s second car is a broom.
A man in a bar says to his friend, “My mother-in-law is an angel.” His friend replies, “You’re lucky. Mine’s still alive.”
Q: What’s the difference between an outlaw and my mother-in-law? A: An outlaw is wanted!
The definition of mixed emotions is seeing your mother-in-law drive over the cliff in your new Porsche.
So is Mother-In-Law Day a joke, too? Absolutely not. Started in 1934 by a newspaper editor in Amarillo, Texas, it is now observed on the fourth Sunday in October. Or not. Over the last eighty years it has not exactly caught fire. But do mothers-in-law deserve the almost universal vilification and lack of recognition they have received? Maybe some do, for there are both good ones and bad ones. Yet, if anyone suggested ignoring Mother’s Day and Father’s Day because some mothers and fathers have not deserved to be honored, they would be booed and driven from the stage in a shower of rotten tomatoes. In that spirit, let we who loved our mothers-in-law honor them on Mother-In-Law Day. I will, even though mine is no longer on this earth.
From the moment we first met, my mother-in-law and I hit it off. Her name was LaTruda, a name she hated, so she went by True. It was an appropriate name for her because if anyone was true to the ones she loved, it was she. She was attractive, lively and had an incredible wit. If she were angry with someone, that wit could have a razor edge. However, in the 36 years I knew her, she never turned her quick mind against me. In fact, my wife (an only child) used to say that she knew we had to work any disagreements out because she could never “run home to Mama.” She said that Mama would have sent her back to me, her buddy.
My mother-in-law thought that the term “in-law” was demeaning to me and seldom used it. At a country club event to which my mother-in-law (sorry, True) belonged, we took an opportunity to dance together. A woman who was also a member asked her who I was. “My son, Ron,” she replied without hesitation. The lady smiled. “Oh, I can see the resemblance.” We both had a hard time stifling our laughter.
To say we were simpatico would be an understatement. She had a flair for style and I enjoy dressing with a flair. We had similar tastes in music, including classical, 40′s swing, rock and roll, and jazz, however she was a fine musician (like my wife), while I could only listen to the music. We both were avid readers, devouring books. We both enjoyed crossword puzzles. We both took Latin in high school, the “dead language.” We both enjoyed a similar sense of humor, oft considered warped by those who did not think in the same way we did.
After college, I ended up working in my in-laws’ family business. I ran one of two locations and had pretty much total control of its day-to-day operation. They also almost always had a house close to my wife and me. For 16 years, they even had one on the same property as ours. We went on a number of cruises as a family over the years. Normally, that would be a recipe for disaster: working, living and playing in such close proximity with family often causes friction. Such was not the case with my mother-in-law. While there were a few occasions when my father-in-law and I had problems, my mother-in-law stood as Horatio on the bridge against his angry outbursts (which he did have). Her rapier wit provided a great defense.
In 1994, we sold the family business and in 1995 all moved to the Isle of Man in the British Isles. There were my wife and myself, our daughter, my in-laws and our Sheltie, Fionna. We all lived on the same property and I remodeled their place, former stables, to reflect a bit of Southern California and to include conveniences not common in the Isles, such as a large shower with hot water from a pressurized tank and a side-by-side refrigerator. It was during the remodel, when she couldn’t remember what I had just said about the work being done, that we realized something was wrong. She had been stricken with Alzheimer’s. Even as this horrendous disease attacked her, she kept her sense of humor. “There’s one advantage,” she once told me. “I can read the same book over and over again.” One byproduct of the disease is a lowering of inhibitions. When she first went to the hairstylists with my wife, the assistant was a woman named Fionna. “Fionna?” she asked. “I have a . . .” She paused. My wife’s heart almost stopped as she expected the woman to be equated with our dog. “. . . a friend with your name.” To this day, I wonder if she were playing a mind game.
Due to my father-in-laws’ medical problems, we moved back to the States. While pricier, the medical care in the States had more to offer. But there was no “magic pill” for True’s condition. As her disease progressed, she forgot my name, but she would look at me and say, “You’re a good man.” After her passing, I wrote her eulogy, which was sent to all who knew and loved her. It was a woeful duty and a great honor. As her son, it was also my right. So I now honor her memory on Mother-In-Law Day, although Altera Matris Diem, translated from Latin as “Other Mother’s Day,” would be much more appropriate and I am sure one she would prefer. It is also a title she deserves.