Today is a very special day for our family. It is my mother, Marjorie Gromme’s 95th birthday. With a recipe for long life that has included a dash of clean living, a pound of wit, a pinch of luck (along with great genes and a brilliant oncologist— Dr. Robert Nagourney) my mother has proven to have had all the necessary ingredients for a rather lengthy and fulfilling life.
Starting off in the Midwest as a farm girl, she later became a real Rosie the Riveter during the war, had a career doing social work for Los Angeles County, married and was widowed four times, served in the mid ’70s as Signal Hill City treasurer, was named Signal Hill’s Outstanding Older American in 1994 and has been a member of the Susan B. Anthony Chapter, Daughters of the American Revolution for more than 50 years.
As her one and only child, I have been extremely fortunate to have a mom who I admire and consider to be my best friend. Although one day I will probably miss the opportunity to reminisce with the siblings I may have had, I have been quite content during my nearly 60 years to have had Mom pretty much to myself.
With that said, I must admit that I have happily shared her from time to time with my wonderful stepbrothers Jay and Michael Grommé and their spouses/kids/grandkids. I’ve shared her with my dear hubby Steve, too.
My mom has always been my confidant and best critic/audience. As we have grown older, I have done my best to be there for her, as well. We have grown closer emotionally, especially over the last 15 years, and I find that my favorite part of any day is the time we spend chatting on the phone. Four to five times a week, we spend a minimum of an hour burning up the phone lines. How in the world we find so much to talk about is mind-boggling.
We do a lot of sharing information about our daily routines. I tell her news of Steve’s latest adventures or antics and keep her apprised of what’s new and exciting at the paper. She fills me in on what book she recently read or the latest happenings at her home and headquarters, Bixby Knolls Towers. We also discuss what we should do or where we should go the next time we get together. Yes, lots of times we talk about what in the heck I am going to cook for us to eat or where we can dine that includes gluten-free options. Having celiac disease is no fun, but having someone to share it with makes it bearable.
Mom and I share more than just celiac disease; we are both natural blondes, plus-sized (although I wasn’t more than a size 12 until I hit age 45) and can both say more with a raised eyebrow and a naughty smile than most people could say with a thousand words. I am proud to say that I love to hear people tell me, and they often do, “you are just like your mother!”
With today being the celebration of Mom’s completion of 95 years on this planet, I do want to reflect and remember the fact that we nearly lost Mom several years ago when she was diagnosed with stage-four ovarian cancer. Thanks to the work of local scientist/oncologist Dr. Robert Nagourney, she has been cancer-free for more than seven years. We still can’t believe that such a miracle took place, but it certainly did. We owe Dr. Nagourney our eternal gratefulness and give it happily.
As I have told folks many times, having Mom look at me over the top of her tri-focals still makes me a bit nervous, as that is her signal to me of her silent disapproval, or at least of her pretending to be unhappy with me. Fortunately for me, I can still get a rise out of her, and I have to admit sometimes I do it purposely. Why? Let’s just say I still like to get attention from my mom— good or bad!
For Mom’s birthday 12 years ago, I wrote a short poem and placed it, and a cute drawing of a mother/daughter, on a mouse pad for her to keep by her computer. The sentiment still remains! Happy birthday, Mommy. I love you most!
As I get older and begin to gauge
how I appear at middle age,
It seems to me, I’m my mother’s child—
we’re both even-tempered, not easily riled.
One thing stands out and is quite clear,
we sure look alike when viewed from the rear.
By Neena Posner Strichart, 2003
