Remembering Elena ten years later

On January 15, 2012, my mother passed away in a New York City hospital. When I received the news that morning, I cried louder than I had ever cried before. Six days later, on the 100^th birthday of her late mother, Elena was laid to rest in Glendale Cemetery in Bloomfield, just a short walk from her mother’s grave. There has not been a day during the past ten years when I have not thought of my mother. 

I’ve thought about how resourceful she was raising my older brother and me in our apartment in a public housing neighborhood in New York City, squeezing fifteen or twenty cents out of every dime and making sure we ate and dressed well and had some fun growing up. I’ve also recalled how, as a young divorcee, she saw to it that her essentially fatherless sons went to good schools and did their homework every day. 
 
I remember how my mother’s life changed when she remarried and our family moved to New Jersey, where she faced new challenges. I recall her happy smile at times, and the sad look in her eyes on other occasions. I’ve thought about how happy she was on some special family occasions, and many moments years afterward when she enjoyed being with her grandchildren. 
 
I’ve thought about how she insisted on helping take care of me one day when I was in my 40s and had routine surgery, and how she might’ve wanted to help me less than a year after her fatal surgery when Superstorm Sandy knocked the power out of my beachfront condominium for over a week. I’ve imagined how happy she would’ve been at my eldest son’s wedding in Central Park, not far from our former New York City home. 
 
 
I never doubted my mother loved me. I knew it was unconditional love, like the love she felt from her own mother. And I loved her the same. It’s a love I’ve sorely missed sharing for ten years now.

Love the Sea, See the Love

The boy looked out at the sea

and saw a lighthouse.

Beyond its beacon he could imagine

his home, his brother, his mother.

He loved that sea dearly.

It was a direct path to everything

he longed for, for all he missed,

and love that awaited him.

The sea was also his best friend, 

always there day and night,

bringing him all kinds of joy.

It refreshed him, it played with him,

at times it even fed him.

But the sea was also tempestuous,

dancing wickedly with stormy rains,

knocking against his door with anger,

once even climbing inside his room

and sweeping away some toys.

It was like the father he remembered,

all playful and attentive one day,

then angry and furious the next.

But the sea did not leave him. 

It returned, calmed down 

and ready to play, refresh and feed, 

like the good women in his life.

And there were many good women.

His aunt, grandmother and mother 

and others, all took turns

to bring him back to the sea.

They waded in its waters with him,

playing and laughing with joy

as he jumped the waves 

or dove under its currents,

the silky sand under his soft feet.

But none was lovelier than the one

he married and raised their family with.

Many years she would jump right in

to share in his joy of the sea,

and see the boy who was also her man.

His eyes still sparkle by the sea, 

his wife often beside him.

He likes to watch her face 

as she relaxes under the sun, 

the sound of the surf and children

playing around them.

When he closes his eyes, 

he sees the lighthouse, feels the joy.

When he opens his eyes,

he smiles and remembers how much

he still loves the sea. 

He turns to look at his wife,

and sees a love as warm as the sun.

--Charles Bruns, copyright 2017

Remembering a first, and last

One of the most thoughtful things my mother did for me was take me to my first major league baseball game.  It was on August 14, 1965, right around the time of her birthday.

She realized that summer that her two school-age sons had discovered the joys of the American pastime.  My brother Lou and I had started collecting baseball cards, watching games on TV, and playing ball with friends in the neighborhood.  My mother had acquired an interest in baseball while being raised in Cuba, and was pleased to see her kids doing the same growing up in New York.

The Yankees were hosting the Kansas City Athletics that afternoon. Our family's loyalties were divided between the Mets and Yankees, but the fact the reigning American League champions were hosting a bat giveaway at Yankee Stadium on a Saturday afternoon convinced my mom it was a great opportunity to take me, my brother and Uncle John to live major league baseball.

Until that point, my only images of baseball stadiums were in newspapers, magazines, television and baseball cards -- only the latter in color.  You can imagine how awestruck 9-year-old Charlito was ascending the subway station stairs to see The House That Ruth Built in all its splendor in front of him. I was given my first baseball bat, a wooden Hillerich & Bradsby Tom Tresh model, as I passed the turnstile.  We found our cheap seats far away from the infield, and I still remember the home run by Roger Repoz, Whitey Ford's good pitching, and the Yankees winning in the bottom of the ninth inning.

Life was never quite the same afterwards. My mother remarried less than two years later, our family moved in late 1967 to Bloomfield, New Jersey, where she raised my younger brother and sister and usually found herself too busy or tired to enjoy live major league baseball.  All the while, however, my passion for baseball continued to burn.

In the summer of 2011, with all her kids long grown up and out of the house, my mother surprised us by expressing enthusiasm with the idea of taking a ferry from the Jersey shore to Citi Field to watch the Mets.  Our family pounced at the prospect of accompanying her to another major league baseball game.

She enjoyed the ferry ride immensely, marveling at the view of the city from New York Harbor and the East River.  After the ferry docked at the marina by Citi Field, my wife, dad and father-in-law made our way with her way slowly by foot to the new Mets ballpark.  Unlike my first time at a major league game, I don't remember any particulars from these nine innings.  I do recall my mother enjoyed the game from our upper deck seats, and our family accompanied her back to the ferry afterwards for the ride back to the Jersey shore.  The day exhausted her, but for months afterwards she kept telling us what a great time she had and how she looked forward to doing it again.

It wasn't to be.  My mother passed away the following winter after complications from heart surgery.

Today, on her birthday, I'm remembering fondly the day she took me to my first major league baseball game.  I'm also thinking of that late summer day two years ago when I was with her for her last, and wishing she was still with us.