This past spring I knew that somehow and in some way I wanted to honor my mother whose birthday was this month. Although it has been 12 years since she died, I check in with her almost every day, sometimes just to chat, often to ask for her grace or her guidance and I must confess, to ask for her help in finding misplaced objects. People say I look very much like my mother. (Judge for yourself from the photo at the bottom of the page.) My mother died May 14, 1997, in the month of lilacs, her favorite flower.
To her children, my mother was the best mom ever: loving, thoughtful, solicitous, giver of the best kisses and hugs and always, always, always there when we needed her. By the time my father retired from the Navy, she had moved our family more than nine times. Within a matter of weeks of each move, while my dad adjusted to a new command, my mother unpacked boxes, turned the new house into a home, learned her way around a strange neighborhood or base and settled the five of us in school.
While Lucille was reserved, her warmth shone through in her eyes and in her radiant smile. She could converse with anyone - friend or stranger, old or young - because she put everyone at ease. A consummate listener, she became the confidant of many. With a gregarious and fun-loving father, my mother's gracious hospitality and her culinary prowess made our home the favored gathering spot for their friends.
The Levesques grew up poor in Montréal, where my mother lived until she married my father in 1950 and moved to the United States. So that her children could be educated at convent school, my Grandmaman had made many sacrifices. At school, my mother excelled and my aunt struggled. It wasn't until Aunt Jeannine was a young adult that a doctor discovered she was partially deaf, probably since birth. When she was fitted with her first hearing aid, my aunt realized how much she had missed in the classroom, not because she wasn't smart but because she couldn't hear.
