My mother-in-law was a slight woman with a movie star voice. Born the third youngest of eight children, she learned early to speak up for herself. In families that size there was often a line of demarcation between the older and younger siblings (the older ones assigned as “guardians” of the younger ones by over-worked parents).
On her first day of kindergarten, my mother-in-law entered the classroom as Leonora, and left with the Americanized-version of Eleanor. Growing up, her job after school was to come straight home and sweep the whole house. One day she took a break to read a book when one of her older brothers caught her and said, “Put that down and get back to work!”
She glared at him before shouting, “You’re not my father!” But the message stuck, and for the rest of her life, she never again picked up a book purely for pleasure.
In 1954 she married my father-in-law. In the years that followed, taking care of her own family would become her life’s work. She ironed twenty shirts a week: five for her husband and fifteen in total for her three sons who attended Catholic School. She danced with her neighbor, Josie, to Italian folk songs playing on the radio in her suburban kitchen. She made escarole and beans on Friday nights and codfish cakes on Christmas Eve. She stirred her husband’s coffee before serving it to him after supper. She enjoyed her red wine.
She was the mother of a three-and-a-half-year old son when the twins were born (I am married to one of those twins.) One night, she tucked Joe and Jon into their shared doubled bed and turned out the light. But, instead of falling asleep, they discussed the evil cartoon character, Max the Nose. Hearing the boys’ chatter, my mother-in-law returned to their room.
“Why are you not going to sleep?”
My husband spoke for the two of them saying, “Max is underneath the bed.”
Anger rose inside of her, but the anger was not directed toward her young boys.
“Oh, yeah? Where is he?”
Joe pointed under his side of the bed.
“Right here, Mom.”
With long, purposeful strides she made her way to the bed, reached under and grabbed the little monster.
“All-right,” she announced. “I’ve got him now.”
With her fist tightly-clenched around the monster’s neck, she stomped to the window, lurched it open, and threw him out.
“He won’t bother you anymore. So, now it’s time to go to sleep.”
And, with that, her young sons were satisfied. No longer afraid, they breathed sighs of relief and fell to sleep. Max was gone.
My mother-in-law may have lived a simple life by some standards. But, in the eyes of two frightened little boys with a monster under the bed, she was a full-fledged hero.