Guys have a way of kidding each other when talking about their girlfriends and spouses, especially when trying to figure out how one of their buddies could possibly have landed such a gem.
They are said to have “outkicked their coverage.” It’s a football term. Ask your husband.
It is one I have heard many times.
It applies to in-laws as well, in particular mothers-in-law.
I know, the stories of husbands and wives who don’t get along with their spouse’s parents are many.
Don’t expect to hear one from me.
Josephine Perley was a gem. How much did I love her? It was not until her daughter and I were about to be married after – how should I put it? – an “extended” engagement that I realized her name actually was Josephine. Most people called her Jesse. Aside from her beloved husband. They lovingly always referred to each other as “Sam.” I liked that.
Once her children started having children of their own, she was forever hence simply "Mom-Mom.'
That is how almost everyone – in particular her adoring grandchildren – referred to my mother-in-law.
She passed away Friday with her children at her side. She was 87.
The first time I walked into my future wife’s home, I got the distinct impression I was being judged. The truth is they had tired of hearing about me from my future wife, and wanted to see what all the hype was about. But not Jesse. Her smile immediately made me feel welcome.
Then she did something else I would appreciate, something she would repeat thousands of times in the years to come.
She fed me.
She was of another generation, one I always saw in my own mother. They were steeled by surviving the Great Depression. After that, life’s other challenges seemed eminently manageable. Nothing that could not be handled – after a good meal.
It did not take long for this most Irish man to understand the importance of food to a very Italian family.
My wife’s grandmother, her father’s mom, who lived with the family, would always greet my arrival the same way. “Get your man something to eat,” she would command her granddaughter, my date. I was never quite sure if they really liked me, or was afraid I was dying of malnutrition. I was - and remain - rail thin. This concerned them greatly. Maybe that's why every time I walked in the house, a plate of food was soon placed in front of me. It took me awhile to realize that was 'Mom-Mom's' way of showing love.
She loved a lot.
I soon learned the only thing Italians like to do more than eat great food is talk about great food. It became something of a standing joke that I would start to turn a tad green while sitting at that huge kitchen table listening to the conversation.
I’ve never been a food guy.
My future wife probably realized this the first time she peeked in my refrigerator and recoiled.
“I don't think those hot dogs are supposed to have that white film on them," she said.
The truth is, in those years before we married, if it wasn’t for my mother-in-law I probably wouldn’t have eaten at all. I didn't have 10 cents to my name, which, oddly enough, never seemed to enter into the conversation about their daughter's future.
I would stop at the Perley house every Thursday night for dinner, and usually leave with enough leftovers to feed an army.
These people loved to eat. Me? Not so much. I did, however, like a beer from time to time. My mother-in-law never drank, my father-in-law only rarely. But they always made sure there was beer in the house. I always appreciated that.
I also came to appreciate something else. Tradition is important. And there is no Sunday tradition more important to an Italian family than Sunday dinner.
Every Sunday at 1 p.m. the extended family would gather at the large table in the downstairs kitchen of the Perley house. Yes, the house had two kitchens. They tell that's another Italian thing. I never saw them use the upstairs kitchen. The downstairs "working" kitchen is where Jesse performed her magic.
There was never an invitation for Sunday dinner. You simply showed up, and Jesse fed you. Massive amounts of food, and, of course, always a pasta.
For a longtime Eagles season ticket holder and still die-hard Eagles fan, that 1 p.m. weekly date was a bit of a problem. My father-in-law, himself a lifelong devoted Birds' fan and season ticket holder, understood. I think that's one of the reasons he liked me.
I would always hustle down to the house as soon as the game was over. And Jesse would always provide a hot meal, regardless of the fact that she had just finished cleaning up from the earlier dinner. Actually, she was about to put out 'round two' anyhow. Like I said, these people liked to eat.
It's ironic that my mother-in-law should pass away just as we enter Easter week. It was a special time for her, and of course it involved food.
There will be no trademark Easter bread this year. Don't ask me how it's made or what goes into it, all I know is that is came to signify Easter. And it was delicious. She literally made hundreds of loaves of Easter bread and distributed them to people all over town.
It was not the only one.
I will never forget the first Easter I spent at the Perley house. It was my introduction to something called a 'fritatta.' It's an egg dish. And that is a bit of a problem. I don't eat eggs, in fact can barely tolerate the smell of them.
The 'fritatta' is an Italian egg dish. Jesse made about dozen of them, some with sausage, some with ham, some with bacon. Think of a rectangular pie, only made with eggs. We're talking about hundreds of eggs.
Jesse, knowing that none of it would get past my lips, always made me another dish of bacon and home fries. Imagine that, an Irish guy eating potatoes.
I don't know how many hours Jesse spent in that kitchen, creating her special dishes. I do know this. Every one of them was made with love. And they were made without a single recipe ever being written down, and without the use of a measuring cup. Jesse eschewed such formalities. Like a great athlete or musician, she played purely by sense of feel, a pinch of this or a dash of that. She made beautiful music in that kitchen.
She also made something else. She made a great family, and a lifetime of tradition.
When her health started to fail, Jesse left her house and lived for a while with each of her children. She spent last summer with my wife and I. It was a great summer. Every night I would come home and she would greet me the same way: "You look great." She liked the idea that I wore a tie to work every day.
I'm glad that I was able, in a very small way, to repay Jesse for the years that she took care of me, and her extended family.
In all those years, I never heard a cross word come out of her mouth.
I never once heard her complain.
She never once questioned her son-in-law, despite any number of times when it was probably warranted.
We've lost a great woman, part of a generation that will never be repeated. She was old school. She wrote cards. Hundreds of them, always hand-written. It is one of the things I have heard again and again this weekend. Jesse never forgot a special occasion, and always sent a card.
I often tell people I think I grew up at the wrong time. I much would have preferred to have grown up when my mother and mother-in-law did.
Life was simpler, less complicated. Family was important. So were traditions.
Yesterday I picked up a piece of palm as I left church. I thought maybe her kids might want to place it in Jesse's casket. She would like that, I think. After all, she and her husband attended daily Mass most of their married life.
They didn't brag about it. It was just the way they started their day.
Like I said, they were a different breed.
One I was fortunate enough to marry into.
And one I will miss dearly.
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