By Richard Mabey Jr.
In late October of 2019, right after Mom, my sister Patti, and I had breakfast, Mom announced that she was going to make an apple pie. The day before, we had just visited the Farmer’s Market and bought a big bag of apples. Actually, Mom picked out the sack of apples. She had it in her mind, at the Farmer’s Market, that she was going to make an apple pie.
For Mom, making an apple pie was a work of art. Just the right amount of sugar. Not too much cinnamon. Peeling the apples, then slicing them up into just the right sizes. And then slicing the slits on the top crust so they were not too long and not too short. Mom never just made an apple pie — she created a masterpiece.
From the time I was a little boy, I always enjoyed watching and helping Mom make an apple pie. She would almost always hum the simple hymn “Jesus Loves Me.” Sometimes Mom would quietly sing the words to this hymn. I remember as a boy, a certain inner peace would come over my heart as Mom hummed “Jesus Loves Me” while she peeled and sliced the apples.
As long as I can remember, going back to when I was three years old, Mom would tell me stories of her childhood growing up in Boonton, on the Sheep Hill area of Boonton Avenue. It was always a magical time when Mom made an apple pie. If I struck out playing baseball with my buddies, or got the cold shoulder from the little girl who sat next to me in Mrs. Raimo’s fifth-grade class, or was struggling through science class — making an apple pie with Mom always healed my inner emotional hurts.
It was while Mom was making her last apple pie, in late October of 2019, that she told me of the time that Dad came to her home riding his motorcycle. Dad had just come home from serving at Hickam Airfield during World War II. Mom laughed as she peeled the apples, telling me how upset her father was that Dad had the nerve to drive his motorcycle to take her for a date.
Mom told me how they had planned to go to the diner in Boonton and then to the State Theater. Dad had brought an extra helmet for Mom to wear. But Grandpa Kemmerer put his foot down and told Dad that he had to watch television with him and that he could eat with the family. Mom laughed as she recalled how her father really laid the law down to Dad.
“The expression on your father’s face. All he kept saying to my father was, ‘Yes, sir,’ as my father made it perfectly clear that he was not going to allow me to ride on a motorcycle,” Mom recalled as she cut the apples into little wedges.
The next day, Mom had a cardiac incident. My sister called the ambulance. They took Mom off to the hospital. We followed the ambulance. On the eleventh of November of that year, Mom had surgery to replace her aortic valve. Sadly, Mom passed away on the twenty-third of December, a little over a month after her surgery.
With great fondness, I look back upon that day in late October when Mom made her last apple pie. I am immensely grateful that she told me the humorous story of how Dad came to her house on his motorcycle during the time when they were dating.
None of us have a guarantee for tomorrow. Forgive those who have hurt you. Love one another. Help the poor. Be kind to others. Offer a kind smile to a stranger. Find your true purpose in life. Forget political differences. Love is the key that unlocks the strains of human relations. For love knows no boundaries.
Richard Mabey Jr. is a freelance writer. He hosts a YouTube channel titled “Richard Mabey Presents.” Richard most recently published a book of poetry and short stories. He can be reached at richardmabeyjr@hotmail.com