We are supposed to avoid and abhor them, not applaud and adore them. Movies show them being thrown from a train or tied to the roof of a moving station wagon. Cartoons show daughters- and sons-in-law hiding behind their newspapers to avoid conversations, or changing the locks (even the address!) to prevent their visits. How was it, then, that I was so lucky to be blessed with a gem of a mother-in-law? Maybe I just chose the right husband, one who is a living legacy of his mother’s kindness and love.
It wasn’t as though I needed a mother. My very own was the sweetest woman to walk the Earth. We were true soul mates, and I loved her beyond measure. But I learned through the years to make room for another: my dear mother-in-law.
We called her “Nani.” At 88 years of age she had never lived in an actual house. Her husband didn’t trust banks or believe in loans, so back in the day, the family lived in a tiny apartment above their small restaurant. Years later when they moved from Michigan to California, she and “Papa” lived in a stuffy little apartment near a busy freeway. So this woman who loved fresh air and backyards with green grass and flower gardens was denied these simple luxuries. A small, second-story balcony filled with potted plants, and a colorful array of African violets sitting in a sunny spot near the dining room window, were her delight. From her balcony, if she squinted through the LA smog and the tangle of electrical wires, she claimed she could catch a far-away glimpse of a mountain. The apartment windows looked down upon a busy city street where police sirens frequently broke through the constant hum of the freeway, and fire trucks raced down the street, sirens blaring. But she saw only beauty, proclaiming their apartment had “a great mountain view!”
Nani had a strong work ethic due to her upbringing on a farm in Michigan and, years later, living in the restaurant that she and Papa owned and operated for 30 years. Back then, Tonies’ Restaurant was popular far and wide in that neck of Michigan farmland. Hard work was no stranger to Papa Tony, the chef, and Antoinette, or Toni, as she was known before Nani became her moniker. She arose early every morning, made upwards of 10 pies each day, and then worked the restaurant until well into the evening. But she never missed her son’s sporting events, often showing up breathless, still wearing her work apron, so that she could cheer on her boy and his team. Nani never missed Mass or any other church function either, always lending a hand and supplying food when needed. It was she who prayed for the family. It was she who encouraged her son to become an altar boy at an early age. And it was she who instilled in him the value of hard work to earn a dollar or two on his own—most often by working alongside his parents in the restaurant. They all worked hard, and everything Nani did was a labor of pure love for her family.
I bore witness to this shortly after we purchased our first home. My long days of teaching left me little time and, I must confess, little desire for spring cleaning. So imagine my shock and dismay when I returned home from school one afternoon to find a sparkling oven, a clean and defrosted refrigerator, and my mother-in-law swathed in apron and rags, scrubbing away at my filthy family room windows. A labor of love? Did she walk into my house and immediately spot my shortfalls?
But as I got to know her better, I saw the light—the light that shone inside this dear woman. She simply loved us and wanted to help out in the only way she knew how. She didn’t have the money for a fancy housewarming gift—a new appliance or flat-screen TV. Her gift to us was herself, and throughout her life she kept on giving.
Nani was our go-to babysitter when my husband and I needed a weekend respite from our jobs and child rearing. Our boys grew to love her as much as she loved them, and that love continued to grow stronger as they grew older. There was always a hot bowl of homemade soup at the ready when they or their dad took a detour to Nani’s apartment—most often when the freeway traffic was jammed. And occasionally, fresh sheets and a soft pillow on Nani’s living room sofa provided respite when driving home for the night was not feasible.
Years later, Nani visited our new home, still under construction. Carrying out an old Lithuanian tradition, she armed herself with rolls of nickels rather than the traditional pennies—“because of inflation,” she said! Carefully, lovingly, she placed a nickel on each windowsill, praying as she went along, blessing our home with the gifts of peace and love. The nickels have worked, we know, and they will forever remain in their places, keepsakes of her love.
Whenever Nani visited, she insisted on helping us—or as she said, “earning her keep!” If there were leaves on the ground, she’d grab a rake. If there was snow on the deck, she’d go for the shovel. If my husband needed help in the shop, she’d be at the ready to hold a board or pound a nail. And her help in my kitchen goes without saying!
Her devotion to her family was never-ending. She was an excellent seamstress before arthritis crippled her fingers. She crafted my wedding gown, and I announced my first pregnancy by depositing a stack of McCall’s baby clothes patterns on her lap. She made them all. Every Christmas, our sons waited for Santa in brand new, bright red flannel pajamas, handmade by their Nani. Her granddaughters greeted spring with crisp, new, hand-sewn Easter dresses. Years later, Nani altered prom tuxedos and made bridesmaids’ dresses. She repaired zippers in surfboard bags and school backpacks. She hemmed pants and altered waistbands. And she did all the creating and mending with the perfect tiny stitches of her love.
Our garments were not all she mended. We are not a perfect family, either individually or collectively. But when problems arose or advice was needed, we knew we could count on a clear head and a soft shoulder. She listened, she understood, she advised, and then she quietly stepped aside while we made our decisions. And whatever we decided, whether she agreed or not, she stood by us. No matter what any of us did, in her eyes, we remained ever precious.
The years took their toll, but even when she became bedridden, her delightful sense of humor remained intact. During our visits, weak though she was, she joked, she laughed, and she continued to enjoy the rather raucous Lithuanian music coming from her tape deck. Her toes would tap under her handmade quilt, and occasionally she would sing along.
The last night we spent with her was a classic. The family was gathered around the dining room table engaged in a hot game of poker. Nani was in bed when she called out and asked if she could be included in the game. Her sons lifted her out of bed into her wheelchair, and she anted up her quarters at the table. She didn’t do well, and in no time, she had lost her money and asked for a loan. My husband said, “Sure. You can pay me back tomorrow.”
His sister exploded in laughter, “You would take money from a dying woman?” Nani almost fell out of her chair laughing! It was her last hurrah and the last night we would spend with this beautiful, loving woman.
Every day, every chance I get, I try my best to pass along her lessons and her love to my sons and my grandchildren. I cherish every precious moment I spend with them, and I know how to do this because I had the best role model there is. Our Nani was the epitome of understanding, patience, and unconditional love.
Nani is no longer with us here on Earth. But if indeed there is a heaven, she is resting there, and maybe dancing, and singing. Because if anyone deserves a heaven, it is she. But she will continue to be with me always—in my mind and my heart. For I have been touched by an angel, and that angel is our Nani.
