Buon compleanno, cara Mama

On this day in 1925, an 8-pound baby girl was born to Candido Longato and Giuditta Mason Longato in the idyllic village of Casacorba, located in beautiful northern Italy; a region renowned for its charming towns, rolling vineyards, Roman landmarks, simple yet exquisite cuisine and boasting the gorgeous Dolomite Mountains, Adriatic beaches, the City of Light and Bridges - Venice and more.

This girl - Augusta was her name - was the youngest of eight children and was born into a relatively economically well-off family - by the village's standards - in that her father owned a plot of land, a single family home, and animals, all of vital importance in a small village where people lived and survived off the land. With the rise of Benito Mussolini and his Fascist movement, followed by the death and destruction wreaked by World War II, the situation in post-war Italy was grim to say the least and many people were leaving their beloved land to embark on a search for places where hope and prosperity were the cornerstones of the reigning ideology. And so, in 1951, Augusta packed her few worldly possessions, bid tearful farewells to the family she adored, boarded a ship in Genoa and sailed to Canada to join her childhood sweetheart, Vito Tonin, who had been in Canada for almost three years waiting for her. There, in a pretty town located within easy reach of Toronto, Augusta married Vito and they settled down and proceeded to start a family. A boy came first, born in December of 1952, then a boy in August of 1960 and then a girl (Yours Truly, named after maternal grandmother) in December of 1961.

Augusta Longato Tonin was my beloved mother.

My beautiful mother was the original domestic goddess. She crocheted, knit, embroidered and did fine needlework. She was an incredible cook, a master at canning and preserving, and a master gardener; roses were her special love and she nurtured them to their exquisite delicate glory. Our house was immaculately clean (I came about my cleaning compulsiveness honestly!), but most of all, my mother loved to sew, and a talented seamstress she was. Her (now) classic Singer sewing machine was a cabinet model and she spent hours sewing everything from drapes to dresses, suits to sheets, trousers to tea towels. She even sewed coats. Yes, coats. And beautiful ones at that. In fact, she made me a beautiful camel hair coat that I remember to this day. One of my fondest memories is of a Sunday afternoon in February when I was about 8 years old; one of those days when the sun's rays are blindingly brilliant, the sky is absolutely clear, and the sound one's boots make on the snow - squeak-squeak-squeak - all add up to the supremely perfect winter's day.

My mother was making me a dress for a wedding that we were attending later that spring and I can still remember the gentle whirring sound of the machine, the smell of the sewing machine oil and the color of the dress - light green. She stopped, turned to me and declared: "If you grow up and you don't have a passion for clothes, you are not my daughter!" Then, she winked, smiled and gave me a hug. To this day, when I go on a shopping expedition, I remind Drew that I am paying homage to my mother's legacy. ;-) (She made the coat she is wearing in this shot - gorgeous right? I love vintage clothes. Sigh)

On a side note, at one point, folks raved about Martha Stewart. Puh-leeeeease. A resounding PFFFFFT is what I say to that. Or more aptly, in the brilliant words of the Knight from Monty Python's classic flick The Holy Grail: "I fart in your general direction!"

Beyond her skills as a domestic diva, though, more importantly my mother was an amazing woman, loving and passionate, and a wonderful mother. She insisted on learning how to drive, which in those days and especially for most Italian women was just not the norm. She was an equal to my father - also not quite the norm in those days - a loving wife, a gracious and hospitable hostess and she was fiercely protective of my brothers and me. She loved her family with every fibre of her being, and desperately missed her family back in Italy. Very often, we would make trips to Niagara Falls to visit her nieces and nephews - daughter and sons of her eldest sister (18 years her senior) - my dear beloved cousins, and the only family my dear mother had in Canada, so given her love of family, they were very precious to her and I have very fond memories of those visits.

All was well until 1970 when my mother was diagnosed with a brain tumour. Heavy sigh. I have foggy memories of that whole experience, except I do remember that only two weeks after surgery, she was back on her feet and the doctors were incredulous at her lightning quick recovery. As I've been told, my mother's response was "I need to take care of my family. No time for any of this!" She settled back into her life as mother, wife, domestic goddess, aunt, friend for four more years and then, I distinctly remember her beginning to act peculiar. In fact, one of the symptoms/tell-tale signs of a brain tumor is changes in behavior. My mother was just not herself, and sadly, the brain tumor had re-occurred, this time in an area of her brain where it was a little more complicated. The surgery on this second occasion left her a completely different woman, unable to care for herself and seemingly oblivious to what was going on around her. I remember my father's pain at seeing his beautiful wife reduced to such a state, and while I was young, I could feel things were just not the way they were supposed to be.

My dear father started working nights so that he could care for my mother during the day. By the time my brother and I came home from school and my oldest brother from work, my father would leave for work, and thus someone would be with her around the clock. It fell to me to bathe her, feed her, care for her personal needs, put her to bed and make sure she was comfortable. In fact, I slept in the same bed with her to make sure she slept well, that she had everything she needed, that she felt safe and cared for. We collectively cared for her in this way for about eighteen months, and while some of those memories remain painful for me - painful in the sense that as I have gotten older I understand the heartbreak of watching someone so dynamic, so beautiful and especially so precious, reduced to such a state - I am thankful for the fact that I was able to spend as much time with her as I did, even if it was not under ideal circumstances, and even if I was only 15 when she passed away. Mercifully, she wasn't in any pain and when she slipped away peacefully only 7 months after my father did, as she had long since drifted into her own state of mind and thus, did not suffer. While I am glad that she felt no pain, I miss her to this day, there isn't a day that goes by that I don't think of her and I love her more with each passing day and year.

To my beautiful mother up in heaven, I raise a glass in her honor and wish her a buon compleanno. Ti amo, cara Mama.

Giuditta
xoxoxo