Guest Opinion: Sinatra, Sid and the Mother's Day gift
As we all know, it's Mother’s Day. Each time that special day arrives, I can’t help but think of a particular one that I’ll never forget, but the story actually starts two weeks before Mother's Day in 2002. It was a beautiful, sunny Friday, and I decided to visit my customer, John Hughes, who was the facilities manager at Temple University’s Ambler campus in Montgomery County. I always enjoyed my interactions with John, my friend for many years and a great guy to be with. Aside from doing business, a trip to Temple Ambler was a treat because of the beautiful flowers and trees that adorned the grounds. The campus on that day, April 26, displayed God’s splendor in all directions. When I finished my sales call, I hopped into my car and decided to call my elderly parents, Henry and Kate, to see how they were. It was about lunch time, and I knew they would be home from Mom’s weekly visit to her hairdresser. Although both in their 90s, they were fiercely independent, and Dad provided transportation to and from Mom’s appointment, since she never learned to drive. That phone call is forever etched in my mind.
When Dad answered, I heard bewilderment in his voice — certainly out of character for the tough guy who taught me how to be a man. While he was outside in front of the house, checking his flower garden, Mom was inside making his lunch. When he came in and didn't see her in the kitchen, he rushed forward and found her lying on the floor — Mom had suffered a stroke. I told him to call 911, which he did. As I sped to the University of Pennsylvania Hospital, my mind was racing. Since Mom had arrived at the hospital relatively quickly after the onset of the stroke, we were told that surgery would give her a 50-50 chance of survival. We consented to the operation.
Mom lasted two weeks, never regaining consciousness, and passed away peacefully on May 11, the day before Mother’s Day. When I received that late-night call, there was an air of peace. Mom was deeply religious and certainly had no fear of dying. I decided to wait until morning to tell my father. Dad had held out hope and always believed that Mom would survive, even after we all agreed that no further extraordinary measures would be taken, just to keep her “alive.” When I told Dad that Mom had passed away, he shared that when the EMTs lifted Mom onto the gurney to take her to the hospital, she told them she had to finish making Dad’s lunch first. He smiled, when he told me, not surprised that as she had done for 65 years, Mom would put him first no matter how dire the circumstances.
The next morning, I was home on Mother's Day, thinking about what had happened over the wondrous two weeks the family had shared with Mom at her bedside. I decided to go out and sit near my newly planted vegetable garden to clear my head while tuning in to Sid Mark’s weekly radio broadcast, Sunday with Sinatra. As I listened to Frank’s flawless crooning, I recalled how Mom was always proud of her youthful outlook on life. Even at her advanced age, she loved to have fun and always insisted that she wasn’t old; she was “Young at Heart.” I instantly felt the urge to hear that particular Sinatra song, both as a tribute to Mom and to give me some sort of closure.
I went into my house to call the radio station. I actually reached someone connected with the show, perhaps a producer, to whom I explained that my mother had just died, and it would be very kind of them — and a real blessing to me — if Sid played "Young at Heart." The man was very sympathetic but said that since the audience was so large, and they didn’t want to disappoint all the people who couldn't get through, the decision was made early on not to accept any requests. I understood the policy but simply asked him to please mention my request to Sid anyway, just in case he would be gracious enough to make an exception. Promising nothing, the man gave me his sincere condolences, and we ended our conversation.
I returned to my folding chair on that beautiful Mother’s Day morning and took a deep breath of the cool, crisp air that brought me both peace and calm. As I watched two small rabbits playing “tag” under my cherry tree, my attention was drawn back to my little radio. Hearing nothing else in the little piece of heaven I call my backyard, an unmistakable sound emerged over the airwaves:
Fairy tales can come true; it can happen to you, if you’re young at heart…
I looked up at the powder-blue sky, and — as the tears rolled down my cheeks — I wished Mom a happy Mother’s Day.
Charlie Sacchetti, the author of three books of personal reflections, grew up in Southwest Philadelphia. He currently lives in Burlington County, N.J.
This article originally appeared on Bucks County Courier Times: Guest Opinion: Sinatra, Sid and the Mother's Day gift
