Jean

Jean Rasenick Marder- circa 1933

 On the wall in our family room, above my desk, hangs a sepia toned, silver edged framed photo of  my Mom,  looking for all the world like a young movie star of  the 1930's. The picture was taken when she became engaged to my dad, at eighteen years of age, with her whole life in front of her. Every time I look at this photo, I miss my mother, desperately.

  Jean Rasenick Marder was born in 1919, the daughter of Russian immigrants, Henry and Celia Rasenick. Her family first lived at Taylor and Paulina on the near west side of Chicago and later moved to the more prosperous Austin neighborhood. Mom had eight brothers and sister, only a small number of whom I remember today. Her family came from Motele, Belarus, a town that was utterly destroyed during World War II. My grandmother, Celia Cycz, was first cousin to Leonard and Phil Chess, the  blues impresarios who ran Chess Records in the '50's and 60's in Chicago.

When she was sixteen years old, Jean left Austin High School to work in Grandpa Henry's  store. There, she did tailoring and catered to the customers who came to buy all varieties of  men's  work and casual clothing. When she was 18 years old, she met my father, Sol, who was preparing to become a chiropodist, or podiatrist as they are called today. They became engaged, and in the winter of 1933, entered into a long and happy marriage.

My mother never finished high school, but in spite of that, set out to educate herself. She was a voracious reader. Any spare time she had, when she wasn't working hard in our store, raising her family of three, or involving herself with Jewish causes, my mother read. My fondest memory is of mom sitting at the kitchen table after supper with a cup of coffee and a book. The kids cleared the table and made a bee line for the t.v. in the living room. Likely ,my dad was stretched out on the couch, trying to get a nap while we bounced around on the cushions. Mom would stay in the kitchen, reading until she later joined us in front of the television. She cautioned us to let Dad nap and shooed us off the couch.

 Mom had an eclectic taste in reading material. She would read the Sunday newspaper from cover to cover, making sure to check the advice of Ann Landers and the gossip of Irv Kupcinet who had grown up with my dad. Next came Parade Magazine and then finally, the comics, which she read aloud to me, until I could read them myself when they were spread on the kitchen floor to keep us off after it was washed.

Mom also read current best sellers, and kept a modest collection of paperbacks in her bedroom. On her bookshelf, you could find Herman Wouk's Margery Morningstar next to Exodus by Leon Uris. One day when everyone was at work and my grandmother was napping, I introduced myself to Nelson Algren's
gritty The Man With the Golden Arm.  I took the book from the shelf to my bedroom and began to read. I never told mom about the book, instead going to an encyclopedia for answers about heroin addiction.
From then on,  I read whatever was on my mother's bookshelf , age appropriate or not. I was probably the only kid who read Payton Place twice.

My passion for old movies and t.v shows comes from my mother. We would scan  the T. V Preview to see what shows were on Saturday night and pick a classic movie. We  watched" From Here to Eternity" and "The Best Years of Their Lives" so many times, we could recite the dialogue. During the week, Mom was home on Wednesday nights, so she'd do the ironing while we laughed at Red Skelton and later, Carol Burnette.

My mother was also very involved in the Jewish organization, B'nai Brith. She took an active leadership role in the women's chapter that met in our synagogue, and helped found another chapter on the southeast side of Chicago. Mom's proudest possession was her Bnai Brith  president's pin, a sparkling diamond menorah with a gold  gavel. There were many  evenings when dozens of women crowded into our apartment. They all had wonderful things to tell me about my mother, as I struggled to avoid their lipstick kisses on my cheeks.

While mom fed us  boring, but filling lunches of macaroni and cheese, tuna and egg salad or baked halibut, she truly excelled at making excellent Sabbath meals. After lighting candles and saying the blessing over wine and challah, we would settle in for the evening. There was homemade chicken soup with plump, tender, matzo balls, roast chicken, veal, or brisket of beef, noodle or potato kugel,(a kind of pudding), fresh salad with my dad's favorite garlic dressing, and some kind of frozen vegetable. Mom never failed to notice that my slim sister Judi,"ate like a bird."
Because we  kids were allowed a small glass of heavy, sweet kosher wine, half way through the meal we struggled to keep awake for dessert. Our choice was limited to non-dairy items: there was a plate of cookies, the inevitable baked apple, kosher jello that never quite made the grade, and my favorite, fruit cocktail with a prized ,genuine maraschino cherry.

  Please notice that mom did not believe in soda with a Sabbath meal. She said that it would only fill you up and "pollute you."  You figure that one out, because I never could.  We could have juice or water only when we proved that our plate was clean. As a teenager, I finally  convinced my mom that diet cola would do us no harm.Now, I 'm not so sure, considering the kind of sweeteners they used then.

My mother worked long and hard to develop the family business. When my father returned to his podiatry practice in the early '60's, mom took over running the store herself, with Dad pitching in on week-ends. This worked out very well, because my mother was savvy enough to carry the kind of shoes that fit the custom appliances that Dad prescribed. When his patients asked about these shoes, they received a flier from our store. Both the practice and the store benefited from this referral.

When I was in high school, I took an Advanced Placement world history class with an exceptional teacher. His class was both interesting and challenging. One day, Mom started reading my text book and I had to practically beg for her to return it to me. Up to that point, I was doing well in the class, getting low A's on my tests and quizzes. Mom decided that wasn't good enough, because I needed to get a high grade on the AP test. Starting that week she became my study partner, reading the chapters and testing my knowledge. I began getting 100% on all of the quizzes and tests. Mr Coleman complimented me and I told him about Mom's help. He joked that his tests were too easy, and said my mother could probably write harder ones. She laughed when I told her this and said,"Probably."

I expected my mother to always be there for us. When I entered the Army for a summer of training, I called and wrote whenever I could. One day, she told me had been diagnosed with diabetes. I remember the sun beating down on the phone booth near the barracks, but my skin turned icy cold. I had no idea what that diagnosis meant for mom, but I knew it wasn't good. She assured me she was fine, not to worry, that I'd be home soon.
That's when Mom's health started its long, slide downhill. There were no electronic glucometers then.

Monitoring blood sugar was not nearly as effective as it is today. My brother, Bob, was then a resident at Rush Hospital, and made sure to get the best kind of advice and  care for Mom. Still, diabetics are prone to infection, and she underwent one surgery after another.
 One day, I walked over to Rush after doing reserve duty in the Veteran's Hospital.,self conscious in my Army hospital whites. Mom was recovering from an operation, but had a gleam in her eye. When her nurse walked in, she introduced me as her son, and made it known that I was single. Then I noticed that my mother was shivering. As covered her, I became chilled myself, even though the room was quite warm. I knew then how little time we had left together.

All too soon, in  the spring of 1975, my mother was diagnosed with leukemia. She passed away in December, only 62 years old. She desperately needed a platelet transfusion and I spent hours on the phone trying to find donors. None of my relatives responded. Maxine barely knew my mother at the time, but she immediately volunteered, despite her overwhelming fear of needles. The next day, Mom was gone.

The night before Mom left us, I had a vivid dream. We were in the bathroom of our house on South Francisco and I was crying bitterly. The radiator was steaming hot, and on it was a white cotton t-shirt. My mother slipped the warm shirt over my head and comforted me."Don't cry. I know you're sad that I'm leaving. But think about how I must feel." I woke up, went to work, and and hour later, Bob was calling with the awful news.