Happy Birthday, Jane
By: Brian Steele
Tags: Grief, Fatherhood, Family Law, Mothers

April 12, 2014

Happy Birthday, Mom

Every night at bedtime, after tucking the BLT brothers under their rag-tag collection of fluffy, snuggly blankets and miscellaneous stuffed animals, I tell them to close their eyes and have their sweet dreams, and I often remind them of all the people who love them — family, friends, teachers, classmates. The other night, the mention of one of those people prompted some questions from Trevor.

Me: “… and Grandma Jane in Heaven.”

Trevor: “Why is she in heaven?”

Me: “Because she died before you were born.”

Trevor: “I will go to heaven and see her.”

Me: “Well, buddy, you won’t go to heaven for a long time. But even though Grandma Jane isn’t here, she still loves you very much.”

Trevor, looking up toward the sky with his beautiful blue eyes: “I love her, too.”

*****

Today would have been Alice Jane Steele’s 73rd birthday. In addition to all the cards and gifts and well-wishes she undoubtedly would have received from friends and family near and far, she would have gotten handmade treasures from her three grandsons: random “drawings” of lines and swirls, miscellaneous stuff glued to construction paper, partially decipherable words scribbled in crayon. And she would have utterly adored them, and I guarantee they would be affixed to her refrigerator next to a dozen other BLT creations.

Sadly, Jane never saw those artwork treasures. And she never saw those grandkids. As I wrote last September, that’s been the most difficult thing to reconcile these past several years. All our sons know about their grandmother are a few photos (4×6 prints, the only record we have of that pre-digital camera age), the stories we tell and the memories we have.

The memories we have. We never forget the loved ones we lose. But oftentimes, the how and why of that loss — especially one so sudden — is a far-too-predominant part of those memories. What could have been different? Why couldn’t I have been there? If only… And while it’s impossible to completely quell those thoughts, it’s much more important to recall all the special things — funny, memorable, embarrassing, everything in between — that came before the day that ended up being the last. It’s those special things that matter most. And those things that made the biggest impact on us.

So let’s take a moment to remember some of the things that Jane brought into our lives over so many years — as a mother, wife, daughter, confidante, colleague, companion, neighbor and friend.

1970s Travelall. Ours looked like this, including the cool fake paneling.

The Travelall Travels

Sometime in the early ’70s, before her Jewel days, Jane got a summer job delivering the community newspapers, the Downers Grove Reporter and the Woodridge Progress, to retail locations in the ‘burbs. But this was no throw-the-paper-onto-the-driveway-from-your-bike paper route. Once a week, Jane loaded up the family’s International Harvester Travelall, a 4-door, truck-based vehicle (kinda like a Chevy Suburban, it was an SUV before there was such a thing) with bundles of newspapers, stacked up to the roof. There was just enough room in the back for Kelly and me, plopped among the stacks of newsprint. It wasn’t an easy job for a woman in her 30s lugging around two kids, but Jane did it without complaint, carrying those heavy bundles of newspapers here and there and everywhere.

I can’t remember how long her deliveries took her, but it seemed like forever to Kelly and me, the summer sun baking us in the un air-conditioned back of the car (laying on the folded-down seats with no seatbelts, of course. Hey, it was the ’70s.) But as Kelly recently reminded me, if we were good during the trip, we got donuts at the end. That clearly made it worthwhile.

Goodrich School

As example #483 of why Jane was a good mom, she was always closely involved in our education, especially in elementary school. Kelly and I were lucky enough to attend Goodrich School in Woodridge, full of great teachers, good kids, close families and the kind of simple, idyllic setting I pray my boys will have as they grow up. Jane got involved with the PTA and helped out with events (Fun Fair!), fund-raising activities and miscellaneous school functions. Heck, she even served as a lunch lady. Not surprisingly, she became friends with most of my teachers: Miss Zurek, Mrs. Marzek, the others.

And she was the driving force behind two efforts that are commonplace today, but nascent at the time. First, she brought Market Day (and all of its heavy, white cardboard boxes) to the school, and it grew like wildfire (Chicken Kiev, anyone?). Second, she convinced the PTA to spend something like $300 (a princely sum at the time) for a display sign in front of the school along Hobson Road. It was a small, glass-case sign, probably no bigger than 3’x4’, to list the dates of holidays, school events, and, of course, Market Day. Everyone loved it. I guess I inherited my marketing gene from Mom.

Scary Santa

When Kelly was about 4–5 years old she had an utterly irrational fear of Santa Claus. As Kelly recalls, Mom had taken her to see a shopping mall Santa and Kelly was *petrified* of the red-suited man. (Not sure why. Kelly?)

A few weeks later, in what was probably an attempt to help Kelly overcome her fears, Mom left the house for awhile and came back … wearing a Santa Claus mask (and maybe even a red coat).

Kelly was sitting at the kitchen table playing, when she looked up and saw “Santa.” Utter panic set in for Kelly, who screamed, ran into the kitchen and hid in the cabinet under the kitchen sink, trembling. It took Granddad (Cecil’s father, who was staying with us at the time) to eventually coax Kelly out of her sanctuary. I think Dad yelled at Mom for her unintentionally terror-inducing effort, though thinking about it now, it must have been a pretty funny sight. Right, Kelly?

The Jewel Years

For 17 years, Jane went to work at the Jewel Foods on 75th Street in Woodridge. She was hired for the store’s grand opening in 1977, and stayed there until she was in her early 50s. In 17 years, I think she took something like 3.2 sick days off (I’m exaggerating a bit, though probably not much.)

Jane loved Jewel. More accurately she loved the people who shopped there and worked alongside her. Jane was a social animal, and the steady stream of friends, colleagues and customers regular and new who came through her checkout line lifted her spirits every day. And she lifted theirs: There were many regular customers who would wait in Jane’s line even if other registers were open, just so they could chat with her for the few minutes it took to scan their groceries. She remembered their names, their kids’ names, their family stories. They held her in high esteem, as did her colleagues; she was easy to get along with, kind, fun and funny. She smiled a lot.

Her friendships from those days were among the strongest she had, and she treasured them. Those of you know who you are: Thank you for being such an important part of her life for so many years.

*****

I know that the older they get, the more my sons will ask about Grandma Jane. About how she grew up in a small, ramshackle cottage on Boggs Run Road, a twisty and narrow two-lane road through the hills of West Virginia, a few miles outside Wheeling, a coal mining and tobacco town that was prosperous when she was a kid but slowly died away after she left.

About how her threadbare childhood home had bare wood-plank floors, drafty clapboard walls, dim lighting, rudimentary electricity, and no indoor plumbing until long after she left. And a yard strewn with rusted-out carcasses of old Ramblers, Packards and other flotsam and jetsom procured by her eccentric, brilliant and mean father, John. And how her mother, Thelma, tempered that meanness with kindness, support and an independent and mischevious streak she bequeathed to her daughter.

About how her Applachian acccent revealed itself whenever she mentioned she liked a certain “keller” (color) or talked about going to the “iggle” (Eagle) grocery store.

About how in high school she blossomed into a pretty young lady, became head cheerleader of her high school class, and had a crush on some guy named Bobby Butts, sporting a tight crew cut and toothy smile straight out of “Leave It To Beaver.”

About how when she was 19, she made her way to Chicago (Melrose Park, actually) and eventually worked at the Sunbeam plant on North Avenue. About how after her first date with the shy and kinda handsome Cecil Steele she wasn’t overly impressed, but liked him enough for a second date. About how they got married and lived in a mobile home in Des Plaines, along with a 2-year-old boy and a newborn girl.

About how they eventually moved to nice suburban homes with big yards in Downers Grove, where they would spend the next 25+ years creating happy, fulfilling lives for their family. About how Jane decorated those houses with flocked wallpaper (60s/early 70s), a geometric brown-and-tan wall graphic (late 70s) and some crazy bamboo wallcovering (early 80s).

About how as Kelly and me grew up, though grade school, then junior high, then high school, Jane played such a pivotal role in our childhood, helping us with homework, knowing our friends, taking us to dance/Little League/gymnastics/swim lessons/soccer/friends’ houses and a million other places.

About how she was unfailingly supportive of most everything we pursued, as long as it was a healthy and productive endeavor. About how even when she disagreed with us, she was usually reasonable and measured (usually :)

About how even after we became adults, she still showed us — not just told us, showed us — how she cared about our lives (even showing up at her son’s rock band’s show in Chicago one blustery winter night). And how she still made us cookies every now and again. Just because.

About how for 38 years, she loved the man she married and the fulfilling life they made together.

And about how she so badly wanted to meet her grandchildren.

Mom, I promise you will meet them someday, many, many, many years from now. And you will hear them say it directly to you: “I love you, grandma.”

Until then, I promise that the BLT brothers will get to know more and more about you, about how much you meant to all of us, and that you will be infinitely more than just a fading photo in a scrapbook.

You already are to them, and always will be.

We miss you. We love you. Happy birthday, Mom.