Buffalo Rising Online

May 11th, 9:36am By Elena Cala Buscarino

We all got here in the same way, and we all have a woman to thank for her part in it. My mother, Nelle, was the last of a family of nine, whose parents came from Tortorici, Sicily.

Lately, at the urging of my cousins, she's become somewhat of the family historian because at the age of 82, she is the only one of her immediate family to have a computer, and she knows how to use it. The questions flood in, and she does her best to answer, while my cousin Joanne has diligently scanned every old family photo she can get her hands on.

My mother tells stories of the old days in Jamestown, NY, filling in missing facts, whether about people or buildings that once stood and are now gone. Sure, there's a longing for the ghosts of the past, whether they involve relatives or the old homestead that was razed to make way for a modern medical building. Guests were invited into the parlor, and a band would set up after they literally rolled up the rug for dances in the big house.

Great nieces send current baby picture of their own children and marvel over the resemblance of this family member or that from the early 1900's to their own children. The streets were brick and the sidewalks were slate, and the Swedes lived on the hills and owned the factories in the pretty little city my mother grew up in.

My 6 ft. tall blue-eyed blonde grandfather, Carl, was all fun, while his 4 ft. 11 inch wife, Mary, was all business, and the eight daughters were beauties of varying height and coloration. The one son, Sam, was the happiest most serene man; quiet, kind and loving. He probably never had to lift a finger in that house. My mother remembers them all fondly. These are the people and memories that shaped who she is. If it weren't for the stories, one would surmise from the pictures that all anyone did was dress up and line up, or have picnics, always held at Aunt Nancy's big chicken farm in Gerry, NY.

My mother didn't want a big family of her own necessarily. As the youngest in her mother's brood, she helped to raise a lot of her nieces and nephews when the babies would come fast or their mothers went to work. My father was an only child however, and loved babies. My mother still jokes that he married her and immediately tried to lose her in the crowd, with five children of their own.

She's always been a magnetic person. When I was in junior high and high school, my friends would come over on Saturdays, and between changing all of the linens and dusting, my mother would hold court, both witty and wise. These were teens who didn't talk to their own mothers, and I loved sharing mine with them.

I'll visit her today, in the same house I grew up in, and she'll tell me that I didn't have to come out to visit. She'll say, "You're a mother too." I'll tell her, like I have every year, that as long as I can celebrate her, I will. Everyone has to be grateful to their mother on some level, but I realize that I'm lucky she gave me a lot of material to work with when it comes to celebrating Mothers' Day.

My daughters will start the Buffalo chapter of memories, as I'm sure many of you can. For the sake of history, please add a Buffalo-centric memory of you and your mother to the comments.

To all of you who lived here when you were young, and those of you who do now, have a happy Mothers' Day.