There are many times in my life that I miss Mrs. Casey.
She is my ex-boyfriend’s mother, a woman so very unique that she is capable of making the very act of sitting at a dining room table watching a small television while eating Almond Roca appear like an art. Mrs. Casey was also a wicked bowler whose ball release was a gentle, silent glide following by the graceful bend and strong ball toss. She also smoked like a chimney, but it was like watching one of those retro cool commercials where the lady with the smartest hairdo in the room would sit at the edge of an art deco sofa and blow scented smoke of cinnamon and spice in between smirks. I remember these things because Mrs. Casey was never shill or boring. She looked to erupt like Vesuvius at any moment, wearing a beautiful range of emotions on her morning gown in ways that would make Donna Reed look like a librarian. She was honest and important, and like a second mother to me.
I did not make a very favorable impression when meeting her, falling into that category of hell reserved for young women who date only sons. She eventually warmed up, even answering the phone in a joking “Casey’s Bar and Grill” to fool me. It was not long until I had free reign to eat the Casey snacks and was joining the rest of the family outings.
Living as a latch key child in a home that had become shrouded in illness and fear, the Casey household seemed like an amusement park. It was the place where the stereotype of the quiet Asian family came to die, because it was not possible to contain this family’s passion for simple, everyday things. With a household containing Mrs. Casey, her son and her daughter’s family of a husband and two children, there was always some sort of activity that ended in laughter or yelling. It was uncontrollably chaotic, and I absorbed it into my conscientiousness as the true American Brady Bunch.
I was included in on the caravans that trekked to Lake Tahoe, where the Caseys and their extended family would rent homes and spent the weekend gambling. While I was too young to gamble, I spent much of my time in the game room playing pinball with the younger children of the Casey’s or their cousins. Sometimes, I would wander by a machine and win some money, but I was just a rank amateur with no gambling gene or quick math aptitude in math to conquer the blackjack table. These trips, however, were always memorable and lively, and I liked watching the family disappear into the casino as secret agents embarking on a mission.
They eventually got me into bowling, and Mrs. Casey gave me a ball, a pair of shoes and a ball cleaner as a Christmas present. It was an everlasting gift, and the one thing that would remain intact when my car was stolen and recovered years later. It was meant for use, however, and I joined a bowling team that played alongside the rest of the Caseys and their extended family. Unlike the others, however, my bowling was on the paltry side, most likely because this was the sport that led to one too many arguments with my father on Saturday afternoons, when he would interrupt my monster movie viewing to watch Earl Anthony Jr on Wide World of Sports.
Most of the time spent with Mrs. Casey was away from camping spots, casinos and bowling alleys. There were Sunday dinners where she made the first pork chop with apple sauce that I had ever eaten. It was tender, succulent and quite delicious, especially when eaten with the apple sauce. There were also the holidays of traditional meals that would make way for an evening of poker that went late into the evening. We were supposed to also go to my home to make an appearance for the holidays, but I never wanted to leave the warmth and comfort of a home that included so much laughter.
There was also Mrs. Casey’s strong and sometimes very loud voice that would ring across the house with the ferocity of a lioness. There was not a soul who could ignore such a voice, especially when she would include “dumbass” in her speech. Her manner of speech was so spicy and different that it became a favorite of many friends.
You would never get the impression that Mrs. Casey was capable of such vibrant energy and speech, especially if you just looked at pictures from her younger days. She grew up with her brothers and parents in a WWII internment camp for Japanese Americans. By the time she was an adult, she was distinctly beautiful with a sometimes sly but usually delightful smile. She moved to Japan where she easily found work because of her bilingual capabilities. There, she would meet Mr. Casey, a tall and handsome American soldier. The two would marry and return to the United States, where they would rear three children.
Once I broke up with her son, I stopped seeing Mrs. Casey and the rest of the family. There was the jarring pain of a split from both an individual and the family, and the ensuing silence of evening absent of the laughter that had become so familiar.
I saw the Casey family again at my ex boyfriend’s wedding. More importantly, I saw Mrs. Casey , who treated me as if I had never left the family. She spoke to me in such loving tones, and even straightened out the collar of my dress. I wanted so much to stay by her side and chat for years, but such things are not possible in the ugliness of separation, where family loyalties are necessary and important for all parties. Once I left the wedding, I said my goodbyes. I rode off into the sunset with my friend Bertha, where would get her car stuck in mud, lose our high heels and have to bribe someone in Taco Bell to haul it out to the sidewalk.
It has been so long since I have seen Mrs. Casey. I have since moved to Los Angeles, and my trips to San Francisco are limited to seeing family and watching the San Francisco Giants. There seems to be no time left to see people that I love and miss, although there might be other truths in place here. Not too long ago, Mrs. Casey’s eldest grandson died far too young, and the pain of that particular loss of a child that I had so loved seems near unbearable. I avoid going near their house for that particular reason, which seems so petty of me.
Instead, I thought to write about her because – and I will insert a cliche here – life is too short, and you should always tell important people in your life that you do love them.
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