If there was a Hall of Fame
for whipped cream cake icing Irene Donovan would have gained her enshrinement
honors 50 years ago. There was a unique
and distinguishing quality to her recipe, something to her specific technique, perhaps
a secret formula that makes the taste memorable, etched in the mind.
Yes, my mother, Irene,
mastered the art of whipped cream icing among countless-other accomplishments
spanning 90 years. She was the type of
person who, once she set her mind to something, it was going to happen, with
powerful impact, unique and personal touches, all her own. Her belief system was strong and
unswerving. Her dedication to volunteer
work unmatched.
Many things come to mind
reflecting on the life of Irene Donovan.
She was a child of Pittsburgh’s Polish Hill, where Kozlowski was a
common name, who met the Edgewood-bachelor, Bill, who became her husband and in
the condensed version of the story, they started the family of four and
launched a suburban life of middle-class living with all its ups and downs.
Pick an image of Irene from
the years. Summertime, peat moss flakes
on her shorts, navy blue shell top, Keds, no socks, in the backyard garden. Or, the morning of a family birthday, at ease
in an apron – checkered green and white – tied around the waist, in the kitchen
baking. Or, perhaps around the holidays,
in a black and white choir robe, on Christmas Eve, near midnight, holding a
folder of music, the last sheet is Silent Night.
She was the mom who prepared
the grilled-cheese sandwiches cut diagonally to make them special. And the one who put up with hamsters in her
home, when her youngest wanted a tube-kingdom Habitrail. She cultivated personalized collections of
Christmas ornaments and figures of the Blessed Mother. She enjoyed pet cats named Taffy and
Whiskers. She was fond of playing cards
with her friends and the deck of 52 spurned relationships through a couples
club that transcended time. In the world
of back-yard gardens, Irene Donovan would have won a blue ribbon many times
over in both the flower and vegetable categories. The iris and zucchini stand out among her
many prize harvests.
From packing lunch in the
Scotch cooler for Sunday picnics at Keystone State Park, to the serving line as
a volunteer at Jubilee Soup Kitchen, to placing the ornaments on the Christmas
tree with care, to baking almond crescents, sprits cookies and famous Toll
House chocolate chips, to protecting rights of the unborn child among leading
the family through the years it adds up to a celebration of the life well-lived
woven today within the sadness of her recent loss.
She was the woman with the
green thumb, who had a devotion to the Novena and encouraged independence in
her children. In her unique way Irene
was the sunshine to many she touched over the years. Yet as the years accumulated her body stayed
strong but the mind blurred the brightness of the shining sun. If you could squint long enough the rays of
light returned as a memory would jog and a connection would re-establish.
This situation was certainly
true of an event that placed it all in context in her final few years. It was an unplanned visit for me. Years ago she had moved to Memphis. My traditional visits from Pittsburgh surrounded
her November birthday. This time I had attended
a meeting in Nashville and a short drive over allowed me to walk in on the highlight
of the week – a Thursday social event, a band that Irene and her friends would
enjoy. It was the capstone moment.
I found myself out of my
element and firmly in hers as listening to a rock band in the community room of
an assisted-living facility is not a common activity on my schedule for a
random Thursday afternoon.
A few songs into the show and
the playlist slanted toward standards.
Yes, it was Johnny Cash and we were coming full circle. I thought back to the Man in Black, the 33
RPM record, yes we belonged to the Columbia Record Club in the 70’s, playing on
the Zenith record-player in the dining room.
This unsophisticated player was usually reserved strictly for a stack of
Christmas albums. Now it was belting out
A Boy Named Sue from a set of speakers between the china closet to the left, the
kitchen to the right and on the marble-topped half-wall in between the omnipresent
AM radio, always tuned to 1020 KDKA, stayed silenced for the moment, as Ed and
Wendy King, Roy Fox or Bob Prince would have to wait.
Here’s where most of us fall
into the same group, we know the song, but not the lyrics. A few words perhaps, but given a blank sheet
of paper and a pen, the lyrics cannot come out.
The singer belted out the
lines, which I will read, as I did not inherit her singing voice…
The other night dear, as I lay sleeping
I dreamed I held you in my arms
But when I awoke, dear, I was mistaken
So I hung my head and I cried.
One verse,
business as usual. The 30 women and 5
men, yes guys the deck is stacked against us, were listening, but not
involved. Then it changed with the start
of a chorus. It was like a parting of
clouds and the breaking through of rays of light after a storm. Now the lead singer had competition, Irene
was signing, full voice, not a care in the world attitude, pure joy, all-in.
You are my sunshine, my only sunshine
You make me happy when skies are gray
You'll never know dear, how much I love you
Please don't take my sunshine away.
The chorus
brought her back. She sang like a child
who thought no one was watching, loud and full without reservation. The music was the magic. By the time “sunshine” was sung she had been
in full voice, word for word and waiting for more. Yes, happy when skies are gray and in the big
finish -don’t take my sunshine away, holding on to each syllable as the chords
slowly faded. Smiles all-around.
The moment is a great
memory, but the moment didn’t last, unfortunately they just don’t. Today we rejoice in memories of her light,
her beauty, her contributions, her faith as her journey did shine a full life,
yes more than a pinch, or a dash from her cake topping recipe, we experienced
the complete Irene, she was the icing on the cake.
