Soon millions will make Medicare coverage decisions for next year, and UnitedHealthcare can help you feel confident about your choices. For those eligible, Medicare Annual Enrollment runs from October 15th through December 7th.
If you're working past age 65, you might be able to delay Medicare enrollment depending on your employer coverage. It can seem confusing, but it doesn't have to be. Visit uhcmedicarehealthplans.com to learn more. UnitedHealthcare, helping people live healthier lives. Hello. This is Hey Dude Shoes. This is an ad. But not for your ears, for your feet.
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My Cutura Podcast Network and Coca-Cola celebrate Hispanic Heritage Month with incredible content creators like Patty Rodriguez. I was born in East L.A. and I remember growing up, there was a small little shack in the apartment we lived at. And I would make that shack into a television studio. And there I would play pretend. I would pretend that I was a news reporter. And that's how I would spend most of my afternoons. Pretending and imagining that one day I would be able to tell our own stories. Listen to Out of the Shadows, hosted by Patty Rodriguez and Eric Galindo on the iHeartRadio app or wherever you get your podcasts.
Brought to you by Coca-Cola, proud sponsor of the My Cutura Podcast Network. Hispanic heritage is magic. That's our American stories dot com. Our next storyteller is from Fort Worth, Texas. He moved us with his story, The Real Santa.
Roger Latham is back along with his daughter Candy to honor his mother and celebrate Mother's Day. Let's take a listen. A number of years ago, as I sat in my office, my father entered and handed me six small notepad sized pages. Thought you might like to read these, he said. Although I did not know at the time, it might have been a good thing if he had provided a handful of tissues.
I'd need them. The words on the page were written in pencil. I recognized at once my mother's distinctive flowing cursive. I knew it well because she had faithfully written to me for all of my three years defending America from raging Germans.
It was 1967, so it could easily have been Vietnam. These pages held a blank verse poem. I began to read. It was easy to realize it as the musings of a middle aged woman with a soul deeper than the deepest sea.
When I finished, my cheeks were streaked with saline. I'd never known my mother to have such depth. Then it hit me. I, too, write words in rhyme retrieved from the deep place fathomed below the surface of self. I smiled to think of the unexpected genetic gift my mother had provided.
Too often, I'd push such thoughts aside. Texas boys don't write poetry and certainly don't cry. The piece was never meant to be published. I imagined my mother wrote it on some sunny spring day with the windows allowing sweet smell of honeysuckle to kiss her soul. It was never presented to a larger audience until her memorial service in the year 2000. I did the eulogy.
No problem. But if I attempted to read the poem, it was an indisputable fact. I'd seem a blubbering fool. So my son stepped in and read hands.
As his presentation ended, I noticed, amidst the assembled, other folks also in tears. Following, you will hear my daughter read hands. Her face and fursona mimic her grandmother's perfectly. Hands by Gladys Latham. I glanced the other day at my hands.
I was ashamed at what I saw. The nails were worn, short and unpolished. The fingertips were rough, the skin spotted and tanned. Then suddenly they reminded me of a pair of hands out of my past and I smiled. These hands I last remembered as being still and quiet, folded over a quiet breast in eternal stillness and much deserved rest. They had not been the hands of a great artist or world renowned sculptor.
Nor had they set immortal music on paper or penned lovely poetry. But their work had been as beautiful and as immortal as if they belong to such studied and talented mortals. These hands had had the blessed privilege of cuddling tiny downy heads to breast for food, the pleasure of scrubbing pink ears and hands. They had changed mountains of diapers and scrubbed tons of little clothes by hand.
They had buttoned thousands of buttons that somehow never seemed to stay buttoned. Through long and tedious hours, tucked pleats, gathered ruffles, frills, laces and embroidery had been applied to dainty dresses and suits with infinite love and care. These hands had baked glamorous birthday cakes, each done with special care and importance. Rolls, pies, cakes and cookies, these hands make were the tastiest masterpieces ever produced on earth. With unsurpassed devotion and tenderness, these hands had soothed the brows fevered with measles, whooping cough, mumps and flu and wiped a thousand noses. They had bandaged hundreds of little toes with professional skill and neatness and wiped away the tears of fear and pain. These were the hands that had plucked the peach tree switch to administer discipline, never in anger, always in love. Then when the terrified screams of nightmares of little ones came in the night, there was always quieting love. These hands had held the family Bible during family prayer and dressed a large portion of the Sunday school enrollment on Sunday morning.
They had known the emptiness of burying a tiny firstborn son. These the hands of a sculpture? Yes. For they had taken five small mounds of red, God-given clay and molded five lovely strong bodies. The hands of an artist?
Yes. For with the tenderness of love, sacrifice and devotion, they painted the picture of love and kindness on the hearts and soul. Then the shame of my work-worn hands vanished, for they had reminded me of the hands of my mother. And a special thanks to Roger Latham and his daughter, Candy, for sharing that beautiful poem with us, My Mother's Hands.
A terrific job also on the production by Greg Hengler. All show long celebrating Mother's Day here on Our American Stories. Lee Habib here, the host of Our American Stories. Every day on this show, we're bringing inspiring stories from across this great country.
Stories from our big cities and small towns. But we truly can't do this show without you. Our stories are free to listen to, but they're not free to make. If you love what you hear, go to OurAmericanStories.com and click the donate button.
Give a little, give a lot. Go to OurAmericanStories.com and give. Soon millions will make Medicare coverage decisions for next year. And UnitedHealthcare can help you feel confident about your choices. For those eligible, Medicare annual enrollment runs from October 15th through December 7th. If you're working past age 65, you might be able to delay Medicare enrollment depending on your employer coverage.
It can seem confusing, but it doesn't have to be. Visit UHCMedicareHealthPlans.com to learn more. UnitedHealthcare, helping people live healthier lives. I know everything there is to know about running a coffee shop. But for small business insurance, I need my State Farm agent. They make sure my business stays piping hot.
And I stay cool and confident. See, they're small business owners too, so they know how to help you best. State Farm is in York Corner and on it. Like a good neighbor, State Farm is there.
Call your local State Farm agent for a quote today. Doing household chores can already be time consuming and tedious. And there's nothing more daunting than facing piles and piles of laundry that need to be done.
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Purchase all free clear mega packs today and conquer any laundry load for all fabric types. Music And we continue with our American Stories and we're celebrating Mother's Day with our Mother's Day special. One of our regular contributors, Steven Raciniak, has a piece dedicated to his mother entitled Happy Birthday to Us. To read this story and its back story, please visit stevenraciniak.com. That's stevenraciniak.com.
Here's Steven with his story. Music It was just what I wanted. It was the perfect present.
A one size fits all. Something that I had long thought of buying for myself, but never did. But somehow, my mom, with her special maternal instincts and motherly radar, with her uncanny ability to glean information from snippets of overheard conversations, figured it out all by herself. And in the end, she gave me that one gift that I had truly wanted. Nothing else could ever say, Happy Birthday, Son, like a large gift wrap box containing a brand new Sawzall reciprocating saw. Well, at least I'm sure that's what she was thinking that year.
And to be honest, I couldn't have agreed with her more. Two months later, I put my newest favorite tool through its paces while volunteering with my church on a mission trip to Appalachia, where we were helping to make the homes warmer, safer, and drier. My trusty saw and I quite capably resolved a plethora of challenging cutting circumstances with ease and efficiency. And one night, as I was reflecting upon its versatility, I suddenly wondered, what could I have possibly done to deserve such an awesome birthday present? And then, an even greater question came to mind. What does anyone ever do to deserve any special recognition for nothing more than to have been born?
Both questions somehow intrigued and yet bothered me at the same time. It occurred to me that aside from being the blue-eyed blonde babbling bundle of joy that caused my parents' world to change from that of being a team of two to becoming a family of three, I have done absolutely nothing to merit being the fortunate recipient of birthday cards and gifts, of salutations and recognition. It also occurred to me that if there was any one person who truly deserved acknowledgement for enduring nine long months of daily discomfort, which included morning sickness, indigestion, anemia, swollen ankles, if there was one person who was deserving of birthday kudos, for once upon a time being pregnant and then giving birth to a tow-headed little kid who would one day grow up to become a happy and healthy, reciprocating, saw-wielding adult, it was my mom.
After all, should all the pertinent details pertaining to my ultimate appearance in this world be made known, this much would be readily obvious. I had nothing to do with my own birth, except, of course, to have been present for the festivities. Suddenly, it seemed wrong for my mom to have done all of the work and for me to receive a lifetime of April birthdays blowing out the candles on my forever favorite and beloved strawberry shortcake. So it was that night in Appalachia, and as I packed away my saw, I knew that I was going to have to do something about this birthday recognition business. The following year, and on the morning marking the date of my birth, I surprised mom with a beautiful floral arrangement, my way of acknowledging and sharing with her our special day.
I would do this several more times over the coming years as we would mutually note the anniversary celebrating the arrival of her firstborn, me. Now, getting these annual arrangements to her wasn't always as easy as I might have liked, because this senior citizen Nana led an act of life, once spent in perpetual motion. Knowing this, I soon discovered that it would be her schedule and her circumstances that would dictate when and where she might receive the annual acknowledgement recognizing our auspicious occasion. While some of these deliveries were certainly dispatched to her home, not all of them were. Once, I surprised her by placing them inside her car outside the deli where she often stopped for a mid-morning cup of coffee. Another time, I had them delivered to the hospital information desk where she was volunteering, while still, another year, she found them inside the room housing the food pantry at my church where she spent time sorting and bagging donations for distribution. Although the delivery locations and as well the arrangements themselves would differ from year to year, the one thing that never changed was the verbiage on the enclosed card. My handwritten message to her was always the same. Happy birthday to us.
Love, Steve. I think that she grew to expect her annual floral arrangements and I was more than happy to provide them. They were beautiful reminders of our birthday bond. The sun was moments from rising and still the colors of spring were already clear to see.
The bright yellow forsythia is running the length of my neighbor's backyard, the linen white buds on the dogwoods, the multi-green colors of the emerging leaves high atop the oaks and the maples. I stood outside on that cool April morning savoring my coffee and basking in the magnificence of this just awakening day. It was my birthday and I was another year older. And mom, well, she's no longer with us, but as sure as I knew that a strawberry shortcake was going to be in my immediate future, I couldn't help thinking about her. After all, it was our day.
It will always be our day. And so I softly whispered. Happy birthday to us, mom.
And you know what? I'm pretty sure that she heard me. And you've been listening to Stephen Raciniak, a beautiful story about his mom. A special thanks, as always, to Faith for the great work she always does on our pieces. And a special thanks to Stephen for not only writing this, but for performing this beautiful piece.
And my goodness, it's so true. What could I have done to deserve such an awesome birthday present, he asked himself, when he got a reciprocating saw as a young man? And that the mom understood that was the dream by gleaning through conversations and snippets of conversations what he really wanted.
And by the way, it's such a great point. The boy gets the credit for what? Coming out of the mom? I mean, the mom did all the work. And what a beautiful tradition to establish with your mother.
Happy birthday to us. I wished I'd have thought of that. I lost my mom. But my goodness, I should have done that.
I didn't ever think about that. Then again, my mom wanted it to be all about me. In the end, she wanted to know that I was unconditionally loved and did all the things any mom would do. I was lucky to have a mom who did all those things. And my goodness, that night in Appalachia, when he had that understanding, oh my goodness, I had nothing to do with my own birth. Mom did all the work.
I get the birthday gift. We'd love to have your mother's stories. Send them to OurAmericanStories.com.
That's OurAmericanStories.com. We'll be playing them all year long, not just Mother's Day, folks. We love mother's stories and father's stories all year long.
Stephen Raciniak's story, his mother's story, here on Our American Stories. Soon millions will make Medicare coverage decisions for next year. And UnitedHealthcare can help you feel confident about your choices. For those eligible, Medicare annual enrollment runs from October 15th through December 7th. If you're working past age 65, you might be able to delay Medicare enrollment depending on your employer coverage.
It can seem confusing, but it doesn't have to be. Visit UHCMedicareHealthPlans.com to learn more. UnitedHealthcare, helping people live healthier lives. I know everything there is to know about running a coffee shop. But for small business insurance, I need my State Farm agent. They make sure my business stays piping hot.
And I stay cool and confident. See, they're small business owners too, so they know how to help you best. State Farm is in your corner and on it. Like a good neighbor, State Farm is there.
Call your local State Farm agent for a quote today. Doing household chores can already be time consuming and tedious. And there's nothing more daunting than facing piles and piles of laundry that need to be done.
I mean, that can be overwhelming for anyone. So, if you want to get those larger laundry loads done right and get back to your life, try All-Free Clear Mega Packs. All-Free Clear Mega Packs are bigger packs with two times the cleaning ingredients compared to a regular pack so that you can tackle any laundry load without the worry. All-Free Clear Mega Packs are also 100% free of perfumes and dyes and they're gentle on skin, which is great for any family's sensitive skin needs.
Which my family, we definitely have sensitive skin. So, the next time the whole family gets home from long vacation or you get the kids back from summer camp or whatever the situation is that's caused this big pile of dirty clothes, just know that All-Free Clear Mega Packs, they have your back. Purchase All-Free Clear Mega Packs today and conquer any laundry load for all fabric types. And we return to Our American Stories and our special Mother's Day celebration. Tiffany Jenkins is a wife and a mother of three. She's acquired a huge social media following on her blog Juggling the Jenkins where her videos receive millions of views.
Tiffany wrote a highly successful memoir, High Achiever, the shocking true story of one addict's double life. Here's Tiffany Jenkins with the rest of her story and what it means to be a good mom. You know what I want to talk about today? I want to talk about what it means to be a good mom, okay?
Because listen, if you look on social media and YouTube, okay, let's take YouTube for example. They have tons of videos of families announcing pregnancies to their loved ones, right? And it's always so joyous and everybody's so excited and screaming and yelling and they're like, Oh my God, finally. Thank you.
Look at these little booties. I'm going to have a grandkid. Okay. That was not how my pregnancy announcement went at all. I had been living in a halfway house for two months and I started dating this guy and I got an overnight pass.
Okay. One weekend, I got one overnight pass. I'm not going to go into detail about what happened on the overnight pass, but let's just say that two weeks later, my body started acting a little weird. I didn't have a job or a car at the time. So I scraped together some quarters and walked my butt down to the Dollar Tree and bought a pregnancy test and guess what? There was a baby in my belly.
I took a pregnancy test in the bathroom of the halfway house I was living at with six other women. And when the second line popped up, I collapsed on the floor and lost my mind. It was not joyous. I was not excited.
I was terrified. I had just started gaining trust back with my family. What was I going to tell them? How was I going to tell the owner of the halfway house that I abused the one overnight pass?
They finally gave me. What was I going to do? I couldn't even take care of myself.
How was I going to take care of a child? I was terrified. I prayed out and I said, listen, technically, physically, I know why this happened, but like spiritually and mentally, I don't know why this happened.
Please help me. What am I supposed to do? I can't have this baby. And it was in that moment that I realized suddenly I wanted this baby more than I ever wanted anything in my entire life. I told my sister.
She was basically like, OK, you're an idiot. I told the owner of the halfway house and he could have kicked me out, but he didn't. He let me live there and pay rent until I could get on my feet. So I married the man who got me pregnant five months after we started dating. And I continued to live in the halfway house up until near the end of my pregnancy. My recovery didn't stop just because I was pregnant.
I had to keep working on myself. I got a job, busted my butt, got a car. We got an apartment and my son was born on my birthday.
It was the greatest gift that I've ever received. When my son was six months old, I found out I was pregnant with the cloister. She burst into the world, a colicky fury of tears and chaos, and I got postpartum depression. Two weeks after she was born, my bonus daughter came to live with us full time. And I was battling postpartum depression full on. I went from being a single sexy bachelorette living in a halfway house to a married mother of three in the span of two years. OK, when it comes to motherhood, I have no clue what I'm doing. I don't.
I don't. In the beginning, when I was suffering from postpartum depression, I used to go to social media for support and, you know, to try to see what other people were doing because I had no clue. And I quickly realized that it seemed like everybody else had their life together while mine was crumbling. Everybody's home looked beautiful while mine looked like a hurricane just ripped through the living room. All the moms were posing with their babies looking so perfect and wonderful while I wanted to leave mine in the crib and run out the front door and never come back. I can't explain what that did to me internally as a person. It made me feel like a failure.
It made me feel ashamed and embarrassed. It made me feel like maybe I wasn't meant to be a mom. There was one day, one day especially, where I resented my children just for existing. I didn't want to take care of them anymore. I didn't want to be a mom anymore. So I called my doctor, crying, and I said, is it bad that I don't want the kids anymore?
And they said, come into the office right now. And they got me in that day and the doctor and I worked on a recovery plan for me. Once I started to feel better, I started to write and I wrote for numerous reasons. I wrote because it was really therapeutic for me to tell my truth and to get it out of my head and onto paper. And I chose to share my writing because everywhere I looked, everything looked so perfect.
So I thought maybe if there's just one person out there who's feeling the same way as me, they can read what I've written and see that they're not alone. And that's where Juggling the Jenkins was born. A good mom is not measured by her ability to keep a clean home. Some people have more money than other people.
Some people have more possessions than other people. But none of that matters. Life is going to go by like this. It's going to be over before you know it. And I promise you that it is not going to say anywhere in your obituary.
Her house was really clean. We got to stop stressing about the little stuff. We got to stop wasting time beating ourselves up over the little stuff and start spending more time creating memories with our kids. Taking them places, putting our phones down, chilling with them, going outside.
When they come up to you and they say, Mommy, will you play with me instead of saying just a second, just get up and play with them. Because I can promise you that neither of you will ever regret that decision. I have to remind myself of this daily. I'm the queen of in just a minute, babe. I'm the queen. I do it all day long. So I have to remind myself that that minute will never come. And I know that and they know that. So it is up to me to make the minutes count now. What makes a good mom?
I don't think there's one answer. A good mom is somebody who doesn't spend hours obsessing about how they aren't good enough. A good mom is somebody who recognizes that they have a problem and does whatever they can to fix it, whether it be addiction, alcoholism, anger. Depression, whatever it is, is recognizing that you have a problem, realizing that nobody is going to come save you and doing whatever you can to make sure that you are the best possible mom for those kids. Taking action makes a good mom.
But it all boils down. To love. Being a shining example to the kids of what love is about. Showing them love and showing others love.
As often as possible. That's. That's what makes a good mom. And that was Tiffany Jenkins you were listening to.
And what a voice and so straight, straight as an arrow. And by the way, that line in the beginning, what was I going to do? I can't take care of myself. How am I going to take care of this child? By the way, we're never ready to raise a kid. I've had so many people say, I'm not ready.
Well, you're never ready. And she jumped in and raised this child. And what great advice and moms, good ones, good fathers do this to show them love and show others love.
As often as possible. I have no idea what I'm doing, she also said. And you know what? None of us do. Mother's Day stories.
Tiffany Jenkins story here on our American story. Soon millions will make Medicare coverage decisions for next year and UnitedHealthcare can help you feel confident about your choices. For those eligible, Medicare annual enrollment runs from October 15th through December 7th. If you're working past age 65, you might be able to delay Medicare enrollment depending on your employer coverage.
It can seem confusing, but it doesn't have to be. Visit UHCMedicareHealthplans.com to learn more. UnitedHealthcare, helping people live healthier lives. I know everything there is to know about running a coffee shop, but for small business insurance, I need my State Farm agent. They make sure my business stays piping hot and I stay cool and confident. See, they're small business owners, too, so they know how to help you best. State Farm is in your corner and on it. Like a good neighbor, State Farm is there.
Call your local State Farm agent for a quote today. Doing household chores can already be time consuming and tedious, and there's nothing more daunting than facing piles and piles of laundry that need to be done. I mean, that can be overwhelming for anyone. So if you want to get those larger laundry loads done right and get back to your life, try all free clear mega packs. All free clear mega packs are bigger packs with two times the cleaning ingredients compared to a regular pack so that you can tackle any laundry load without the worry. All free clear mega packs are also 100% free of perfumes and dyes and they're gentle on skin, which is great for any family's sensitive skin needs, which my family, we definitely have sensitive skin. So the next time the whole family gets home from long vacation or you get the kids back from summer camp or whatever the situation is that's caused this big pile of dirty clothes, just know that all free clear mega packs, they have your back.
Purchase all free clear mega packs today and conquer any laundry load for all fabric types. And we continue with our American stories in our special celebration of Mother's Day. And now it's time for my own celebration of my own mother and her life. The world didn't notice when she died in December of 2012 at the age of 80.
But those of us who knew her and loved her, we all noticed we lost someone who lived for us, someone who loved us, someone who would have done anything for us and her friends, even strangers. Christina Lapidula, my mom, came into the world in December of 1932, a pretty tough time to be born, you'd think. Though she grew up through the Great Depression and World War II, the stories of her childhood were mostly fond one. She grew up in West New York, New Jersey, a densely populated town a mere three miles from downtown New York City. Like the neighboring cities of Hoboken Union City and Jersey City, West New York was packed with immigrant families from all over Europe.
First generation Poles, Jews, Irish, and German families all had distinct cultures, food, and languages. Her parents were both from Italy and came to this country with no money and no education. Neither could speak English. Like all of the immigrants in their neighborhood, her parents didn't come to America to change the country. They came to have America change them and the lives of their family. Her parents wanted their children to assimilate into the fabric of their adopted homeland and to do it fast.
That meant no speaking Italian in the house. Luckily for her, the English as a second language movement in education had not yet been born. The school systems of the day didn't adapt to the kids.
The kids adapted to the school system. My mom lived in a small five-story walk-up apartment with her sister Marie and her brother John. The streets bustled with non-stop action and drama, and though times were tough, my mom never really remembered many really hard times. I didn't know we didn't have much because no one else I knew had much, she would always tell us. We were never poor, she would always add. We didn't have money, but we were never poor. I remember my mom seeing some of the tough neighborhoods in the 60s and the 70s and mothers pushing baby carriages and graffiti and just what had happened to the American family, and she knew it wasn't just lack of money that could explain it given the time she'd grown up in.
To have a family intact and have families around you that are intact and churches around you, and she was surrounded by Catholic and Protestant churches everywhere. It's harder to imagine the kind of poverty that we now know because there were kids who were loved by families. My mom met her husband-to-be in high school. She was the captain of the cheerleading team, he was the captain of the basketball team, and yes, these things happen in life.
My dad was a stutterer and was shy about it and ultimately could have easily after some very good sporting years ended up, as he put it, in the penal system because he had a temper and he was angry at the world for this affliction of stuttering. And my mom knew it and ultimately worked with him, loved on him, and got him through college and he became an educator. My parents got married right after dad graduated from college, but they never took time to be a married couple. There were always kids. By the time they were 30, they'd had four of us to take care of. Were they ready for it all? Well, mom didn't ask that kind of question, nor did dad or any of them back in the 1950s. They were probably better off.
No matter how long we delay such things, we're never ready. I remember as a kid looking at pictures of mom and dad before they became the adults they became. They looked like grown-ups even in their high school yearbooks, as did most of their peers. Why did they sacrifice so much? We asked that a lot of both of them.
I learned as I got older that calling what my mom did as sacrifice irritated them. They were doing what they were supposed to do. No one back then thought postponing adolescence into their 30s was an option. They started things. They started lives. They started families and careers. One picture from their wedding is my favorite. The young bride and groom grinning as they cut their wedding cake, celebrating on a rooftop in a neighboring building. No wedding planners, folks. No exotic honeymoons. It was a drive up and down to Niagara Falls and back to life.
One of the great gifts my mom gave me, along with my dad, was watching a marriage grow. In the early days, my dad had a temper. It actually scared all of us.
He never hit anybody, but just the power of his voice. Well, it almost made all of us cry. None of us understood what the fights were about, what kid does.
They probably didn't know either. Sometimes I thought one of them would just call it quits, but always, always the next day came and there they were. As time passed, dad's temper faded. As dad's temper faded and he got more comfortable, the marriage settled. My mom had learned a lot.
He picked less fights and just, with her patience, let him grow up. As I got older, I came to appreciate the small things, the daily habits and rituals that my dad and mom shared. Those rituals and rhythms of life gave me a great sense of stability, a great sense that relationships can last, that love can last. The coffee they had every morning, the daily run to the supermarket, the evening coffee out by the pool listening to WOR on the transistor radio, the early dinners at a local bar for pizza and mussels marinara, the card games.
Mom always won them. The habits of love were there for me to observe and later in life to imitate. The love I witnessed didn't look like anything I saw in movies. It looked like something so much better, something within reach, the constancy, the consistency, the mutual understanding.
None of it was terribly exciting, but it was good for me. It was good for my parents too. There's a line of theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer who said this in a letter to his niece before her wedding, quote, it's not your love that sustains your marriage, but from now on the marriage that sustains your love. That lesson may be the greatest lesson my mom and my dad taught me.
Marriage sustains love. The number of things my mom did for us, well, there are too many to count, but the thing we almost appreciated was her taking a job as a secretary at a local college, Fairleigh Dickinson University. So all four of us could go through college for free.
And by the way, there were two years where all four of us were in college at the same time. By the way, my mom loved doing it, loved the work. But in the end, as we grew up and left home, a little part of my mom, well, just died because in the end, what gave her the greatest satisfaction was motherhood.
It just did not work. She had a thrift shop called Anything Goes in our little town, and we're not sure whether it ever made money. Dad never came clean.
He never told us the truth about that. But I always watched my mom give stuff away to people who couldn't afford it. The negotiation was always, I really can't afford that, Chris.
And Chris would say, well, just pay me what you can. Not exactly the way forward for a great business enterprise, but I think my mom ran that business just to just keep her maternal instincts going and just continue to help and serve folks. I also remember my mom is a warrior. An African-American couple moved into town with a beautiful family, and there were some efforts to resist this. And it's called blockbusting. That was the discrimination pattern of the North. The South had theirs, the North had, well, we had our own too.
And I'm broadcasting from Oxford, Mississippi, and speaking about segregation in New Jersey. But it happened. My mom fought that. She remembered as a young Italian girl being called WAP and DAGO, and Italians did not get perfect treatment from their white European brothers and sisters. It was rough go. And my mom also always stood up for the young Jewish kids in the neighborhood.
So discrimination was something she just didn't, well, she didn't stomach well. The other big memory I have is of my mom sharing with me one day as she gave to me the Purple Heart and the picture of her brother's tombstone in Saint Laurent, France. She lost her brother in World War II.
He was a paratrooper and was killed in France not long after D-Day. And I was honored with that presentation. My mom gave it to me, and it hangs in my office still. My last memory of my mom is at the nursing home. I remember those last days I would always take the late shift, and I would sneak in cigarettes for her, more menthols, and I would sneak in a really good meal there. She said, the stuff here is rubbish.
You can't eat it. And so I would bring in all the food she wasn't allowed to eat, and we'd go outside in the dark and in the cold at midnight. I'd turn on that transistor radio and put on her favorite station, try and catch some Sinatra oldies, and she would puff away and then slice up a good steak with some of the great macaroni and cheese at the diner next door. And those are the fondest memories I have of my mom. Those are just some of the stories I remember. So many more I don't have the time to tell.
The life of Christina Lapidula, Christina Habib, my mom, here on Our American Stories. Music Soon millions will make Medicare coverage decisions for next year, and UnitedHealthcare can help you feel confident about your choices. For those eligible, Medicare annual enrollment runs from October 15th through December 7th. If you're working past age 65, you might be able to delay Medicare enrollment depending on your employer coverage.
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