She stood 5 feet 1 inch, except on Friday afternoons after her weekly hairdressing appointment at the Golden Peacock hair salon. Fridays, she stood tall at 5 foot 2. And her lips were never without lipstick, a bright shade of red, Coca-Cola Red — that perfect orangey-red that looked great on everyone. She never left home without it. Her nickname was “Hot Rod Harriet” — she walked fast, drove faster, and fast-talked her way out of countless speeding tickets, all without my father ever knowing.
She was the third youngest of 14 children, the first seven having succumbed to stillbirth and miscarriage. The enormity of such losses didn’t hinder my grandparents’ resolve to keep trying.
Hot Rod Harriet was introduced to Constantine, a.k.a Chuck, in 1956. They fell hopelessly and madly in love and were married in 1957. Later that year, my father surprised my mother with a ’57 Chevy Bel Air, designed with a pair of “rockets” that made the hood specific and tail fins that gave it that wide look in the rear. Because she was vertically challenged, included with her new car was a set of telephone books so she could see above the dash. Atop her perch, Hot Rod Harriet could be seen driving around town, sporting a pearl necklace and tiger-eye sunglasses.
In the spring of 1958, my sister was born. I arrived two years later. My family lived in a two-family house on a street that consisted of many two-family homes with identical apartments stacked one on top of the other. We grew up in a small town where literally everybody knew your name.
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In her late 60s, my mom began experiencing abdominal discomfort. A series of doctor visits and an MRI revealed fluid and a mass in her right ovary. A week later, after surgery, it was confirmed that the mass was a malignant tumor. The fear and foreboding that consumed us had now revealed its ugly self: ovarian cancer, stage II.
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She endured the illness and pursued every treatment available, regardless of its agonizing pain. She did it not for herself, but for all those who loved her. She was a valiant and brave warrior but, sadly, loss was inevitable. Neither she nor any of us could control the outcome.
I have many fond memories of my mother, yet, ironically enough, my fondest comes from after she passed. The Greater Newburyport Ovarian Cancer Awareness organization sponsors an annual lantern festival to remember and commemorate family and friends who have lost loved ones to ovarian cancer.
The festival is inspired by the Asian tradition of decorating and floating lanterns at dusk to remember the departed and make wishes for the future. What greater privilege than to honor my mother and celebrate her wonderful life. Decorating her lantern made me recall happy times, family trips, and funny stories. There wasn’t enough glitter and glue to do her justice.
The ceremony took place as usual at the Frog Pond site at dusk. The night was cool and dry with very little wind. I was captivated by the number of participants and mindful of so many who had lost loved ones, me included.
Some people were somber, but many appeared happy to be part of such a breathtaking celebration. As I lit and launched my mother’s lantern, I was filled with positivity. One after another, lanterns were being released and soon the pond was filled with the reflections of glowing lanterns.
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I heard a group of people standing behind me comment on how fast one lantern seemed to be moving. Then, as if a sudden strong gust of wind had picked up, I watched in disbelief as another lantern took off and pulled ahead of the rest in what could only be described as true Hot Rod Harriet style.
Theo Kalogeris Moccia is a writer in Amesbury. Send comments to [email protected]. TELL YOUR STORY. Email your 650-word unpublished essay on a relationship to [email protected]. Please note: We do not respond to submissions we won’t pursue.