A Eulogy for Mom-Mom

Elmira Catherine Higgins Vicchio went by a lot of different names during her 91 years on earth: Bootsie to her family, which included five siblings, Myra to most, and Mom-Mom, Gi-Gi or Elmo to the rest of us. She was born in Philadelphia but moved to Baltimore with her family before high school. While sitting on a hillside next to the Calvert Hall practice fields with a group of her girlfriends senior year, she met Pop-Pop. After spotting her, he “accidentally” kicked a football in her direction. Every time he got close enough to pick it up, he “accidentally” kicked it even closer until he was right next to her. Without witnesses, it’s hard to say whether his method leaned harder toward smooth move or slapstick comedy. I have a hunch, but either way, it worked. They married in 1948.

It wasn’t long before Mom-Mom’s mother-in-law Gilda taught her to make raviolis, an occurrence for which all Vicchios—past, present and future—are eternally grateful. There was no recipe to hand down, no game plan to follow. Instead, you learned by careful observation and eventually trial and error until you got it just right. Over the years, she shared the fruits of her Italian cooking labor with many—whether for small family gatherings, larger parish events or even her daughters’ wedding reception. My dad became her sous chef at a young age, and when he took over as head chef to begin our New Year’s Day tradition decades ago, Mom-Mom swapped spots with him and became his first assistant. It was then that I joined in, assuming the role of ravioli closer, or as I often referred to it at the time, Vicchio sweatshop worker.

Mom-Mom was a lover of sports and better at them than most people realized. She was a talented ice skater, bowler and softball player, and was even accused of being a ringer for the Monastery Mothers’ Club softball team because she didn’t run the bases like a mom with twins and a newborn at home. When she hung up her cleats, she continued to support multiple generations of family athletes as a willing chauffer and avid cheerleader, often bringing bottles of Gatorade to give her grandchildren at their high school and college games, and once in a while, imparting friendly, unsolicited advice to referees. Even in her final years, you could still find her watching Notre Dame football on TV most weekends in the fall. 

Mom-Mom and Pop-Pop were always extremely involved in the parish community of St. Joseph’s Monastery and made many of their lifelong friends there. In addition to the St. Joseph’s Mothers Club, Mom-Mom was also active in the Mount de Sales Academy Parents Club, Mount St. Joseph High School Mothers Club and the Maryland Historical Society, to name a few organizations. Other things she really enjoyed included painting, attending shows at the Morris A. Mechanic Theater, doing crossword puzzles, watching “Jeopardy!” and enjoying the sunshine—especially if it meant being next to a pool or on a beach.

Mom-Mom didn’t learn to drive until well into adulthood, and it showed. She saw street signs as suggestions, or sometimes she didn’t see them at all. Although there were no accidents attributed to her that we know of, it’s possible she caused a few. Most of us lovingly referred to her as Mrs. Magoo behind the wheel. She was my dad’s designated driver when he had to go to rehab after his accident many years ago, and it is my understanding that, although falling off a roof didn’t kill him, it’s possible that Mom-Mom’s driving very well could have. After riding shotgun the first time or two, he opted to lie down in the backseat and “rely on God’s providence” to get them both safely to their destination.

Mom-Mom wasn’t big on I love yous. Her version of a wild display of affection was picking up the kitchen phone’s handset, pretending to dial a number, and then singing Stevie Wonder’s “I Just Called to Say I Love You,” with a lot of finger pointing and shoulder action to keep things light. Honestly, the first time I remember her uttering those words to me herself was after I moved away to college. Maybe it was a red flag when I called her on a Friday night just to say hi, and it wreaked a little of homesickness. I’m not sure, but I think in that moment she determined my need to hear the words outweighed her discomfort in saying them. 

Throughout her life, the absence of words never indicated an absence of love’s presence. It emanated from the kitchen at Eldone Road where she made breakfast for the entire family (and even some friends) week after week. There, the love was equally as thick as the smoke, which is really saying something, as it often set off alarms and prompted refreshers on fire safety procedures and reminders to stop, drop and roll if you came in direct contact with flames. Sunday guests learned all kinds of interesting things about us—like how burnt pancakes were actually favored over golden ones and that cooking something, anything, in bacon grease elevated its flavor profile. Sometimes, if we were lucky, Mom-Mom would give the crowd a quick song and dance under her fictitious stage name, Peaches, or she’d strike up an impromptu round of charades. It was an easy game since she only ever acted out one thing: The Statue of Liberty, with a pancake-topped spatula torch. Most Fourth of Julys Lady Liberty made her poolside return at Miss Rosie’s, only the spatula torch was replaced with a sparkler. In her later years, it was usually a water bottle held high at the Catonsville parade. 

There is no doubt when Mom-Mom passed, she left behind a legacy of love. It was folded into her raviolis and sprinkled into her well-done pancakes. It was in the steak subs, the softshell crab sandwiches and pots of chicken soup. It was in the Klondike bars, Drumsticks and Butterscotch Krimpets. It was in the Altoids, Nonpareils, and those little orange and spearmint leaf candies that were always readily available. It was in the Entenmann’s crumb cake she bought every week, which we all hacked to bits like savages because each person had to lay claim to a very specific quadrant or carve their initials in it. It was in the impromptu kitchen dances, the Gatorades and rides to practices. 

She was generous. She was fun. She was spunky. And she was just irreverent enough to make friends say, Man, I wish my grandmom was as cool as yours! She is the reason my cousins feel more like siblings than cousins.

She is loved. She is missed. 

Myra, Bootsie, Mom-Mom, Gi-Gi or Elmo: No matter what we called her, we were lucky to call her ours.