My Life story Part 2

 Joy is both a choice and a gift.

I can remember from a very early age, that my mom was an incredibly upbeat and positive person, always laughing whistling, dancing adn singing.

She would always say, "There but for the grace of God go I."  I captured early that no matter my circumstances, there was someone out there much worse off, someone who had much less than me.

My mom was a church-goer, not overly religious but more of your standard Roman Catholic, go to Sunday mass types. But I could tell she had that spirit of joy and caring for others that was very different than most.  

She would stop at bus stops, and give people rides all the time.  She would talk to strangers out and about, and just be nice to them.  She chose to be joyful in midst of having little income, and battling the guilt of leaving my dad.

Do I know for sure she was guilt ridden? No, I don't.  But all signs pointed to this being the case.  She would grocery shop for him for many years after she left him.  She didn't fight him much about the lack of financial support he gave us (he didn't give her full child-support, I know this)

You may be wondering, how did she leave my dad? And why?

I only remember that one day, in middle of 2nd grade, I was called into the office of J C Ellis elementary, and told to pack up my locker.  When I arrived home, there was large U Haul moving van in the driveway.  At that moment, we drove to Corpus Christi, TX, and lived with my sister Kathy, her husband Rick and their 4 small children, Dennis, Brian, Missy and Beth.

Eventually, we moved to a tiny apartment in Clearlake City, right outside of Houston.

I have fond memories of playing make-believe superhero games with Dennis and Brian, poor Brian, the youngest of us 3 boys, always the tortured and beat up on bad guy.  

Not so fond memory, was my sister Kathy always seemingly singling me out for fussing at and other disciplinary actions.

My mom was a very unskilled worker, pretty sure she only graduated high school. Her mom and dad,  Agnus and Peter Paul Catalani, directly from Germany and Italy respectively, owned a very successful restaurant in San Antonio, where my mom was born and eventually met my father,  Harry Stanley Marcon.  Story is that my mom's parents also ran a bootleg beer distribution in evenings from the restaurant, supplying the military which had a base in San Antonio.

I didn't get a chance to really know my grandparents on mom's side. By this time, I was 9-10, and they were already in their 80s.  All I remember was Peter Paul sitting in living room, all the furniture wrapped in heavy plastic and house reeked of mothballs,  him watching TV and Agnus always fussing at him.  He would reply in Italian!   And the few times, we went to visit them, she would always make homemade peach ice cream in their backyard in a old-time wooden ice-cream maker.

Note: my mom and I moved to TX with her boyfriend, guy named Wayne, who she was having an affair with (of which I had no idea about prior). Not much to share about him: he was nice, an alcoholic, who worked on the Mississippi River as a tug boat deckhand.