By Christine Flowers


It was hard to be the daughter of a woman so breathtakingly beautiful she would regularly invite comparisons to Sophia Loren. On the one hand, there was the pride that came from basking in the reflected, albeit undeserved, admiration of strangers. On the other hand, it made being a teenager in the 70s (not the kindest era to the already awkward) a depressing slog.
But the epidermal beauty of Lucy Flowers, my mother, was nothing compared to the quality of her heart which, if there is any justice, will be used as a template for future angels.
Lucy died on Thursday, after a long illness. She was 75, an age that once seemed very old to me and is now, devastatingly, insufficient.
She was a child of West Philadelphia, born to Philomena (Mamie) and Mike Fusco, first generation Italians. Baptized at our Lady of Angels where she attended grade school, Lucy was the product of one of those old, vanished communities where Italians and Irish coexisted in a semi-peaceful armistice. It's hard to believe now that there was a cultural divide there as wide as the one that separated Tony and Maria in West Side Story, but ask any native of 52nd Street in the 40s and 50s and you'll get a knowing look.
So when Lucy went to West Catholic Girls and met a St. Tommy More guy named Ted Flowers walking home from school, his red-headed, freckled pedigree caused Mamie and Mike to wring their hands when they started dating.
Dating led to an engagement, after Lucy graduated in 1956, an engagement that lasted many long months while Ted was stationed at a remote NORAD army post in Thule Greenland. She sent long, loving letters on an almost daily basis, and there's a photo of Dad surrounded by those letters and in front of a photo of his sweetheart.
He came home, they married, she worked two (and sometimes three) jobs and helped put Ted through school. They went to Baltimore for the last year of college, where I was born. Family legend has it that Mom told Dad they were expecting, he panicked and got upset because there wasn't any money, she fled home on a bus to Philly and the next day Dad came home to get her. I can only imagine how scared she must have felt, and yet her steely strength (and Italian stubbornness) kept her company on Greyhound. Those two qualities would both serve her well later on.
I was born in 1961 and four years later (we call that period "Law School") my brother Teddy was born, followed closely by three other kids, a usually happy tribe that Mom essentially raised on her own because my father was out tilting at civil rights windmills or racking up an impressive list of legal victories in the 60s and 70s. Lucy was the one who raised us, fed us, bought us the (sometimes horrendous polyester) clothes we wore, bandaged our knees, drove us to activities and tucked us in at night. Dad rarely came home before 11, so she essentially raised us alone.
And then, when my father died of cancer in 1982, she actually did raise us alone, five kids who owe everything they ever were or accomplished to her guidance, humor, understanding, wisdom and checkbook.
My mother raised three lawyers, a physical therapist and a marketing director. She could fix any leak, repair any splintered chair, sew dresses that would put Baby Dior to shame and cook. Oh, could she cook. It would be difficult to single out one particular signature dish (and anyway, people who have "signature dishes" usually can't cook anything else) but my personal favorites were pepper and egg frittatas that were so light they hovered above the plate and meatballs that were dense and dark and deliciously vague. I had no idea what was in them. I didn't care.
There was also the bowl of Crisco-based icing she'd make for me, fluffy with confectioner's sugar and redolent of vanilla. I'm not certain she felt any guilt about feeding me this stuff, but I do know I was only able to eat it when no one else could witness.
Lucy had a life that, like many of her generation, was laced with sorrow. The early death of my father at 43 was a deep blow, as was the sudden death of her mother while the two were out riding and Mamie had a heart attack in the back seat. Nothing, though, was as fierce as the gut punch of losing my brother Jonathan when he was only 30.
But she was a strong woman, and stayed strong for the rest of us in her circle.
And if there was sorrow, there was also great joy. The greatest of all joys was the birth of my nephew in 2008. Alexander gave her a reason to become a child again, rolling around in the grass, playing on the swings (she flew as delightedly high as the 3 year old) and ransoming her waking hours to Sponge Bob. It is a love affair for the ages. Now I know why mom never remarried; she was holding all of that love in escrow for her grandson.
Lucy became ill in February, and was hospitalized until June when we took her home to be with her family. And it was that family that sat with her, cared for her, and kept her company at the peaceful end. My sister Tara was especially devoted, doing the difficult tasks that defy the squeamish heart. She was the baby, and became the mother.
In addition to her two daughters Lucy is survived by her son and traveling companion Theodore, who used to spend hours exploring the back roads of the Delaware Valley with her riding shotgun. She is also survived by her beloved Alex, who knows his "Ghee" got a corner room in Heaven to watch over him. She was predeceased by her parents, her husband, her son Jonathan and her brother Louis Fusco.
Relatives and friends are invited to a Visitation on Monday August 11, from  7-9  PM at McConaghy Funeral Home, 328 West Lancaster Avenue, Ardmore PA 19003 . Internment will be private.