Carol Marie Moss

Went to be with the Lord on July 21, 2018.

Carol was born in Pittsburg PA as Mafalda Marie Cirlingone to Sicilian parents Charles Cirlingone and Margaret Marie Balsamo. Carol moved to California as a small child where she resided until she and her husband of 62+ years—William Bryan Moss—retired to Arizona. They returned to California in their early 80’s to be closer to their children in their aging years. William passed away in 2010 but Carol continued to be surrounded by her loving family.

Carol is survived by her brother Tony Cirling age 86 of Reno Nevada; her son Gregory Bryan Moss age 69 of California; her daughter Donna Marie Currie age 66 of California; her granddaughter Vanessa Marie Currie age 36 of California; her grandson Weston Carlisle Currie age 33 of California; her grandson Crispin Bryan Moss age 18 of California; her great granddaughter Violet Grace Currie age 18 months of California; and a multitude of loving friends—all of whom will miss her gentle spirit, her simple nature and her genuine innocence.

Because she accepted Jesus Christ as Lord and Savior Carol is without pain or sorrow dwelling in the eternal presence of her Creator--the one and only Holy God.

Memorial Speech for Bella Madre

I cannot believe I am standing here remembering and celebrating my

mother’s life; mothers don't leave.

I have a hole in my heart that is only unique to me. Some of the things we will miss may be shared but I dwell daily on what life is going to be like without my mom. She lived right around the corner and now to turn that corner is so difficult. This is what I already miss--not seeing my mother sitting at my kitchen counter sipping on a glass of wine; watching movies with me and my kids, always commenting—she specifically loved anything involving aliens (she would ask Weston in advance if she would be seeing any creatures; I will miss her making us laugh, sometimes intentional and sometimes without knowing; watching her clear her plate of food—Italian style; man could that little 5’2” Sicilian eat; I will miss her at holidays and at Christmas making sure everyone had a bottle of hand- picked body lotion from CVS Pharmacy; I will especially miss hearing her voice on the phone—even in her 90’s her voice sounded young, never old and crackly. She didn't even look old to me yet until a couple of months ago; it is as if age just consumed her overnight and I got angry that she was old because I remember her at my age now; I will miss hearing how Will would walk by the house seeing her through the window intensely going through “important” paperwork (which was really junk mail) in her so-called office; I will miss the joy she had when dropping off something to eat, sometimes in the morning on my way to work or Will and Belinda bringing her something from Porto’s Bakery; I will miss her excitement when we were going out to dinner as she sat all dressed and waiting

patiently to be picked up—she enjoyed simple things; I really especially miss our Sunday family rituals always centered around food; I will even miss her commentaries on politics—even if sometimes misinformed--or her very well-informed celebrity news casts of the week. I will even miss the things that sometimes annoyed me.

I go from happy to sad when I reflect on her life. This is a small glimpse of my mom: She was 100% Sicilian; she grew up on a steady diet of spaghetti and meatballs. In those days pasta was considered “poor people’s food”, not like today where in many restaurants even just plain pasta with olive oil is considered” gourmet”. Her birth name was Mafalda (named after the princess of Italy) Cirlingone. Later the surname was cut to just Cirling and when my mother was old enough she dropped the name Mafalda which she hated and changed it to Carol—but not legally, which confused the heck out of SS and Medicare. Her parents’ marriage to each was pre-arranged by their parents. In fact, my grandparents also intended to choose who my mother would marry— they picked a short Italian farmer but my mother stood her ground and ended up marrying Bill Moss who she met in high school, a tall street- smart cocky kid originally from AK, as tough as they came, athletic and mechanical; there was nothing he could not do. He walked around with a pack of cigarettes rolled up in the short sleeves of his t-shirt and did not give her the time of day apparently until he went off to war. We just recently found a letter from him addressed to Mafalda (salutation “Muffy”) asking if she remembered him. Well of course she did, idiot! She watched him at afar because she was too self-conscious to approach him and she didn’t think he would be interested in HER.

When my mother was nine or eleven, I believe, her family moved from Pittsburg to California for two reasons; my mother’s health—having almost died from diphtheria, whooping cough and other childhood illnesses—but mostly to sever ties with the Mafia—yes, my grandfather was in the mafia. After they arrived and having never seen the ocean, they packed a picnic—they were fully clothed in black and sprawled out on the sand with a giant pot of spaghetti and meatballs, with the wind blowing and the sand spraying; must have been quite a crunchy pot of pasta. I never grew tired of hearing the stories from my grandmother about my short Italian grandfather-- professional barber--and his family’s mafia connections; and I was intrigued by the memories of my mother at four years old while singing at her uncle’s wedding which ended up in a double shooting where she was rushed out the window by another uncle to safety. My mother had the most beautiful voice—equivalent to any singer, past and present—an accurate example was Deanna Durbin who my mother idolized. She sang on the radio, she had records recorded and in later years after leaving the Catholic church she became born again by accepting Jesus as her Savior and sang in two church choirs; often soloed. She said some of the best years of her life were singing in the choir at Grace Community Church where for the first time she began to learn biblical truths verse-by-verse. She also mastered the accordion at a very young age which although she hated it, she played with perfection—she recalled playing for her high school class and being able to see my dad in the back of the classroom out of the corner of her eye—they were not yet dating—he was throwing spit wads all over the classroom as she performed flawlessly; (spit wads are comprised of small pieces of paper rolled with the tongue and stuck together by spit). Maybe that was the first time she fell in love with him. She played The Flight of the Bumblebee with perfection, which is probably the most difficult song to play on any instrument, let alone the accordion.

Her parents arranged marriage didn’t hold and my grandparents divorced after my mother graduated from high school. My grandmother changed her age to a number making her younger than my mother so she began introducing her as her cousin—from Beverly Hills, to make it more exaggerated—and continued to do so until the day she died at nearly 100 years of age. Another SS nightmare especially because we had no birth certificate since she was born at home.

My mother was not worldly; she maintained an innocence and elegance throughout her life; she was brought up simple with very little money but she had the kind of class you cannot teach. She had no major accomplishments, other than being a devoted mother; no prestigious career, but was an excellent speller, winning many spelling bees. In 93 years I think she only flew in a plane two times—the farthest trip was to Michigan. She was trusting. Up until she passed she was an easy target and solicited by a diverse multitude of organizations for donations—many promising to enter her in their sweepstakes. She would save her junk mail and share the propaganda with family during gatherings. It always started out with a “did you know?” But her favorite was Publishers Clearing House—for many years. When they lived in Arizona after retiring she broke the chain of coming to Burbank every Christmas to be with family because she received a notice announcing there would be a winner on Christmas Day in Prescott Valley (where they lived)—we argued with her but she would not leave the house. She stared out the window the entire day. Even after that disappointment she insisted that we would eat our words some day when someone would come knocking at her door announcing her as the winner—well Madre, we’re still waiting. Every time she received a phone call from somebody telling her that she just won either millions of dollars, a vacation home or a custom Mercedes of her choice she would call me at work and SWEAR it was real “this time”. I would get irritated and ask her why she thought it was for real she would say because she asked them if it was “real” and they said “yes”. One day she called Will at work in a panic not wanting me to know and said she needed to see him right away. When he got to her house she was trying to figure out how to get money together to bail our son Weston out of jail—she received a phone call from somebody pretending to be him, talking in a funny muffled voice telling her he had been in a terrible car accident—which was his fault—and his jaw was wired shut which is why he didn’t sound the same. She called Will another night with a problem; when he got to the house she showed him that while she was cracking a walnut open with one of those nut crackers the skin on the palm of her hand became wedged within the seam of the shell; he had to almost surgically insert a knife into the opening to pry it loose. Her hand was black and blue for weeks.

She was gentle and caring and I never saw her depressed or ever complain; when she was working she took younger coworkers under her wing whenever they had boyfriend problems and they looked to her for motherly advice. In junior high and high school my friends looked forward to be included religiously every Friday night to shop, go out to dinner and then to end at her favorite ice cream shop for a hot fudge sundae; sometimes my mother even had two.

She loved her children—she was proud of my brother and would brag that he was the only person to graduate from college; she worried sick about him when he went to Viet Nam and although he teased her relentlessly and played little tricks on her because it was just too easy and hard to resist, she would first get annoyed but then laughed at herself that she fell for it and then laughed at his constant silliness, but she never learned her lesson. She was proud of me for my career success without a college education and for my persistence when I knew something was not right. She adored her grandchildren—she struggled to call Vanessa her “grand baby” even a couple of days before she passed. She thought Weston was the most gentle and kindest person; the best husband; and an amazing dad to his precious Violet; she referred to Crispin, the youngest, as a “good kid with a good head on his shoulders” but then would add how she didn’t get the whole vegan thing—but then neither do we. She was blessed to have what she called a PERFECT great granddaughter. Even when I told her that Vi sank her teeth vampire-style into her cousin-like friend Hannah’s neck she wouldn’t believe it; Vi isn’t capable of that, she’s too sweet. She asked if it were provoked but I told her Vi approached like a stealth bomber from behind—she wasn’t buying it so I told her that Violet must have been getting back at Hannah for the times she bopped her on top of her head; she was okay with that. On one of her last days she could hear Violets sweet little voice in the background and it took all of her energy as she whispered her name in my ear. We had Sunday dinners religiously, which she lived for. She loved a social environment—she loved eating. When she suddenly became ill for twelve days we were told she would not make it through the night so every night we gathered around her so she could hear our voices and know we were all there.

The twelve days was the longest and saddest twelve days of our lives. Thank you Vanessa for staying with Ouma for several days to ensure she was getting the proper care, cleaning her, tending to her even while you yourself were challenged with health issues; thank you Janice for caring for her as her own mother in the prior months; thank you Weston for being a giving and loving grandson; thank you Shannon for the love you showed her; thank you Rosalba for also being there for her even though it was far for you to come; thank you Brittany for loving her like a grandmother for over 20 years and Mark for the affection you had for her—my mother always complimented him on what a good husband and dad he was and Brittany and I used to laugh that she was trying to steal Mark from her. When she passed he told me “I never knew what she saw in me”. Well Mark, neither do we. Thank you Will, for always running to her rescue, making her laugh and dropping off food; thank you to my brother for reminding me to call her every day and for checking on her every day by phone; and to everyone who recognized how special she was. Thank you, Pastor Tom for praying for her and with her at her bedside and for your reassurance that because she believed, she would soon be in paradise. And when I began doubting myself as a daughter thank you for reminding me not to lean on my own understanding but to trust God and accept his perfect will; to remember that we could all be better daughters, sons, mothers, fathers, etc. Because we are imperfect; and to focus on the joy I brought her; the protection I gave her; how I was always her advocate; and how I have tried to always do the right thing.

I was always the “go to” person. She trusted me to fix everything that was broken; to sort out everything that was not in order; only this time I could not fix the situation.

My mother IS in Heaven; she cannot look down on us and see our sorry or the suffering and the chaos in the world because God has promised no sadness, no worry and no pain in His kingdom. I never understood why somebody would get comfort thinking their loved one was able to look down from Heaven to see how difficult life is for them to continue without them and see their daily struggles or see the TV in the background showing the chaos in the world. And I also know that if we were able to ask Ouma right now if she wanted to come back she would say “NO”!

I love you Bella Madre; thank you for being my mom and loving me unconditionally despite my shortcomings—and thank you for making me who I am; my mistakes and bad choices I have made are no reflection on you—I am responsible. When I think of you I will remember the sacrifices you made for me and when I look at you it is through loving eyes that can only see perfection. Was my mother perfect? NO! Is she perfect now? YES!

So today I say good-bye although I know it is only a temporary separation. Life will continue to go on without you mother, but not in the same way. You will continue to be missed until I too take my last breath and we are reunited.

Your Daughter. . . .