Remembering Mom on Cinco de Mayo — or as We Call It, Mona Rico Day

Mom jokingly looks for Dad in the audience to apologize for her new flame Smokey.

Long before Cinco de Mayo became a celebration of margaritas and Mexican food in the U.S., our family had already marked May 5 as a very special day — my beloved mother Mona's birthday. In our home, it was never about the drinks or the tacos (or maybe it was); it was about celebrating the life of the woman who made every day feel like a party just by being in it.

We grew up in a house filled with love, laughter, and an impressive number of practical jokes. Mom was the queen of surprises — like the time she put a fake rat in my Subway sandwich or left trash in my room because I forgot to take it out. Of course, I gave as good as I got — taping the sink sprayer so she'd get drenched while doing dishes or tossing fake snakes in her bed. Our favorite game was “NIGYSOB” — short for Now I Got You, Son of a B#@%! — and nobody played it better than her.

To this day, I carry that joy forward. I tell my own kids the same bedtime jokes she told me. They ask for “Momma stories,” and I deliver them with pride. Her legacy lives on — in our laughter, in our family, and in our hearts.

One of my favorite memories with Mom was the night I took her to see Smokey Robinson. I was 15, working my first job answering phones at Our Lady of Perpetual Help, and I spent my entire little paycheck on two nosebleed tickets in the very back row at the Star Plaza Theatre. From where we sat, Smokey looked like an ant — a tiny figure gyrating across the stage, doing his thing.

I remember leaning over to Mom and promising her, “One day, I’m going to get you front-row seats.” But she just smiled and said, “We could be sitting on the roof, and it wouldn’t matter. What means the world to me is that you spent your hard-earned money to treat me to this night. It will always be one of the most memorable moments of my life.”

It took almost twenty years, but I kept that promise. While working for the City of East Chicago, we partnered with Ameristar to bring Smokey to town. This time, Mom, Dad, my wife Kari, and I sat in the front row. Not only did Smokey headline, but he invited Mom up to the stage, asked her name, and serenaded her. She turned to my dad, grinning, and shouted, “Hon, I’m apologizing now, but I might not be home tonight!” The crowd roared with laughter. That was Mom — stealing the show with her wit and warmth.

When Mom was diagnosed with cancer in 2015, our family, needless to say, was devastated. It was a time of confusion, uncertainty and doubt.

When her time came, Hospice of the Calumet Area brought our family peace, grace, and dignity. Mom passed in 2016, and while our hearts were broken, they were also full — full of memories, full of love. Grief never truly disappears, but with time, it becomes more manageable.

To honor her life and the caregivers who helped us through those final days, Kari and I began a new tradition: every Cinco de Mayo, we serve a celebratory meal to my colleagues at Hospice of the Calumet Area. We’ve done this for the past nine years. And as long as we do, my mom — Monica “Mona” Rico — lives on.

She is everywhere. In the stories we tell. In the laughter of our children. In every shared plate, every smile, every act of kindness.

Happy Mona Rico Day.

Damian Rico is the director of marketing and community relations for Hospice of the Calumet Area. The opinions are the writer's.