Grown-ups aren’t shy when it comes to telling children who they resemble. I was a toddler when my dad took me to his men’s club; the Silver Rod soda fountain. There, dads and grandpas would gather on early weekend mornings to pick up a Daily News, a pack of Pall Malls and discuss the merits of sports idols named Pee Wee and Sugar Ray. Each man who entered stopped to rub my head, pinch my cheek and tell me how much I looked like my dad. Fair-skinned, fair-haired and green-gold eyes, there was no mistaking our DNA. Perhaps that’s why I thought my mother was simply an add-on to our relationship. We both loved her, but really, we were the pair: Daddy and Daddy’s girl.Read More
One More Thing Before I Go
Last spring when the scent of lilacs followed me from the backyard into my kitchen, I thought of my mother’s distant cousin and her daughters, who, like my lilacs, visited yearly when the earth warmed and the days grew longer. I pictured us all in idyllic memories of jump rope games and playing with dolls. But, except for MaryAnn, the littlest daughter, I could not remember their names.
A few years ago, I could have called my mother. She would have teased me for my forgetfulness, asked what I was making for dinner (there was never a phone conversation where we didn’t talk about food) and repeated her mother-to-daughter mantra, “When are you coming over?” We would have shared stories of those long-ago days before hanging-up and re-joining our lives. But my mother has passed on and while the images of our family lingers-the details are lost. I write One more thing before I go, my living record for my son, in hope that one day, when he has a question I can no longer answer, it can be found in this blog.