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.
On our bus rides, my mother struck-up instant in-depth friendships with other moms and little old ladies. Soft-spoken and sympathetic, she was a perfect fellow traveler. Rarely was she asked her name nor did she ask theirs. It may sound odd now in this time of wait-staff cheerily announcing, “hi, I’m Cheryl,” or when a stranger in nurse scrubs introduces himself as Parker while you shiver barefoot in your paper examining room gown.
Read MorePart of what attracted me to Korean and Chinese cultures was that their established hierarchy and obeisance to grown-up relatives resembled my family’s. Any relative older than I was addressed by their well-earned title; great grandma, a quartet of grandparents, aunts, uncles and adult cousins. The last group members were addressed as aunts or uncles. My Aunt Jane, wife of mom’s cousin, Uncle Martin was lauded for her exotic cookery skills. In our uber-diverse family, she was the only Sephardic Jew. She brought with her an intoxicating cuisine; dinners of fresh sardines, shimmering in oil until crisp tender in an embrace of paprika, oregano, wine, cinnamon and citrus and desserts like Persian cream puffs, swollen with whip cream and robed in rose water and honey.
Read MoreContrary to common myth, it does not take a village to raise a child—it takes a family, but for childhood-enhancement: Nothing beats colorful neighbors. For a moment-I’ll pretend three extra families were at our last Thanksgiving feast on Fat Foot Avenue...
Read MoreI’m the author of Bird and Fish, its sequel; Sea and Sky and my latest novel; Alice Again. I wasn’t always a writer. I started out much the same as other women; moving along from baby to girl, woman to wife and mother, teacher to restless. Restless is the best ally a writer can have. It made me leave a super career with a steady pay-check to settle into a solitary regimen of breathing life into a handful of ideas. I’ve never been happier.
