Month: February 2016

I had two Maxines in my life.

1

In case the title of this series isn’t obvious, I chose it because I feel that way myself. I was “planted” in Pittsburgh, the city of rivers. This relates to the women in my family. I’ve always been fortunate in the fact that, when I was in trouble, there was somebody who came forward and gave me help.

In the autumn of 1973 I dragged myself from Hartford, CT to Pittsburgh–spiritually not exactly dead but close to it. After five turbulent years of losses I was leaving my young husband, Mark, after two years of marriage. We had lived together as students since 1969, got married in 1971. Mark suffered what is called, I think, a nervous breakdown; he was unable to get out of bed, demanded that blinds and draperies be drawn. I could not help him. I tried to get outside help for him but he refused it. He was very ill for a long time.

Back in Pittsburgh on my own, I found a kind of peace that comes from solitude. I was living in a two-room apartment on Ward Street in Oakland–and I loved this little place. I write about it, over and over again. This is when the other Maxine, my aunt, came forward and extended help. When I look back–and this is a cliche but I’ll allow myself one–she drew me under her wing.

My aunt Maxine is my mother’s sister–part of the clan. She told me that she was practicing Transcendental Meditation and it completely changed her life. At this point we departed from the aunt/niece connection and became friends. She confided in me her deepest secrets, what happened to her that made her seek out “TM,” and how she got well using this technique. These facts were made clear to me in confidence so I can’t write about what they were. It was the sort of situation that millions of women have to endure. In my aunt’s case this situation made her sick. A lot of us in the family have problems with our digestive tracts when going through a troubled time–I’m one of them. My aunt is included in this.

We had long talks about life, living, where I would go next, what road to take. I wasn’t dealing with men at that time and my aunt approved. She paid the money for me to be initiated into TM. My aunt Maxine described a way of life that was elevated, free from the burdens that some women carry. She pointed out that I was free now–divorced–and had no children and owned practically nothing. I could slip free from the noose and lead a spiritually glowing life. In Iowa there’s a university based on TM; people go there to study, think, turn their thoughts in the right direction. My aunt gave me things to read about this place and suggested that I somehow get enough money together and depart for Iowa.

Furthermore, followers of TM can attend weekend workshops where there are lectures, films, and fellowship with other people. My aunt took me to several of these–again, she paid for me to accompany her. Those times were the best of my “single” days. The whole situation, the environment, soothed my soul. But something held me back from taking a big step and going along with my aunt’s plan for me.

There was no doubt that my aunt loved me and genuinely wanted me to be free of the dreary situations a lot of us face. This was especially true with regards to marriage. I was 24 years old, a survivor of many losses. How could I even think logically about making a decision to not get married and have children? I was programmed for marriage; I was told  it was the best thing to be.

In January of 1976, energized by my aunt’s love and care, I quit my job at Mercy Hospital and moved to Philadelphia to stay with a friend. I met my husband soon after and a new life opened up at that point. This is the strange part–I never felt guilty about not proceeding in my aunt’s way. I knew that she was living a spiritual life and she was “grounded” via TM. My decision couldn’t hurt her. I’m enormously grateful to her for “stepping up to the plate” and giving me the love I needed.

1

If Maxine Was There It Was Special 3/ Special Request/And now for something completely different;

This is, I think, a very funny story and it took place almost 50 years ago. Maybe some of us even told it to our children? I refrained, though. Michael did not like hearing stories like this about me. He told me plainly that he is my son and sons don’t like hearing tales like this about their mothers.

It reminds me of an interview I heard with the author of Fifty Shades of Grey–I forget her name. The interviewer asked the author if her two sons had read the trilogy and she was shocked.

“I’m their mother! They don’t want to perceive me as an author who writes stuff like this!”

Also, it brings to mind another, related incident. When I was in sixth grade at Minadeo all the “popular” boys and girls were “going hearts” together. This meant that each boy and his favorite girl wore necklaces with halves of hearts dangling. Of course, all the girls wanted, more than anything, to “go hearts” with a nice boy.

One time, Michael and I took a trip to Pittsburgh and we were staying at the Best Western–or whatever it’s called now–on Blvd. of the Allies. That was our favorite place to stay because it was in Oakland and Michael was deciding on which college to attend. He decided to be just like his mother, grandfather, great-grandfather and great-uncles and go to University of Pittsburgh.

One morning we were having breakfast in the restaurant there and Steven Kaye was sitting nearby. My heart nearly stopped; he was my boyfriend in sixth grade at Minadeo and yes, we went hearts together. I had forgotten that. I went up to him, very excited, and he didn’t remember me. He thought I was someone else. However, on the drive home I told Michael that Steven used to write me notes addressed to “Pestlie.”

Michael, usually so laid back and blessed with a good sense of humor, turned a sour face towards me, then looked away. He was clearly embarrassed. So I never told him anything closely related to this subject.

2

I had a boyfriend named Sam in 11th grade. Quickly a set of three couples began to hang out together; I’m hesitating to name the third couple we knew. People don’t always like seeing their names on a blog. So it was the anonymous pair + Maxine and Harold + Sam and me. Harold was exiled to Peabody (I think) and we missed him during the week.

We would go out together every weekend–at least it seemed like that. The important part was the amount of hilarity and craziness that went on. We were always laughing and had private jokes and when we went to a movie, people were always telling us to shut up because of our noise. We also adored eating together–there is a Big Boy right outside of the Fort Pitt Tunnel–I think–and people can feel free to correct me on this. The point is that we ate there a lot, laughed a lot, messed around a lot, had an overwhelming amount of fun in each other’s company. It was like a movie from the 40s or 50s, where every girl had a guy and it was fun-fun-fun.

We also made out together in Schenley Park. NO I do NOT mean all six of us in a big, kinky group. We had Mr. and Mrs. Behrend to thank because they were the best parents and let Sam have their station wagon on the weekend nights. So there was Sam and me in front, Harold and Maxine behind us, and the anonymous pair in the back space. Once there–and lots of times cars were parked “nose to tail” on weekend nights–the six of us would make out, lots of hugging and kissing, giggling always.

I have to say that I find it, along with wanting to laugh hysterically at this late date, a little strange. Wasn’t it weird? Like the kind of stuff Margaret Mead wrote in Coming of Age in Samoa. Anyway, it was fun, a lot of fun, probably the best kind of fun I’d had since my childhood days on Shady Ave. Ext. But oh, when it was time to go home, I was fried. All this stimulation up to a point with no release…who wouldn’t feel completely whacked??

Now we approach the point of this probably too-long memoir. The police were often to be found cruising around Schenley Park on these weekend nights. They would look into cars at random, shining their flashlights into the cars, looking for what I’m not sure. They probably just liked to frighten us.

Well, here we were, all three couples, all in clinches–I’ve heard it called “submarine races.” The two policemen picked us to spy on; they shone their flashlights into Sam’s parent’s station wagon and asked the immortal, never, ever to be forgotten question:

“Room for two more in there?”

 

 

 

If Maxine Was There It Was Special 2

I’m sitting here reading what I wrote about Maxine and me, growing up. I realized, though, that I only wrote about our childhood and adolescence.

For many years when we reached adulthood–for at least ten years–Maxine and I wrote to each other. These letters flowed back and forth regularly, sometimes even twice a week. My heart still shakes when I picture in my mind Maxine’s penmanship on an envelope when I went to get the mail. Maxine was a superb, faithful correspondent.  She described everything in her life, her battles, her successes, the deep, deep love for her husband and children. I relied on her in a similar way. I told her everything too.

The best letter Maxine ever wrote to me–and I’ve already told Harold this a million times–is sitting in our safe deposit box at the bank. I was having some difficulties relating to what went on in our shared past; my father’s early death. Instead of writing, I called her. Once in a while I would “treat myself” to a phone call to Maxine. I poured my heart out to her and she was her usual, wonderful self and I felt much, much better.

However, she wrote a letter that arrived several days later. At the end of this letter she put in a “P.S.” She said that possibly all the bad times of my young adulthood contributed to the “wife, author, mother, and worker” I became. So it must be understood that there was only one person in the world who could have written this. My husband Peter wasn’t around during those early, dark days. I had no friend from the past except Maxine.

I think about this every day–the fact that Maxine wrote that about me–and at this point it’s probable that I’ll go on thinking about it every day. I even keep a copy of the letter in a special file I call “Inspirational.” When I need to look at something nice I have letters and pictures in there from a few close people. It’s like a giant scrapbook.

I also have sacks full of cards and notes I received from Maxine. She loved to send me really goofy birthday cards that would make me laugh.

One last true thing; when Maxine died I went through parts of the stages of grief I’d read about, but the worst part was fear. I didn’t think I could make it in this cold, cruel world without my cousin’s love and her particular way of understanding me. Who else loved me like that? It had nothing to do with my marriage or my son.

Eventually I felt better, but only when I began to feel that Maxine was now a part of me, and the fine line between the past and present began to dissolve.

Here is a beautiful memory that I hold safe within. In 2001 we moved from the Philadelphia area to this place, in the rural area outside of Bloomsburg. I knew what our address was in advance so I let Maxine know. The first mail delivery we had here was a letter from my dear cousin.

 

If Maxine Was There It Was Special

I’ve written about my dear cousin a lot but sometimes “a lot” isn’t enough.

I have photos of Maxine and me sitting together when we were toddlers and in a playpen; photos of Maxine and me playing together on “the roof” of the Morrowfield; really cute photos of Maxine and me at the Alpine Swim Club, age 16, sitting far away from the rest of the people, combing our hair in the sun, and of course giggling.

Maxine went to Colfax and I went to Minadeo; that made her seem far away and out of reach. Now, though, I can see that we didn’t live very far apart. In the summers we managed to see each other, to play together. We didn’t play games or sports; we either worked together on an art project and we talked/talked/talked. I don’t think we ever had a fight; from the first we got along just as if we were twins. Our mothers were first cousins; that doesn’t sound like a close, tight bond. But it must be understood that the clan in which we grew up made faraway kinships present and real. My mother always said that she felt as if Bryna (Shore) and her sister Audrey (Maxine’s mom) were siblings, not first cousins.

We liked to be alone in a room that had a door we could close; why? We were passionately interested in facts about growing up, maturing, becoming women just like our mothers. We longed for the arrival of all the signs that put us on the road to womanhood. In our world being a woman was the most desirable state of body and mind. As it turned out these bodily signs showed themselves in me first, before Maxine. But was she jealous? No, never. She was as excited as I was.

I had a set of four books, all given to me either at Hanukkah or when I performed well in a piano recital. One of these books was about the human body’s systems. We read the chapter on the reproductive system, over and over. Of course, this was written in vague words…it never actually told Maxine and me how babies were born. Sigh. We had to be content with what we had.

It was special if Maxine was there–at the cousins’ picnics, at the school picnic at Kennywood, finally, finally graduating and entering Allderdice and having classes together! Talk about bliss.

However, one day when we were in 10th grade World History class and Maxine had a date set up to go out with Harold for the first time, notes passed back and forth between the two of us every time the teacher turned his back. That was a story with a happy ending. Maxine was so, so elated after she first met Harold. I remember talking to her on the phone that Sunday. It was a success.

Sometimes I can’t bear going to Pittsburgh. I haven’t been there since my mother died. When I go downtown and see Macy’s–which was Kaufmann’s then–and the clock, if it’s still there–I think of many Saturdays waiting to meet Maxine under that clock, then going in to look at dresses. Feeling like real women because following those afternoons we would be seeing each other that night on a double date with our boyfriends.

Real women at last.

 

 

 

 

1

Everybody must feel, at one time or another, that their lives are weird in some way. Mine was weird also.

I had three significant people disappear from my life, having first saying goodbye in the most delightful ways. There has been a rhythm to it.

My grandmother on my mother’s side, the grandmother we called “Gram,” wasn’t a typical grandmother. She didn’t relate to us as children; she wasn’t jolly and funny; sometimes she was frightening. But in my case, when I attained the age of 11 something changed. My grandmother and I joined forces–and this happened suddenly–where we became rapturously close and couldn’t get enough time to be together. When Thursdays came–that was my grandmother’s night for coming to dinner–I ran home from school, threw my schoolbooks onto a chair, and flung myself at my grandmother. Most of the time we weren’t physically close but I loved it, giving her a hug. Then she would sit quietly as I chattered away about everything that was important. She listened to all I had experienced for the past week. She remembered everything I had said. She gave me advice on relationships with friends–she reminded me to keep my dignity and not lose my pride. We talked about clothes. My grandmother was quite fashionable as a young woman and she knew how important it was to have your skirts touch your knees at a precise point. We looked at magazines together, my grandmother pointing out which model had the best hair style, etc.

Even more blissful were the times when my grandmother told me family stories. It’s obvious to the people who know me–I was unconsciously collecting these stories. I haven’t forgotten anything she told me. Sometimes she would sit in her chair while I sat at her feet and listened and asked questions. Always with me it was questions, questions, questions.

We also played cards. She taught me how to play gin rummy and concentration. She was an avid poker player; I wanted to learn it but that project got pushed off, never to return.

2

Bar Mitzvah and Bat Mitzvah children are considered “adults” after going through the ceremonies. I had a bat mitzvah all my own.

One day in the summer of 1962–I was 12–my mother got a phone call from our grandmother. She had awakened with an terrible pain in her back and could hardly move. She needed to see our family doctor who was her first cousin and had the odd name of Meynor Silverberg. However, my mother and her two sisters all were home with small children and had no car. My father and my uncles needed the cars to get to work. So–it was decided that I would be put into a taxicab, go to the Morrowfield to pick up my grandmother, and accompany her to the doctor’s office.

As my grandmother used to say–Oy Gott!! I didn’t think I could do this. How would I handle everything? My mother gave me some money for the cab, told me to tell the driver that he needed to wait until I came back down with my grandmother, then go on to the doctor’s office.

I walked down that long, dark hall to my grandmother’s place. She was half-standing in her bathroom, nude. Somehow, very slowly, I helped my grandmother to dress and walked her down the hall. My grandmother had a lot of names for me; one of them was “shanekeit” which I am told means “beautiful spirit” in Yiddish. I was a shanekeit that day and it made me feel so proud. Once we were in the doctor’s office my grandmother’s pain was beginning to fade. This shouldn’t surprise anybody. There is a mind-body connection and my grandmother was going to see her first cousin, someone she trusted.

Everybody was proud of me.

My grandmother died when I was 14, so we had three years of pure bliss in each other’s company. When she died I was very, very sad and missed her a lot. But I was young and I didn’t have to grieve long. But I will say this; I still think of my grandmother, every day.

A final note re: growing up in the matriarchal clan…when my own mother was slowly dying and we spent three years blissfully in each other’s company I told her that I used to worry a lot; when “Gram” and I became such good, good friends I thought she, my mother, was jealous. But my mother just laughed and said it was a joy to see the two of us together.

Dedicated to My Mother and Father

I published this story online about five years ago. It was called “A Dress of Gold.”

Not all stories are happy. However, this is a good example of how “functional” families work things out.

My aunt Esther was only 14 years older than me. When she was in her early 20s she met a man call Herb. He was in his early thirties. They got married in 1958 when I was 8 years old. My mother bought us all nice dresses–at Kaufmann’s of course–for this happy occasion. Mine was black velvet with flowers on it. When I saw myself in a black velvet dress for the first time I almost plotzed. I could hardly speak. It was so beautiful.

Esther got pregnant immediately. She gave birth to the baby at the same time that I was hospitalized to have an infected salivary gland removed. Quite a trauma, that was; what was worse–the baby was born with Downs Syndrome and other severe abnormalities.

Esther went into labor and delivered the baby on the same day I had my operation. My mother couldn’t leave Esther for long so my father came and sat by my hospital bed and said nice things to me as I slowly came out of the anesthesia. It was nice, having my father there as I woke up. But I was told soon after about my aunt’s baby.

Just think about this. Poor Esther, in bed in Magee Hospital (I think) and crying her eyes out with this husband of hers, screaming “Look what a monster you gave me, just look!” Fortunately my father, who had absolutely no problem “manning up” to his masculine and protective duties, ejected Herb from the hospital. He physically removed him. That’s the kind of father I had.

The baby, named Louis, was placed in some kind of special sanitarium; however, the poor little thing died after only a month. My mother remembered driving her “baby sister” and the new baby to this place where he would receive good care.

A family crisis. Esther left Herb and came to our small house. We had a tiny guest room that had a desk and a couch that pulled out into a bed. Esther went in, closed the door, and cried. I remember vividly standing in front of that closed door, listening to my beloved aunt crying. After a month or thereabouts Esther got a job in downtown Pittsburgh, found an apartment, and her best friend came to share it with her. She met her present husband soon after moving out.

Why do I say that my family was “functional?” For one thing, there was only one person who could have thrown Herb out of the hospital and my father was there to do it. Also, when I look back on that time, I’m filled with love and admiration for how my mother handled everything. I was ten years old. Yet my mother told me all the facts about Daddy getting rid of Herb, the poor baby’s death, and why Esther was crying.

How many children get pushed aside or have doors slammed in their faces, never knowing the facts when the family is undergoing a crisis?

Esther met her new husband and everything was wonderful. My aunt’s cheeks were pink and she wasn’t crying. My mother sang as she did her housework. She took all of  us to Kaufmann’s to get new dresses for the wedding. I was in rapture over the dress that my mother let me have. It wasn’t yellow–it was made of gold-colored cloth and it had a scooped neckline. It represented everything that was good–joy coming after sorrow, possibly new babies coming to make us forget the tragic events, true love.

Finally, a description of the wedding. It was held in the rabbi’s study. My aunt wore a suit and a hat that was covered with flowers. Only a beautiful woman could have worn it without looking silly. Afterwards, everyone came to our small house–all the cousins and other relatives along with good friends. No catering for this wedding; my mother baked the cake and made other delicious foods, all by herself. She worked so hard on making everybody happy. It was beautiful.

A strange thing happened, though. Towards the end of the day I suddenly wanted to cry but I didn’t know why. I didn’t want to spoil this glorious day so I quickly ran upstairs, hid myself in a corner, and cried there. My aunt came up to find me. I had no idea why I could cry on such a wonderful day. Now, after more than 50 years later, I think I was just plain overcome by the events that led to a satisfying ending–and this was a period of time that lasted about a year and a half.

The next day, after the newlyweds were off to their honeymoon, I overheard my mother talking to her cousin Bryna on the phone. She said “I’m basking in the afterglow.” What young girl–I was 11 by then–could forget those words?

 

 

 

1

This is without a doubt one of the all-time greatest stories my mother told me during those last precious years. Because she had dementia she forgot everything she said the minute she said it; so she kept telling me this, over and over. But for the most part I didn’t get impatient during this heart-breaking process; we laughed so hard each time she told it that it was worth it. (There was one time when my mother and I were sitting at a small table in a coffee place and she started telling me a story about my father for the 1000th time and something in my head went *ping!!* Uh-oh. I got to the pay phone–I didn’t have my cell phone with me–and called my husband who DID have his phone. I said that my cheese was ready to slip off my cracker so please come and rescue me. He did come and diverted my mother’s attention to other things. But I am proud to say that this only happened twice.)

It also holds the mirror to that run-down, almost forgotten place where my family owned a general store.

My grandmother, her sister, and their bachelor brother Harry–plus six children–lived upstairs from the store. A tight fit for people with their problems. But my mother always said that it was wonderful, living so close to loved ones. She never made a negative comment about Woods Run. Others have added different ideas and theories to this way of looking at that life, but I’m happy to say that I believe my mother and I still do.

Harry lived with his two sisters and never had a job. Sometimes he’d help out in the store but you could not count on him. He liked to sit around and talk to who ever was available. The word “loafing” is the best choice. He loved all the children and called them “love.” He’d say to my mother or one of the others: “Hey, love, get me a glass of water?”

This humble store was managed and kept alive by my great-grandmother. Her husband, according to my mother, was kind of a “schlemiel” or one of those words in Yiddish that begin with “sch.” So if my great-grandmother wasn’t around, things got slack. My grandmother, Harry, and a neighbor sat in the storage room and played poker or gin. They were supposed to make themselves busy with sweeping the floor, re-arranging the shelves, and (hopefully) serve customers.

However, when the three were deep into a thrilling game of poker and a customer stood at the counter, waiting for service the three card-players would look at each other and say:

“Oh no, here’s another one. Whose turn is it to get up this time??”

I wrote this memoir the first time around using this title: “Not Your Type A Personalities…”

My mother was hysterically funny when she told me this. It was so gratifying to see her animated and happy. All I had to do was sit there and laugh, which was not hard.

2

Uncle Harry–called “Unc”–played the numbers every day. I had to look this up online; I found that it was an illegal kind of lottery game where people made bets based on the ending numbers of the stock exchange or sports figures. My mother told me all about this; “Unc” paid my mother a nickel if she acted as his “runner.” She took the betting slips to some nearby bar or tavern.

When Harry “got a hit” he’d use the money to buy all the children roller skates and buy himself a really good cigar. Would he pay the electric bill or buy a sack of groceries? Nope. I informed my mother that this arrangement–her helping “Unc” with his numbers games– would today be considered child abuse. But that just made us laugh again.

 

1

Sitting here, thinking about what to call this series, I was temporarily going to take the easy way out and call it “Growing Up in a Matriarchy.” But this series means too much to me. I am, after all, a writer–or at least I call myself that–so I had to think of a very meaningful title and this is what I came up with.

If you grew up in Pittsburgh rivers are visible and important. Added to the image of rivers is the way I grew up–nourished, cared for, never left to dry up and die.

The basic history of this group of women is as follows: my great-grandmother kept a general store in Woods Run, a now-forgotten, poor place near the Ohio River. The Reidbord brothers had come here from Lithuania; I have no information about my great-grandmother’s family. I know that she spoke in Yiddish and her English was sketchy. She had three daughters and a son. Their names are Annette (my grandmother,) her sisters Irene, and Lillian; the son’s name was Harry. They were the only Jews in Woods Run.

My grandmother’s daughters were Gloria (my mother,) Maxine, and Esther. Lillian also had three children: Audrey, Bryna, and Billy. Irene–and here I may make a mistake because I knew this branch of the family least–had June and Bill. All first cousins. My grandmother and her sister Lil never lived apart. My great-aunt Lil’s husband fathered three children and ran away and my own grandfather was dead before I was born. So like a few lionesses that I saw on a PBS special, they banded together, pooled their limited resources, and helped raise each other’s children.

My grandmother helped to run the general store and sometimes Harry helped. My grandmother and Harry never had any other employment; Lil had a job with Mercy Hospital, working at night at the switchboard. One thing she didn’t have to worry about was daycare. There were always adults around.

Some of these relatives lived in Squirrel Hill; that was seen by those in Woods Run as quite high class. Downtown Pittsburgh with its department stores was considered as fine as any store in New York City.

2

There was a serious flood in 1936 and the people there were driven out to find shelter elsewhere. My grandmother was six months pregnant with my aunt Esther and she told me a story about being lowered into a boat from the second story window. The whole family moved to Squirrel Hill. My mother had just graduated from high school but my aunts Maxine and Esther became students at Taylor Allderdice.

Since there is so much information and I want to make it interesting I’m going to stop listing events and go into what my family’s life was like. I’ll start with my mother.

Everything in these stories I learned from my mother and grandmother. My aunts also told me things but their stories had a different basis.

My grandmother told me that when she was very young she ran away and got married to some con man…some kind of a charming crook but low level. This marriage didn’t last long and she returned to Pittsburgh and got divorced. Very odd for this time in history. She had to live upstairs over the store and help serve customers.

The vast majority of the people who came to the store were men who worked in the surrounding factories. They came in to get lunch and coffee and since the same ones came in every day, friendly relationships developed between customers and my family. My great-grandmother always quietly pointed out Louis Reidbord and told my grandmother that this man was a real mensch, strong, hard-working, and good looking. The two connected and were married. I don’t know the date of this marriage.

I was told repeatedly that the two were deeply and passionately in love. My mother told me that they were openly affectionate and kissed and embraced a lot while the children were present. This embarrassed my mother. My own parents were not like that. In this marriage my grandmother was the stern one, the disciplinarian where the children were born; Louis Reidbord was kind and easy going and played games with his three small daughters. However, all the psychic strength, the center of everything important, flowed between my grandmother and her sisters.

None of these people went to college and some didn’t graduate from high school. When I was a little follower, always hanging nearby my mother or grandmother, I was told that college for my mother was of course out of the  question. After graduating from high school my mother had one day off, then had to begin looking for a job and when she got one, hand over her paycheck to her mother.

To make these memoirs enjoyable I plan to put in anything humorous. So here’s a story from my own history that I still think is funny.

When my son Michael came of age, while in college, he felt a strong calling to travel the whole world and save lives and help bring peace to communities that were in crisis. So before he graduated college he was working for the United Nations as a Peace Maker; he was sent to the most awful places, very dangerous places, to use his EMT skills and in general keep order along with the members of his team. He went on missions during the summers and also Christmas and spring break.

One day the phone rang. Michael was a senior then and when he called he asked me this question: “Mom, is it OK if I go to Antarctica over spring break?” His supervisor at the U.N. wanted to send him along with a small team of workers to instruct the people in the settlement there how to carry out first aid. They planned the whole project to be carried out during Michael’s spring break because he was appointed team leader.

What could I say? I’ll never forget this; my mouth hung open. He’d gone to awful places before and always came back in one piece so of course I said yes. As it happened, this mission to Antarctica was my favorite one of Michael’s–no stinging insects, no wars going on.

What did this have to do with my mother and me? Not long after this conversation I told my mother and she said: “I used to have to beg my mother to let me take the bus to downtown Pittsburgh.”

We shared a laugh over this.