Two Years Hence
My mom died exactly two years ago today.
I plan to commemorate her life by eating foods she liked—green beans, broccoli, and dark rye bread—and drinking the Reisling wine she favored. I will probably end the day with a glass of watered-down ice coffee at bedtime as was her wont, too.
Mom—Ruth Thomson Shapiro, born February 22, 1925 in Cincinnati, Ohio—was a formidable woman who spoke her mind on anything she knew anything about, and if she didn’t (which was rare) she would just make it up. A charming conversationalist, brilliant raconteur, and general know-it-all, Mom could hold forth on topics from the mundane and to the esoteric and keep you interested; but if you weren’t, no matter, she could still—and would still—hold forth.
To know her was to admire her: her classy beauty, her encyclopedic memory, her paradoxically calm flair for the dramatic. She pretty much always got her way but that’s because you pretty much always realized that her way was the best way, anyway.
Dad said that every organization Mom joined she eventually rose to become president of. And why not? Eventually you were going to come around to her position; might as well start there.
Opinionated, yes, but close-minded no; she may not have suffered fools gladly, but she did so with amusement. When, as a six year-old, I sharpened my pinky fingers in a pencil sharpener, Mom expressed no horror over my two bleeding digits; rather, she laughed at my relative good sense in comparison to my friend Joey, who managed to bloody all ten of his.
My final memory of Mom is of her standing in her TV room saying goodbye to me as I left for the airport about a month before she died. She was holding a detective novel in one hand, a glass of ice coffee in the other. I’m sure she finished the coffee; I’m not so sure about the book.
I plan to commemorate her life by eating foods she liked—green beans, broccoli, and dark rye bread—and drinking the Reisling wine she favored. I will probably end the day with a glass of watered-down ice coffee at bedtime as was her wont, too.
Mom—Ruth Thomson Shapiro, born February 22, 1925 in Cincinnati, Ohio—was a formidable woman who spoke her mind on anything she knew anything about, and if she didn’t (which was rare) she would just make it up. A charming conversationalist, brilliant raconteur, and general know-it-all, Mom could hold forth on topics from the mundane and to the esoteric and keep you interested; but if you weren’t, no matter, she could still—and would still—hold forth.
To know her was to admire her: her classy beauty, her encyclopedic memory, her paradoxically calm flair for the dramatic. She pretty much always got her way but that’s because you pretty much always realized that her way was the best way, anyway.
Dad said that every organization Mom joined she eventually rose to become president of. And why not? Eventually you were going to come around to her position; might as well start there.
Opinionated, yes, but close-minded no; she may not have suffered fools gladly, but she did so with amusement. When, as a six year-old, I sharpened my pinky fingers in a pencil sharpener, Mom expressed no horror over my two bleeding digits; rather, she laughed at my relative good sense in comparison to my friend Joey, who managed to bloody all ten of his.
My final memory of Mom is of her standing in her TV room saying goodbye to me as I left for the airport about a month before she died. She was holding a detective novel in one hand, a glass of ice coffee in the other. I’m sure she finished the coffee; I’m not so sure about the book.
posted by Professor Dave at 11:37 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home