Word to your mother

I was looking through a stash of keepsakes and found the following notes from my chidren.

One was penned by Andrew ... obviously.

I cannot imagine why he thought he could keep me from changing my "minde a gen" simply by begging!

And no, I don't remember why Andrew was asking me only last week not to change my mind again.

What I do know is that he simply must work on his penmanship and spelling.

This next one may be from the same kid but since it's unsigned, the identity of its author shall remain shrouded in mystery.

Whichever of the four possible grateful candidates you are/were, you're most welcome.

And now I simply must go and find my rubber stamp of the French-bereted dog photographer complete with professional-grade tripod.

Happy Mother's Day!

Mother memories

TG with his father and loving mother circa 1952

She sits at a sixth-story window that overlooks Central Park, her profile emblazoned against the afternoon sun, hair still long but gathered in a bun, her full arms pressing against the gauzy cotton of her shirtwaist sleeves above a shorter skirt now and velvet pumps. Both hands rest on an open book in her lap as she listens intently to a young man with a pipe, thick glasses, and a short beard, a student from Columbia to whom she pays two dollars an afternoon each week simply to come and talk with her about novels. She knows hardly anyone in or out of the family who has ever read a book, but she herself can begin a novel in the afternoon, pick it up again after dinner, finish it by midnight, and remember it in detail for the rest of her life. She also remembers the names of the entire British royal family and their German cousins.

From Timebends: A Life (copyright 1987) by Arthur Miller