It's taken me years to figure out why my mother never let me win at checkers, told me to fight my own battles and insisted on being unblinkingly honest.
All tagged Mom
It's taken me years to figure out why my mother never let me win at checkers, told me to fight my own battles and insisted on being unblinkingly honest.
When I arrived, they were thrilled to see me in the way only your parents can be.
My mother could climb trees, ice skate and walk miles in high heels. There was no way was I letting Superwoman get her hands on me with the worst kind of a confession: A belated one.
"You don't know what's in those things," my mother would say, pouring a cup of coffee and lighting another Pall Mall. "They can't be good for you."
"Once people get air conditioning, they go inside and never come out," my mother used to say, sitting on a metal lawn chair in the yard, drinking iced tea and fanning herself.
By Final Jeopardy Holzhauer’s usually so far ahead that his opponents are dialing for an Uber.
For years my father drove around with a beakless duck decoy on the back seat of his car, as he searched for a replacement part.
My parents were going to a doc who advertised on a radio station that once aired a two-man comedy show that had amused my father in the 1970s.
The only thing we know for sure about my grandfather is where he is. His remains are in a cemetery in South River, N.J.
In all the years I sat at my mother's table, I never remember anyone ever asking her for a recipe. The food was passable. The company was priceless.
I could feel the art lovers staring. Laughing, no doubt. Waiting to see if the old woman would get up or just lie there on the bike path and expire in the sun.