This time of year is filled with so many emotions. The happiness of being with friends and family makes all the necessary work a labor of love. We at Askcherlock have much for which we are grateful. After some serious health scares that turned out to be all right, we are thankful for good health, and send prayers and good wishes to those whose health may not be good. Please know you are in our thoughts.

We have met new people through this blog and other blogging venues. I hold each one of you close to my heart and thank you for blessing us with your presence in our lives. You have made us laugh. You have made  us think. You have given us courage, and you are each delightful in your own charismatic ways.

As we finish our holiday shopping, we do so with great joy in anticipation of children, grandchildren and friends with whom we celebrate. It is not about the gifts, nor about the money, though there was a Christmas many years ago that makes me cringe. I was a single mom, working and doing the best I could to support my children. As too many of you know, when finances are limited, your heart aches for your kids. I had brought home a much anticipated Christmas tree. The kids were anxiously awaiting so they could decorate. When I brought it into our humble (as in poor) home, their faces crumbled into frowns. “It looks like Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree!” Tears began to flow. Gifts were not plentiful, and ornaments for the tree were homemade by me, mostly cross-stitched little things with their names, and Christmas scenes. They cried a lot that year.

As time passed and circumstances changed it got better, much better. Now the house is replete with a gorgeous tree, dazzling ornaments, and presents for all. The difficult times make us better people when we keep in mind that brighter days will arrive. We must cling to that hope and I bear witness to the fact that it can happen.

So to all of you, we wish you the best this holiday season! Thank you for all you are, and for the friendships so graciously extended. In honor of singer Etta James this year, I share this this song for all of you.

—cher

Music has always been an integral part of my life. As a very young child I watched as my parents danced romantically through our house to the songs of Glenn Miller, or they would swing dance to Bill Haley and The Comets when Rock ‘n Roll entered the scene. Watching my parents dance was magical and showed the essence of their love. They had no rules and either could be the initiator. Sometimes my Mom would take my Dad’s hand as he walked by, giving him that beguiling smile, and their dance would begin. The photos of those moments in my mind are freeze-framed in timeless wonder.

My brother and I were fed this appreciation of music and dance the same way other parents taught their children a love for the outdoors through camping or hiking. Our parents would talk often about Judy Garland and play songs on the stereo, not only Judy’s, but Nina Simone, Frank Sinatra, Sarah Vaughan and Ella Fitzgerald. We were young but a part of each of our musical souls absorbed this and into our futures it extended.

One weekend I came home from college, and after our parents had gone out for the evening, my brother Denny called me out of my room and said, “Sis, you have to listen to this.” He had discovered Simon and Garfunkel. We lit candles and listened without speaking to “The Sounds of Silence” and “To Emily Whenever I May Find Her.” Every song was gently poetic and we drove across America in our musical fantasies. The sharing of music became one of our strongest bonds.

My own children grew up with me listening to Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, and each in their turn has asked for the Déjà vu CD on a Christmas list as their own memories became cherished. When Santana came out with “Supernatural” my children tried to claim him. I had to tell them there was no Santa Claus and that he was mine! Of course there were the Beatles, and the “Abbey Road” CD was my favorite, so that was played endlessly. At my son Brian’s wedding he chose the song, “In My Life” for the mother-son dance. I could not hold back the tears. My daughter chose the song “Suite Judy Blue Eyes” for me at her wedding so I could dance as I had at home, and the memories came flooding back in abandon and delight.

In this family music is still a strong bond. Once after a family tragedy, my daughter put together a compilation of songs on a CD that she hoped would cheer me. It did. Now she asks me to burn CD’s for her and I do. So music and the memories made through sharing can be great bonds. There is always music playing in our house, and every once in a while, my kids catch me dancing in the kitchen.

—cher

In the late ‘80’s I was a social worker and did some photography on the side. A friend of mine was a radio talk show host at KDKA in Pittsburgh and had an interview scheduled in-studio with Muhammad Ali. He asked if I would like to be there to be there to take photos for him during the interview. I couldn’t get the word “Yes” out fast enough! My friend invited a cadre of associates who also wanted to be there to meet “The Great One.”

I checked and re-checked my 35mm camera and finally the evening of the interview arrived. The group of friends sat in the green room awaiting the arrival of Ali, swapping stories about him, many of which included Howard Cosell. When security called to say that he had arrived at the station, the host asked if I would go to the lobby to greet him. Me? Sure!

I took the elevator and my heart pounded in descent as much as it rose in anticipation. The doors opened and there he was, the Great Muhammad Ali. I was taken aback by the beauty of his face. Not a mark on it. He was tall and stately looking. I introduced myself to him and to his entourage of black-suited, tie-clad businessmen who had accompanied him. I later learned they were some of his Muslim brothers.

We went to the green room and waited till 9:00p.m. when the interview was scheduled to begin. In the interim, I offered Mr. Ali coffee and we chatted about Pittsburgh. His mind was sharp and his body not yet as debilitated as it would later become. I admit that I was completely star-struck. But it was more than that. His manner was that of a gentleman and had I not seen him and his strength in the boxing ring, nor known of his prowess at the sport, I may have thought him to be a spiritual leader in some high capacity or an astute businessman without a hint of arrogance. He was humble and so unlike the persona who would “float like a butterfly; sting like a bee.”

We entered the studio at 9:00 and I introduced him to the host. Quick exchanges were made and the host, known for his sense of humor, ended up bested by Ali who one-upped him with barbs, as he leaned back in his chair laughing. I sat discretely in a corner of the studio snapping shots as quickly as I could. The interview was raucous with stories and laughter.

After the show, we went into the green room and all eyes were lit with delight as Mr. Ali kindly consented to have me take his photo with each person there. He may have been the most gracious person I have ever met. I have thought of him often in the years since. I wonder if he knows the indelible impression he made that night, not only on me but all who were there. He truly is “The Great One.” May his days be filled with comfort and his heart at peace with the knowledge that he is a good man.

—cher

Recently Pittsburgh was listed by Forbes magazine as one of the best cities in the country in which to live. Having lived here most of my life, I could not agree more. I have watched this city evolve into a cosmopolitan region which has built up its support of the arts, emerged relatively well from the economics crisis, and has some of the best medical facilities and universities in the world. We have a young Mayor in Luke Ravenstahl, sometimes referred to as the “boy mayor,” but his vision for the city is youthful and daring in its expansion for the city’s future. He has a verve which I like. Still, I look back with some nostalgia at times and places in the city which have changed or gone by the wayside in a natural evolutionary process.

I grew up in Sharon Hill Manor, a suburb outside the city but going “into town” was a great adventure for us as children and young adults. People “dressed to the nines,” as they used to say. My mother, always in high heels and wearing gloves; my father always in a suit. Every Christmas it was tradition for us to go into town, have dinner in one of the best restaurants, then walk through the city admiring all the department store window displays, animated with moving santas and elves. It was magical!

My mother had decided that every young woman should attend charm school, learning the most proper etiquette, mannerisms and carriage. She enrolled me in a class in the city to be attended every Saturday, and I enlisted my friend Annie, who reluctantly agreed to do the same.

The first stop we made was the hallowed marble floors of the Jenkins Arcade, one of first indoor malls. It was filled with exclusive shops and one store which sold only buttons. Women sewed in those days. I never did, and still don’t. I always had a distaste for it, so I have learned where all the best tailors are located. But the show windows in the Jenkins Arcade of finery shops made our eyes glisten with dreams of shopping there…someday. Expensive luggage which we would purchase for our many travels; glassware and porcelain statues we would buy to decorate our homes; and furs to be lavishly draped around us when we became women. This was the stuff of which dreams were made.

Next we would walk to the KQV radio station on 7th Avenue, where DJ Chuck Brinkman did his rock ‘n roll show from a studio which faced the street in a large glass pane window. Teens crowded around to actually see the DJ we all listened to from our radios at home. For us he was a celebrity and we loved this vicarious treat.

After our charm school class, Annie and I would go back to the Jenkins Arcade and have lunch at Palmer’s Restaurant. We felt so grown up and full of charm as we ordered. Still, we were a couple of giggling teenage girls, sharing many stories and dreams during those luncheons. After lunch we would go to Joseph Horne’s posh department store and buy a new purse or sweater. Horne’s was lavish in its look. Crystal chandeliers glistened; women at the counters were beautifully dressed; and there was a sense of class above all else. It was our dream store.

All these places are gone now. Evolution is inevitable and mostly welcomed. No one can take away our memories though, and those days in the city are some of my fondest. Oh yes, about that charm. I still walk and sit like “a lady” but I have learned a few things along the way. My daughter, for example, whom I did not send to charm school, taught me the word “beoch.” She calls me this endearingly, the bitch! I should have sent her to charm school.

—cher

This love for coffee started with my grandmother who began serving me coffee at the age of 5 during my many visits with her. She was a comfort in her own way, always a giving and loving soul. Her home was the gathering place for our extended family every Sunday during my childhood. I spent so much time with her that she was like a second mother to me. She awoke every morning at 5:00 a.m. and the first thing she did was to brew coffee in one of those old glass pots. The aroma would waft to my second floor bedroom where I was safely tucked under one of her homemade down comforters. Off came the comforter and downstairs I would go to join my grandmother on the sun-porch as we watched the dawn break  in silence together.

And so my lifelong love affair with coffee began. It is my comfort food and never lets me down.  Unlike lovers, it is always there when I need a pick-me-up and is always there when I need warmed in my soul. These days I have my own ritual. I bought a coffee maker that grinds the beans and then drizzles 10 cups of delicious comfort into the pot. In it I put flavored creamer and two packs of Splenda. Most importantly, it must be in a porcelain cup, delicate enough for me to hold for long lengths of time. The first pot is made in the morning and another 10 cups around 4:00 in the afternoon. This lasts me through the evening. Caffeine long ago lost its ability to keep me awake at night or give me “the jitters.” Other life issues may give me the jitters, but certainly, never coffee.

I will also confess that at one point in my life I used to put in a shot of Apricot Brandy. Ah, the comfort. I quickly realized that it was getting good to me—too good. I stopped with the Brandy and went back to straight coffee. Now it is with me wherever I go, even while driving. I will sometimes make a stop at Starbucks for a Skinny Iced Caramel Macchiato or perhaps Mickey D’s for their own good version of iced caramel coffee. Such simple luxuries make life wonderful.

My parents loved coffee too, so there is no doubt that sweet memories are associated with this addiction. My parents would often sing together. They harmonized beautifully, a gift they failed to pass on to their daughter from the gene pool. Still, I can hear them singing the Java song from their era. I smile, lift my cup and toast them and my grandmother for the good memories. And while I sit at this computer, you can be assured that coffee in a porcelain cup is beside me, offering inspiration and comfort as I hit the spell check key.

—cher

It was my senior year in college. I was student teaching and it was time for semester break. We were at the age just before adulthood as specified by graduation. My roommate had an idea. Let’s drive to New Orleans! Well sure, of course, let’s go. I don’t have a car, but I have, um, about $100.00. She had a car and about the same amount of money. Neither of us had ever just ‘hit the road for adventure’ but with great and free abandon that only the young can have, we went.

We got a map, a loaf of bread, jars of peanut butter and jelly, and some Pepsi that would stay cold for awhile. We took turns driving, admired scenery along the way, and slept in the car at a rest stop when we were halfway there. It was safe in those days. Didn’t think twice. Stopped for gas and the guy asked where we were headed. New Orleans, we said! He corrected our pronunciation: ” N’awlins, ” or something like that. We practiced saying it.

The next day we made it to New Orleans, found a cheesy hotel where we had enough money to stay for one night. It would be enough. We set off to discover New Orleans confident in our pronunciation. We knew so little of life at that age. It was a sweet time of innocence. But we had heard about Bourbon Street and after asking the hotel manager how to find it, we walked quickly. And there it was.

Blues bar after blues bar, sweet sounds, people smiling, aromas of seafood, open markets and a sultry, languorous heat. Houses and restaurants with beautiful iron gates.  We stopped at a cafe and had dark, rich coffee like none we had ever tasted. We ordered beignets, mispronouncing a word again, but laughed and learned. We walked Bourbon Street as night fell. And the gates of heaven opened.

We stood outside a blues bar. Through the window we could see an old Black woman seated at a piano which was on a platform. She had a kerchief tied around her head. Lines on her face looked deep with mystery and ruin. We went in to listen. She sang with her soul in a voice so deep and mesmerizing that it took you to places unknown, but compelling. She had no teeth. She was beautiful. People talked to us in kindly, gentile manners. We fell in love with each one of them. One told us we must see Preservation Hall. Off we went, but I turned so my mind could photograph the old woman with a kerchief. I begged to remember her.

Preservation Hall. People standing in line to get in. We did too. Once in, old men dressed in suits and ties held musical instruments, played them with eyes closed, and sang of loss and hope and happiness with desperate passion. Nothing would ever equal that experience.

The next day we explored more, stole fruit from the French Market, and sat where we could see the Gulf, overpowering in its largesse and rolling with its own life force. We were silenced by its beauty and power. Back to Bourbon street and its rhythms. Only hours left. Listened to as much blues as we could soak in, as though knowing we were somehow changed forever. At midnight, we went to the parking lot where the car was parked and packed. Magnetic forces tugged at us to stay. The car wouldn’t start.

We did what girls/women do. We opened the hood and stood there looking at its innards and not speaking and not touching anything in there. We might break something. Lights shone from tall lamps in the parking lot. We saw a man approaching us. What’s wrong here, girls? He was wearing the uniform of a mechanic. Just closed for the night, he said. He looked under the hood. Need a distributor cap, he told us. Well, we have to get back to Pittsburgh and only have enough money for gas. I’ll be back, he said. He walked back the way he had come and returned with a proper distributor cap. Don’t worry about the money. You girls be safe. Did I mention he was Black? He seemed like a guardian angel to me.

I have never been back to New Orleans. Life happens. But it has stayed with me. Once you are there, it lives inside you. The Gulf is now in peril and with it my love, New Orleans. I pray for its peace. I pray for its healing. I remember the toothless blues-singing woman from Bourbon Street. She would not have lived to see this. I am thankful for that.

—cher

As a young boy growing up in the suburbs of Pittsburgh, some of my fondest memories are of playing little league baseball, and of watching the dauntless Pittsburgh Pirates.  It seemed at the time that most of the boys my age were on one of the five little league teams.  I was on the Mustangs, which mostly finished the season in the middle of the pack, and my brother, Mike, was on the Sabres, who were the champions three years in a row.  In those days only the best players got to actually play, while the rest the the kids mainly just warmed the bench.  I think there was some kind of league rule that stated every kid was supposed to play at least two innings, but most of the coaches forgot about the “bench sitters” when a win was at stake.  As I recall, I spent about half the game on the field and the other half sitting on the bench.  On the other hand, my brother Mike was in the starting line-up, and he  really knew how to hit the ball.  Since, of course, the Sabres were always the best team, he also got to bring home one of those four-inch trophys every year;  you know, the ones that had little brass baseball players screwed onto  blocks of marble.  For most of the kids, whether or not they played every inning or warmed the bench for most of the game, just being on the team, and competing against each other in front of our parents gave us a great sense of camaraderie.  To this day (forty years later) I could tell you the name of every kid in the team picture.

During my first year on the Mustangs, it just so happened that the Pittsburgh Pirates were headed into the World Series, and baseball fever  spread across Pittsburgh like wildfire.  Roberto Clemente, Vernon Law, Smokey Burgess and all the other Pirates were going to play the New York Yankees for the world championship.  Beat’em Bucs signs were everywhere, and the gas stations  were even giving away iron-on Beat’em Bucs decals for free (with the purchase of ten or more gallons of gas of course).  I think that every tee shirt I owned had some kind of Pirates logo emblazoned across the front.  No one really gave the Pirates much of a chance to beat the Yankees that year, but somehow they pulled off a win in the ninth inning of the seventh, and final, game to win the championship.  Pittsburgh went wild with celebration that October, and all of us kids who had played the game, and even all the kids who spend most of the season sitting on the bench, shared in the joy of that championship.  That year we were all winners.

Things have changed somewhat in local, professional baseball over the last forty years, and not for the better.  The Pittsburgh Pirates, who recently set a new record for the number of losing seasons in a row (17),  just set yet another new franchise record for lopsided losses by suffering a twenty to nothing defeat at the hands of the Milwaukee Brewers.  Pittsburgh baseball fans (especially those of us that remember that glorious day in October 1960) are no longer wondering how much worse thing can get for the Pirates, because they have finally hit rock-bottom.  There are no more dubious records left to set; the Pirates have captured them all.

Even though the Pirates are continuing their headlong race into the trashcan of baseball history, I choose to remain a fan. This is because I can still remember those warm Summer days when the Mustangs were able to beat the Sabres, when I was on the field and up to bat for the entire game, and when the Pittsburgh Pirates were the champions of the world.

Rich

My taste in music is eclectic, from Blues, to Classical, to Big Band and to the Oldies, or Doo Wop. Pittsburgh’s own Porky Chedwick, The “Daddio of the Raddio” and “The Platter Pushin’ Papa” gave Pittsburgh its introduction to some of the greatest music of our youth. He gave us cross-cultural music to which some of our parents forbid us to listen. But we did anyway and it was the wave and the rave here in Pittsburgh. It was years before I realized Porky was White! We fell in love to his music at dances and learned each lyric. There were many of these sounds I didn’t hear until I went to college. The experts of great music were there and taught me the art in Doo Wop. I should have learned that well in classes!

Friday night dances were the only place to be that night on campus and Oldies were what they played. I found Junior Walker and The All Stars who sang “Shotgun” and we were all out on the floor. Some of the songs had been played by Mad Mike on a Pittsburgh radio station, but I didn’t find the Mad One until I went to college. I learned fast and devoured every song like a chocolate bar. Then I landed a gig on the campus radio station and every Tuesday night, Cher played the Oldies from 10:00p.m. to midnight.

I guess we all reminisce about our youth, but those sounds are still some of my favorites. Today I’m taking a break from the dance of politics and giving you some favorite Oldies to enjoy.  Of course I was there and lovin’ the whole show. Since The Skyliners are from Pittsburgh, you know they are included here. I hope this brings back some good memories for you.

—cher

Once again the issue of the legalization of marijuana has been raised during a public forum.  In this case, the forum was a “town hall meeting” conducted by President Obama.  For the record, Mr. Obama did not favor changing the prohibition against marijuana at this time.  However, over the last forty years the chorus of voices favoring the de-criminalization and the eventual legalization of marijuana has been steadily growing.  It is not difficult to see why the public’s views about marijuana have been changing. 

Most of the American population under the age of 65 have tried marijuana at least once, and understand that it is not the “harmful narcotic” that it was once touted to be by law enforcement .  We know that it generally produces a pleasant sense of euphoria, and not a mind-bending trip into unreality.  The vast majority of recreational marijuana users also know its usage will not lead to other dangerous drugs, such as methamphetamines or heroin.  The typical marijuana user holds down a regular job, lives in suburbia, raises his kids properly and pays his taxes on time.  Those of us who have been around since the 1960′s, and beyond, have seen marijuana gain more and more acceptance among our friends, our colleagues and even law enforcement itself.  The time has come to finally de-criminalize marijuana among all fifty states, and to stop the wasteful spending of billions in taxpayer dollars fighting the inevitable.

The cost to the public of the continued criminalization of marijuana is staggering in terms of dollars and in terms of lives ruined by felony convictions.  It is estimated that one third of the non-violent offenders currently in the prison system are there on drug convictions, many of which are for the traffickingof marijuana.  As long as marijuana trafficking is illegal it will be controlled by often-times violent drug cartels, which are ready and willing to use any methods available to maintain control of this lucrative business.  History has taught us that the demand for marijuana cannot be eliminated, and there is no level of law enforcement spending that will stop the flow. 

Since marijuana usage in America is likely to continue under any circumstances, it would be far better to decriminalize its use and sale, and establish a government agency that would regulate it in the same way that alcohol is regulated.  This would provide a potentially significant source of tax revenue to the federal and state governments, it would reduce prisons populations across America, it would cut out the violence perpetrated by drug cartels, and it would give the American people legal access to a recreational substance far less dangerous than alcohol.  Peace,man!

Like millions of other “Baby Boomers“, I turned sixty years old in 2008.  In some ways its hard to believe that three quarters of my life has gone by so quickly, yet in other ways it feels like the World has been totally transformed from the days of my youth in the 1960′s.  Although I’m sure that most people look back on their youth with a certain amount of nostalgia, there was something about the 1960′s that was different than any other era.  It was a time of fundamental change for America; a time when all of the values and institutions were being challenged, and a time when the old ways of thinking about race and politics and societal values were rejected and re-defined.  We’ve come a long, long way since then, and the seeds that were sewn in the 1960′s have germinated into the society that we live in today; for better or for worse.

In the 1960′s a Cocoa-Cola or a cup of coffee cost 10 cents, and a hamburger was 30 cents, unless you wanted cheese on top, which cost an extra nickel.  McDonald‘s, who was relatively new on the scene, advertised “47 cents for a three course meal”; including a hamburger, fries and a drink.  A phone call still cost a dime, and a gallon of gas was about 30 cents a gallon.  In those days you could drive around half the night and still treat your date to a “three course meal” for a grand total of three dollars.  It’s a whole lot more expensive to “drive around” these days, and I’m sure that taking a date to McDonald’s costs the better part of $20.00.

In the 1960′s there was no such thing as cable TV, or pay-per-view, or TiVo, or DVD‘s.  Here in Pittsburgh we had four broadcast channels to choose from, and all were shown in stunning black and white.  Although there weren’t a whole lot of choices in programming, we seemed to get by, and the idea of “paying” for television was still an unknown concept.  Yeah, we’ve come a long way since then; I now have approximately 200 channels to choose from, and most are available in Hi-Def on my 42 inch flat panel TV.  With Pay-per-view and DVD’s I can now watch just about anything I want at any time, and all for a cost of around $80.00 per month.  I must admit, however, that I never watch about 180 of the 200 channels that are available, and most of the time I prefer a good book.

There have, of course, been many other ideas and changes that began in the 1960′s, and shaped the society we live in today.  Although the year 2008 was a very difficult year for America, and it seemed like all of the institutions that surround us have crumbled before our eyes, we should keep in mind that the ideas and changes that are made today will greatly influence the society that our grandchildren will inherit fifty years from now.  Some day they too may look back with nostalgia and say that the 2000′s were a time of fundamental change for America.

As a card carrying baby-boomer, I often think back to when I was a child in the late fifties and early sixties, when going to the Saturday afternoon matinee at the local theater was a joyfully anticipated experience.  That was before the time of huge, concrete block “Cine-plexes”, when all theaters were local, and each one of them had unique character. In the South Hills of Pittsburgh, where my family lived, we had three great theaters to choose from; all of which were within a short driving distance.  I usually went to the movies with my best friend Chris J., who lived across the street, and any of the other neighborhood kids who felt like tagging along.  Most of the time, though, it seemed like half the neighborhood was there, and we would all sit together.

All the theaters back then showed double features on Saturday afternoons, and each double feature was preceded by a short cartoon clip; typically a Mickey Mouse cartoon with lots of dancing Hippos and Goofy playing the piano.  Now and again there would be a “newsreel”, but not often.  By the late fifties, newsreels had definitely become passe.  I remember seeing lots of cowboy films, like The Tin Star, featuring a young looking Henry Fonda; or the original “Fly”, which gave me nightmares for the following two weeks.  All in all, though, the Saturday matinee films were pretty tame by today’s standards, and were mostly aimed at an audience of youngsters.   

Going to the movies was also very inexpensive back then.  One dollar would usually do it; with fifty cents required for a child’s admission ticket, and the remaining fifty cents required for popcorn and a small drink.  Prior to start of the film there was always a line stretching down the street from the ticket booth, so early arrival guaranteed a good seat.  By the time the film started there was typically only space left in the balcony; but that was okay, because the balcony was usually filled with teenage boys and girls that weren’t really interested in watching the movie anyway.

Those were exciting times for most of us baby-boomers; times when movies were less explicit and special effects less spectacular; times when our imaginations filled in the gap between the expressed and the implied.  Yes, those were the times when the movie screens were still larger than the small black and white TV‘s that most of our parents had tucked away in a corner of the living room. 

My mom passed away eleven years ago. Somehow it doesn’t seem that long ago. When we lose someone we love, it is always too soon. So with Mother’s Day approaching I find myself thinking about her even more. She was a contradiction in terms in many ways. A lovely woman, she was known for the beautiful flowing satin gowns she wore when entertaining. She thrived in social settings and nothing pleased her more than having a diverse group of people gather in her home, engaging them in stimulating conversations and getting the best caterer she could find for even the smallest event. She was petite, but statuesque in her demeanor. And she really worked the room! Her unique laughter could fill a cavern and people sought her out. She could tell a joke better than anyone I have ever known, giving the punch line quickly to see if you would get it. Then she would laugh along with the receiver as though it was the first time she’d heard the joke. She oozed class when you looked at her and watched her Loretta Young-style walk, but she had a salty mouth that could have competed with any truck driver. Though she had a wonderful vocabulary and peppered her talk with eloquent words, very often the salt would pour through and while I would be embarrassed, those around her loved it.

She was a stay-at-home mom until my brother and I went to college. That’s the way it was in those days. While at home, she read incessantly and Sonnets from the Portuguese was her favorite book, dog-earred and usually found on a living room table where she could easily pick it up. She kept an immaculate house, prepared three-course meals each night for dinner and honed her skills as a decorator. On Saturdays she forced me to stand beside her for cooking lessons. As a teenager there were other things I would have much preferred doing, but to her cooking was essential. She said, “If you can learn to make homemade gravy and one or two specialties, everyone will think you can cook. Then hire a caterer!”

Once my brother and I gone off to college, Mom re-entered a workforce she had left many years before. She had been a secretary for the government in Washington D.C. and when she talked about those days, she had a wistful look in her eyes. Now it was her time. She started at the age of forty-two as a secretary once again, but within a few short years she became the Assistant of Human Resources in a prestigious corporation. Her intellect rose to the surface like cream. In many ways she was ahead of her time. To me she was Super Woman and she raised the bar high.

Every evening we talked by phone and more often than not it was about politics. She was well-versed in every aspect and drew her own conclusions based on reading and watching news and political pundits. Often she would call and ask if I heard the outrageous statement this person made on “Meet The Press.” If I hadn’t she would quote almost verbatim what had been said, then launch into a diatribe about it. These nightly conversations usually lasted about an hour. Finally, I would be weary from my own day and say, “Okay, Mom I’ve gotta go. Say goodnight, Gracie.” She would stop abruptly and say, “Goodnight, and don’t forget to look for alligators under your bed.” My childhood fear which she had not forgotten.

These days with all that is going on in the political realm, I miss her even more. Time heals the sorrow but never the sense of loss. In the first year after she passed away, I would still reach for the phone to call her. And then I would catch myself. It was a tribute to the dynamic person she was, I think. Give roses to your mom while you can. Her essence will last for years.

Say goodnight, Gracie.

There is absolutely no doubt about it; a 60′s era Rambler has no status at all.  My father bought a new one back in 1960, and was not dissuaded by the agonized pleadings by my two brothers and myself against making this purchase.  For those of you who may have forgotten, Ramblers were the last-ditch effort by American Motors Company to stay alive in the U.S. automobile market.  Although the American car market was  dominated by real live American Companies at that time, American Motors was so out of touch with the car-buying public that they could only compete on one level; Cheap! 

In order to keep Ramblers the cheapest car on the market, American Motors cut back on just about every possible option.  For example, my Dad’s Rambler (I.e. our family vehicle) had floor mats, instead of carpeting, and little round hub caps, instead of wheel covers.  It had no radio because all my father could listen to was classical music, which wasn’t available on AM stations.  Worst of all to my father’s budding teenage sons, the car was woefully underpowered with a tiny V-6 engine that looked lost under the hood.  This was the mid-sixties, when gas cost about $.30 a gallon, and muscle cars such as Mustangs, GTO‘s and Barracuda’s ruled the roads. 

Just prior to my sixteenth birthday, when I was trying to decide whether or not driving a Rambler was better than walking, my father decided that the old Rambler needed a new paint job.  Originally it was colored an awful power blue, so I was ecstatic when he drove the car off to Earl Scheib for a makeover.  Good old Earl advertised he would paint any car any color for $29.95; certainly a price that my father could live with.  You can only imagine my shock when the old Rambler pulled in the driveway with its new coat of yellow paint.  Although Dad said he told Earl Scheib to color the car “off White”, I still wonder whether this was his way of ensuring that none of us would dare to drive the car out of fear of being spotted by our friends.

Eventually, after seemingly endless pleas for mercy, my father took the Rambler back to Earl Scheib and got it painted dark blue.  Although it was still a Rambler, at least it was drivable in public (especially at night), and I soon came to the conclusion that even a Rambler was better than walking.