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Hell or high water

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  We were going to the presidential inauguration, mom and I. Not his, hers. That was the goal when I stepped into a Philadelphia voting booth on the evening of Election Day to ensure my 89-year-old mother wasn't intimidated by the electronic technology that would record her vote. She hadn't cast a presidential ballot in person since Kennedy - John, not Ted. At the Ward 65, Division 4 polling place, mom wore her Kamala shirt. I wore enough anxious hope on my face to see through a catcher's mask. The vote itself took all of 15 minutes on a warm autumn night that held so much promise, before it didn't. Then it all unraveled. I was spending the night with my mother to celebrate the person I expected - albeit nervously since July - to be the first female president in my lifetime. But especially in mom's lifetime; she will be 90 in May. I have never seen her as engaged with politics as she was this year. She has a Harris-Walz postcard on her refrigerator. A photo of the v...
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Carmela in '24

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My mother has a keen interest in this year's presidential election, something she hasn't manifested since she voted for JFK in 1960. So much so that she has decided she wants to share her enthusiasm with the other tenants in her Philadelphia apartment complex.  "I want to go door to door," she said. There's only one problem: She wants to canvass for Carmela. I can hear the conversations now.  Mom: Hi there! What do you think of Carmela?  Tenant: Who? Mom: You know, the one running against Trump. Tenant: I've got dinner on the stove. Gotta go. Mom: Hi there! Can I persuade you to vote for Carmela? Tenant: Sorry gotta go, but thanks for stopping by.  Mom: Hi! Do you think you might vote for Carmela? Tenant: Who? When's the last time you voted? Mom (Not wanting to give her age away): Clifton. Tenant: Who?  Mom: You know, the one who had sex with that girl Levinsky. Eventually the apartment dwellers will have had enough.  Building supervisor to mom: Please re...
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One lump or two?

One of my mother's favorite lines from way back is, "Don't just stand there with your teeth in your mouth." It meant, in her vernacular, that we should do something useful, and not that we needed to see a dentist. But another saying of hers always seemed to me to defy sense or meaning: "If they don't like it, they can lump it." As in when my mother - who had a lot of short-term, part-time jobs - made so many demands on employers, we made a joke of one of them: "I can't work on days that begin with T and I need the whole summer off. If they don't like it, they can lump it." Lump it. So just what did that mean? I don't know what took me so long, but I Googled the answer.  Turns out it does have a sensible meaning after all, according to the Cambridge Dictionary: If you tell someone to like it or lump it, you mean that they must accept a situation they don't like because it won't be changed.  But what exactly does lump mean in ...
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The Sev and the square

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This blog recently had an anniversary. Sort of.  It's been 35 years since the brutal crackdown on pro-democracy demonstrators in China that resulted in one of the most indelible images in history: a young man stands in front of a tank advancing into Beijing's Tiananmen Square. He didn't hesitate, nor did he move out of the way. He carried what looked like shopping bags in each  hand, as if he'd stopped at the store for bread and milk on the way to risking his life. No one knows what happened to him after he was whisked away by authorities. He has never been positively identified, except to be dubbed Tank Man.  Some of you who are regular readers may have already guessed where I'm going with this. Tiananmen Square became part of my mother's vernacular, a place where good, solid words go to wither and die.   "I want to go to Tiramisu Square," she told me. I could have given this blog a different name derived from the list of mom's malaprops, somethin...
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Here's the drill

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There was a fire drill at my mother's Philadelphia apartment building the other night. It wasn't a big deal, and only a few tenants - mom included - heeded the warning to move outdoors. That my mother acted quickly would not be a surprise were she younger than her 89 years. What's even more compelling is that she managed to help a blind neighbor who lives a few doors away from her navigate the four flights of stairs to the lobby.  This is too easy, but I'll write it anyway: We're talking abut the blind leading the blind. One actually unable to see, the other sighted but slow. Knowing my mother, she likely used the occasion to engage with other neighbors waiting outside. Let's face it, few things have as much potential for socializing as standing with others in your pajamas. In my mom's case, the potential is always there, no matter what she's wearing - even funeral black. She will converse with total strangers in language more suited to family and friend...
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Dumbing-down TV

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I was walking into a Sam's Club recently when I found myself surrounded by gigantic televisions, their  screen savers so large and vivid, I felt like Dorothy when she crossed the threshold from dreary black and white to the Technicolor of Oz.   At their size, one of these babies could have been deadlier to the Wicked Witch than the house that dropped on her.  Those are smart TVs, my husband informed me. So I thought, "What makes them smart?" "Does size have anything to do with it?"  It does; big is smarter these days when it comes to TVs. That means my mother has one of the dumbest televisions around. It would look like a toaster next to the models of 85 inches or more I spotted at Sam's.  Her remote doesn't do much more than turn the TV on or off. She also can't fast forward or rewind. She can't talk to it and request yet another viewing of "Terms of Endearment." She gets about four stations, including the Catholic channel; the latter ...
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Dr. Do-little

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One of the more insulting things about being in your 60s is that you suddenly find your age referenced in tedious, talky TV ads. I don't have mesothelioma. I don't need Colonial Penn life insurance or a new Jacuzzi shower. I've never been to Camp Lejeune. I'm don't need to hear from Tom Selleck (or Selnick, as my mom calls him) about a reverse mortgage.  But the now inclusive phrase "If you're 60 or older" - one I could ignore a decade ago while still in my 50s -  gives me pause, mainly because that decade went by faster than the average bobsled race.  But I won't give in to despair - or age. I long ago decided I wasn't going to pursue an AARP membership, no matter the benefits. I refuse to allow the gray that seeps from my hair roots to show. I wear a lot of black in an attempt to hide the skin just above my knees that now has fold lines and the flesh under my arms that hangs like a deflated balloon. (I will admit to senior-hood when I can pay...
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