Rockettes and rain

"You have to write about that day."

So said my mother a few days after we took a trip by bus to see the annual Rockettes holiday show at Radio City Music Hall, the one where 36 young women perform so uniformally, you'd swear they were puppets. 

The best is when they fall backward into each other like dominoes, looking like the folds of an accordion. 

It may not be high art, but the Rockettes can make you warm inside, even wistful. I saw it in my mother's face as the show opened with a nostalgic display of lights and images and she choked up a bit.  

It was a dreary and drizzly day in New York, yet the crowds were out in full force. It more than once felt as if we would be suffocated on the sidewalk by the crush of people, then stepped over like a muddy puddle. 

Manhattan at Christmas is not for the faint of heart. 

But mom was a champ, riding my left arm and gripping her cane with the right as we got off the bus and headed to the first restaurant we laid eyes on without glancing at the menu displayed outside. Had I done so, I would have known my fervently welcomed martini would cost $25. 

New York City prices are not for the faint of heart either.

We then headed to St. Patrick's Cathedral, the first time that day I could not only read, but interpret, the emotion on my mother's face. And we admired the impeccably dressed windows of Saks 5th Avenue, its mannequins glowing silver from head to toe.

Then it was time for the Rockettes.

We were fortunate to be only a few blocks from our destinations. But Manhattan rushes by so fast this time of year, it begs to differ when you decide you can pull your 90-year-old mother along like a toddler over a few blocks.

So as requested, I am writing about that day. My mother has always told me I should write a book about her life - warts and all. Not sure if this next part should count as a wart, but here goes: 

Once inside the bus to our destination, we trudged back past 48 rows so mom could use the bathroom, the one smaller than a standing shower, where she was jostled around like a kid in a bounce house. She called me in to help.

Because she couldn't pull up her pants. 

It's at this point that you realize you and your mother could not be any closer. But you can't pull her  pants up either.  

I'm not sure where this episode would go in her biography. Maybe in the chapter about how life can  sometimes be as neat and synchronized as a Rockettes show.

Or you have to pull up your mother's pants. 


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