March 25, 2015--Ladies of Forest Trace: Wit & Wisdom Concluded

Here are the final six brief conversations with my mother about Obama, Oy Vey: The Wit and Wisdom of My 107-Year-Old Mother--

Five

“The visiting nurse says I have an infection.”

“I suspected that. The cut on your ankle?”

“It could be worse.”

“Things always could be worse.”

“There you go being philo-physical again.”

“Sometimes I do try to put things in perspective. Hoping that maybe it would help—“

“For me there is only one kind of help.”

Fearing what she might be thinking I cut in to say, “You’re doing fine Mom for—“

“No ‘fors’ or ‘becauses’ tonight. I just want to go to sleep.”

Six

“It has a subtitle.”

“A what?”

“The book, Obama, Oy Vey, has a subtitle so everyone who hears about it, even if they don’t know what oy vey means will—“

“They can talk to me.”

“About?”

“About what I’m an expert in.”

“An expert?”

“An oy vey expert.”

Seven

“So talk to me about this wisdom business. About the wit we don’t have to talk.”

“You mean from the subtitle of my book about you?”

“What other book would I be talking about?  All I can read is the puzzle. And then only the acrosses.”

“You know how they say that one of the good things about getting older is that you acquire wisdom and--”

“About what I am acquiring I’d rather not discuss.”

“I’m not talking about those kinds of things.”

“But those are the things I live with. Every day. That’s my life.”

“I know about how frustrating it is for you to get older and—“

“What then are you talking about? The wisdom. The wit I know you said we are not talking about.”

“Not me. You’re the one who decided that.”

“Decided what? What do I decide these days?” She thought for a moment then added, “Maybe when to lie down.”

I let that pass and said, “What you have learned over all your years, are still learning, and which you are teaching--that’s the wisdom—“

“You call it wisdom when you can’t remember what day it is? How much wisdom is that?”

“Wisdom is not about remembering those kinds of things. It’s about—“

I could tell from her breathing that she had fallen asleep.

Eight

“Give me a for-instance of the wisdom part.”

My mother had returned to our interrupted conversation of a few days ago.

“For instance the time I asked you about Henry Cross.” I could hear her struggling to take in air.

“What a lovely boy. A wonderful family. Do you remember his mother, Bessie Cross?”

“Yes. She took care of me while you went back to work. To teaching. And how Henry slept in my room weekdays so Bessie could have a second job at night.

“And his aunt and uncle. Aunt Sis and Uncle Homer. Wonderful people. Do you remember them?” I knew recalling these times was making my mother happy.

“Yes. And that they came from South Carolina. Were field workers. Henry too during summers. They picked cotton.

“The things they needed to put up with.”

“Not just there,” I said, But here up north as well. Right in our own neighborhood.” I paused to let the memories wash over her. “As an example of your wisdom, do you remember just a few years ago when I told you the story about Henry who, as a Negro, was welcomed on the block where we lived in Brooklyn until he was old enough so that maybe, maybe one of my friend’s sister might be interested in him and then how I was told not to bring him with me when we played street games?”

“I had forgotten that until you reminded me about it.”

“And what did I ask you?” I took the chance to push her to recall something that would frustrate her if she couldn’t remember.

“I remember that too.” Her voice thickened to almost a whisper. “You asked me—“

I felt a gathering of tears and feared I had pressed too hard. So I completed the story for her.

“I asked you what I should have done when Henry was declared to no longer to be allowed to visit and how when he learned that he left East 56^th Street, never to return. And how I let him leave, staying behind with my friends.”

Tears filled my eyes as well.

“I told you that you should have gone with Henry.”

“That’s the for-instance about wisdom you asked about.

Nine

“I’m not much of a reader anymore—except for my puzzle—but there’s one more thing I know.”

“What’s that?”

“That the subplot of your book isn’t true.”

“You mean my subtitle.”

“That’s what I said. It isn’t true. The oy vey book.”

“Obama, Oy Vey: The Wit and Wisdom of My 107-Year-Old Mother.”

“That book.”

“You mean about the wit and wisdom part? I hope you agree that there’s a lot of both and—“

“Not that.”

“Then what’s not true?”

“I’m not your 107-year-old mother.’”

“But you are,” I insisted.

“Not until June.”

It was dawning on me what she had in mind. “I think—“

“Not until the 28^th. June 28^th. Then I’ll be your 107-year-old mother. Until then the book is not true.”

Self-satisfied, she chuckled and hung up.

Ten

“And remember—this I am remembering—now and after I am gone—“

“Do we need to talk about that?”

“Yes, we do.”

“All right then.”

“Now and after I am gone I will love you forever.”

To get information about the book, click below:

http://www.amazon.com/Obama-Oy-Vey-Wisdom-107-Year-Old-ebook/dp/B00UMPGYAS/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1427239604&sr=1-1&keywords=steven+zwerling