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

March 24, 2015--Ladies of Forest Trace: Wit & Wisdom

Here are the first four of ten brief conversations with my mother about my just published book--Obama, Oy Vey: The Wit and Wisdom of My 107-Year-Old Mother.

The other six will be available tomorrow. The link to the book is at the very bottom of this posting:

One

“You’re what?”

I mumbled, “Writing a book.”

“I can’t hear you. My batteries are dying.”

“A book,” I said louder, “I’m writing a book” my mother leaned toward me as if needing to read my lips.

“A book?”

“Yes.”

“About education? Like your other ones?”

“No. This one is different. It’s about--” I was muttering again.

“About your travels? You’ve been everywhere.”

“Not exactly.”

“Whenever I turn around you’re somewhere else. Always running, running.”

“That’s not true, Mom, we spend months here in Florida every year to be close to you. And—“

“And then you run away to who knows where.”

“Also not true. We go to New York then to Maine and then come back here. We’ve been doing that now for seven years, as I said, to be--”

“Be with me. This is what you tell me. While waiting for me to—“

I cut her off. “Not waiting. Just to get away from the cold winters and to be able to see you often while—“

“While the same thing happens to me that happens to my batteries.”

Two

She had me there since what she was saying was, in part, true. It was Rona’s idea seven years ago, when my mother turned 100, that since there would likely not be that much time remaining and we were not obligated to be anywhere particular, why not spend a few months a year close to her and enjoy some of her final days. And now those final days have stretched wonderfully and miraculously to almost seven full years and she is nearly 107.

“So then what is this book about?”

“You.”

“What?”

“You. The book’s about you. About the things we’ve talked about the past six or seven years.”

“About my aches and pains?”

“Some of that. But not that much since you’ve fortunately been blessed not to have too many of those or anything worse.”

“Worse it could always be.”

“And you’re not a complainer like so many—“

“Alta cockers.”

I ignored that and said, “The book is more about how you reflect on the meaning of your very long life, your ideas and concerns about the next generation, the changes you’ve seen, the things you are still looking forward to. Are passionate about.”

“That I can tell you in one sentence.”

“What’s that?”

“That what I look forward to these days is my next nap. So hurry up before I fall asleep on the phone.”

In fact on occasion she has nodded off while we were talking so I rushed to say, “Let me give you an example.”

“Speak louder.”

Three

“Was I dreaming?”

“I don’t know. About what?”

“What else.”

I knew about the what-else. “That’s understandable, Mom. After all—“ I was struggling to be honest but couldn’t bring myself to be. For what purpose, I asked myself. Sometimes it makes more sense to ignore and pretend.

“Did you say you’re writing a book?”

“Yes.”

“So I do remember things. One or two things.” She chuckled.

“More than that.” That at least was half true.

“About me?”

“Yes. And me. The things we’ve been talking about. For years. How much you’ve taught me and--”

“Now all I have to talk about is what they make me for lunch. Cottage cheese and fruit and sometimes chicken soup. About this I know and talk about. So about cottage cheese you’re writing a book?

“Not exactly.”

Four

“What’s it called then? The book.”

“I’m not sure you’ll like the title or some of the things I’ve written. But still I want you to know what it’s about.”

“I don’t have all day so just—“

“Obama, Oy Vey.”

“What’s that?”

“That’s what the publisher is calling it.”

“I know one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“The goyim won’t buy it.”

To get information about Obama, Oy Vey, click below--

http://www.amazon.com/Obama-Oy-Vey-Wisdom-107-Year-Old-ebook/dp/B00UMPGYAS/ref=sr_1_sc_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1426862310&sr=1-1-spell&keywords=steven+zwerlinc