I think of my mom often. Of course, when Mother's Day approaches, I think of her more. 

When I was 24, and she was 57, she had a rare type of stroke (actually 2 strokes, 3 months apart, with brain surgery following) from brain bleeds that left her paralyzed on her left side. She had an active career, looked young for her age, had no health problems, and was enjoying being an empty-nester, so this was a real shake-up for her. And for us. After considering killing herself while in rehab, she admitted to me, a shrewd nurse convinced her otherwise and let her know she could still have a life. 

“So, I thought, I guess I won’t do that”, she said cheerily.  She could be very matter-of-fact about weighty things when it came to herself.

I was living in Atlanta at the time and she and my dad were in Maryland. I talked about moving home. She said, "Don't you do it. If you do, I'll move to Atlanta." She did not want to disturb my life. 

She walked, cooked, shopped, researched every topic possible, read, created collage art, wallpapered, painted, drank wine, decorated a beach house, followed politics and gave me a shit ton of man and life advice, all while half paralyzed. 8 years later, October 2005, she had a serious of brain bleeds and died after 6-weeks of treatment and hospice. I was 32, alone and scared. I had a dear friend who was there for me throughout, which I will always love her for- fulfilling my belief that people are in your life at the right time for the right reason.

A month later, I hosted Thanksgiving for the extended family, which my mother had hosted my whole life. There were not many of us, which only made her absence that much more conspicuous. I was in love with my new house, which I bought a few months prior, and was serendipitously a block from the elementary school she had attended. I had been looking forward to hosting Thanksgiving there, though had assumed she’d be there with us. I decorated and cooked a meal for 7 instead of 8. I typed a poem that she liked and put it at each person’s plate at the table, but then hid it before they saw it because I knew if it was read aloud I’d start sobbing embarrassingly and ruin the day.

Before coming to Baltimore, she was born in Harrisburg, PA in 1940, her dad worked as a printer at a newspaper there. He quit his job and moved his wife and 4 kids to Baltimore in about 1948 for a new job because “a Jew bought the paper”.  She’d tell that story, making fun of his bigotry.  

In 1972 she married my dad, a Jewish guy from northwest Baltimore. They met working at the Rouse Company and raised us in Columbia. She was passionate about the vision.

When I was in elementary school she saw the cost of a field trip and said that some kids’ families could not afford this and they would be left out, so sent an extra check to school with me. I remember this story because it was one action that was part of a theme.

A few years ago, I bumped into my elementary school principal Mrs. King, now Dr. King, as she was consulting in a Baltimore City School where I was visiting. I recognized her, though she seemed much smaller. I told her now much my mother liked her and I had distinct memories of my mother talking with reverance about her. It occurred to me then that having an African American woman as my principal in the late 70s and early 80s, was uncommon. I heard many black friends say they had no black teachers growing up, let alone an administrator. I also realized then that this was part of the reason my mother revered her. 

At home, we had this ceiling to floor, wall length bookcase with all kinds of books of heroes of activism and other topics. She talked in awe and admiration of civil rights leaders. I’d pass by at different stages of life and a book would catch my eye. I’d often end up sitting on the floor in front of the shelf, delving in (admittingly, some were art books with naked people so that was fascinating). When I asked her if she was involved in the civil rights movement in the 60s, she said self-deprecatingly, “No, I was too busy bleaching my hair blonde.” She made up for it in what she instilled in my brother and I.

When I was about 12, she would have been 45, we were at the gas station. I sat in the car and she walked up to the booth in the middle to pay. There was a young guy (20-something) working in the booth and a guy about her age in a business suit behind her in line. I see her interact with the guy to pay and then he looks really annoyed at her and is making an ugly face at her as she walks off. The guy in line behind her is cracking up. 

I was like “Mom--What did you say?!” You know the tone of a embarrassed middle schooler.  

In a mocking tone she says, “He said ‘You look nice today ma’am.’ So, I said – ‘Oh, give me a break.’”, said with total irritation.  

There you have it. The clap back is not new.

The week of Mother’s Day, 10 years after she died, I found a letter she had written my brother and I for us, “upon my death”. I had looked through all of her papers years ago but my dad handed me a new stack and this was in there. Fatefully, she had written the letter a few months before she had died. I sent it to my brother and he said he had not cried that hard in 10 years.

From her letter, “When you guys were little I used to write to you often and tuck letters away.  I wanted to impart things to you in case I wasn’t always with you. My main theme always seemed to be equality; the evils of discrimination. I still feel so strongly but now so do you.”

She told us to be good to our dad and support him in his happiness. “As long as you don’t see some dish wearing my clothes, give him your support.”

The letter ended with this quote that she chose for us, which may be the best summary for living a good, just and meaningful life.

 “Be grateful for luck. Pay the thunder no mind - listen to the birds. And don’t hate nobody.”

– Eubie Blake