Sunday, August 23, 2009

Mom - August 23, 2009

It was 20 years ago today, only I am not referring to Sgt. Pepper. It was 20 years ago today that the Great Sylvia Gordon became the late, great Sylvia Gordon. And what a loss for all of us.

You may never have met my mother, but if you know me, you know her. Her witticisms often seep into my conversation (mostly with attribution). While Dad was the kind and sweet one in the family, Mom was a little less, shall we say, subtle. Dad would strain to find something nice to say about a stranger. Mom would say, “Get me a stick and I’ll kill it,” when she spotted someone who looked particularly odd.

While she meant well, Mom somehow managed to pepper her conversations with my sister and me with insults and threats – luckily, empty ones – that, by their very tone and her dry delivery, we couldn’t take seriously. When we had the temerity to criticize her, her standard reply was, “Maybe your next mother will be better.” (More than once I inquired about her imminent arrival.) If we questioned her for demonstrating favoritism, she would quip, “To tell you the truth, I can’t stand either one of you.” I know, I know, today she’d be cited by DYFS, but we got the idea. And, in fact, her kvelling (look it up) over our achievements, small or large, showed that she was proud to be our mother. Once I remember asking her to stop talking about me, since everyone in her mah jongg group seemed to know every detail of my life. Now I find myself doing the same thing, albeit with no mah jongg group as my audience, in talking about my nephew. Oh, that she could have lived to see him. At 5’6”, he would tower over her diminutive 4’11” frame. Rarely has so much power been shoehorned in such a small package. I never realized how short I was since I was taller than Mom and nearly as tall as Dad. Yet I looked up to them in so many ways.

Mom was born in 1916 and graduated from high school at 16, during the Depression. Like others of her generation, living through those tenuous times was the defining experience of her life. Despite the unemployment of the era, she managed to get a job as a bookkeeper. There were times growing up when they lived in a cold water flat in Jersey City. She was a tough woman and never took any crap from anyone (sound familiar?). She was a big success in business, earning a good salary before getting married and having me. Her experience in the working world set an example for me even before I was born. The trials of people who lived through those times led her to a long-standing devotion to Franklin Roosevelt. Like Maude on “All in the Family,” she would always see him as a hero, the man who rescued the country from economic ruin.

Also like Maude, Mom had the deepest voice you can imagine. Countless times my friends would call the house and say, “Hello, Mr. Gordon” when she answered the phone, only to hear her say, “This is Mrs. Gordon,” much to their chagrin. It didn’t really bother her, though, because we could get a laugh out of it, and she loved to laugh. No matter how many times she saw Lucy in that candy factory or stomping on those grapes, she’d always laugh out loud. Dad would walk through the room and ask how we could be laughing over something we’d seen so many times before. She’d just give him a look and, with the timing of Jack Benny, an appropriate comment. We watched Lucy, Milton Berle, Jackie Gleason and Jack Benny. When each of them died, I felt I lost a member of the family.

Mom loved to read, and when I was a kid, she’d go to the library at night with me in tow. Although the children’s section of the library was closed, she knew all of the librarians by name and they’d let me explore the empty room and select my books. I always felt privileged to be able to check out a book when no other kids were even allowed in. Mom was a voracious reader, and she’d lie across her big bed before dinner nearly every day and read for a while, mostly while we wondered if dinner would be burned. Mom fancied herself a skilled baker, but she never claimed to be a great cook. My childhood memories are full of lamb chops and mashed potatoes and chicken that seemed to take hours to cook. Most important, Mom made me thousands – literally thousands – of Bumble Bee Tuna Fish sandwiches, and she would do her best to satisfy the tuna craving that she couldn’t understand.

Life was pretty uncomplicated when I was a kid and Mom’s advice was usually simple. If I couldn’t sleep, she’d tell me to think pleasant thoughts. If I had nothing to do, she’d tell me to go out and play. Inevitably, I’d find someone for a game of jacks or hopscotch or Monopoly.

Mom taught me so many important things. She taught me a second language: To this day I remember many of her juicier Yiddish expressions, some of which fit so much better than their English counterparts. She taught me about respect – respecting others and earning respect yourself. She taught me to do your best – always.

Through Mom, I learned the value of a dollar. No one can teach the value of money better than someone who lived through the Depression. I learned that women are every bit as good as men. They deserve whatever men earn, as my mother had. I learned to be direct, but not unkind. I learned the value of education, of reading, of the joy of laughter. I learned the impact of a well-turned phrase, delivered wryly. Even now, my friends will quote my mother from time to time, or, in certain situations, inquire, “What would your mother have said?” When I would work late at J&J with a group in a conference room, we would occasionally call her on the speaker phone and she would never fail to make us laugh.

Sylvia Gordon is gone 20 years now, and though I haven’t seen her in person for all that time, I can truly say that not a day goes by that I don’t think about her, or that one of her pithy sayings doesn’t run through my head. I probably didn’t tell her often enough what she meant to me, and maybe I didn’t even realize it myself until it was too late. But somehow, I think she knows. And when I get sad because she isn’t around, I remember that she taught me to think pleasant thoughts. So I think of her laughing, and I smile. Thanks, Mom.