I know some of us are going to have a bittersweet day today, missing our mothers and wearing their memory like a reassuring coat. And some of us will resent the day if we didn't get along with our mother. I spotted this op-ed in the New York Times. I thought it was good to post here....
May 11, 2008
Op-Ed Columnist
Call Your Mother
By THOMAS L. FRIEDMAN
The ad popped up in my e-mail the way it always has: “1-800-Flowers: Mother’s Day Madness — 30 Tulips + FREE vase for just $39.99!”
I almost clicked on it, forgetting for a moment that those services would not be needed this year. My mother, Margaret Friedman, died last month at the age of 89, and so this is my first Mother’s Day without a mom.
As columnists, we appear before you twice a week on these pages as simple bylines, but, yes, even columnists have mothers. And in my case, much of the outlook that infuses my own writings was bred into me from my mom. So, for once in 13 years, I’d like to share a little bit about her.
My mom was gripped by dementia for much of the last decade, but she never lost the generous “Minnesota nice” demeanor that characterized her in her better days. As my childhood friend Brad Lehrman said to me at her funeral: “She put the mensch in dementia.”
My mom’s life spanned an incredible period. She was born in 1918, just at the close of World War I. She grew up in the Depression, enlisted in the Navy after Pearl Harbor, served her country in World War II, bought our first house with a G.I. loan and lived long enough to play bridge on the Internet with someone in Siberia.
For most of my childhood, my mom appeared to be a typical suburban housewife of her generation, although I knew she was anything but typical. She sewed many of my sisters’ clothes, including both of their wedding dresses, and boy’s suits for me. And on the side, she won several national bridge tournaments.
My mom left two indelible marks on me. The first was to never settle for the cards you’re dealt. My dad died suddenly when I was 19. My mom worked for a couple of years. But in 1975, I got a scholarship to go to graduate school in Britain and my mom surprised us all one day by announcing that she was going, too. I called it the “Jewish Mother Junior Year Abroad Program.”
Most of her friends were shocked that she wasn’t just going to play widow. Instead, she sold our house in little St. Louis Park, Minn., and moved to London. But what was most amazing to watch was how she used her world-class bridge skills to build new friendships, including with one couple who flew her to Paris for a bridge game. Yes, our little Margie off to Paris to play bridge. She even came to see me in Beirut once, during the civil war — at age 62.
The picture of her in Beirut makes me think back in amazement at what my mom might have done had she had the money to finish college and pursue her dreams — the way she encouraged me to pursue mine, even when they meant I’d be far away in some crazy place and our only communications would be through my byline. It’s so easy to overlook — your mom had dreams, too.
My mom’s other big influence on me you can read between the lines of virtually every column — and that is a sense of optimism. She was the most uncynical person in the world. I don’t recall her ever uttering a word of cynicism. She was not naïve. She had taken her knocks. But every time life knocked her down, she got up, dusted herself off and kept on marching forward, motivated by the saying that pessimists are usually right, optimists are usually wrong, but most great changes were made by optimists.
Six years ago, I was in Israel at a dinner with the editor of the Haaretz newspaper, which publishes my column in Hebrew. I asked the editor why the newspaper ran my column, and he joked: “Tom, you’re the only optimist we have.” An Israeli general, Uzi Dayan, was seated next to me and as we walked to the table, he said: “Tom, I know why you’re an optimist. It’s because you’re short and you can only see that part of the glass that’s half full.”
Well, the truth is, I am not that short. But my mom was. And she, indeed, could only see that part of the glass that was half full. Read me, read my mom.
Whenever I’ve had the honor of giving a college graduation speech, I always try to end it with this story about the legendary University of Alabama football coach, Bear Bryant. Late in his career, after his mother had died, South Central Bell Telephone Company asked Bear Bryant to do a TV commercial. As best I can piece together, the commercial was supposed to be very simple — just a little music and Coach Bryant saying in his tough voice: “Have you called your mama today?”
On the day of the filming, though, he decided to ad-lib something. He reportedly looked into the camera and said: “Have you called your mama today? I sure wish I could call mine.” That was how the commercial ran, and it got a huge response from audiences.
So on this Mother’s Day, if you take one thing away from this column, take this: Call your mother.
I sure wish I could call mine.
Call Your Mother
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Call Your Mother
RedGlitter;862589 wrote: I know some of us are going to have a bittersweet day today, missing our mothers and wearing their memory like a reassuring coat. And some of us will resent the day if we didn't get along with our mother. I spotted this op-ed in the New York Times. I thought it was good to post here....
May 11, 2008
Op-Ed Columnist
Call Your Mother
By THOMAS L. FRIEDMAN
The ad popped up in my e-mail the way it always has: “1-800-Flowers: Mother’s Day Madness — 30 Tulips + FREE vase for just $39.99!
I almost clicked on it, forgetting for a moment that those services would not be needed this year. My mother, Margaret Friedman, died last month at the age of 89, and so this is my first Mother’s Day without a mom.
As columnists, we appear before you twice a week on these pages as simple bylines, but, yes, even columnists have mothers. And in my case, much of the outlook that infuses my own writings was bred into me from my mom. So, for once in 13 years, I’d like to share a little bit about her.
My mom was gripped by dementia for much of the last decade, but she never lost the generous “Minnesota nice demeanor that characterized her in her better days. As my childhood friend Brad Lehrman said to me at her funeral: “She put the mensch in dementia.
My mom’s life spanned an incredible period. She was born in 1918, just at the close of World War I. She grew up in the Depression, enlisted in the Navy after Pearl Harbor, served her country in World War II, bought our first house with a G.I. loan and lived long enough to play bridge on the Internet with someone in Siberia.
For most of my childhood, my mom appeared to be a typical suburban housewife of her generation, although I knew she was anything but typical. She sewed many of my sisters’ clothes, including both of their wedding dresses, and boy’s suits for me. And on the side, she won several national bridge tournaments.
My mom left two indelible marks on me. The first was to never settle for the cards you’re dealt. My dad died suddenly when I was 19. My mom worked for a couple of years. But in 1975, I got a scholarship to go to graduate school in Britain and my mom surprised us all one day by announcing that she was going, too. I called it the “Jewish Mother Junior Year Abroad Program.
Most of her friends were shocked that she wasn’t just going to play widow. Instead, she sold our house in little St. Louis Park, Minn., and moved to London. But what was most amazing to watch was how she used her world-class bridge skills to build new friendships, including with one couple who flew her to Paris for a bridge game. Yes, our little Margie off to Paris to play bridge. She even came to see me in Beirut once, during the civil war — at age 62.
The picture of her in Beirut makes me think back in amazement at what my mom might have done had she had the money to finish college and pursue her dreams — the way she encouraged me to pursue mine, even when they meant I’d be far away in some crazy place and our only communications would be through my byline. It’s so easy to overlook — your mom had dreams, too.
My mom’s other big influence on me you can read between the lines of virtually every column — and that is a sense of optimism. She was the most uncynical person in the world. I don’t recall her ever uttering a word of cynicism. She was not naïve. She had taken her knocks. But every time life knocked her down, she got up, dusted herself off and kept on marching forward, motivated by the saying that pessimists are usually right, optimists are usually wrong, but most great changes were made by optimists.
Six years ago, I was in Israel at a dinner with the editor of the Haaretz newspaper, which publishes my column in Hebrew. I asked the editor why the newspaper ran my column, and he joked: “Tom, you’re the only optimist we have. An Israeli general, Uzi Dayan, was seated next to me and as we walked to the table, he said: “Tom, I know why you’re an optimist. It’s because you’re short and you can only see that part of the glass that’s half full.
Well, the truth is, I am not that short. But my mom was. And she, indeed, could only see that part of the glass that was half full. Read me, read my mom.
Whenever I’ve had the honor of giving a college graduation speech, I always try to end it with this story about the legendary University of Alabama football coach, Bear Bryant. Late in his career, after his mother had died, South Central Bell Telephone Company asked Bear Bryant to do a TV commercial. As best I can piece together, the commercial was supposed to be very simple — just a little music and Coach Bryant saying in his tough voice: “Have you called your mama today?
On the day of the filming, though, he decided to ad-lib something. He reportedly looked into the camera and said: “Have you called your mama today? I sure wish I could call mine. That was how the commercial ran, and it got a huge response from audiences.
So on this Mother’s Day, if you take one thing away from this column, take this: Call your mother.
I sure wish I could call mine.
What a beautiful story :-4
Tears are flowing as usual...:rolleyes:
May 11, 2008
Op-Ed Columnist
Call Your Mother
By THOMAS L. FRIEDMAN
The ad popped up in my e-mail the way it always has: “1-800-Flowers: Mother’s Day Madness — 30 Tulips + FREE vase for just $39.99!
I almost clicked on it, forgetting for a moment that those services would not be needed this year. My mother, Margaret Friedman, died last month at the age of 89, and so this is my first Mother’s Day without a mom.
As columnists, we appear before you twice a week on these pages as simple bylines, but, yes, even columnists have mothers. And in my case, much of the outlook that infuses my own writings was bred into me from my mom. So, for once in 13 years, I’d like to share a little bit about her.
My mom was gripped by dementia for much of the last decade, but she never lost the generous “Minnesota nice demeanor that characterized her in her better days. As my childhood friend Brad Lehrman said to me at her funeral: “She put the mensch in dementia.
My mom’s life spanned an incredible period. She was born in 1918, just at the close of World War I. She grew up in the Depression, enlisted in the Navy after Pearl Harbor, served her country in World War II, bought our first house with a G.I. loan and lived long enough to play bridge on the Internet with someone in Siberia.
For most of my childhood, my mom appeared to be a typical suburban housewife of her generation, although I knew she was anything but typical. She sewed many of my sisters’ clothes, including both of their wedding dresses, and boy’s suits for me. And on the side, she won several national bridge tournaments.
My mom left two indelible marks on me. The first was to never settle for the cards you’re dealt. My dad died suddenly when I was 19. My mom worked for a couple of years. But in 1975, I got a scholarship to go to graduate school in Britain and my mom surprised us all one day by announcing that she was going, too. I called it the “Jewish Mother Junior Year Abroad Program.
Most of her friends were shocked that she wasn’t just going to play widow. Instead, she sold our house in little St. Louis Park, Minn., and moved to London. But what was most amazing to watch was how she used her world-class bridge skills to build new friendships, including with one couple who flew her to Paris for a bridge game. Yes, our little Margie off to Paris to play bridge. She even came to see me in Beirut once, during the civil war — at age 62.
The picture of her in Beirut makes me think back in amazement at what my mom might have done had she had the money to finish college and pursue her dreams — the way she encouraged me to pursue mine, even when they meant I’d be far away in some crazy place and our only communications would be through my byline. It’s so easy to overlook — your mom had dreams, too.
My mom’s other big influence on me you can read between the lines of virtually every column — and that is a sense of optimism. She was the most uncynical person in the world. I don’t recall her ever uttering a word of cynicism. She was not naïve. She had taken her knocks. But every time life knocked her down, she got up, dusted herself off and kept on marching forward, motivated by the saying that pessimists are usually right, optimists are usually wrong, but most great changes were made by optimists.
Six years ago, I was in Israel at a dinner with the editor of the Haaretz newspaper, which publishes my column in Hebrew. I asked the editor why the newspaper ran my column, and he joked: “Tom, you’re the only optimist we have. An Israeli general, Uzi Dayan, was seated next to me and as we walked to the table, he said: “Tom, I know why you’re an optimist. It’s because you’re short and you can only see that part of the glass that’s half full.
Well, the truth is, I am not that short. But my mom was. And she, indeed, could only see that part of the glass that was half full. Read me, read my mom.
Whenever I’ve had the honor of giving a college graduation speech, I always try to end it with this story about the legendary University of Alabama football coach, Bear Bryant. Late in his career, after his mother had died, South Central Bell Telephone Company asked Bear Bryant to do a TV commercial. As best I can piece together, the commercial was supposed to be very simple — just a little music and Coach Bryant saying in his tough voice: “Have you called your mama today?
On the day of the filming, though, he decided to ad-lib something. He reportedly looked into the camera and said: “Have you called your mama today? I sure wish I could call mine. That was how the commercial ran, and it got a huge response from audiences.
So on this Mother’s Day, if you take one thing away from this column, take this: Call your mother.
I sure wish I could call mine.
What a beautiful story :-4
Tears are flowing as usual...:rolleyes:
Very nearly perfect ... 
Call Your Mother
I'm sad today... my mom is still "here" but she's not really here
because she has Alzheimer's.
So I just try to keep in mind all those Mother's Days in years past.
It was invariably the same day as our little hometown "Pow-Wow
Days" parade and we would get mom an orchid corsage to wear as
she sat and watched her kids ride in the parade. Orchids were
very pricey but we scrimped and saved (actually I had some income
from a job so a lot of years... I paid for the whole thing!) and were
just tickled to see how happy we made Mom, even though every
year she knew that was what was coming! She might have been
happier with other flowers but she would NEVER let on, and kept the
orchid in the fridge for days until finally there just wasn't anything
left.
I wish I could call her but she doesn't really talk on the phone much
any more. And wouldn't know what the day was.
Happy Mother's Day to all the mothers.
:-4
because she has Alzheimer's.
So I just try to keep in mind all those Mother's Days in years past.
It was invariably the same day as our little hometown "Pow-Wow
Days" parade and we would get mom an orchid corsage to wear as
she sat and watched her kids ride in the parade. Orchids were
very pricey but we scrimped and saved (actually I had some income
from a job so a lot of years... I paid for the whole thing!) and were
just tickled to see how happy we made Mom, even though every
year she knew that was what was coming! She might have been
happier with other flowers but she would NEVER let on, and kept the
orchid in the fridge for days until finally there just wasn't anything
left.
I wish I could call her but she doesn't really talk on the phone much
any more. And wouldn't know what the day was.
Happy Mother's Day to all the mothers.
:-4
Call Your Mother
valerie;862944 wrote: I'm sad today... my mom is still "here" but she's not really here
because she has Alzheimer's.
So I just try to keep in mind all those Mother's Days in years past.
It was invariably the same day as our little hometown "Pow-Wow
Days" parade and we would get mom an orchid corsage to wear as
she sat and watched her kids ride in the parade. Orchids were
very pricey but we scrimped and saved (actually I had some income
from a job so a lot of years... I paid for the whole thing!) and were
just tickled to see how happy we made Mom, even though every
year she knew that was what was coming! She might have been
happier with other flowers but she would NEVER let on, and kept the
orchid in the fridge for days until finally there just wasn't anything
left.
I wish I could call her but she doesn't really talk on the phone much
any more. And wouldn't know what the day was.
Happy Mother's Day to all the mothers.
:-4
Valerie my Nan had Alzheimer's and so I feel where your coming from....Its a cruel cruel condition and Id like to send you some positive vibes and best wishes x
because she has Alzheimer's.
So I just try to keep in mind all those Mother's Days in years past.
It was invariably the same day as our little hometown "Pow-Wow
Days" parade and we would get mom an orchid corsage to wear as
she sat and watched her kids ride in the parade. Orchids were
very pricey but we scrimped and saved (actually I had some income
from a job so a lot of years... I paid for the whole thing!) and were
just tickled to see how happy we made Mom, even though every
year she knew that was what was coming! She might have been
happier with other flowers but she would NEVER let on, and kept the
orchid in the fridge for days until finally there just wasn't anything
left.
I wish I could call her but she doesn't really talk on the phone much
any more. And wouldn't know what the day was.
Happy Mother's Day to all the mothers.
:-4
Valerie my Nan had Alzheimer's and so I feel where your coming from....Its a cruel cruel condition and Id like to send you some positive vibes and best wishes x
Call Your Mother
A baby asked God, 'They tell me you are sending me to earth tomorrow, but
how am I going to live there being so small and helpless?' God said, 'Your
angel will be waiting for you and will take care of you.'
The child further inquired, 'But tell me, here in heaven I don't have to do
anything but sing and smile to be happy.' God said, 'Your angel will sing
for you and will also smile for you. And you will feel your angel's love and
be very happy.'
Again the child asked, 'And how am I going to be able to understand when
people talk to me if I don't know the language?' God said, 'Your angel will
tell you the most beautiful and sweet words you will ever hear, and with
much patience and care, your angel will teach you how to speak.'
'And what am I going to do when I want to talk to you?' God said, 'Your
angel w! ill pla ce your hands together and will teach you how to pray.'
'Who will protect me?' God said, 'Your angel will defend you even if it
means risking its life.'
'But I will always be sad because I will not see you anymore.' God said,
'Your angel will always talk to you about Me and will teach you the way to
come back to Me, even though I will always be next to you.'
At that moment there was much peace in He aven, but voices from Earth could
be heard and the child hurriedly asked, 'God, if I am to leave now, please
tell me my angel's name.'
God said, 'You will simply call her................Mum;)
how am I going to live there being so small and helpless?' God said, 'Your
angel will be waiting for you and will take care of you.'
The child further inquired, 'But tell me, here in heaven I don't have to do
anything but sing and smile to be happy.' God said, 'Your angel will sing
for you and will also smile for you. And you will feel your angel's love and
be very happy.'
Again the child asked, 'And how am I going to be able to understand when
people talk to me if I don't know the language?' God said, 'Your angel will
tell you the most beautiful and sweet words you will ever hear, and with
much patience and care, your angel will teach you how to speak.'
'And what am I going to do when I want to talk to you?' God said, 'Your
angel w! ill pla ce your hands together and will teach you how to pray.'
'Who will protect me?' God said, 'Your angel will defend you even if it
means risking its life.'
'But I will always be sad because I will not see you anymore.' God said,
'Your angel will always talk to you about Me and will teach you the way to
come back to Me, even though I will always be next to you.'
At that moment there was much peace in He aven, but voices from Earth could
be heard and the child hurriedly asked, 'God, if I am to leave now, please
tell me my angel's name.'
God said, 'You will simply call her................Mum;)
Women are bitchy and predictable ...men are not and that's the key to knowing the truth.