 Mom at the Andale Library My mom’s engagement picture is one of my favorites. She was all of twenty, doe eyed, heart-shaped face, with a roll of luxurious dark hair at the nape of her neck. Another favorite was taken last week at the dedication of a childrens’ reading garden in my dad’s hometown of Andale, Kansas.
She’s standing next to a plaque thanking her and my dad for their donation to the library. I love this picture because of the twinkle in her eye, the way she stands, the great smile.
Mom has always been petite, but now at 87 she is downright small. At a recent party, my oldest son put his arm around her for a picture. Through the lens, I saw him start. He looked down at her with a most wonderful smile and said, “Grandma, you’re as big as carry-on luggage.” My mother laughed, delighted by the joke, the arm around her shoulder, and the quick hug he gave her.
As big as carry-on luggage though she may be, she is formidable. During our trip to Kansas, I worried how we were going to make our connecting flight in Houston, she hustled up to a guy on a transport and asked if he would take us to the gate. He was facing the wrong way and had to figure out how to make a U-turn in the midst of traveler chaos, but he did as she asked. We rode like queens in a vehicle that could seat twelve. We made the flight.
Once in Kansas, we spent five days of nonstop activity seeing a brother, sister and cousins. We indulged in homemade sweet rolls dripping with butter, took pictures, remembered her wedding at the big church at the end of the main street, and found my dad's parents' and grandparents' headstones in the cemetery .
Mom never looked tired, complained, or begged off a festivity.
On the way home we had a longer layover in Denver. We had eaten in Kansas, but she was still hungry. We shared a two-burger deal meal at McDonald’s and her eyes closed in ecstasy with the first bite.
Through it all, she and I talked. We talked about moves to make on the digital Solitaire and Black Jack games, we wondered how large men sat in small seats on airplanes, we planned more trips, marveled at my sister’s lovely house, discussed the history of friends and relatives, noted how my father would have loved every last moment of this adventure - then we talked some more.
When we drove her home, where she insisted on taking her own suitcase in (my husband insisted back and took it). She then insisted she was fine going into a dark house alone (which she did). After turning on the lights, she came out again. I asked if there wasn’t something we could help her. She answered, “It’s trash day tomorrow. Maybe you can help take the bins out.”
On the side of the house were two city-owned cans about four feet tall. My husband took one and she took the other. These cans had to be pushed across the patio, through the gate, clunked down three stairs and a sloping driveway to the curb.
“Mom, “ I cried, “be careful!”
A smile came along with an offhanded comment:“This is what you do when you’re alone.”
I wanted to say, “But I’m here.”
I didn’t because I really wasn’t there for her. The last week had been the anomaly. She had ushered six children off to their own lives and her husband had passed. Visits from us, phone calls and emails were all exchanged, travels shared, but none of us was really there. I forgot that she carries her own suitcase, takes out her giant trashcans, and plays Solitaire on a computer at a desk where my dad used to work all without me.
I love my mom. Everyone who meets her does. I love her for showing me what a good mom is, for treating me like a friend and a daughter, for loving my husband and my children, for having a quick laugh. I love her for being able to figure out how to do almost anything. I love her for the way she loves her friends. Most of all I love her for showing me that there is dignity and strength in taking out your own trashcans even if they are heavy and unwieldy and you are small.
Happy mother’s day, mom.*
*All moms are great, but a special shout-out to those who are alone for one reason or another. You are amazing.
 It’s Easter, and I have bunnies on my mind. Not chocolate. Not marshmallow. I’m thinking about the gorgeously gammed, heavenly endowed, multi-talented (ever try to do the Bunny Dip?) ladies who helped to build the Playboy empire.
There are two reasons that Playboy crashed into my consciousness. First, I recently had reason to take a stroll down memory lane and ambled back through my previous life as an advertising maven. In my 14-year-long personal episode of Mad Men, I spent my days with a cigarette in hand (quit years ago), stilettos on my feet (can’t let go of those), and an almost-sincere blue suit on my back as I traveled, cared for my clients, and indulged in three-martini lunches with media reps. One of my favorites was the guy from Playboy Magazine. I didn’t actually spend a whole lot on Playboy ads, but I was still invited to events at The Mansion and treated to a box at the Hollywood Bowl for the Playboy Jazz Festival every year.
The second reason I was thinking about Playboy was because I am working on a new book. It’s darn tough to build a solid story on top of an exciting plot and pepper the whole darn thing with a bit of style. I was looking for some inspiration, thinking about intensely creative people, and that’s when Hugh Hefner came to mind.
Hefner is a master storyteller. He didn’t just write a novel, he conjured up an empire, peopled it with imaginative characters, and did it all with such style that Playboy became legendary. His vision of the girl-next-door dressed like a siren, as personable as a best friend and yet as out of reach as a Goddess, was unprecedented. Even more impressive was his ability to transform that vision into reality and build a business that was seamless in its commitment to his vision.
Consider the Playboy bunny. Those ears, the jaunty little tail, the luxurious satin and daring cut of her maillot combined to create a look that was sexually provocative without being immodest, indulgently playful without being prurient. With Playboy as the playbook, I learned an invaluable lesson about writing, business, and life. Here is what it boils down to: Have a point of view, choose a medium to communicate it, work it until it’s perfect, and then own it without apology.
A million other people might have dreamed about a business like Playboy, but only Hefner acted upon it. From the magazine’s pictorials to the fiction selections, the bunny costume to the casting, the mansion to the grotto, every last detail of Hugh Hefner’s narrative was adjusted until his vision became the reality he wanted. Hefner showed me that there is a fine line between modesty and abandon, desirability and lust, being colorful rather than crass. He owned Playboy in the same way we should all own our work and our lives: he was proud of what he did, professional in how he did it, and joyous every moment of his creative life.
So this Easter when bunnies abound in all shapes and sizes, I want to celebrate an iconic bunny. Here’s to Playboy and all the bunnies who graced the printed page, those who dipped to serve us at the clubs, and lived in our fantasy worlds. Thanks for the life lessons. Maybe they weren’t the ones you intended, but they were exactly the ones I needed.
 It seems that everyone but me has wished Dr. Suess a happy birthday.
A dear friend of mine (the fabulous Robin Blakely author of Six Hats, the step-by-step book on how to create a successful one-person business) wrote an article on how authors were inspired by Dr. Suess. A casting call for input resulted in her being inundated with responses. My local paper ran articles about how teachers and students were celebrating with in-class Suess festivals. That led me to wonder why I seemed to be the only one who didn’t have a creative brush with the good doctor.
Little did I know that he had been hitching a ride inside my head for years. That realization hit me last night. After a lovely evening out, I came home to find my house filled with smoke (no, the alarms didn’t go off despite the little green light assuring me the smoke detectors were working), smelling of rotten eggs, and looking like Thing 1 and Thing 2 had visited my kitchen.
As I rushed to open the windows and doors, I ran through what happened in the hours before I left the house. I distinctly remembered turning off the flame under the pot of boiling eggs – I just hadn’t turned it off all the way. There was still a little lick of heat that in four hours time evaporated the water and exploded all six eggs.
I suppose I should have been cursing my own stupidity, the lateness of the hour, and the unique mess only eggs can make. Instead, I found myself thinking about Green Eggs & Ham, Horton Hatches an Egg, and The Cat In The Hat. Eggs and chaos, patience and perplexity, Things 1 and 2, potential disaster, misunderstandings, surprise visitors, redemption just in the nick of time.While scrubbing the floor, I realized that every book I write, every creative idea I've ever had, can be traced back to the lessons Dr. Suess taught by example.
He hadn’t just entertained me as a child; his imagination had sparked mine. His crazy tumble of nonsensical yet oh-so-understandable prose showed me that words were like clay to be molded, shaped and finally fired in a creative kiln. It was Dr. Suess who taught me that a simple premise is the best foundation for a story; the possibilities of what you can build upon that foundation are limitless. He made me realize that all a writer really had to do was abandon themselves to the power of words, suspend disbelief, and free-fall into the tale they wanted to tell.
So happy birthday Dr. Suess! Thank you for peeling back the universe and giving me a glimpse of what lies beyond, for exploding eggs, for creative chaos. Thank you from this author, this reader, this child at heart and (if cooking eggs are an indication) this cousin to Thing 1 & Thing 2.
 This is a picture of my grandfather, Fritz Boehm. It was taken in 1923 at a friend’s home in Coburg, Germany. He sent it to my grandmother with the word Meine Liebe Martha (My dear Martha) written on the back. This picture is taped to the shutters over the windows in front of my desk, sharing space with notes from my children, the first dollar I made writing, and a fax from my husband that was sweet and funny. Most days I don’t really notice it. The picture is part of my landscape. Then there are days like today when it catches my eye, and I find myself lost in the image and what it represents.
Grandpa came from a small village in Bavaria. His father drowned trying to save their cow from the river, his mother died of an ear infection. He married above his station – my grandmother was the daughter of a chocolate salesman - and together they had two daughters. When the family came to the United States he opened a delicatessen. I remember so clearly the exotic fare on his shelves: chocolate covered bees, escargot shells, biscuits and tins of tiny hard candies shaped like flowers. He wore a paper hat and a white apron and made his own sausage. He sold tongue and blood sausage. When I visited, he would walk me into the big freezer and give me a hot dog. The freezer was so cold and a little scary and I loved it. A visit to that store was an adventure, a thrill, a curiosity. This was how I knew my grandfather as a child.
But this picture reminds me that he was so much more than a shopkeeper. Look at the book he holds so respectfully. See how he is lost in the words he’s reading. Note his suit. He is dressed like a gentleman even though he sits casually in a garden. The tilt of his head tells me he is thinking, considering, appreciating what he is reading. His posture tells me he is comfortable in his own skin. I know, though, that he is not completely lost in the moment. If I were to walk into that picture, grandpa would close that book, give me a lovely smile, and invite me to join him.
Grandpa Boehm was not a mogul, but he was what every woman wants: a real man. He provided for his family, his business, and his community without fanfare. If he ever worried deeply, it was in private. He treated women like ladies. He appreciated the finer things in life but did not lust after them. He taught me how to properly hold a wine glass. He bent over a woman’s hand with a slight bow when he greeted her. He held doors and listened when people spoke. He sang to me in German. At family dinners he would rise to offer a toast and it was always the same. “To old wine and young women,” he would say as he raised his glass. There was always a twinkle in his eye – and that smile.
He died when he was very old, and I was a woman with a family. Today I can’t take my eyes off this photo. He will always be in my heart, reading his book, making his toasts and offering me a smile that is mine alone. Meine Liebe Grandpa, happy Valentine’s Day.
 February is the month of candy, flowers and cards in colored envelopes. It’s the month we publicly declare our love.
So, it seemed appropriate to shout out once again to those lawyers who inspire me as I write and who people my real life by virtue of the fact I am married to a man whose calling is the law. Yep, it’s time to add to my list of why I find lawyers so appealing.
1) You love to be loved. If you are reading this you may have been one of the 2,000 who checked out this blog a few weeks ago to read the first edition of Why Lawyers are so Appealing (July). That is so sweet. Kind of like Sally Field in her famous ‘You Really Like Me’ speech at the Academy Awards. Yes, yes we do!
2) You are cute as buttons. Fluttering my lashes particularly at the cowboy lawyers who know how to pair a ten-gallon hat with black tie and look marvelous. (This is not gender exclusive, by the way.)
3) You appreciate staff. That is tantamount to admitting that you know that they know at least as much as you do and that they are capable of pulling your rears out of any fire you may spark. Who said layers aren’t honest?
4) You giveth. I know who you are, you lawyers who balance incredible workloads and still manage to sit on boards, volunteer, raise money for good causes, and offer your services pro bono.
5) You taketh away. A fine lawyer takes away the worry of a client bewildered to find themselves needing one in the first place. I am thinking especially of a dear friend who handles divorces with great compassion. I know there are a whole lot of you out there who fit the bill, and that ability to soothe, calm and give hope is downright miraculous.
6) You speak with a golden tongue. You are so confident, commanding, and consumed with your arguments it is awesome. The word flow, the pacing, the seriousness of your monologues, negotiations and cross examinations all but make me faint with awe. Court watching one day, I was thoroughly swayed by the opening arguments of the prosecutor. “Guilty!” I was sure. The defense attorney was equally eloquent. “Innocent!” I wanted to cry. You do not want me on your jury, but I will always be an admiring spectator.
7) You are generous. I have yet to be turned away when I ask for your help. Even if I am writing about an evil lawyer. Sometimes you want me to name the character in a book after you. Just not the evil lawyer. How cute is that?
8) You are married to, or partner with, beautiful, intelligent people. Why this seems to be true of the profession as a whole is a mystery. I must conclude that your significant others simply find you as lovable as I do.
9) Your offices are marvelous. Government offices: in need of repair, boxes stacked in corners, dartboards, tiny basketball hoops – incredible personality. Private offices: slick, silent, sensational – fabulous taste. It’s like having to choose between two smart bad boys (or girls) with style.
10) You like each other. Okay, you may fight in the courtroom, you may write briefs that put my literary efforts to shame for all their drama, you may practice a bit of legal deceit, some slight of hand, some fanciful interpretation of the English language, some strategic trickery in the pursuit of justice and in your effort to best your opponent, but in the end you put out your hand, give your colleague a smile and a pat on the back, and your client the best that you have.
Happy Valentine’s day to all you lawyers whom I love.
 My youngest son is a Peace Corps volunteer in Albania. If you don’t know where Albania is, no worries. I didn’t either. Once he was assigned, though, our family became experts on this Eastern European country half a world away. He’s been gone a year now and still has a year and a half left to serve. Our Skype talks, IMs and emails are filled with interesting information. These conversations go something like this:
Me: Are you warm?
Eric: It’s below freezing. There’s a hole in the wall of my apartment where the chimney for a heating stove is supposed to go, but birds are living there. The landlord doesn’t want to disturb the birds.
Me: He’d rather you freeze to death?
Eric: I put a piece of cardboard over the hole and turn on my cooking stove to keep warm. I moved the couch to the kitchen, and I sleep on it. With my clothes on. And my hat. It’s only a little below freezing.
Me: But are you warm?
At that point the conversation veers away from the topic of how a California boy will survive a brutal Albanian winter. He’s 24, this is his adventure, and he doesn’t need mom to remind him to put on his galoshes. He also doesn’t want to waste precious time discussing the temperature. When the intermittent electricity and Internet connection allow our conversations are peppered with pictures of the scorpions he finds in his boots and bed, the gunfire he hears that no one pays attention to, and the cows he chases down the street simply because they are there and he is young and hungry for all experiences. I hear about the ‘grandmothers’ in his town who have adopted him, the students who want to learn English, and the kindness of people who share what they have.
Then there are those personal conversations between my playwright son and me. We cross the miles with talk of family, futures, writing, disappointments, happy times and revelations. Sometimes words fail us, and that is not unusual for those who make their living writing them. The enormity of a thought is hard to express in pixels or through jerky images on a screen; it needs hands and facial expressions and the intensity of real proximity to make a thought understood. Often words escape us because what we are thinking seems insignificant, too small to waste precious time on. English, for all its energy, can be limiting; Albanian, for all its convolution is not.
Which brings me to the new words I learned: mal and mertiz. In this intricate language that my son attacked and conquered with relish, all words have many meanings. Mal translates to both nostalgia and mountain. That seemed so right to me. We all have a mountain of nostalgia that has pushed through the ground of our lives and built upon itself. There are crevices where regret is caught and great bold faces slick with the memories of life-changing events; there are crags and fissures of reminiscences covered with clouds of wistfulness and longing. One day that mountain of memories can be comforting and the next overwhelming – it all depends on the light in which we view it and the place on which we stand at any given moment.
Mertiz is the Albanian word for upset, lonely and bored. That, too, seems just right. If we are at odds-and-ends, uncomfortable in our own skin with boredom or loneliness, are we not upset and anxious? One word ties turmoil together. Mertiz is not to be confused with anger or frustration; it is much more subtle than that and infinitely more dramatic.
I am grateful to know that this feeling I have been harboring for the last year is simply mertiz, a loneliness for my far-away son, a restlessness that he is not here to talk to me about our shared passion for writing, a twinge of disappointment that he is not sitting at my table eating food I made for him. But I see that mertiz leads to mal. If I am upset and anxious that my child is freezing, if I am bored because I miss the talks late into the night, the hugs he never failed to give, that only means my mountain has grown. See that new foothold up near the peak? It is mal for the boy who once needed me to keep him warm and now simply needs me to talk to him in a new vocabulary that really just says we miss one another.
I’ve been thinking about Christmas gifts. Not what I want. Not even what my family wants. I haven’t had an altruistic thought about what I can give back to the world. I’ve been remembering my favorite Christmas gift ever.
I was eleven years old when I opened a package from Santa. Inside were the most beautiful white boots. In 1963 they were called go-go boots. Just above the ankle, they were plain and had a short heel. I wouldn’t be caught dead in them today, but those boots were the first thing I remember wanting so much I could taste it. At that age, I was too old for toys and too young to know that I was asking for something outrageous. I can still feel the tissue paper between my fingers, still remember my first glimpse of those small, white boots, and I still remember thinking that wishes can come true.
So, belated though it is, I would like to thank Santa for the following:
· Thank you for recognizing that I was growing up.
· Thank you for paying attention to my wish.
· Thank you for being impractical.
· Thank you for sacrificing to get those boots
· Thank you for writing Santa on the tag.
· Thank you for not laughing as I strutted around all day wearing my boots under my homemade bathrobe, with my hand-me-down clothes and in my pajamas.
· Thank you for including white shoe polish.
Thank you for the memory, Santa. There has not been a gift before or since to match it. Now that I am much older - and hopefully a little wiser - I have another wish: I wish that everyone will get their ‘boots’ this holiday season.
I tried to write this post ten times over. I think I was trying too hard to be insightful or witty. It never sound right, so I decided to say it plainly: This year I am truly thankful to be alive.
In October I had a brush with cancer. Within ten days I was diagnosed, operated on twice and a month later was pronounced ‘cured’. Basically, I had cancer for a day compared to others who struggle against the disease for years. My father-in-law was one of those brave souls, and I will never forget how valiant he was.
Now I am well just in time for Thanksgiving, and I want to say thank you to:
· My doctors who were straightforward and caring
· My dad, a doctor himself, who I’m sure reached down from heaven to give
me the nudge that made me pay attention to my symptoms
· The time I now have because they caught it early
· My husband who didn’t miss an appointment
· My kids who watched daytime TV with me while I was recovering even though they had better things to do
· My mom who only let me see her worry for an instant
before she took me out for a Margarita
· My local sister who came with us for a Margarita
· My far away brothers and sisters who called with good wishes and worry and jokes
· My friends who sent a tsunami of affection my way.
These included:
Ø Old friends
Ø Acquaintances who were more friends than I knew
Ø E-mail friends who couldn’t do anything, but offered help anyway. RWA buddies who kept vigil. Tennis pals who hovered.
Ø Everyone who put me in their prayer chains
(Baptists, Catholics, Buddhists, LDS and Born Agains)
Ø My mother-in-law who was town crier to our extensive family
Ø My sisters-in-law who made sure their brother didn’t go off the deep end
Ø My brother –in-law who made his famous Croatian chicken soup
(he's sure that's what cured me)
Ø Everyone who sent flowers, a card or a good wish
Ø Our neighbors
Ø The dry cleaning lady
There must be a more eloquent way to say how thankful I am to be celebrating this holiday, but I don’t have the words. I am just so grateful to so many for so much. So, thank you for all your kindess. I hope this is a really and truly thankful Thanksgiving for everyone.
 The day I stood in the choir loft surrounded by my fourth grade peers, I had no idea that I was about to learn a lesson in suspense, terror, fear, retribution and resolution that would lead me to a career as a thriller author.
The day was hot, air-conditioning was unheard of, and we wore our itchy, ugly, brown wool Catholic school uniforms year ‘round to save our parents money. I was a very good girl. I never drew attention to myself, folded my hands with fingers pointing heavenward when I prayed, picked up trash on the playground and helped pass out papers in class. But that day, I made a blunder that put me in Sister Carmelita’s crosshairs. As she raised her arms and positioned her baton in anticipation of another rousing chorus of a hymn I have long forgotten, I rolled my eyes. Yep, I rolled them to the back of my little ten-year-old head in frustration and exhaustion.
Sister Carmelita cut her own my way. I realize now that she had mastered the art of eye cutting because she couldn’t move her head given her the box-like wimple. Everyone stopped breathing. No one knew what I had done, only that I had done something very, very bad.
“Miss Forster.” Sister Carmelita’s voice was modulated appropriately for God’s house. “Wait after choir.”
My stomach lurched. I felt light headed. I was doomed.
Sister Carmelita is long gone. During her time on earth she faced changes in her church and her life, but I doubt she ever knew how that day changed me. So, if you’re listening, Sister, I want you to know that, 30 years later, that moment sealed my fate. I spend my days writing thrillers, trying to recapture the exquiste sense of suspense I experienced that day. Here is what you taught me:
1) Less is More: Your understated notice of me, the glitter in your eye, the sound of your voice was more intriguing, more compelling, more enthralling than screaming, railing or ranting.
2) Timing is Everything: All 29 of my classmates knew I was in trouble. I knew I was in trouble. I even knew why I was in trouble (disrespecting you, God, choir practice, country, family and all living creatures with a roll of my eyes), yet you didn’t nip things in the bud with a mere instantaneous admonition. My comeuppance was exquisitely timed. You threw in an extra hymn to extend practice, studiously ignored me, meticulously folded your sheet music as my classmates silently went down the stairs. You waited until the door of the church closed, clicked and locked us together in that big, shadowy church before you turned.
3) The Devil's in the Details: You were taller than me (back then almost everyone was taller than me), but that wasn’t why I was afraid. It was your whole package, the details of your awesome being that were so formidable. Covered head to toe in black, your face framed by your wimple (which, by the way, looked like the vice used during the Spanish Inquisition), your hands buried beneath the scapular that fell in a perfect column to the tips of your shoes, made for quite a package. But there was more: The scent of nun-perfume (I think it was soap, but it smelled like nun-perfume to me), the clack of those huge rosary beads attached to your wide belt, the squish of your rubber soled shoes. I saw all this, I heard all this, I smelled all this and each sense was heightened because of the hush surrounding us.
I remember your methodical advance into my personal space. I remember you lowering your eyes as I raised mine. The suspense was heart-stopping, the anticipation of my penance almost unbearable. Quite frankly, you were terrifying.
But here’s the funny thing: I don’t remember how it ended. Did you scold me? Did you show mercy and forgivness? I only remember being terrified. Like the brain of the seven year old Stephen King swears gives him inspiration for his horror books, you, Sister Carmelita, inspire every sentence I write in every thriller novel I pen. For that, I can’t thank you enough.
I also want you to know, I have never rolled my eyes at anything since that day in the choir loft.
 My parents made a pact to stand on every continent in the world. When my dad passed away, my mother went to the Antarctic for both of them. That’s when I figured there was a lot I didn’t know about mom.
When she returned with a bright orange jacket that she got ‘for free’ (don’t count the cost of the cruise), she had lots of stories to tell. Yet, when the excitement of the trip wore off, we both had the sense that we were still standing on a pitching deck with no way to sail to calm seas. A big piece of the puzzle – my dad – was missing.
“Write your memoir,” I said.
“My life wasn’t interesting,” she answered.
But the idea must have taken hold. Not long after this conversation, she called. She was done with her memoir.
“Impressive,” I mused.
It takes me months to write one novel and she finished hers in a week. When I saw her manuscript, I understood why. It was five pages long and she was eighty-five years old. There had to be more.
So began a year of weekend sleep-overs as we poured over photographs for inspiration. She had twenty beautifully documented photo albums, a box filled with pictures taken when cameras were still new fangled things.
There was mom in waist-length braids and Mary Jane shoes standing in the German village she called home.
She was a teenager in the U.S. while war raged in Europe, threatening the grandmother she had lived with, cousins and friends.
Here was mom, posing in a swimsuit she bought with the dollar she found on the street.
Mom in her twenty-five dollar bridal gown perched in the back of a hay wagon beside my father, a skinny, wide-eyed farm boy who would become a doctor.
Mom with one child. Two. Three. Five. Six of us all together. Dark haired and big eyed, we were her clones dressed in beautiful, homemade clothes. I remember going to sleep to the sound of her sewing machine.
And there were words! I bribed my mother with promises of Taco Bell feasts if she gave me details. Funny, what came to her mind.
To keep body and soul together when my father was in med school, he was a professional mourner and bussed tables for a wealthy fraternity. My mom worked in a medical lab where the unchecked radiation caused her to lose her first baby. They ate lab rabbits that had given their all for pregnancy tests. They were in love and happy and didn’t know they were poor. But St. Louis was cold, she remembered, and they couldn’t afford winter coats. Still, she insisted, they weren’t poor.
She typed, I edited; I typed, she talked. My youngest brother almost died when he was 10. She didn’t cry for a long while; not until she knew he would live. The captain of the ship that took her back to Germany was kind. She dreamed of becoming a missionary doctor. In 1954, she had two toddlers (me and my brother) and another baby on the way when she and dad drove to Fairbanks, Alaska where he would serve his residency at the pleasure of the U.S. Air Force. Her favorite outfit was a suit with a white collar. She loved her long hair rolled at her neck in the forties. In the fifties she made a black dress with rhinestone straps and her hair was bobbed. In the sixties she made palazzo pants and sported a short bouffant. She looked like a movie star in her homemade clothes. I wanted to grow up to be as glamorous as she was. She still thought she wasn’t interesting.
Mom wrote the forward to her memoir herself. It began:
A great sense of loneliness fills the house as twilight approaches. In the silence, I can almost hear the voices of my grown children as they recall their childhood years, the laughter of grandchildren and the quiet conversations of friends who have gathered here in years past, echoing through the empty rooms.
You see, she really had no need of my help as a writer.
We had seven copies printed. On the cover was a beautiful picture of a sunset. She called her book In The Twilight of My Life and would not be swayed to change it. Mom thought it perfect and not the least depressing. It was, she laughed, the truth. It was her laugh that made it right. She gave my brothers and sisters a copy for Christmas. My older brother had tears in his eyes. Everyone exclaimed: “I never knew that”.
Now I have a book more treasured than any I have written. I learned a lot about my mom and I realized why I create fictional women of courage and conviction, strength and curiosity, intelligence and, most of all, spirit. It’s because, all this time, I’ve been writing about my mother.
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