remembering my mother on her birthday, with her own words

This is the last photograph I took of my mother.  Just days later she would enter the hospital for what would become an infinitely sad progression of diagnoses.  But here she is, driving with my son, on the day he got his car.  A game front-seat passenger, urging him on, and waving goodbye to me.



Today would have been my mother's birthday.  Today will always be my mother's birthday.  She was a writer, too, and she loved her city, conveyed that love to me.  In honor of her, I yield this blog to her words.  Happy Birthday, Mom.

Southwest Philadelphia was my growing-up place.  It was the kind of community I now tend
to think of as reminiscent of Thornton Wilder’s Our Town; there was a pervasive sense of social security intrinsic
to the very nature of that neighborhood. 
Stability was at the core of community life.  It was enshrined in churches and schools, as well as
enduring friends whose longevity even now captures the essence of youthful
memories.

            There
was the coveted childhood occupation of being personally selected to run an
errand to the corner grocery store. 
Such an expedition not only netted pocket change, often enough to cover
tickets to a Saturday matinee at the Lindy Theater, but also allowed one the
no-cost distraction of a pastime known as “dropping in,” a typically
Philadelphian pleasure rarely tapped by suburbanites.

            During
World War II, families on our street were urged to develop the empty field
behind our homes into what eventually became known fondly as “Victory gardens.”  This gave my parents the opportunity to
become involved in a project which was not only rewarding but fun.

            Although
necessarily molded from the same patterns, rowhouses did not lack
individualized interpretation. 
People discovered ways of personalizing their homes, and streets were
distinguished by the results. 
After I was married and moved away, our young children, having become
accustomed to the split-level landscape in which they lived, always made a game
of finding Grandmom’s house when we visited my parents.  Its boldly painted green sunburst door
became a symbol of the loving welcome they always received there.

            Philadelphia,
profoundly and affectionately, is a city of neighborhoods, and remnants of
neighborhood memories rightly remain to soothe as well as to structure.  An occasional, cogent reminder of their
unifying significance casts a welcome, prismatic glow on memories past.




            From
“Old neighborhoods revisited,” The
Philadelphia Inquirer, May 26, 1981