Shot from inside Don’s car as we drove to the library for our walk.
It’s been cold, but sunny. In fact, the sun is deceiving! You think it’s going to be warmer than it is. I noticed some green shoots emerging from the ground when we were walking around the library. It’s too early for spring, but the bulbs underground seem to think it isn’t.
I’ve been thinking about my mom and missing her. I always miss her, but I think working on the Shirley Temple doll has brought her to the forefront of my mind. When I was growing up, we watched old movies together and she knew all about the actors and directors. She was an encyclopedia of movie lore. When Don and I are watching an old movie and I provide the name of an actor or director or some obscure bit of information on the film, Don will often ask “How do you know that??” I often respond that “I just know it,” but when I really think about it, I realize I know about it because of my mom. The same thing occurs with a lot of music, especially songs of the 30s, 40s, and 50s. I know an awful lot about the popular music of those decades.
As with all of our parents, mom grew up in a time where there were movies and radio. That’s it. You went to the movie theater to see a movie. You listened to shows on the radio. There was no streaming, no television, none of that. So movies were everything.
I miss chatting with her about that. Even in her later years, I would often call her to ask her about something or other, knowing she would most likely know the answer. A few weeks ago, Don and I turned on TCM and ended up watching the last half of the movie version of the Broadway musical “Bells are Ringing.” (Side note: it was not a very good adaptation.) But, that movie was one I frequently watched with my mom and it starred the late, great Judy Holliday. I remember Mom telling me that Judy died tragically young and that every time she heard Judy sing “The Party’s Over” she would cry. The sadness of the song coupled with the fact that Judy died from breast cancer at the age of 43 would make mom weep. And, all these years later, it does the same thing to me. I cannot hear that song without tearing up. What an enormous loss. That leads my thought to my brother’s death at 44. And round and round I go. Of course, when mom told me about Holliday, she had no idea she would lose her son one day at nearly the same age.
After seeing the movie, I pulled out the original Broadway cast recording, and I’ve been listening to it off and on. It’s all about a woman who works for an answering service, so it isn’t performed nowadays as much as it deserves. And if it is, it must take place in the same period in which it was written. It has a score by Betty Comden and Adolph Greene, who performed with Judy in a comedy group called The Revuers when they were young, sometimes accompanied by Leonard Bernstein. A gift for their old pal. Her leading man was Sydney Chaplin, the son of Charlie Chaplin, who was also the original Nicky Arnstein in Funny Girl.
But I digress. I miss those chats with mom. I miss talking to my dad, as well. I know this feeling is universal: I wish I could pick up the phone and call my parents. I sometimes – for a brief millisecond – think “Oh, I’ll just call mom and ask her.” For one moment, I step out of the time construct and forget she is no longer here.
Don and I have been having conversations off and on about questions we wish we had asked our parents. If only we could go back in time and ask them. And why didn’t we think to ask them??
I wish, I wish, I wish.
Some thoughts for today.
Stay safe.
Happy Wednesday.
