Old So What

  It was not lost on me that I chose to start to write in earnest after my relatives, who were writers, were either in mental decline or dead. I obviously didn’t want any comparisons to turn up. There was one person about whom the following story revolved. About whom my entire world revolved at the time. It was my mother, of course. This particular story began on the morning of The Interview, an ordinary enough occasion for young girls in the 1950s who wished to enter Polite Society. As defined by people who considered themselves to be socially superior, thus allowing them to set standards of behavior for everyone else. I was 14 at the time, just slightly pretty, and exhibiting a beginning glimpse of attractiveness to come. We were late as usual. (I’m certain that when she was dying, my mother told God, “WAIT, I’m not ready yet!”) I never actually called her Mother, but rather, “Mommie” until like a slap across the face, she told me that I was too old to be calling...