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While I was cleaning this morning, I ran across the pix I digitized for my mother’s memorial service.
This one would have had to have been taken when she was 18 or so, which would make it circa 1952, the year I was born:
Not sure of this one’s date. Some time during the 1950s:
Some time after I left home, my mother began playing music again. She’d been trained as a classical violinist by my insane grandmother, herself a classical pianist. She was supposed to go to Julliard. But she had me instead!
She played bluegrass and pop with a couple of bands in San Francisco. The only one I remember now was Hearts on Fire. By all reports, she was an extremely good musician but such a pain in the ass that every band she joined eventually threw her out.
The musician pix would have been taken during the 1970s.
My favorite picture of her is this one:
I’ve carried the original of this photo, now very battered, to all of Max’s various graduation ceremonies, and I’ll be carrying it once again when he’s sworn into the California bar. One of his mentors who’s on the California State Supreme Court will be swearing him in, so it’s gonna be a Very Big Deal, and I’ll be flying out to California to be present at it.
My mother was a terrible mother but a good grandmother. I respected that. I’d cut off all communication with her before Max was born on the grounds that okay, maybe she wasn’t altogether to blame, but our relationship was toxic, and I didn’t want any part of it. I got back in touch with her when I found out I was pregnant, though. I didn’t think it was fair to Max to make decisions about who was or who was not part of his family.
My mother would be over the moon over Max’s success. So, I’m carrying the photo. To give her restless spirit that.
My least favorite photo of her is this one. Of course, it was her favorite:
This one would have had to have been taken when she was 18 or so, which would make it circa 1952, the year I was born:
Not sure of this one’s date. Some time during the 1950s:
Some time after I left home, my mother began playing music again. She’d been trained as a classical violinist by my insane grandmother, herself a classical pianist. She was supposed to go to Julliard. But she had me instead!
She played bluegrass and pop with a couple of bands in San Francisco. The only one I remember now was Hearts on Fire. By all reports, she was an extremely good musician but such a pain in the ass that every band she joined eventually threw her out.
The musician pix would have been taken during the 1970s.
My favorite picture of her is this one:
I’ve carried the original of this photo, now very battered, to all of Max’s various graduation ceremonies, and I’ll be carrying it once again when he’s sworn into the California bar. One of his mentors who’s on the California State Supreme Court will be swearing him in, so it’s gonna be a Very Big Deal, and I’ll be flying out to California to be present at it.
My mother was a terrible mother but a good grandmother. I respected that. I’d cut off all communication with her before Max was born on the grounds that okay, maybe she wasn’t altogether to blame, but our relationship was toxic, and I didn’t want any part of it. I got back in touch with her when I found out I was pregnant, though. I didn’t think it was fair to Max to make decisions about who was or who was not part of his family.
My mother would be over the moon over Max’s success. So, I’m carrying the photo. To give her restless spirit that.
My least favorite photo of her is this one. Of course, it was her favorite:
