Mom's Last Photos (1)

I took this photograph of mom at the 501 Diner on East Franklin Street in July, 2007. That officially makes it among the last few pictures ever taken of my mother. Ragia hates it; she says that it does not look like mom at all.

What do you think?

The Christmas Tree Ballet

Spice, hydrocarbons, grilling meats, women's perfume and men's cologne, frying falafel, sweat, baked goods, urine, and garbage; these comprise the usual melange that is the all-pervasive miasma of Cairo.

In early December, however, certain areas of Cairo, such as the island district of Zamalek, acquire a strong, festive, aroma of fresh pine sap. This, you see, is when the local florists put hundreds upon hundreds of Christmas trees on display. The sidewalks become forests overnight, obscuring all store fronts within hailing distance of any given florist, who typically leaves only a small gap for customers to enter shops whose displays they cannot see. To walk on these sidewalks during the Christmas season is to walk on narrow paths between the trees.

This is the setting for mom's annual pilgrimage to the Zamalek florists to select the perfect Christmas tree. Mom had rituals for the process; first, she would insist on seeing every tree the florist had on display. Then she would insist that the florist's staff bring to her the "special" trees that they had set away for the better-tipping customers. The workers knew her well and, instead of avoiding her and her tedious demands, they would vie to be the ones who perform this annual ballet for her. This, I believe, is not only due to the fact that she tipped extravagantly, regardless of whether their efforts resulted in a sale or not, but also to the fact that she was so charming and fun to argue with! If she did not find the specific tree she was looking for, she would tip the workers, and on we would go to the next florist.

This performance was so much fun for me that I honestly looked forward to it as much as I did opening the presents, except that the presents sometimes disappointed, but buying the tree never did.

When I was strong enough to do so, I would ask the workers to prepare the tree for me so that I could carry it the five or six blocks home, and up three or four flights of stairs, my nose filled with the sweet aroma of Christmas pine.

That is why mom immediately comes to mind when I smell pine sap. There is no sadness associated with this recollection, only a wistful and nostalgic joy as I am transported in my mind to the streets of Cairo. In my mind, I am thirteen again. I am beside myself with barely-contained excitement, and I am promising myself that, this year, I will not drop the tree on our way home.

Flour, Water, Salt, Wire and Paint

At around this time of the year, when we still lived in Egypt, mom would gather her kids around her with quantities of flour, water, salt, wire, and paint. We would fashion Christmas tree ornaments out of dough, and we would embed wire hangers in the less-than-well-finished (but oddly beautiful) shapes that resulted. My mother would then bake them. When the shapes came out of the oven, we would paint them.

We did this every year for several years. I remember the warmth and the beautiful smells of the kitchen as we made these ornaments and ate prodigious amounts of mom's astoundingly good made-from-scratch chocolate chip, oatmeal, and peanut butter cookies.

My mother loved those ornaments. She still had one or two of them when she died.

In memory of my mother, it is my goal to turn this practice into a family tradition at my house. All I have to do is figure out the exact proportions of the mix. I expect that our ornaments will be just as irregular as those ones were, and also just as beautiful. Every time I hang one on our tree, I will think of mom.

Frank Dudley Oldham 1911 - 1955

As I was browsing the University of Missouri Archive in search of information related to my mother and her family, I came across the obituary of Frank Oldham published in the September 1955 issue of the Missouri Alumnus (see page 27). Frank Oldham was my mother's father.

Frank Dudley Oldham was born in Murfreesboro, Tennessee, on June 29, 1911. Among other things, my grandfather was a professor, a professional engineer, and chairman of both the University of Missouri Department of Chemical Engineering and the University section of the American Association of University Professors. He became the chairman of the Department of Chemical Engineering at the age of 38, and remained in this position until he died.

My grandfather was also a member of the American Institute of Chemical Engineers, the American Chemical Society, the American Society for Engineering Education, the American Association of University Professors, the National Society of Professional Engineers, Sigma Xi, Alpha Chi Sigma, and Kappa Alpha.

Dr. Frank D. Oldham died on June 17, 1955.* My mother, the eldest of his children, was 11. To my sorrow, the above is almost all I know about the man, but I do know that he must be the source of some of my mother's intelligence, natural leadership skills, charisma, and her gravitas.

* Coincidentally, my sister Sarah was born exactly 31 years later.

Peanut Butter Sandwiches--Extra Mayo!

I remember that mom would love to go to a certain high-class bakery and deli in Cairo where she would buy four or five types of superb cold cuts, three or four types of French cheese, and at least two types of crusty, tasty bread. She would take all of this bounty home, and would put together a platter to die for. Then she would sit down and merrily make her favorite sandwiches for herself: a TUC cracker (similar to Club crackers) with a layer of cream cheese, a layer of peanut butter, and a layer of mayonnaise.

I know that this makes no sense at all, but that is what she did.

And sometimes she even added a layer of butter.

Capricious

I'm really tired today, so I'm going to tell you a really short one. Mom, Osman, a friend of mom's (Louise Stoner?) and I were in a taxicab in Cairo in 1986. When we stopped at one of Cairo's legendary traffic lights, a nasty man in a car next to us made a crude pass at mom, so she asked me to cuss at him. Fearing that my mother was not up to my cussing, I asked her "How nasty?" She said to give it my very best effort.

I did.

She swatted me.

Oh, well.

The Oldham Women

This is a photograph of (from left to right) mom; her sister, Carla; her mother, Helen Oldham (née Graebner); and her sister, Janet. The photograph was taken circa 1962.