Linda in 1945

This is a photograph of mom when she was one year old, give or take a month or two. As usual, clicking on the picture gives you a high-resolution version.

Anita Fabos and James Martone

Anita Fabos recently sent me a new email containing contact information for a few more of mom's friends, including James Martone, who I had wanted to contact because his was a name I recognized. Before I had the chance to contact him, however, he contacted me.

In an email, James said: "I loved your mother, and met her at a crossroads in my life, where she was kind and gentle and helped me through it. I met your mother through Roxanne, whom you know, I'm sure. Your mother loved Roxanne, and my friendship with your mother was mostly an extension of this. I can't remember the last time I saw her, but probably around 97, 98..."

and

“I am sad I never reconnected, but perhaps I have in a way, via you.”

James and I have exchanged a number of emails since the one quoted above. We have yet to talk on the phone, but we have plans to get together when I am next in Washington, DC.

A Christmas Present for Mom

I acquired the habit of listening to National Public Radio (NPR) from mom, who had it running all day, every day (Osman and I sometimes joked about the very strange songs that played on that radio, including such masterpieces as Dunkin' Bagels, and Don't Darken My Towels No More). She was very sad at one point because she thought she would not be able to listen to it when she moved to Cairo (It is available online, so that was not a problem). Because I know she loved it so much, I have decided that since I can no longer get mom a meaningful present for Christmas, I will donate some small sum of money to NPR in her name. It can't be very much because things are tight, but I will give what I can to my local station.

Care to join me?

Linda Circa 1980

The title says it all. The photograph was taken by Nadir. As usual, clicking on the image will give you a high-resolution version of the photograph.

Jake and the Dinosaur

As I am sure anybody who knew her already knows, my mother was a Storyteller, with a capital "S." My wife seems to believe that I might have inherited that particular gene from my mother, and has been urging me to write some children's stories for my tot, Ali. With this in mind, it's not hard to see how one of my earliest memories of mom's storytelling talent was dredged up from the deeper recesses of my memory.

When I was four years old, my mother created a story box for me. I don't know if "storybox" is the proper name for the contraption, but it was a story that she wrote and illustrated on a roll of paper that she attached to two spools that were attached inside a shoebox with a window in it. Through the window, we could see the illustrated story. Each "page" of the story was a frame in the narrative. When we had finished reading a frame, we would roll the spool to get to the next.

The story was, as best as I can recall, as follows:

"One day, Jake was walking in the forest. In the forest he saw a dinosaur. Jake was very afraid. The dinosaur brought his head close to look at jake. Jake gave him a piece of candy. Jake and the dinosaur became best friends."

I still love that story.

So does the dinosaur.

Pea Soup

It is snowing outside, here in Dublin, Ohio. It is 27 degrees outside with a wind chill factor of 17. What I could really use is a cup of mom's wonderful cream of pea soup, or cream of celery, or cream of avocado (yes, you got that right), or cream of carrot, or cream of...

You get the point.

Books

among the most wonderful things that my mother ever did for me was that she made an avid reader of me. In Cairo, it was not always easy to find good books in English for a growing boy, yet I always had a large stock of them; when we finally gained access to a good library in Cairo (the All Saints Cathedral Library in Zamalek), I had so many books that we ended up donating nine boxes of them to it.

Mom had the most wonderful taste in books that she got for me, and she didn't stop when we gained access to the library, either. Some of the books she provided me with are still among my favorite books in the world. I cannot begin to remember them all, but here is a sample list:

The Adventures of Remi,
All of the Oz books,
The Complete Short Stories of Sherlock Holmes,
Robinson Crusoe,
The Three Musketeers,
The Complete Short Stories of Mark Twain,
Steinbeck's King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table,
A Bell for Adano,
Shelley's Frankenstein,
and Cheaper by the Dozen.

In addition, she offered me her own books. If you knew my mother at all, you know what quality books she had. From her collection I came to love P.G. Wodehouse, Rex Stout, Ngaio Marsh, Agatha Christie, and many others.

Mom also taught me a very important lesson; at one time I had this belief that I really should read certain books such as Shakespeare's major works, Homer, Ovid, Virgil, Dante, Thomas Moore, Poe, etc. Whan I complained to her that I am really struggling with Dante (I can't read poetry to save my life except, maybe, for Poe), she asked me why I was subjecting myself to something that I clearly was not enjoying. When I gave her my rationale, she, as was her wont, made it look so simple; she told me that there are so many wonderful books out there that it is enough to read those among them that I enjoy to get the same well-rounded education, and that self-inflicted suffering really should not be part of the process.

So, I read Hamlet and the Merchant of Venice, but I passed on Romeo and Juliet (I love the language, but the plot is tripe). I never attempted Ovid, Virgil, and Dante, but I did read the Iliad and the Oddessey, as well as More's Utopia. Mom bequeathed to me her Faulkner books. Maybe I'll give that a shot someday soon.