Wordsmoker

Weekends were completely predictable. Saturday morning, rise and shine. If you woke before she did, you could get in an episode of The Super Friends; really early and you would catch Wonderama or Davey & Goliath. Otherwise, forget it, no chance. My sister and I knew what the morning held in store. She would have her coffee—percolated on the stove in the corningware pot—and her cigarettes. Then, she would get dressed and put on a groove, like some Marvin or Stevie, or Donna. Mom loved Soul and R&B, and she could dance—for that I owe her much. If anything, she certainly made it fun. It was her equivalent of “whistle while you work,” and we knew when the music started it was time. I have got to hand it to her; she was a pied piper. We never complained about helping her, not once. In fact, I loved to watch her—she was something else then, my mom. A goddess.

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