Dear Mommy,

I hope on this three quarters of a century birthday you realize how many wondrous images I have of my childhood, even Eeyore that I was, as you aptly named me. I remember you and Big Anne always being up to something, and Marcy, Anne, and I were your lucky but reluctant partners in crime. We would huddle in the back seat of the old station wagon as you loaded lion manure from the National Zoo in the way back to use in the garden, Chevy Chase mothers in Lilly Pulitzer with shovels. The three of us would keep watch in Ocean City as you and Big Anne rummaged head first in the dumpsters behind the Acme for “perfectly good” heads of lettuce and just a “little ripe” tomatoes. You would cluck about the wastefulness of it all and we would wince, but to be fair we never did get sick. To this day, I feel compelled to clean out your science experiments from the refrigerator when I visit. I guess you were just ahead of the curve—recycling and dumpster diving.

We also loved to “humdeedum” things along the beach; some might call it stealing. We would walk along and scope out leftover chairs, toys, and towels, then gather them up to ta

ke back to the house. Of course I was always horrified and thrilled at the same time, just as I was with the heffalump traps we would build for unsuspecting passersby. We would dig a deep hole, carefully lay sticks across it and cover with sand, then wait. I don’t remember if we actually ever caught anyone, but the suspense was fun. So were the crab burials.

Fun. We may not have had a bedtime or regular meals, or brushed our teeth, but we had fun. We would sleep on the porch at the beach and get up to watch the sunrise, take late night walks along the ocean. Once you found a baby sand shark in the surf (I think it actually nibbled you?) and we kept it in the bathtub until it was too big for it. I think I also remember you and Big Anne scaring random children by making witchy voices carry in the sewer grates in Rehobeth.
When I was really little, you would declare “hookey” days—days when we woke up thinking we were going to school but instead were whisked to an undisclosed location. Not good for the school record, but again—fun. We would end up at Gunston Hall or Mount Vernon, a fort in western Maryland or even the Eastern Shore. Sometimes it was just a picnic in Georgetown or playing tennis in the park. Graveyards always loomed large, the one in Georgetown a favorite. We later would spend hours doing grave rubbings when we stayed in New Hampshire. At the time I thought that everyone spent their summer afternoons taping paper onto headstones and getting their palms back with charcoal.


Now that I am driving Peter back and forth to PDS, I remember and appreciate the endless hours you spent driving me to school and back, and waiting outside for hours as I forgot you were there and worked on the yearbook or whatever. I was irritated that all the girls in my class I didn’t even speak to thought you were the “cool” mom and went back to the alumnae office to visit; I didn’t think for a minute about your real situation: you were working there for the tuition so I could stay in school.

All the projects you helped with—the model of the heart, the Peter Pan paper, Model UN—the Latin conjugations you listened to—the speeches and presentations practiced over and over (remember Benevenuto Cellini?)—the darkroom you helped build---the college trip all over New England---I hope you know I remember it all fondly.


I guess I should also remind you of the high speed chase through the leafy streets of Section 4, because you felt the police were unjustified in putting up a do not enter sign in our neighborhood; the midnight excursion with Wilton to salvage a few things from the IRS; the bedraggled spider monkey, the only animal you were ever eager to see the last of, except that raccoon, maybe.

You always frustrated your family who love you so much, but we also admire the way you never hesitated to help when needed. I remember when we drove to the ends of the earth to pick up Ruby, an amputee with a pacemaker, because her sister didn’t want to take care of her anymore. You set her up on a cot in the dining room and waited on her day and night; Bobby was furious, and I would have been too if the games she played with her stump hadn’t been so fascinating, but in retrospect I realize how few people would have helped her in this way. Like all the other strays, pigs and people alike, you took her in, no questions asked.


You also didn’t even hesitate when I needed a platelet transfusion;

you immediately went and did the grisly epheresis—given how I feel about such things, I stand in awe of this, and wonder if I would do the same for Peter or William!



William reminds me so much of you—extravagant, headstrong, stubborn, loyal, deeply irrational, and charming. You both have your reasons, and they never cease to puzzle me. But you both are infinitely interesting to me.




Because of you I have certain precepts in life:

If you have a Guest, he is always right, and you must never show any sign of boredom, pain, fatigue, or impatience.

Always bake a friend a cake on their birthday, preferably with seven minute icing.

Drop everything and go if there’s a fair, festival, dog show, exhibit, sheep herding, or steeplechase within fifty miles.

Never eat in restaurants when you can have a picnic. (Hard to do with Peter’s fastidiousness.)
No TV in the daytime.

No cereal boxes or ketchup on the table EVER.

Never answer the phone if you have company.

Save everything.

(This last you may not think I adhere to, but you haven’t seen my attic—I’m a closet hoarder, I admit. )

No matching anything.

If you see something on the side of the road, stop. (I like to think I am more discriminating here, but who knows.)
When in doubt, bet on it.

Finally, and one I am still working on, never admit to knowing something someone is telling you. (I think this is hard for you, too. Admit it!)


I hope you do know one thing, though—I love you.


Lisa