My mother, Florence Friedman, had a fascinating relationship with the English language. Born in America, she had no reason to be at odds with the mother tongue; nonetheless, she always seemed to be on a first date with it. For instance, instead of the word mundane, she would describe the monotonous and dull as muldane, which, I always felt, parenthetically and certainly onomatopoetically, far more accurate. Often, too, as I think have mentioned before, she would place those elements of grammar, normally reserved for the beginning of sentences at the end; so, if I my brother were coming for a visit, my mother, instead of saying, “Wayne is coming this weekend,” would instead announce, “He’s coming for the weekend your brother.” She also had a fabulous sense of the fundamental and hierarchal, so, say, I was asking her what she wanted for dinner and she sensed there was some disturbance swirling around my life, she would respond, “What about your marriage better?”
I bring this up because, of course, it’s Mother’s Day and, of course, words and pictures and declarations of love are all over Facebook. My mother died in 1999, years before Zuckerberg even pondered hoodwinking Cameron and Tyler Winklevoss, so she didn't know from the place (“Didn’t know”— another wonderful Florence Friedman construction). I think of her on days like this and imagine, because I’m certain she wouldn't have a FB account, much less care about the goings-on here, how I would explain the explosion of love expressed for mothers and motherhood on this day.
“So, Ba, nu, you tell people you don’t know, complete strangers, you love and adore me?”
“Pretty much, Ma, yeah.”
“Give a kick. You should tell me better.”
Nu.. who talks like this. I just remember her laugh, a very infectious laugh
Love this.