My dad loved to listen to baseball games on the radio. He was a Yankees fan and I can still hear the voice of Mel Allen calling the games. My dad kept up a running commentary with Mel, griping about the missed plays, talking back to the radio, which we kids all thought was hilarious. My husband does the same thing now watching college basketball. I heard him in the den the other day talking back to the coaches. Did I marry my father?
My mother had “go to” meals for stormy weather. She’d start with cinnamon rolls for breakfast and hot cocoa; then, set a pot of soup going on the burner, adding ingredients all day long as it simmered and whetted our appetites. Something chocolate for dessert—brownies or her famous mayonnaise cake (have you ever tried it?). She’d have sweet potatoes in the oven for snacks as we came in from sledding or snowman building. Yesterday’s snow and sleet awakened me and my first thought was, “I’m going to make soup! Brownies for dessert.” Have I become my mother?
I like to read advice columns (or I used to like to read them when Dear Abby was the author). She once advised a writer to reexamine her commitment to a man who told her that he didn’t like her mother very much. I don’t know if that advice was followed—it is food for thought, though. Fortunately, my husband loved my mother and I loved my father. It’s a good thing, since they are both living here with us every day.