…with Gary Moss

When does 90 equal 22.5? When does 90 equal 32,872? What does 90 have to do with Babe Ruth, ‘The Human Fly’, The League of Women Voters, and Poncho Villa?

90 years ago on February ’29′, 1920 my mom, Dorothy Freedman Moss, was born in Detroit, Michigan. If it wasn’t for that event, I wouldn’t be sitting here at 2:28AM, February 26, 2010, writing this blog. By the way, February 29 only happens on ‘Leap Year’, so my mom has only had 22 actual birth date celebrations to date. You might think that is sad, to miss so many birth dates enjoyed by the rest of the population. But no, it has been a thing of distinction; it was always fun as a 10 year old telling my friends that my mom was only ’8′. And maybe that number thing is responsible for keeping her so young and spry. You’d never know that she is 90 from the way she lives her life. My mom lives on her own since my dad passed away, 5 years ago. She does her own cooking and cleaning. Mom has a trusty Pontiac Vibe and is still a good driver. She is the designated driver among her senior friends whether its to a Saturday matinee, an evening dinner, or her Tuesday Maj Jong game. Mom lives in Southfield, a suburb of Detroit, the city of her birth. She could move to some warmer place on the planet but she prefers remaining close to her many relatives who live in and around her home. Grandchildren, great-grandchildren and a myriad of nephews and nieces live nearby and remain close with visits and phone calls.

Mom hands have always been busy. Her skills as a seamstress must be in here genes, following in her father’s footsteps, him being a tailor and all. Mom’s skills as a baker are legendary; she still bakes batches of goodies for all sorts of occasions. She has baked batches of cookies for the stars, including Rob Reiner, Billy Crystal, and Bill Charlip. In fact she’s probably up at this very hour, baking away in her kitchen, anticipationing a birthday visit from her clan.

Dorothy is one of those selfless people who has always done for others. She’s a problem solver with all things fabric, and in the oven. She’ll never let you down, but she’ll let down a hem for you or take in a seam, she’ll bake you a chocolate chip cookie or a kugel, she’ll send you an email, tell you stories from the days on 12th Street, or make dolls and give them away, so no child will be without a gift on Christmas.

My mom is the world’s worst teller of jokes but always leaves everyone laughing and splitting a gut. If you really want to laugh, you need to get her to play you in a game of UNO. She should have been a detective on Law & Order because she know the scoop on absolutely everyone (In Detroit). She remembers.

In less than 10 hours from now I will board a Southwest Airliner and scurry northeasterly into the cold, cold winter where I will receive the warmest of greetings from my mom.

I will be scrabbleless for 5 days. No one back there will play with me anymore. But that’s okay; I’ll survive. I’ll be with my mom, my bro, my sis, my kids, my grandkids, and the entire mishpacha. We’ll share hugs and kisses, retell old stories that we’ve told so many other times, and still laugh with hilarity. We’ll attempt to eat all the goodies that my mom has prepared, and then send the rest home wrapped in tinfoil for tomorrows meals.

We’ll sing Happy Birthday, eat some cake and ice cream, and wonder where did all those years go? We’ll open presents, but we’ll all know that the greatest present is the mere gathering with family and friends, being with the ones we love and those who love us unconditionally. We’ll remember other loved ones who have passed away, in the stories that we tell about days gone by. We’ll keep mom in the center and snap picture after picture, trying to preserve the day and the celebration.

The time of the party will pass oh too fast, just like life itself. All the joy won’t be fully realized until sometime next month, next year, or ten years from now when we each think back and relive the joy in our memories, being glad that we were there to share.

So who’s counting?