It was 80 years ago today that a certain woman in Milwaukee gave birth to a baby girl. That might not sound particularly noteworthy, but in fact it was . . . because the woman was 48 years old and had no idea that she was even pregnant. (When you’re that age, you experience some strange sensations and changes in your body that you would attribute to something other than being pregnant- and the woman was fairly large- and the baby was quite small. So yes, such a surprise was indeed possible. ) The woman was Minnie Hintz, my maternal grandmother – and that baby girl, Beverly June Hintz, was my mom.
It was 1930 and the Stock Market had crashed less than a year before; imagine what it must have felt like for them to suddenly have a new member of the family for whom they were not the least bit prepared. But from everything I can gather, the Hintz’s welcomed that little baby girl into their lives and did all they could to make her feel welcome and safe and loved. . . although it had to have required a bit of improvisation on their part. I know that she spent some of her first nights at home sleeping soundly in a dresser drawer. (O to have a photograph of that precious sight!)
Honestly, I don’t know too much about what her childhood was like – or for that matter, what her parents were like – (they both died years before my mom was married, so even my dad never got to meet them.) I know that they were a family of modest means caught in the merciless jaws of the Great Depression, so it had to have been a life with very few if any extravagances. And yet, there had to have been extravagant amounts of love in that home, because how else could my mom have grown up to be one of the most loving, open-hearted, joyous, thankful, and generous people I’ve ever known?
She has been gone now for 22 years, but I still think of her every single day. I often think of her when I have just finished up an especially interesting interview at the radio station, knowing that had she lived she would have been my most faithful morning show listener. I think of her when I am accepting applause after a performance, wishing that her smiling face could be among those faces I see in the audience. I think of her whenever I am typing – not because I am anywhere near as spectacular a typist as she was, but because my fingers nevertheless fly as quickly as they do because I am her son. I especially think of her whenever I watch Kathy’s dad with Lorelai. . . or my dad with any of his grandchildren. . . wishing that my mom had lived long enough to lavish her love on Aidan, Anna, Kaj, and Henry. (They never would have known what hit them!) I also think of my mom when someone hurts my feelings and what I need (or think I need) is a word of affirmation from the biggest fan I ever had – or ever will have. And for that matter, I also think of my mom when Kathy is feeling sad or lonely or missing her mom- because I think my mom would have been one heck of a mother-in-law.
But I don’t just think of my mom in that bittersweet “I wish she were here” sort of way. I’ve come to think of her in another way, and I have my friend Marshall to thank for it. There have been many times over the years when I would get excited about something and Marshall would sort of break into a grin, shake his head, and say “you look SO much like your mom right now.” And I’d like to think that it’s more than a matter of mere resemblance. I hope it’s true that the exuberance with which I tend to greet life’s little blessings and delights is a trait I inherited from her. And now I find that when I’m in the middle of one of those emotional cartwheels over something delicious I’ve just eaten or some amazing moment from a favorite film, I find myself also thinking about my mom and how excitedly she celebrated life’s blessings, both great and small. It’s yet another reason why I am so incredibly grateful that she was my mom.
pictured above: This portrait of my mom was drawn by a local artist, Don Ricchio, as a gift to me from Kate Barrow. He based it on a wonderful photograph of my mother.