My husband, who has found extraordinary happiness working with clay, recently began to clear out our basement to give himself more room to work. Boxes of unnecessary things have been disappearing, leaving more mounds of molting cardboard to be considered or reviewed.
Today, while Bill was showing me his latest sculptural pieces, he pointed to a row of boxes and asked if they were for keeping. I slipped the lid off of one and found, in an instant, a file marked, in my mother's inimitable handwriting:
To Betsy on her Birthday 4/1/01.The file contained a story she'd written while planning her fiftieth high school reunion. Lore Kephart was a proud alum of John Bartram High School in Southwest Philadelphia. She made friendships there that lasted a lifetime. Indeed, my mother's friendships, as I wrote in
Into the Tangle of Friendship, were legendary—for their diversity, their longevity, their inherent trustworthiness. My mother was loved.
Now, here today she is, in her own words, talking to me at the end of a long birthday week. Telling me about her born-and-bred Philadelphia self. I hear the cadence of her speech in these inkjet pages. I see her crossing one word out and substituting another in blue ink. She loved to write, my mother. And she loved our birthdays—made them entirely special.
Made this one special, too:
Bartram was notable because of its reputation as a premier school with the highest academic standards. Students allowed to come there from certain other designated neighborhoods always took advantage of it, even though many had to ride a bus or the old #36 trolley, as it was called, to reach the campus. Some even fudged their way in. I was lucky; I walked.
Bartram's teaching staff was an extraordinary source of pride to all of us. To a man and woman, they could have taught anywhere, but chose to travel to Bartram. I often marvel at the completeness of the education I received there. The ghost of Mr. Abner Miller, one of my English teachers, haunts me, lest I should ever end a sentence with a preposition! Teachers were not only entrenched in getting across their individual disciplines—Mr. Wapen's was English, better yet Shakespeare—but they were encouraging as well. One old friend with whom I just caught up told me that, despite the fact that he had gone into the service having attended college for only three semesters, he spent his career interviewing celebrities like Robert Mitchum and Barbra Streisand for the column he wrote for our town's largest newspaper. "It was Mr. Sonnenfeld," he told me. "He just kept on telling me I had this talent."
This is the last photograph I took of my mother. Just days later she would enter the hospital for what would become an infinitely sad progression of diagnoses. But here she is, driving with my son, on the day he got his car. A game front-seat passenger, urging him on, and waving goodbye to me.
Today would have been my mother's birthday. Today will always be my mother's birthday. She was a writer, too, and she loved her city, conveyed that love to me. In honor of her, I yield this blog to her words. Happy Birthday, Mom.
Southwest Philadelphia was my growing-up place. It was the kind of community I now tend to think of as reminiscent of Thornton Wilder’s Our Town; there was a pervasive sense of social security intrinsic to the very nature of that neighborhood. Stability was at the core of community life. It was enshrined in churches and schools, as well as enduring friends whose longevity even now captures the essence of youthful memories.
There was the coveted childhood occupation of being personally selected to run an errand to the corner grocery store. Such an expedition not only netted pocket change, often enough to cover tickets to a Saturday matinee at the Lindy Theater, but also allowed one the no-cost distraction of a pastime known as “dropping in,” a typically Philadelphian pleasure rarely tapped by suburbanites.
During World War II, families on our street were urged to develop the empty field behind our homes into what eventually became known fondly as “Victory gardens.” This gave my parents the opportunity to become involved in a project which was not only rewarding but fun.
Although necessarily molded from the same patterns, rowhouses did not lack individualized interpretation. People discovered ways of personalizing their homes, and streets were distinguished by the results. After I was married and moved away, our young children, having become accustomed to the split-level landscape in which they lived, always made a game of finding Grandmom’s house when we visited my parents. Its boldly painted green sunburst door became a symbol of the loving welcome they always received there.
Philadelphia, profoundly and affectionately, is a city of neighborhoods, and remnants of neighborhood memories rightly remain to soothe as well as to structure. An occasional, cogent reminder of their unifying significance casts a welcome, prismatic glow on memories past.
&n
This is so lovely, Beth. And resonates with me, too, as I was just talking with Bobbi Wolf at Wolf Performing Arts Center about a performance her cast in "The Butterfly Project" gave at Bartram. Your mother's school is now nurturing a generation of refugees from war-torn countries, who have found safe haven in Philadelphia. xo
This explains much about who you are, dearest Betsy. Thanks for sharing. And the photograph is marvelous - two beauties who share an appreciation of friendship, a love for learning, and for Words. xo
Betsy :) What a beautiful find. Happy weekend, dear Beth.
What a find--what serendipity.