Talking With My Mom
On the fifth anniversary of my mother’s death, I offer this humble advice.
Take more photos.
Shoot more movies.
Record more conversations.
This morning, instead of just thinking about my mom, I was able to talk and laugh with her, queuing up home movie moments, not of celebratory birthdays or anniversary events, but of everyday moments, the moments that define our lives.
A long time ago, it dawned on me in a big way that life indeed speeds by, so I decided to slow it down by documenting our days in a most informal manner.
Small scenes. Seemingly inconsequential happenings. Simple production. My video camera (or phone) was always somewhere nearby. Sometimes the scenes or conversations were absurdly normal.
A son eating sand.
A daughter drying her hair.
Another daughter riding a train.
Our oldest son reading to his little brother.
My wife reacting with tears as our youngest child leaves for his last day of grammar school.
Many of these scenes lasted a few minutes at most but when stitched together later -they told our story.
At first, family members tried to push me and my camera away but I persisted, wearing them down until the realization hit that I wasn’t going to stop. They gave up, and now love reliving those days.
This lyric from Paul Simon’s “Bookends” has been burned into my brain.
“Long ago, it must be,
I have a photograph,
Preserve your memories,
They’re all that’s left you.”
I know it’s personal, and perhaps only interesting to me, but here is a brief film of a normal conversation with my mom that was filmed when she was 89. It reveals her “Jersey Girl” wise-guy nature and the self-deprecating humor that goes with it. My dad was still alive, dying about a year later. Marge Leonard passed away at 97, still coherent, still funny, still true to her Paterson, New Jersey roots.
(Runs 3:54)
My mother hated to cook so she spent as little time as possible in the kitchen. All our meals came from a can or frozen box.
Her four boys and loyal husband thought this was how everybody ate. We survived. My 2002 Today show story sheds humorous light on my mother’s long list of culinary miscues.