by Dave Isay
We managed to muddle our way through. We got married in ’68, in Kalamazoo, Michigan—I was twenty-six and she was twenty-three. By then we were both students at Andrews University. I had just finished my bachelor’s degree, and she was working on hers, and we were poor as church mice. When we celebrated our anniversary of our first month, I took her to Schuler’s Steak House, which was kind of like the ultimate eating place in Saint Joseph, Michigan. We spent all of twelve dollars. That was our entire month’s grocery bill in those days—spent it all on that evening. She fretted with me on the way home how wanton and extravagant we were to do that. Guilt was a dominant theme in her life. [laughs] But she also really enjoyed life, so she oscillated between guilt and a joy of life, which was kind of interesting.
But you knew her, too, so what did you like about her?
Yvette: I think what I liked was her insatiable appetite for humor, that she always tried to find things that were funny in everything. She had a kind of audacious spirit about her. I remember as a little girl, we were driving back from Canada and you stopped at a gas station. A man told you that you needed to pay first, and then he took off with your money.You got back in the car, and Mom said, “What’s wrong?” You said, “The man took my money!” She rolled down the window and leaned out and started to shout, “Thief, thief, thief!” [laughs] She was just kind of bold.
And then just how much you both would like to talk. I remember William and I talking one time about how when we would go to sleep, we would hear you guys just talking—about work, about different people in the neighborhood, and that sort of thing. Just talking endlessly.
Sy:Yeah, we enjoyed each other. The conversations never seemed to end. It’s amazing, over the years, we never even felt like two different people, even though we were. It was like our spirits merged and we were soul mates. We just became one.
She became sick in 1997, when we were here in Orlando. The metaphor that I keep thinking of and still keep thinking of is that we were two canoes on a stream. And then there was a split, a fork in the stream. She took one stream and I took the other. And for a long time, we would paddle together. We could hold hands, even though we were in different canoes and we were set on a different course. And then gradually the streams kind of moved away, and we could no longer hold hands but we could look at each other, talk to each other. Then it got further and further away, until we just lost each other. That still stays with me to this day.
Yvette: I know as a daughter watching her go through that, she seemed to maintain a sense of optimism. Was that something she put on for her children?
Sy: No, it was who she was. As she said, she’d find her little oases—little things that she could look forward to, little trips or occasions that she could plan to get through the bone marrow transplant or the pain of a biopsy.
The thing I remember most about the final stages of her illness, which was very painful for me, was her strong desire to be remembered. She took all the slides that we’d shot over the years of our lives with you children, and she made a DVD with photos of each of us. She spent hours doing this. It was her way of trying to make sure that we don’t ever forget her, that we remember her for who she was, what she did, and how she shaped our lives. That was a very painful thing—to see her struggle for memory.
But it was a great journey. You know, we didn’t plan on you. Pat was just beginning a program in a master’s of fine arts, because she loved to paint and she loved to sculpt. She had done a few courses and was really enthusiastic about getting back into life after having raised the boys. And then all of a sudden in the spring of 1978, she started to feel chilly. She couldn’t figure out what was wrong. Then she heard the news that she was pregnant, and she was really angry with me. I was like, “Honey, why are you angry at me? Angry is out of proportion. What did I do? I had a small part to play in this.” [laughs]
And then you were born. She dropped out of the master’s program. She painted on her own, and she never took it back up. But in a sense, she sculpted her life in you. That was better than any stone or marble sculpture, because you are her handiwork.
I’ll never forget her. Because whenever I look at you, I’ll remember your mother.
Recorded in Orlando, Florida, on February 17, 2009.
BARBARA DUNDON, 60 talks with her husband, JACK DUNDON, 68 about her mother, Dorothy Lang.
Barbara Dundon: The thing I’m proudest of is the five years that you and I spent with Mom—her last five years. We moved her from Florida up here to an assisted living place in Philadelphia, and we had movie night together with her every Saturday night. We’d get pizza, and we’d bring it to her little sitting room and set it all up so that it was like a special little dining room. We’d have wine: she always had white zinfandel, that god-awful sweet stuff, and we’d toast to the three of us. We’d eat the greasy pizza and watch whatever movie we had that night. You often would bring her fresh fruit from home, and I’d do her pills, and this was our routine for five years—every Saturday night. It was turning a pretty sad situation into something that transformed all three of us.
She looked forward to those Saturday nights so much.You knew all the little ways to tease her that would make her laugh, or to compliment her to make her feel feminine, and I just loved that you were so close with her. It didn’t ever feel like a burden to you. I think you looked forward to Saturday night as much as I did.
Jack Dundon: I did! What I remember is her preference for sex and violence in the movies. [laughs]
Barbara: Right. She did like sex and violence. And her boyfriend! Oh, my gosh! What a story. She met Robert when she was ninety, and he was seventeen years her junior—remember, there weren’t many able-bodied men in this assisted living place. He was a hot number there for all the women—and he chose Mom! He picked her out, he pursued her, he brought her flowers, cards—he was hot for Mom. And she loved it! She flourished under this love and attention. It was great to see her so atitter.
We went over Christmas Eve that year, as we always did, with pizza and wine and Christmas cookies. As we were leaving, I said, “We’ll see you tomorrow, Mom. How about ten o’clock?” We all came back on Christmas Day with the presents from her grandchildren and the whole family. I mean, we always opened presents Christmas morning, and why would this be any different? So we arrived in the morning and started to open the door, but it was locked! I thought, What’s the matter? So we knocked, and I said, “Mom, we’re here!” I jiggled the doorknob; nothing happened. Finally, we heard voices in the room, and shuffle shuffle, I hear Mom’s little walker coming toward the door: “Oh, honey, I’ll be right there.” [laughs] We walk in, and there’s Robert, and he was putting his shoes back on. On Christmas Day! My God, it was unbelievable! [laughs] Robert made a hasty exit when he saw that the family was there to do Christmas. Everybody was kind of embarrassed, but we got over it.
We were there for her at the very end, holding her hand—remember that? The last Saturday night that we had together, I held her hand, and you moved over close to the bed, too, and we just talked with her—she wasn’t able to talk much at that point, but she was spirited in her own way, with her face and her gestures, and she loved hearing stories.
Sunday she started to fail. Thursday morning, she died. I called you right away. We went over, and each of us kissed her and touched her skin, which was cool. We’d never been with someone who just died. It was creepy and awful and wonderful—it was all of those things.
Jack:What a blessing it was to be there. In a way, she had become my mother. I’d said that to her many times—that when we visited her, I felt like I was going home. It was how I was welcomed, how we knew each other, how we had cared for her. I realized after she died how much I missed having a mother. And I’ll never have a mother like that again.
Recorded in New York, New York, on March 9, 2008.
CAROL KIRSCH, 59 is interviewed by her daughter, REBECCA POSAMENTIER, 30
Carol Kirsch: My dad was always a tremendous support
for me. I don’t remember any time that he tried in any way to discourage me from doing something I wanted to do. I miss him a lot. But I’ve had a rocky relationship with my mom.
Rebecca Posamentier: I think that her raising you is very different than how you raised me, and that was a conscious decision on your part. What about your relationship with your mom made you decide that you didn’t want that with your own daughter?
Carol: Mom was very insecure. She had polio as a child, and she had a limp for pretty much all her life. She was very talented at many things: she was a terrific singer, performer, and pianist. But she felt that she was not whole somehow because she had polio.
I think I’ve told you this before: I was afraid to have children. But I’m so glad I did.
Rebecca: Me too! [laughs] And so is Shana. I just want to say that whatever it was that made you consciously make the decisions that you did in raising Shana and myself were amazing. I just remember thinking, I could probably tell Mom anything and she’d be okay with it. I remember a conversation you had with me right before I went off to college. We were sitting on your bed, and you spilled the beans about how there were times that you had made mistakes and you didn’t feel you could tell your parents about it, so you had to figure out how to get out of it on your own.You said that no matter what happens—even if it’s horrible, even if it’s terrible and I can solve it on my own—I should still tell you, and we’d talk about it. I felt like you were just genuinely there, no matter what happened.
You were always there for the good: good grades, intern-ships, everything. That’s just as important as being there when I had mono in college and went unconscious. Next thing I knew, I woke up in the hospital bed and you were there next to me. I couldn’t understand how you’d gotten there so fast—but you basically hopped a plane and flew down the second you heard I was so sick. And you would do that for any of your kids. Those are the qualities of motherhood that I want to have, too.
Carol: Well, I’m not as calm and cool and collected as I used to be. [laughs] It’s not easy. I know that there’s nothing I can do about the Alzheimer’s, and I know it’s not my fault— I have to live with it. I try to make the most of each day, because I’m not the kind of person who sits and wallows in self-pity.
For me, right now, what’s important is to be as close to family as I can be. I just am so grateful to have all of you in my life.
Rebecca: I feel so lucky to have had such a wonderful childhood and still have your support at thirty years old and know that I’m gonna have it till I’m fifty, hopefully. It really gives me so much confidence going into my own motherhood for the first time. I know I’m gonna be a good mom—and I know that because I had a good mom as a role model. I had somebody who cared about me. Just like your father always supported you, you always supported me. You have those qualities, and you did a great job in passing them down. It’s my dream to pass them on to my own children as well.
Sophia is not due for another seven weeks or so, but when she comes, what are some of the things that you would want to be able to pass on to her? What are some of the things that you’d want her to know?
Carol: Well, I’d want her to know that she’s going to be very loved. When she’s old enough, I’d like to tell her stories about my grandparents and my parents. I’m worried that my Alzheimer’s will get worse and that I won’t be able to spend the time I want with her. . . . I look forward to taking her places. I really hope I can do that for a while.
Rebecca: Me too. I used to love getting tucked in at night. I know that you’ll do that for the baby when she’s a baby. . . . [crying]
Carol: Oh, I will, honey.
Rebecca: I think I got tucked in till I was going off to college! But I used to love just sitting in bed and having you sing a lullaby to me. And you will for the baby, too. I just think it would be great if you could just sing a lullaby for her—for me and for her. And for future babies that aren’t here, and aren’t twinkling in anyone’s eye quite yet, maybe you could sing one of the lullabies.
Carol: Okay. [sings] Tu, lu, lu, lu, lu, hush.To, lu, lu, lu, lu, hush-a-by. Dream of the angels way up high. Tu, lu, lu, lu, lu, don’t you cry. Mommy won’t go away. Stay in my arms, while you still can. Childhood is but a day. To, lu, lu, lu, lu, hush-a-by. Mommy won’t go away.
Recorded in Lafayette, California, on December 13, 2007.
AFTERWORD
I was lucky enough to give StoryCorps its first-ever test run in a booth jury-rigged out of Styrofoam baffles inside a China-town recording studio in early 2003. For StoryCorps Interview #1, I chose to speak to my great uncle Sandy, the last survivor of my grandparents’ generation.
Reserved and wry with a quiet, country-boy charm, Sandy couldn’t have been any more different than his beloved late wife, my eccentric aunt Birdie, who insisted that, among other notable accomplishments, she was the inventor of fruit salad. Getting Sandy into this recording booth would answer a lot of questions I had about StoryCorps—how would an in trovert take to being interviewed? Would Sandy even agree to talk? Would he feel violated by being asked personal questions about his life?
Happily, the interview worked: in forty minutes, Sandy recounted the anti-Semitism he had faced as one of the few Jewish children in a small Connecticut town; he spoke with grace and humor about his half-century romance with my great-aunt Birdie; and he cried over the void her death had left in his life. At the end of the interview Sandy told me that the session had meant a great deal to him. Later I learned that he listened to the CD of his interview over and over again as he drove around New York City in his car. (As I write, Uncle Sandy is ninety-four and still going strong!) StoryCorps had passed a critical test, and we moved forward toward the launch of the project.
Life got very busy. I worked nonstop with a small team to get StoryCorps off the ground and to sustain it through the first challenging year. Months passed, and while I really wanted to take my own mother to the booth for a StoryCorps interview, it just felt like there wasn’t the time. It took more than a year before I brought my mom to the booth for what would be my second-ever StoryCorps interview, the project’s 1,013th.
As we walked into the booth to begin our conversation, I was happy to have the chance to steal an hour with my mom, but I really didn’t expect to hear anything I hadn’t heard before. My mom and I are quite close, and we talk all the time. Forty minutes later, though, there was barely a thing she had told me that I had known before.
Mom talked about her great-grandfather, a physician in Vienna who went house to house caring for sick families during a typhoid epidemic in the nineteenth century. At the time visiting these quarantined homes was forbidden. One day he was caught coming out of a contaminated house and punished by having his hands chopped off and lye poured over his hands. He died soon after.
She told me about her grandfather, who owned a tiny, decidedly unsuccessful hardware store on 110th Street in Manhattan. He was, she said, a “pinpoint Talmudic scholar”—if you stuck a pin through this Jewish text and told him what word the pin hit on the first page, he could tell you precisely what word the pin would hit on each successive page. He would spend his days in his empty store, hunched over this great book he loved so dearly. Occasionally a customer would walk in and ask a question, only to be shushed: “I waited two hours for you, you can wait two minutes for me!” And then he’d finish whatever Talmud portion he was studying.
She talked about my birth: “I watched it in a mirror—it was very colorful. They put you in the little bassinette, and I leaned over and I said, ‘Hello, David, this is your mom!’ For months afterward, I would dream the colors of your birth that I saw in that mirror.” I asked her what lessons she’d learned in life: “I’ve learned that when things are really bad, they’re not going to stay that way. I’ve also learned that good breeds good—if you do good, more good will come of it. It’s like light—it attracts. That’s just the way it is.”
It’s been five years since that conversation. In t
hat time, I’ve become a dad, and I’ve seen my mom evolve from a great mother to a terrific grandmother. It makes me happy to know that my son, my son’s children, and the generations to follow will one day get to know my mother, Jane Isay, through the StoryCorps interview we recorded that December day.
If there’s a single piece of advice I can offer six years into this work it’s this: Don’t wait. Take the time to show the people important to you that you love them by interviewing them about their lives. A few years ago, I had an appointment with my sports medicine doctor, who ran a practice with his dad. He told me that his father was retiring, I told him he needed to take his dad to a StoryCorps booth. He promised he would. It was my last appointment with him. Last week, a StoryCorps intern was riding the subway, reading our first book, Listening Is an Act of Love, when this doctor tapped her on the shoulder and told her he knew me. When the young woman told him she worked at StoryCorps, he said: “Just tell Dave this: I waited too long.”
Every day I hear from people who meant to record a beloved relative or friend but waited too long. I hope after reading Mom you’ll be inspired to honor someone important in your life by recording an interview—either at one of our StoryCorps facilities or by using your own recording equipment. (You can find all sorts of helpful resources at www.storycorps.org).
I also hope you’ll spread the word about our efforts. We want to encourage the entire nation to take the time to ask life’s important questions of a loved one—or even a stranger—and really listen to the answers. We hope to shower this country with more of the sorts of stories you’ve just read—authentic voices that remind us what’s truly important, that tell real American stories, and that show us all the possibilities life presents when lived to its fullest.
