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May 07, 2015 - Image 35

Resource type:
Text
Publication:
The Detroit Jewish News, 2015-05-07

Disclaimer: Computer generated plain text may have errors. Read more about this.

>> ... Next Generation ...

COMMENTARY

Ode h,
Mom

7305 Orchard Lake Road • West Bloomfield • 248-757-2498

Located in the Robin's Nest Shopping Center www.casadedecormet

Hours: Tuesday - Saturday 11



7

INTRODUCING DESIGNER

MACKENZIE
CHILDS

NOAH KRASMAN I SPECIAL TO THE JEWISH NEWS

S

he cares for us as children
no matter the age, like the
toddlers in her preschool
class. She balances our
lifestyles, like the
twilight jog or the
quinoa on the table.
She is as sweet as
chocolate, her cocoa
ambrosia.
Earlier this year,
Mitch Albom wrote
an article of homage
for his mother who
passed away in
January. Familiar to
me is his thoughtful
Shel Krasman
rhetoric, familiar is
Noah
his affinity for his
mother, "funny, fierce
and loyal," he writes. Familiar is the
thought that, as Albom might agree,
not a million columns I could write
about my mom would do her justice.
How can I tell you about my
mother?
I can tell you that she wants only
the best for me and would give her
all before I had less than that. That's
what mothers are for. They are the
ones who will soothe your pains, ease
your sorrows and shut down a three-
story shopping mall if they lose sight
of you.
Sitting intently at my desk, I think of
my mother. She goes by Shel (short for
Shelley, but she prefers the former), a
considerate soul with an unbreakable
attitude, approachable and easy-
laughing, bearing a smile deadly
contagious.
Through all of my trials and
tribulations, she was there. She was
the one at my side while I hunched
over a soon-to-be appendectomy
convulsion, the one who talked me
down from my romantic cliffs, and
the only one who could rescue my
brother and me from the tickling
reign of my father. She was the one
who, in my baby days, would worry
so much about my eating that just
from sitting I'd tumble over like a
drunkard. Now she sends me along
to school with enough food for the
apocalypse.

She won't stop feeding me though,
not now, not ever — not if we were
in a desert, in a drought or even in
an apocalypse. She would give me
the clothes off her
back, the money from
her wallet and all the
chocolate in the world
if she had it.
Perhaps the
chocolate idea is
pushing it.
Mind you, we don't
always see eye to eye.
Per usual, there are
things I think she won't
understand and things
and baby
she thinks I won't
understand, but in the
end, I listen to her and
she listens to me.
Active listening is a golden rule, a
key to many locks, a lesson my mother
taught early in my childhood. I think
all mothers seek a balance of love,
not to be too overbearing and not to
be too lenient. Though at times I was
convinced she was amiss, my mother
did a brilliant job raising my brother
and me. And still does.
How can I tell you about my
mother?
Carole King wrote a song in 1971
that James Taylor reworked shortly
thereafter, namely, "You've Got a
Friend."
You just call out my name
And you know wherever I am
I'll come running
To see you again
It echoes through even the starkest
veins of my mind, reminiscent of an
unrivaled friendship for life. My mother
used to sing this to me as a child.
Then, a tranquilizing lullaby. Now, a
lulling tranquility.
To all mothers and motherly figures,
I thank you. Love is the cement we
lay to the grounds of friendship and
nothing quite compares to the love of
a mother.
There is no modern technology or
adequate diction to help me express
my gratitude exactly the way it should
be conveyed. For now, a hug and a
kiss will do. Happy Mother's Day.

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Since 1911

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2005070

May 7 • 2015

35

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