Published Wednesday, November 11, 2009 10:57 AM
Updated Wednesday, November 11, 2009 10:59 AM
I wouldn’t liken them to gang colors, but these women, amazing folks every one, sport them proudly – various colored scarves with music staves, notes, clefs, the works. You know they’re bringing on their A-game tonight.
We chatted on our way into the dining room and she assured me that we were all in for a real treat, that the girls, in fact, did have game, and that we would all be amazed by what we heard.
But this I expected.
I’m talking, of course, about the performance of the Croasdaile Piano Quartet, which featured an eight-handed piano performance by Marcy Davis, Joan Kearsey, Morita Rapoza, and my mother, Mary Tatum, with important and able assists by page-turners Norma Aaron and Goldie Marrs. They had a great night, tickling the ivories with a varied and well-assembled program that included pieces by Bach, Brahms, Gounod, Gershwin, Mozart, and Rachmaninoff.
It is remarkable enough that six people living in the same ’hood also possess similar talent, education and skill level, not to mention passion for performance and abiding love of the music. That they are in their seventies and eighties is even more remarkable.
But while these women are people who, as Shel Silverstein says, “might have a few more years on you baby and that’s all” – one of them joked that there was some 350 years experience sitting on those piano benches – they’re definitely not old, especially my Mom.
At the risk of being disowned, disinherited, or functionally excommunicated, I must divulge the fact that Mom just celebrated her 80th birthday. I realize a lot of people are doing that these days, and that’s great – always better to watch grass grow than wait quietly for roots to descend.
But I have to reiterate one of the world’s great truths: It’s not the time you’re in the game, it’s what you do while you’re on the field.
That my mom is remarkable is a given. Just the basics are cause for celebration. Here’s a woman who lives independently and alone. She starts her day by walking three miles, then reading the newspaper and knocking off a crossword puzzle before moving on to the course of her day. She is quite mobile – with her new wheels and her navigation system, she takes off for parts known and unknown with confident abandon, often at speeds normally reserved for test pilots and NASCAR drivers.
Those are just observations anyone could make.
But those who know Mom cherish the fact that here is an extraordinary person, indeed. Her zest for life remains full throttle, her interest in the world as intense as ever. She touches so many lives in such positive ways, an example of the way life should be lived – honestly, honorably, passionately, and with a perpetual sense of delighted wonder.
She is one of the last of the classic Southern Ladies, with an accent that drips Magnolia blossoms and all the class, charm, and taste that comes with the appellation. Hollywood directors would do well to just follow her around for a couple of days to understand exactly what a Southerner, particularly a Southern Lady, is all about. They still wouldn’t get it -- much like a fork doesn’t get the taste of a good steak -- but they might be able to acquire the faintest glimmer of authenticity that is so profoundly lacking in movies and television.
As one family friend observed a few years back, “Mary Tatum is absolutely the funniest white woman in America.” I have to agree. She has one of the greatest senses of humor on the planet, never failing to crack up an audience with one of her whimsical reminiscences or from-the-hip observations. My Dad was the King of the One-Liner, but my Mom is a master of the tall tale. And while she is not one to indulge the coarse and vulgar side of life – that apparently is my calling – she is not at all above what she would refer to as a “naughty joke.” Most of all, she’s got great delivery – you crack up with every turn of phrase.
Speaking of Bach, my mother noted that, while she was researching his life, she found an interesting factoid – apparently, Bach, who was married twice and had 21 children – and this before the days of Viagra – apparently liked to work at home, but had trouble concentrating in his huge, noisy household. So he would remove himself to the attic where he would compose all day. His wife, ever understanding, would make him little tidbits to eat on throughout the day – a sandwich, pieces of fruit, cheese, etc.
“And this became known as a ‘Bach’s lunch,’” Mom said with a twinkle in her eye.
Corny, yes, but it still brought the house down. As I said, it’s all in the delivery.
Anyone who knows Mom knows she is no shrinking violet – a glance around a room filled with friends and relatives Sunday was an immediate testament to that. And of course, only Mary Tatum could accidentally punch the button in her car that calls the navigation system people and wind up in a twenty-minute conversation with the person who is supposed to be programming directions for lost drivers all over the country.
Stanislaw Lec said: “Youth is a gift of nature, aging is a work of art.” But my brother finished the thought beautifully when he added, “And Mom is a true artist at work.”
In other words, it’s a blessing that my Mom is 80, but it’s truly wonderful that she’s 80 going on 17.