As I go about my daily life, the question I am most asked is, “How is your mother?”
Since I live in Vermont and she lives in Florida, this question is an enduring tribute to her vitality and the many columns I have written about her over the years — columns which you will find on this Web site.
The answer is, “She’s fine. Thank you for asking.”
June 11, 2011, was my mother’s 94th birthday.
For many, many years, my mother, Rose Kagan, has been a dazzling star on the amateur stage — writing, directing, choreographing and starring in many Broadway-style musicals.
She began her theatrical career when she was a child.
After I was born, she continued directing plays in summer camps and public schools.
But her career took on a force of its own when she and my late father retired to Florida. The condominium they chose had a theater and a lively group of talented people who lived to put on plays.
When I began writing a weekly column for the Brattleboro Reformer, I often documented my mother’s career. She became something of a star in Brattleboro.
When she was visiting me, people would come up to her in the street and tell her how they felt they knew her. When my book, “A Thousand Words or Less,” came out, many of the columns were about her. For the book party at the Brattleboro Museum and Art Center, she flew up from Florida with some of her costumes; we mounted them on dress dummies. Over 70 people came to meet her and hear her talk.
At the end of her talk, one woman in the back of the room — I don’t remember who it was but I’ve always been grateful — invited Mom to move to Brattleboro and put on plays. “We have theaters here, too,” she said.
As Mom aged, I tried my best to get her to move here. I failed. It was too cold in Vermont, she said. It was too far away.
Maybe it was for the best. Maybe you can’t transplant fragile and aged fauna from one climate to another. One acquaintance told me that she had moved her elderly mother from Florida to Vermont only to see her die six months later.
So I became the sole caretaker for a woman who was living 1,500 miles away.
I started writing columns about the difficulty of being a “long distance daughter.”
After several life-threatening illnesses and dreadful aide experiences, Mom decided to sell the beautiful house she had lived in for 35 years. Two husbands had died there. She was ready to move to an apartment in an independent living facility built — from a marketing view, wisely — at the gates to the condominium where she had been a star for so many years.
I wrote about selling the house and moving Mom. When she left the condominium, the theater club threw a party to celebrate her achievements. Close to 150 people attended. I wrote about that.
Then I ran out of things to write about, because Mom was settling into a much-too-quiet old age.
She is living comfortably in her new apartment. She is well cared for. Her meals are served in a large dining room, where she can sit with friends. Her apartment is lovely and filled with her favorite things; it is cleaned weekly by the friendly staff. She belongs to a play reading group and takes Tai Chi on Sundays. She is happy to have time to herself; she can finally read The New Yorker and The Sunday New York Times cover to cover, even if it takes all week.
She visits a lot of doctors and deals with several nagging conditions, but nothing is life-threatening.
She’s talking about writing and producing a new musical.
But she’s lonely, and this makes me sad. On her birthday, she admitted that she made a mistake by staying in Florida. “I thought I’d still be involved with the condominium and the theater and my friends. But that’s not what happened. They’ve forgotten all about me. And I haven’t found a true friend here yet.”
So she is still with us — frail, shy when she’s not involved with a play, determined and indomitable.
Just click on “Mom Columns” to see some of the pieces I’ve written about my mother.