August is a melancholy month. My mother’s birthday is August 6. She would have been 105 having died April 14, 2020 at age 101. On August 6 one of my granddaughters called me to reminisce about her great grand Mom. Then there were emails from by children and my brother’s children saying that they couldn’t believe she was gone but she will live forever as long as any of us were alive. Dad’s memory doesn’t engender the same emotions. Not that he was loved less but the feelings are somehow different. He was a strict disciplinarian who tolerated no excuses. I learned to never openly disagree with him but say “yes sir” and then do or think what I thought was best. Perhaps the only time he revealed a different side to me was when he was in his 80s and said “Please tell me when I become a fool.” He was getting solicitations that he said occurred only because of his age. Obviously, those scams were working or else they would not exist. Dad said that only a fool would agree to whatever was being solicited. He never became a fool. He died on August 13. He knew that he was dying. He told me that although he wanted to live until November 19 which would be his 89th birthday, he had changed his mind and just wanted to make it to August 30th – my daughter’s due date with his newest granddaughter. She was born at 6AM on August 13th and Dad died at 6PM the same day. But he knew of his granddaughter and knew that my daughter to her everlasting credit named the new addition “Savannah”. My dad graduated from Savannah State University.
Unlike Dad, Mother took an active role in all our lives. She too had a dominant personality and was generous with her advice. I would never consider living in Atlanta because I knew that I would have little peace. When my brother was living (he retired to Atlanta), they would talk several times a day. Even though he had a washer and dryer, he took his clothes over to the house to do his laundry. Several times a week, they would have dinner together. When he died, mother was devastated. He was the favorite. She called me and said that instead of our customary once on Sundays at 5 o’clock call, I now had to call her every day. So at 7AM we said good morning and at 7PM we said good night. Often my phone would ring at all hours of the night so I made Everette Harp’s “Night Calls” her ringtone. I still miss those calls and when I hear “Night Calls” I still reach for the phone. Only now there are tears in my eyes.
haroldblackphd.com 