The Blonde Bomber

My dad had, and has good taste. George always had a talent for finding one of a kinds. One that he found, was my mother, Caroline. They divorced in 1986, but between them, raised 5 very individual, and creative people. We always had music in the house, whether it was Benny Hill on the television with his nutty skits, or my mom and her Billie Holliday, Classical and Opera, Church pieces in Russian or English, playing the piano, French horn, saxophone, clarinet, flute, etc. All five of us played an instrument and/or sang. The radio was always going, and when it fell silent, it was generally because mom was grilling us on words for the spelling bee. "The Latin root IS????" "The Greek root IS????" It was fantastic training for learning French and Spanish in school, and remembering spelling rules. If only I learned Algebra and Geometry that well. You can't be gifted at everything though :-)

When I learned to drive, my mother was the assigned parent to my training. George did not have the patience, as explained in an earlier post. Nor, did George necessarily have the time. Carol was the driving coach by default. She learned how to drive from her dad in her early teens. She also used to drag race for local car clubs in the late 50's and early 60's. She sang at a place called The Spanish Castle in the 1960's, and I have been recognized by people who knew her from those days, because of a resemblance that she just doesn't see.

The drag racing stories came out when I was learning to drive a manual transmission in the 1980 Pinto when I was 16. It became my car when I was 21, but it was what I learned to drive in when I first started. I did the unthinkable one morning. I died at the stoplight. There my mother sat, "embarrassed" to be "left at the light". She patiently explained how to keep it in neutral while waiting, then slip it into first gear, and double clutch when the light went green. I mastered it, and have never forgotten that lesson. The Blonde Bomber, my mother's racing nickname it turns out, can drive like a Bat out of...yeah, that hot place. She is in her mid sixties now, still youthful looking and young at heart. Her exclamations of "Hot Dog" when something good happens ring in my memory archives, especially when I double clutch in a manual transmission, and don't get left at the light....

Thanks George for choosing my classy, nutty, and compassionate mother. She is definitely a one of a kind...just like you.