Flo and her daughters in the Hancock building for her 95th birthday

Knowing that every parent wants their children to grow up healthy and happy, it dawns on me now that it must have been hard on my mother (I called her by her first name, Flo) to take it all in when I lost my sight. I was 26 years old then. She was 69, and she never let on that she was sad about my new disability or that she worried for me. She encouraged me instead, told me how proud she was of me and how sure she was I’d continue living an interesting –and pleasurable –life.

Our father had a fatal heart attack at home when I was three. Flo raised us on her own. Sometimes when she happen to drive by the funeral home I’d call out, “That’s where Daddy lives!” She never corrected me.

Flo and Eddie — my dad.

Our dad had switched jobs shortly before his death and had no life insurance. Flo got Social Security, but it wasn’t much. She found a job, and it was during her first summer working that I was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes. I was hospitalized for two weeks, and Flo couldn’t miss work, but every morning and evening she’d stop to see me on her commute. At night she’d leave the hospital early enough to have dinner at home with my sisters Beverly and Marilee. Our older brothers and sisters were all married or out working, so Flo, Marilee, Bev, and I took care of the house, mowed, cleaned out the gutters, did makeshift repairs. The older kids contributed money from their paychecks, Marilee cooked for us, and on Thursday nights — before Flo’s weekly payday — we often ate what was left in the refrigerator, usually toast and eggs. But dinner was always ready when Flo got home, we never went hungry, and we lived what we considered happy, normal lives.

My older sisters and me celebrating Flo’s 93rd birthday with her. From the top (of the stairs) that’s Bobbie, Bev, Cheryl, Marilee, me, and of course Flo.

Flo never complained about things being hard or unfair. She did complain when we didn’t do our chores or if we fought over dishwashing duty or messed up what she’d just finished cleaning. But she never told us we were a burden or that we’d worn her out, though plenty of evenings she just went to her room and lay down. When we went in to ask if anything was wrong, she’d say, “No, I’m just resting my eyes.”

Years later, after losing my sight, I was visiting our son’s classroom and another young mother struck up a conversation with me. Eventually we got around to what my family had been like when I was growing up. “Oh, so that’s where you get it,” she said after I described Flo.

“Get what?”

“Your courage,” she answered.

I was flattered but had to chuckle. Flo would have been embarrassed. She didn’t believe she was being courageous. She saw her life in simple terms: she did what she had to do. And I realized that I look at my own life that way.

Flo when she was in assisted living in her 90s.

Flo could have never known I would someday lose my sight, but her work ethic, her determination not to complain, her perseverance and her appreciation for those around her served as the perfect role model for her children, especially for the daughter who is writing this blog post.

No one can predict what will happen to their children, but giving them a first-hand look at hard work, determination and love can sure help brace them for whatever comes their way later. Flo died a few years ago, but her spirit lives on. I write this Mother’s Day post in her honor. I was lucky to have her.

Shorter versions of this post were published earlier this week in my newsletter and on the Easterseals National blog.

In honor of Mother’s Day this year I asked the writers in my memoir class to tell us about the traits they share with their mothers. This one is written by Michael Graff. The “Nancy” in the essay is his wife, and the “Pink House” he refers to is their family’s vacation home near Lake Michigan.

by Michael Graff

Over breakfast last Tuesday, Nancy asked, “what’s your ‘Beth’ assignment for this week?”

I smiled and said, “a mother’s day assignment. I’m supposed to write about traits I share with my mother.”

I’m uncertain if Nancy groaned, grimaced, rolled her eyes, or grunted. Perhaps all those. Then she asked, “What traits do you think you shared with your mom?”

That’s Michael (left), Nancy and their son Evan, with Michael’s mother (Delores) in the foreground. Taken at the Pink House.

Let’s turn this essay into a cartoon of Nancy and me having breakfast. Above our heads, there are balloons that reveal our thoughts. Mine says: Smart, has a fondness for fine things, buys only what’s needed or necessary. Likes to purchase items based upon value. Reasonable, Quick to find the truth. Knowledgable.

Nancy’s bubble has the words: Not as smart as he thinks he is, only likes what he likes, buys annoyingly teeny tiny minuscule portions of items. Doesn’t care what he pays for anything. Hot head. Sometimes can’t see the answer in front of him. Know it all.

I have an idea which balloon more accurately reveal the traits mom and I share. I think mom would side with me.

If I’d been 15 when Beth handed me this assignment, I’d be darned insulted that she asked me to ponder whether there were any similarities between myself and my mom. Regardless of the truth, the fifteen year old Mike would have said, “Beth, isn’t it obvious? My mom and I share no common traits because we have nothing in common.”

The truth is that after my dad died, mom and I became best friends. You wouldn’t always know because sometimes we yelled at each other. One summer, mom opened up our refrigerator at Pink House and demanded to know why we had this item or that. I grabbed one from her and threw it into the trash.

Mom raised her arm to block the trash can and yelled, “Michael, stop that!”

I replied, “Then you stop it, goddammit. This is my house.”

Later that same summer, mom was in our pool and I watched my eighty three year old mother climb out using the ladder. I thought, I might have to figure out a way to install steps into our pool because mom might not be able to climb out so easily the next summer or summers after that. That was down the road, nothing to think about then.

A couple of weeks later, mom came into the kitchen at Pink House and told me, “I didn’t feel well last night. My heart was racing.”

“Mom, why didn’t you get me?”

“I figured it would either go away, or I’d be dead.”

I made her call her doctor. Mom was hospitalized for a suspected lung infection. It turned out to be advanced lung cancer which invaded her heart.

When she heard the news, Mom said, “I’ve had a wonderful life. I’m ready.”

Ten days later she was gone.

When I was fifteen, I never wanted to be like my mother, but today I hope I’m just like her.

I made it to my second White Sox game of the season on Saturday night, tagging along with our friends Chef Jim and Professor Janet. It was Cinco de Mayo, and the Sox had a mariachi band do the anthem. It was probably the nicest evening Chicago’s seen weather-wise—at least when the Sox have been home.

It was a beautiful night for a ballgame.

It was a good crowd in good spirits–what I would describe as a predominantly working class. Sox games always draw a large Hispanic contingent, and it was larger than usual—a product of the theme night, I’m sure.

Lots of great chatter, lots of kids blowing off steam while their parents sipped a beer. Just like the Family Sundays at the park, Saturday night felt like when my folks would bring us to a game at Comiskey Park in the 1960s.

A lot’s changed since then. The scoreboard is an enormous TV now. There’s more raucous music than organ music, luxury suites, and the special club sections where people wait on you. Bars are behind the stands on the club level, and you know, you don’t have to be where the riff and the raff are.

The suites make me chuckle. I’ve been in them, and I guess they’re fine for a novelty, perhaps an event. But here’s the deal: I pay less for a better experience sitting with the crowd. Call me riff, but I like hanging out with the raff, where you talk baseball with strangers and it’s easier to pay attention to the ball game.

That’s a thing that’s changed since the days my folks brought me to games—not just in the ballpark—but across our society: our tendency to segregate ourselves to varying degrees. If you have enough money and are so inclined, you can buy your way out of lines, into private seating areas, and pretty much insulate yourself away from others who don’t.

I don’t like that change. I do understand the practical value of priority lines/clubs for people who fly all the time—there are some of these things that have as much to do with practicality as they do with exclusivity. But otherwise, I don’t much like the spirit of the whole idea.

This has all been on my mind lately because I came across a couple of different articles about different subjects that I think touch on this dynamic.

One of them looks at how a baseball team (the Cubs) has borrowed a ticket gimmick from Hamilton the Musical. Basically, they’re going to make a certain number of seats available for each game at affordable prices through a lottery. Hamilton’s been doing this from the beginning.

The writer, Chris Jones, calls out the exercise (in baseball and the theater) as more or less a public relations exercise. But he broadens his scope to lament the luxury box phenomenon of selling pricey, exclusive access in the theater, sports, and in general. Give it a read.

On another front, this New York Times article looks at segregation in New York City schools. The essence: The schools are still very segregated. As they are here in Chicago. And the common thread: School choice.

I’ve thought school choice was a bad idea from the beginning. It’s a shell game. And it makes parents and kids have to worry about entrance exams and all that junk at elementary and high school levels, in addition to college admissions.

It also feels like a gimmicky way of running from a problem. I get the idea that a kid in a bad neighborhood should not be obligated to go to a bad school. But here’s my answer: No bad schools. A commitment to neighborhood schools. Because school choice takes good students out of neighborhoods that are already teetering, hollowing out the neighborhood school, and contributing to a downward spiral.

To me, a commitment to public schools means a commitment to neighborhood public schools. What we have here instead is a way to invest heavily in a few good schools, where the usual suspects have the best chance of getting in, and divest elsewhere.

I’m happy to leave skyboxes to others—they end up on the short end of the stick, if you ask me. But when it comes to schools, well, not having to sit in class with your neighbor really doesn’t cut it.

Justin Kaufmann, host of The Download will have his hands full during this Wednesday’s “Writing Out Loud” episode on WGN Radio: there’ll be three of us in the studio with him.

Bruce and Anne Hunt are two writers whose stories intertwine with mine in my latest book Writing Out Loud. One thing the two of them have in common – and appreciate in each other – is an independent streak. For ten years Bruce has been in one memoir class I lead, and Anne has been in another. They liked it that way.

Anne and Bruce hosted a party for both of their classes back in 2014.

Bruce grew up in Boston, where his father was a partner in the family law firm. As an only child Bruce was expected to attend Harvard and follow suit. He opted for divinity school instead, fell in love, and married Anne while they were both students at the University of Wooster. They celebrated their 60th wedding anniversary this past year.

Bruce was eventually ordained, and while he never led any particular church, he makes good use of his sermon voice – and his openminded spirit – when reading and listening to essays read out loud in class on Thursday afternoons.

Anne has always liked to write, but she had an entrepreneurial side to her, too. When their three daughters were young, she joined other parents to start an innovative preschool in Chicago. Well-known for her cooking, baking, and gardening skills, Anne turned to writing for food businesses once the girls were in school.

During this eight-week session of classes at The Village Chicago Anne and Bruce have decided to enroll in the same class. We met for the first time last Thursday, and after all these years of marriage, the way that Anne and Bruce feel about each other shines through in their essays. Hearing Anne read an essay, and then having Bruce read his work…it’s like listening to love stories in stereo.

But can it last? Why did they decide to enroll in the same class? Will their marriage survive? Tune in to Wgn Radio at 9 pm this Wednesday, May 9, 2018 to find out answers to these –and more gripping — questions. You can stream The Download on your computer or mobile device, too, at http://wgnradio.com.

Beth’s in Florida, sitting at a table with her sisters and boxes of wine and bottles of wine and talking. About what? I don’t know. They do this once a year, and they leave the rest of their families out of it, which is the best for everyone all the way around.

The cover of John Prine’s newly released “Tree of Forgiveness.”

On Saturday I headed down to Urbana, or Champaign, or Champaign-Urbana, whatever you want to call it. Went to see John Prine, thanks to Steven, of Steven and Nancy, the couple who adopted Hanni. Steven manages the Virginia Theater, and he tipped me off to Prine’s appearance months ago.

Before the show I had dinner with a buddy and his wife, dear friends from back in our college days, Kenwood and Lori. Kenwood and I go back to our freshman year in college. We have stories. Stories that we mostly keep to ourselves. Lori entered the picture a year or two later. We were thick as thieves. They visited my lonely self after I took a job in Washington, D.C., after college, which helped keep me afloat during a difficult time.

Then life took over. They had two daughters, Kenwood built a thriving business, we had Gus, Beth lost her eyesight. All that stuff. We stayed connected, just barely, drifting in and out of contact with one another. Kenwood and I occasionally attended motorcycle race track days, where one can do a sort of Walter Mitty experience, lean way over in the curves, and not have to put up with car drivers on cell phones. Fast, fun, and safer than public roads.

Too much time had passed between our last get-together. But, as I was reminded on Saturday evening, it’s like riding a bicycle. We picked up and were off to the races from the get-go.

After a meal and catching up, Lori headed for home and Kenwood and I headed for the show at The Virginia, a gem of an old movie theater that’s been beautifully restored. The warm-up act was two guys called The Milk Carton Kids. Well, two guys and two acoustic guitars, and at first I was thinking about the scene in The Blues Brothers when John Belushi destroys the folk singer’s guitar.

But they were terrific. Great harmonies, pretty amazing guitar picking, and deadpan comedy between songs.

Then the main act commenced. There was minimal stage set-up and equipment. There was Prine, a lead guitarist, a pedal steel guitarist (who also played mandolin and fiddle, I hate those showoffs), a drummer and an upright bassist. The backdrop was an image of the Paradise, Kentucky post office.

I kinda grew up with John Prine. I first heard his music performed by, of all people, John Denver, who included a rendition of “Angel from Montgomery” on one of his albums.

As I watched and listened with my old friend, I was gripped by something akin to nostalgia, but better than that. Prine’s songs are timeless. The words and music take you places on their own. And, music being what it is, his songs took me to places and times when I first listened to them. Some of those places and times, years ago, alongside my friend Kenwood. It was kind of transcendant.

Prine’s songs are about humans, trying to do their best, failing a lot, wanting, longing, striving, and sometimes succeeding in what counts most—connection to others. All done with a sense of humility, and humor.

Occasionally I looked over at my longtime friend and thought, wow, where has the time gone? Still, I thought, after all this time, we’re the same people.

And then again, we’re not.

After a fantastic show, Kenwood and I convened for a beer at a local brewery called The Blind Pig. No TVs, just conversation. He and I covered a lot of ground in a short time. Mortality. Do you believe in the afterlife? Politics. All sane, honest, and heartfelt. I was reminded of why we became friends in the first place.

Before we headed our separate ways, my friend said, simply, “You know, I’ve had a great life.”

“So have I,” I said, and we drank a toast.