Today is the 100th anniversary of my mother’s birth. Or the 101st or 102nd, depending on which of her birth certificates you believe—she had three, always on November 15 but each with a different year. She doesn’t appear in the 1920 census so that’s evidence she wasn’t older than that..
She came by having a, shall we say, somewhat flexible age honestly. Both her father and her paternal grandmother fibbed about their ages. My grandfather shaved as much as 20 years from his actual age. His mother had the extraordinary quality of only aging nine years for each ten years that passed. When she was 30 and claimed to be 29 was one thing but being 80 and claiming to be 74 must have strained credulity.
My mom was without question one of the finest, wisest, most remarkable people I have ever known. She got her first paycheck as an infant, performing on stage in vaudeville. At 85 she could still do her routine, singing the song she sang—”Dream Daddy”. Since “Dream Daddy” came out in 1923, it gives some credence to the birth certificate with her year of birth 1921.
After her vaudeville days, she bounced from one relative to another until her mom or dad could take her, not feeling really welcome anywhere. It must have been an insecure childhood but somehow she triumphed over it to become an extremely confident adult.
Happy Birthday, Mama! I can’t tell you how much I miss you.
