Our mom was a knockout. Our dad first laid eyes on her when she walked around a corner wearing a swimsuit, and he was smitten. It was 1950, at a multidenominational, interracial summer camp. Three years later, our Quaker mom married our Jewish dad. She blended a liberal worldview with a traditional devotion to family and homemaking. She started at Penn but dropped out to earn what she considered a more important credential: a Ph.T., for "putting husband through" his Ph.D. She was a nonjudgmental listener whose easy rapport served her well in jobs in a mental hospital and a social center for adults with emotional challenges. She was a gifted artist and writer and an avid volunteer. But mostly she was a wife, mother, grandmother and homemaker. She was a splendid cook who hosted thousands of visitors over the years in our warm and welcoming home.
The fall that precipitated our mom’s decline happened by the backyard pool, and she went to the emergency room wearing a swimsuit. She didn't fill it out quite as she had in 1950, but our dad remained smitten to the end. They celebrated their 60th anniversary just months before she died.
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