Gifts

For those of you who haven't yet completed your Mother's Day shopping — I can't believe you've waited this long — this is the story of the best gift I ever gave my mother.

My mother, a first generation American, grew up in New York City (Queens, to be exact) during the Depression. She loved the theatre, but there was no money for something as frivolous as a theatre ticket. Most of the time, she'd join the crowd outside a Broadway theatre during intermission after the first act of a play and walk in, find an empty seat and watch the last half or two thirds of the show. She might not have been able to completely follow the plot, having missed the first act, but it was free. On the rare occasions when she was able to scrape together the money for a ticket, it was always for the cheapest seats farthest from the stage. The actors may have been tiny figures from her vantage point but at least she was there.

To my mother, the more well-to-do women in the expensive seats seemed like slightly exotic creatures. She was in awe of their greatest indulgence: even though these well dressed women were close to the stage, they still brought opera glasses to see. (For those unfamiliar, opera glasses are small, low powered, somewhat elegant binoculars.)

Those opera glasses became, to my mother, the symbol of the good life she hoped one day to attain.

Fast forward many years, to the point where I was in my late teens. By this time my mother was living a solidly middle class life. She and my stepfather, avid lovers of theatre, opera and the symphony, went to many shows a year,usually in the more expensive seats.

She could have easily afforded a pair of opera glasses, but never bought this indulgence for herself.

So one year, for her birthday, I did.

The look on her face when she opened the package was one I will never forget. Her eyes filled with tears and, I must admit, so did mine.

I don't think she's ever used her opera glasses, but she's kept them in a prominent spot on the shelves in their living room everywhere she's lived since then. When she dies, I'll give them to one of our daughters, whichever one I think will most appreciate them.

I'll tell our daughters the story of how their grandmother came to own such a magnificent, fancy, frivolous item as a pair of opera glasses. And I'll let them draw their own conclusions.