My mother tries to kill me
Mom and me
My mom, Judith Korotkin Mende, was 98 when she died. Involuntarily, of course. If she had her way, she’d still be here. She was a writer, and, like all writers, she still had manuscripts to complete.
This is the eulogy I wrote for her memorial. I posted an earlier version at my previous site, Lifenicity.com. I love and miss you, Mom.
My mom ran away from home in her mid-50s.
My sister, Nina, and I had left home, and it was Mom’s turn to fly without a net. And fly she did, to L.A. She had no place to live, no job, no friends or family; just a few thousand bucks she had inherited from her uncle. But she had a dream: to sell her screenplays to Hollywood.
She also had a car — which she didn’t know how to drive.
My Aunt Ethel, its previous owner, had sold it to her for $1 — which turned out to be way too much money.
The car was a puke orange Datsun, circa 1830s, rustier than a nail. And because it had been rear-ended, it required a chain and lock to keep its trunk closed. But the car had pep, four tires, a steering wheel and the requisite number of mirrors.
Because Mom didn’t know how to drive, she paid a guy to drive it cross-country. He called from the Midwest, where the car had broken down. She paid for the repairs — see, this is what I mean when I said $1 was too much to pay for that car.
A few days later, the car rolled into L.A., and she started driving lessons.
L.A., as you know, is an urban sprawl connected by a tangled mess of expressways. You’ve got to be fast, aggressive and fearless. My mother was none of these things.
Over time, however, she became a more confident driver. Not a great one but one, definitely, worthy of a learner’s permit. Still, her progression was, shall we say, a tad slow.
The first time I flew to LA to see her, she made me take a shuttle bus from the airport to a hotel in Westwood, where she picked me. She offered to pay for the shuttle because, quote: “I don’t want to drive. I’m afraid of killing you.” I arrived at the hotel and she nervously drove us back to the apartment she was temporarily renting. We arrived unscathed.
Second visit:
She instructs me to meet her at the LAX arrivals curb — using the airport parking lot is still a distant dream. LAX is, of course, packed, but it’s easy to pick out her car. It’s orange and looks as if it has been pulled from earthquake rubble. She jumps out, gives me a quick hug and then a shove. “You drive,” she says. “It makes me too nervous.” She makes me take city streets.
Third visit: She picks me up at the arrivals curb. This time, she stays behind the wheel and frantically signals for me to jump in because cars are queuing up behind her. I jump in, she yells at me to buckle up, and then says, “Don’t talk to me! I have to concentrate.”
What she sees as concentration, I see as controlled panic. She brakes whenever she even suspects a light may turn yellow, which all lights eventually do. She huddles over the wheel, and every once in a while, her eyes dart to the rearview mirror. She’s not actually looking into the mirror but at it, going through the motions because, well, that’s what drivers do. Not once does she look at her sideview mirror.
Although I know better than to talk to my mother while she’s driving (lest she kill me), I cannot resist. “Hey, Mom, don’t you use the side-view mirrors?”
To which she snarls, “I’m not up to that yet!” Finally, we arrive home. L.A. is her home by this point. She has a permanent address.
Fourth visit: She picks me up at the curb, stays behind the wheel, and as we drive, we talk. Nothing that requires much give-and-take but a conversation nonetheless.
My Mom stayed in L.A. for 16 years. She optioned her screenplays, got into playwriting and truly enjoyed California. Nice as all that was, she missed family and the City (to New Yorkers, there is only one City), and so she moved back.
And while Mom liked taking buses, she sometimes talked about how she missed driving and that maybe she would renew her license. This was even into her 80s. But then she’d say, somewhat wistfully, “I’m not sure I even know how to drive anymore.”
And I’d think, “Yeah, like that would stop you.”
And that truly says it all about my Mom. If she wanted something, she went after it. Anxieties and all. She was a single mom, worked years of jobs she didn’t like, yet kept her eyes on her prize, which was to write.
This 98-year-old force of nature knew that sometimes in life, despite the challenges, you’ve got to jump in and stay in.
You’ve got to get behind the wheel.
“My Mother Tries to Kill Me,” Beth Mende Conny © 2014
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