Saturday, September 24, 2016

A Conversation With My Mother

Saturday morning, 8 a.m., Fontainebleau, France. I am lying in bed, listening to the sound of traffic on Avenue Franklin Roosevelt and staring at the ceiling.

Mom: You know, Sara, you have always done a good job of anything you set your mind to. And you have natural leadership qualities. That play you and Jim Reidy wrote and produced in high school—what was it called?
Me: Noah’s Flood.
Mom: That’s the one. It was a tremendous hit, and the two of you organized the whole thing. The writing group at the senior center is another example. Thanks to you, it took off like gangbusters. The Hale Street Gang exhibit went all the way to the Governor’s Mansion.
Me: Jack Rowell made that happen, Mom. And it was the Statehouse Cafeteria.
Mom: Even better.
Mom: What are you driving at, Mom?
Mom: This run for the presidency—I think you’re making a mistake. It isn’t for you.
Me: Why not? Grampa served in both the Legislature and the Hoff administration. Uncle Allan was a judge.
Mom: They had nothing better to do, but you—I want you to get busy and write another book.
Me: I was afraid you were going to say that. Grampa wrote books. He did both.
Mom: He wrote those books after he was secretary of state. What's more, he always said that job was mostly filing. Sara, I'm your mother, I know you better than anybody, and it behooves me to point out that you have a great tendency to think you can do everything. You can’t be president of the United States and write a best-seller at the same time.
Me: Who says I’m going to write a best-seller?
Mom: I do. Besides, politics has gotten much nastier than it was in your grandfather's time. Fight, fight, fight, that's all they do. Look at the mean things they say about poor Obama. I feel sorry for him. I don't even bother to turn on the TV anymore.
Me: Do they have TV in heaven, Mom?
Mom: They have everything in heaven, dear.
Me: How’s the food?
Mom: The vegetables are overcooked. Most people don't know how to cook vegetables.
Me: I miss you, Mom.
Mom: I miss you, too, dear. Now get busy and write that book. And forget about this presidential nonsense. It’s not for you.
Above: One of my mother's collections of stuff.
For further reading:
Why I Should Be President
In My First 100 Days as POTUS
Questions to Ask Yourself Before Running for Prez


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