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She was ageless, it seemed to me. hooter. Vivacious. Witty. Flirtatious, in a innocent sort of way. “He that would be the daughter win / Must with the mother first begin,” goes a seventeenth-century proverb. In hooter. our twentieth-century hooter. household there was no competition: any boyfriend I managed to lure home laid eyes on my mother and fell in love. They adored her baking, too: the cake and cookie tins in our house were always filled, and she never “cheated” by using a mix. She also made her own bread, but her homemade strawberry jam would soak through my sandwiches by lunchtime, and I envied the other kids their normal Wonder Bread—their sandwiches didn’t look like gauze bandages with crusts. My mother was thrifty to a fault, washing the wax paper she wrapped my sandwiches in, setting it to dry over the transistor radio, and reusing it until I surreptitiously threw it out. She plastered flower-power decals all over her car, read books, and had even written poetry herself and had it published when she was at school.
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