I was nine months old when my father died. After his death, my mother remained a widow until December 29, 1979, when she married Cooper, who, by virtue of this fact, became my stepfather, although I was twenty-seven at the time and hardly in need of a new parent. But Cooper was not new to me.
In the age of COVID-19, it is good to think about some ways we have thought about illness in our music.
I had driven a few blocks, but pulled the car over. I looked at my daughter for a moment and realized that God does indeed give only ironic gifts.
The faith Willie had in me to protect him from anything untoward, even from being hurt by the elements, mirrors the faith I had in my grandfather to protect me from the street gangs when he took me to a game over fifty years ago.
I suppose mothers are always trying to save their sons. And sons are always making their mothers suffer, always making their mothers need to save them. Despite my stupidity, my unworthiness, my mother was determined to save me anyhow.
I now think about my mother every day. I did not do this before she came to St. Louis to live. There was, in fact, a stretch of years when I did not think about her much at all.
Editor Gerald Early welcomes readers to The Common Reader, Washington University in St. Louis's new interdisciplinary journal, with a full menu of articles about issues of the day, and special events in the future.
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