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These are days to remember.... - Blather. Rants. Repeat.
A Møøse once bit my sister ...
These are days to remember....
Some dates on the calendar get permanently blended together in patterns of utter randomness.  My birthday, for instance (a week from Saturday /shamelesshint)- not only shared with my brother-in-law for 40 years, but forever memorialized two years before our first shared date by the November 9, 1965 Northeast power blackout. Eleanor's? Her eleventh was also the date of my first-ever attendance at Shea Stadium, while two July 20ths later brought the slightly more memorable Apollo 11 moon landing.

Which gets us to today, and to two events, 70 years apart.

More recent, and yet still over a quarter-century ago, October 27, 1986 marked the end of the Mets' most recent triumph in the World Series. The world (or at least this limited part of it) far more remembers Game Six two nights before, when Bill Buckner became a permanent part of the Red Sox Curse; that, however, merely tied the series and set up the final Game Seven the next night.

Or, as it turned out, the night after that; it rained in New York on Sunday the 26th, leaving baseball with the horror of having its marquee series finale on television against Monday Night Football, and a game played mere miles away at Giants Stadium.

Didn't matter.  Even Jimmy Hoffa was rooting for the Mets from under the Jersey swamp, and the Mets again came back to win the game with Jesse Orosco, their longtime closer, slamming the door on the final Sox batters.  We were in our first Rochester home at the time; I had the NBC sound off, trying desperately to pull in Bob Murphy's call on the AM broadcast from New York, and somehow I managed to both hear it and record it for several years of posterity. That cassette is now long gone, but Youtube's got it:

Heeeeee struck him out! Struck him out! The Mets have won the World Series.... the dream has come true!

Bob has passed on, as has the stadium where the magic was real. The curse has been lifted, and the Red Sox are now back for their third time to the Series since (the Mets visiting only once, losing in 2000).  Yet those few seconds of joy are still as real to me as the moments spent watching and hearing them from afar.


That day was my mother's 70th birthday, and her first alone. My father had died the previous March, and thus began about five years of her trying to survive on her own, with no car, few skills, and limited access to family.

She lost her oldest child the following year. Gradually, both mobility and mind began failing her, but she never lost her essential sweetness and goodness. When she got to meet Emily in 1992 (she'd moved near my other sister the previous year, and into her home soon thereafter), she was again a proud and doting Nana, but in time we couldn't even be sure she knew who her grandchild was. The mom we said goodbye to was a shadow; the mom we still love and remember is the younger one, the spunkier one- whose malaprops (like "compicated") are regular parts of our lexicon. I still resort to the "Mom list"- all the things I swore I'd never say to my child like she said to me, just about every one of which I've said at one time or another. (Most recent addition: Never is a long time.)  She was with us only long enough to meet our first two cats, but I know she would have shared our sadness at letting go of our most recent loved one.

She's been at peace for almost 15 years, and she's still a big part of at least ten lives in this family, the youngest of whom never even got to meet her.  And yes, she loved the Mets, even if she couldn't have told a booted grounder from a series-ending strikeout.

Let's go, Mom.

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