My mom would have been 88 years old today.
We had our differences.
She wanted me to be a linguist. I wanted to be a fighter pilot. I ended up studying engineering, and then becoming a photographer.
She made me take piano lessons and practice classical music. I wanted to play rock on an electric guitar.
She wanted me to read Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky. I wanted to read Spider Man and Batman, the action adventures of Mack Bolan and Sam Fisher and Drizzt Do’Urden, the writings of Buckminster Fuller and Carl Sagan, and the science and technology behind the moon landing. (I never could get her to read Lord of the Rings. Or Atlas Shrugged.)
She dragged me through the Louvre, when I wanted to visit Auto Museum Hillers. (Credit where credit is due, though … we DID end up vising both … multiple times.) Because of her, I’ve seen the desk where Goethe wrote Faust, the door to which Martin Luther allegedly nailed his Ninety Five Theses, and traced the path of Siegfried down the Rhein.
It scared her half to death, but in the summer of my 17th year she paid for me to take lessons and get my pilot’s license.
That’s how she was. Regardless of what her dreams for me were, she always supported my dreams, and was always proud of my accomplishments.
She taught me to love learning, and to love life. She taught me how to laugh at myself, and cry for others. She taught me to be skeptical, to think and reason, to speak my mind and to stand up for what I believe in.
Without her, I would not be who I am today.
Happy Birthday, Mom. I miss you.















































