This post has nothing to do with cooking.† It might embarrass me.† It might make my son angry.†† Itís about emotions of motherhood.† The thoughts may not be written eloquently, but here it is.
Iíve loved few men with enduring love. †In order of age: Dad, or Gramps as he was called toward the end of his life. An uncle, a World War II hero. My brother. My husband. My son.
Iíve loved a few cities, too.† Florence. Dublin. New York.† None as much as Boston.† The flavor of the Italian North End, the spirit of new Seaport, the pre-Revolution cobblestones streets, the docks where fisherman sell their catch, the Haymarket, the stately Back Bay, even the dirty water of the Charles River.
As Big Papi said this week, ďThis is our f—-king city!Ē
So this post is my tribute to him and another very public guy who used that word.† Iíve never met David Ortiz, although Iíve been in the stands for a few clutch hits.† I met Joe Biden once.† Both men have salty language in common, but thatís not why I love them.
I love them because of my son.† As a teenager, he was diagnosed with cancer; we needed to make an immediate decision about surgery.† In shock, he turned to me and asked for an Ortiz jersey.† I left my husband to do battle with the insurance and health care establishments, and headed to Yawkey Way beside Fenway Park, not far from the hospital. The first shop was sold out.† In tears, I wandered next door and spotted a red #34 jersey on display near the ceiling.† Thinking they were also sold out, I asked to buy the that one.† The salesperson opened a drawer, and took out the last Ortiz jersey in stock while I once again burst into tears.† My son wore the jersey for good luck.† But, more surgeries and more treatments lay ahead.
Enter Joe Biden.† Over the previous summer my son impressed someone in his volunteer work and found himself working directly with Joe Biden for a few days.† The Vice-President reminds most Americans of their own Uncle Joe, the gregarious one who tells long stories at Thanksgiving dinner.† Thinking about the stories later on, you realize that each had a point, a lesson to be learned.
The night before my sonís second surgery, his cell phone rang.† It was Joe Biden. They talked for a long time.† Biden told him a heartfelt personal story.† The story was long.† It had a point.† My son got it.† The next morning, he went into surgery confidently.
So when David Ortiz (at Fenway last week) and Joe Biden (at the health care act signing) emphasize a point with a word not often used in polite company, I applauded them! At that particular moment, it seemed right. It displayed overwhelmingly immediate and enormous emotion, one that required operatic expression. No substitutions.
My son is f–king cancer-free!