Cynthia Harrison

Writing this memoir about writing, my writing, has brought back so much about my mom. She was helping me become a writer with things at the time I just thought nothing of…like when she gave me Shelly Wong’s address in San Francisco and suggested we become pen pals. Mr. Wong, her boss, owned China Boy, in Allen Park, Michigan, where Mom worked off and on until Mr. Wong died and his businesses (he had other restaurants) closed for good.

But back to Shelly.

I wrote and she wrote back. She had fat handwriting I admired. We talked (wrote) about what I do not know. But we wrote for a long time and then she moved to Michigan with Mr and Missy Wong and I was there as a friend (a little younger) for Shelly. I still wasn’t working at China Boy yet but Shelly and I had the run of the place. We could take a soda from the fridge, almond cookies from the cookie jar. We could have Oliver, our favorite cook, make us burgers. This world was our oyster (or fortune cookie).

Of course we didn’t write anymore and after a while our friendship drifted. We lived in different towns and were in different grades. She went away to college. I didn’t really miss our letters. Like poetry would feel to me later, I wasn’t sure where it came from, this impetus to write. Only now I realize how much my early writing had to do with pleasing my mother. I would never show her a poem but she confessed to reading my diary. It was as if I were a part of her, or a doll. She dressed me, told me how to behave, knew everything about me. In a very real way she wanted to live the life she had not been able to through me.

But this is not a memoir about my mom. She gave me that first pen pal but I went on to have many more through the years. Even now I have a pen pal of sorts. She and I (not saying her name for the sake of her privacy) send each other email, birthday and Christmas gifts across the Atlantic. It started online, more than ten years ago, with her reviewing one of my books. I forget which one. She had a blog where she reviewed indie authors, which at that point, was me. She read books so fast. She still reads fast. And she’s so smart about what works in story and what does not. She’s not a writer these days, but an artist. She draws and paints and has a very creative life.

We email a lot. I feel she’s a friend, one of the best, although we have never met in person. We have done Skype several times so I know her voice and face and she knows mine. We were there for each other during Covid. She’s super smart and intuitive and gives great advice. We discuss things any close friends would: our families, our hobbies, our spiritual lives. Al certainly knows all about her although she probably knows more about him. haha.

People have commented on my books, how easy and natural the dialogue sounds. Well, that is likely down to the pen pals in my life. And they are down to my mom introducing me to Shelly Wong. Another purpose of this particular post series is to remember my mom as she was. Before she finally could not keep her grasp. She used to say “I’m losing my grip!” as one of her many expressions. She had a marvelous vocabulary. She even changed marvelous to “marvy” like her own personal groovy. She and her bestie Barb had their own slang and tones. They loved to play with language. And they loved each other.

Barb died some years back, but my mom is still hanging in there. She still remembers her family although she forgets how a phone works. I call her every so often as I do not want to burden her. My brother and his wife, the closest person I have to a sister, see Mom every day. They spend hours with her and take such good care of her. My mom even got them together and she’s the best thing that ever happened to him. They were valentines as little kids, like maybe five years old, in the same neighborhood. My mom encouraged that young relationship but it didn’t last. They went to different high schools and had different loves. When they were both free my mom set them up on a date and the result was a very happy marriage.

My dad is so jealous about the way they take care of Mom. If we still lived in St Pete close to Dad, we’d see more of him. When we did live there, he’d come over every Monday morning. He’d open the door and say “Anybody home?” I miss those days. For most of my life I felt like I really knew my mom down to every quirk. But I knew nothing about my dad’s life apart from him being a loving dad. So I know him now. I’ve been there for him through hospital stays and celebrations. Not as much as my brother has been there for my mom, my dad would say. It’s true.