Okay for real. This is a story that comes under the heading of "don't you wish you'd said that?" and in fact, Mom did. Politically incorrect though it is now, and was then, it was right, and it was true and it was on the mark. It was and remains to me, a priceless story.

Those of you at the funeral may remember Jackie referring, accurately, to my mother, Joanne, as "a good liberal". And she meant it in a positive and important way. Being a liberal was and is a good and positive thing. My mother and father were "good liberals" for all the time I was aware of politics and political issues. My first major memory (after the croup tent memory) is the image of our rec room covered in sheets of long white paper. These were voting records and Mom and Dad were involved in "getting out the vote" and calling folks to be sure they voted. Pat and I struggled to remember when this was and could not be sure. I was born in 1953 so could it have been 1956? Maybe. Were they Adlai supporters? Damn betcha they were. At any rate, they were lifelong Democrats and liberals and cared deeply about the issues we faced. Racism and civil rights were everyday issues in our household and in our lives. Mom really did have close friends who happened to be "Negro" and "African-American" and "Black". I believe the final paper she wrote for her degree at Goddard was about Black Literature or something close to that.

We lived in a white neighborhood in the Blue Hills area of Hartford. We were not far from "the projects", the housing projects where we used to live until we moved to Simpson Street. It was, as far as I know, working-class and very Jewish. In remembering neighbors, I remember up and down the street there were Jewish families. The first black family to move into the immediate neighborhood moved in, I'm pretty sure, across the street from us. And is it trite to say the head of the family was a Minister? Probably not.

At any rate, Mom's comfort level, if you will, with Black friends was heartfelt and real and early and deep. Pat's third grade teacher, Marie Bean, was a close friend. We visited Marie and her gorgeous husband Chris out in Avon a lot. Mom was godmother to two Black girls, Robin and Rhonda. Civil rights, equality, all those beliefs and bywords were commonplace and normal for us growing up. So with all that as background, here it goes. I think I'm right in all the details. If not, I know I am in the pertinent ones. (for example, I might have been the one at hoe and Pat might have been the one at camp.)

My sister and I, as kids, spent part of the summer for several years at an overnight camp run by the YWCA. It was in Somers, Connecticut and it's still there, though it's changed. Camp Aya-po was great. We were campers there for several years - I spent one entire summer there and my sister was involved in the counselor in training program. Figure this was in the very early 60s, okay? So one summer, I was at camp, and Pat was at home. And Marie Bean had a niece, I think, who was Pat's age and who came to visit. As often happened in those days, especially in the summer, there was lots to do. My mother worked and while Marie, as a teacher, had the summer off technically, I bet she was busy too. So the two of them arranged for the niece to come stay at our house for a few days and spend time with my sister.

For some reason, this came to the attention of a neighbor. It was maybe at the grocery store or the hairdresser that a neighbor who had seen this visitor (who was Black) playing with my sister or outside the house or walking down the sidewalk or rollerskating on the driveway, something. She'd seen this girl who, well clearly, did not live on our street. And she asked my mother who that person was. Not that it was any of her business but I don't recall that the tone was rude, she was just being nosy and passing the time.

My mother proceeded to explain that she was Mrs. Bean's niece, you know Mrs. Bean, the teacher at Mark Twain, she's a friend of ours and isn't that nice that she had a niece my daughter's age and so they could spend some time together?

At this point, my mother reported, the woman looked, shall we say, aghast. (So much for believing we were in a neighborhood full of "good liberals") She asked my mother flat out, in a tone that was not, shall we say, warm and friendly "Where does she sleep?" Odd question, huh?

My mother proceeded to explain that one daughter was at summer camp and would be for several more days so that it was really great because we had space for s visitor.

The nosy neighbor apparently did not find this as great as we did. She was shocked and apparently quite dismayed. Horrified. Stunned. And whatever she looked like or said to my mother it was clear that this woman did not like the idea that our neighborhood had been invaded by a Black person (at least one who wasn't a cleaning lady.) And she made her shock and disapproval clear to my mother. This, this Negro girl? This Black girl sleeps in your house? In your daughter's bed?

And here's the moment we all love. Because my mother didn't think of this a day later, an hour later, five minutes later. She stood her ground, looked right at this nasty piece of work and said to her "That's right. It doesn't rub off on the sheets, you know."