We just heard on the radio, at our mother’s place, where the radio is always playing, that 40% of men surveyed do not plan to buy their mothers or wives gifts this Mother’s Day. According to the announcer, these men “will be in hot water.”
We here at the pipeline believe in the gift of time, rather than material gifts. Though for gift ideas, check out CeCe’s Mother’s Day Guide, including dining options at Taxim, 1558 N. Milwaukee, and Cafe Laguardia, 2111 W. Armitage, both participating in upcoming print magazine, due out June 1st (yes, there’s still time… thanks to Brasil Legal, Pinch Spice Market, and Park Schreck Gallery who joined the magazine yesterday!) In the reader survey, someone wrote, “Iwouldn’t be willing to pay to subscribe to the pipeline, but I would be willing to shop and spend money at pipeline supporters.” Thanks to all readers who might feel this way, too.
Most moms, including ours (we can’t speak for Lady Phlash, or CeCe’s or Davis’s or JR’s mom) would likely be happy to spend time with you today. Phlash’s wife, S., is featured in the photo at far left, snapped during West on North’s opening party last summer.
Following is a Mother’s Day reflection by Gary Marks which we featured in a May 2010 Pipeline. Marks is a local landlord and documentary filmmaker.
When my mom died last December my brother and I both spoke at the funeral. I had often thought about what I would say that day and long ago I decided that the speech would begin, “my mom was a blonde from the day she was born to the day she died”. Now certainly there was some vanity attached to that standing Friday afternoon beauty parlor appointment, but for me that blondness was more a symbol of my mother’s incredible resilience and her determination to continue caring about the things she thought were important.
She was a Big Band, Frank Sinatra loving 50’s girl and in the vernacular of her time I think they would’ve said “she was a real class act”. She was smart, she was funny and she looked like Grace Kelly and had the poise to match. She met my dad at a resort where he was playing and before you knew it they were raising three kids in a nice old house on Chicago’s south side. Then in 1962 a drunk driver struck my parent’s car and my mom was left crippled for the rest of her life. Read more by Gary Marks Here.