16 PUNCHMAGAZINE.COM {sloane citron} stranger at the wheel while I quietly cried in the back seat. When I arrived, her caretaker was in the living room with a couple of my mother’s friends. In the bedroom, where she died, lay my mother. I went in and sat with her for several hours until the undertakers came. It felt very strange after they’d left, staying in my mother’s home all alone. In the kitchen, on the breakfast room table, lay a stack of halffinished cards. My mother always said, “Things happen for a reason.” In this case, the reason for my visit was to say goodbye to my mother and to finish those cards. I wanted to complete my mom’s mission for her, one last time. I wrote a letter, made 200 copies and then sent them out with the cards to everyone in her address book. I explained what had happened, how important these cards were to my mom, and how much she loved and appreciated the wonderful relationships she had made. I teared up a few times during the several days that it took me to complete this task. When my work was done and the last of the cards had been dropped in the mailbox, I returned home to celebrate the holidays with my family. So, let me emulate my dear mother here. These holidays are about warmth, kindness and staying connected. I’m grateful to all you fine people who read my essays, write me sweet notes and think of me as a friend. I feel the same about all of you. Happy Hanukkah and Christmas! May your holidays be filled with sweetness and light. Throughout her life, my mother made sure that she sent out holiday cards, no matter where she was living at the time. Though her family thought it was a rather unusual thing to do, she felt that it helped her stay in touch with the hundreds of friends she’d made over the course of her remarkable life. Her childhood was spent practicing the violin for hours daily, by herself and with the top instructors of her day. By age 16, she had her own CBS radio show and then left for the Julliard School, where she was invited to study on a full scholarship with Louis Persinger, noted instructor of such luminaries as Yehudi Menuhin, Ruggiero Ricci and Isaac Stern. My mother became the first concert violinist to join the USO and spent several years during World War II entertaining the troops in dozens of nations, narrowly escaping with her life on multiple occasions. From there she married my father, first living in—of all places— Amarillo, Texas, then Chicago and finally Houston, where she was one of the top female symphony violinists in the nation. Along this path, she became friends with countless people, from her students to the celebrities with whom she performed. My mom valued those relationships, so every fall, she would start spending long hours writing personal notes to all her friends, asking about their children, their lives, their careers. She kept a special book with every name and address of those who were card-worthy. Along with the entries (always in pencil, so she could update their information as necessary) were the details of their lives: how she knew them, their children, their work. In return for this annual exercise, she received a huge number of cards in return, some for Hanukkah, some for Christmas, some just in friendship. She loved displaying the cards throughout her home. One of my favorite activities when I would visit her at this time of year was reading the dozens and dozens of cards, seeing the love and friendship so many people had for my mother. A few years ago, as my mother’s health was failing, I went to go see her. I was in the cab, riding from the Houston airport to my mother’s home, when my phone rang. It was my brother, Dan, telling me that she had died an hour before. It was such an odd feeling, traveling in the back of a cab with a holiday wishes
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