Mr. Write's Page

When I retired, I made two solemn vows: I would never again set an alarm clock or wear a wristwatch. I have kept those promises with zero exceptions.

When my dad retired years earlier, I’m not aware that he made any symbolic vows. He simply planned to embark on every retiree’s dream, a life of calculated indolence. But there was a small bump in the road.

When Dad retired, my mom, a homemaker for 50 years, announced that she was retiring, too — from the task of cooking the daily meals.

Literally and figuratively, Mom hung up her apron. Fair is fair.

Having no say in the matter and no meaningful recourse, Dad accepted the situation with a calm dignity.

Soon, the two of them worked out new mealtime procedures — a combination of dining out, doggy bags, frozen dinners, pizza delivery, Chinese takeout, sandwiches, soup and salad, pre-cooked microwavable entrées, and what-not.

From that point forward, when the family got together for holidays and birthdays, it fell to us kids to bring the food; Mom was retired.

Dad did not, of course, step forward to cook. Being helpless in the kitchen was an integral part of his self-image. A man must draw the line somewhere.

After the dual retirements, Mom managed the household as before. She made her regular excursions to the library, the grocery store, and Blockbuster Video. Dad exercised at the Y, did the yard work, and handled the finances. Life went on.

To understand my parents at that stage of their lives, you need to know that, over the decades, the dynamic between them evolved significantly. The change was slow, but inevitable. And it was a fitting, beautiful, wholly positive thing.

In the early years, Dad was the undisputed boss of the family. Such was the way of things in that era. Mom was like an adjutant, reporting to Dad and commanding the household and the children.

That command structure endured for a long time. But as the years passed, we kids could see it bending, buckling, morphing.

In the partnership, Mom slowly ascended, until she and Dad essentially stood as equals.

Then, for reasons never clear to me, Dad seemed consciously to acquiesce even further. It was subtle and unspoken, but Mom assumed the role of family boss.

In her later years, Mom relished the assertiveness and confidence she had awakened in herself. She was deeply proud of the transformation.

One day, spontaneously, with great panache, Mom referred to herself as “the Dragon Lady.”

That term, in case you don’t know, is a stereotype of a powerful, strong-willed Asian woman. In the old comic strip Terry and the Pirates, the Dragon Lady was a recurring character and a formidable villain.

For Mom, that moment was a wonderful epiphany. The term was so delightful, so perfectly descriptive, that she promptly adopted it.

Over the years, when Mom wrote to Dad’s family, she signed the letters with her middle name, “Myrtle.” (Mom had chosen to embrace, rather than lament, that unfortunate choice.)

But that changed, and Mom began to sign as “The Dragon Lady,” or sometimes as “D.L.”

Dad also embraced the name. He used it freely, always in the rakish manner intended.

Mom was an amazing lady. Everyone who knew her thought so. She was — and I say this as an objective observer, not as her kid — incredibly intelligent. Scary smart, a voracious reader, insatiably curious.

To Mom, the greatest disappointment of her life was that she never knew her father, Bill Horne. Bill walked out on his wife and daughter when Mom was just a toddler. She had no relationship with him, no memory of him. And she lived with that regret all of her life.

I had a different take on things. To me, it verged on the tragic that Mom’s path in life did not allow her to nurture her intellect properly. Like many other women of her generation, she married young and devoted herself to being a mother and homemaker. She didn’t attend college, had no career outside the home.

By any measure, she was a wonderful person. She had a good and comfortable life, and she was beloved by her family. But she had the potential to achieve much, much more.

I thank God that Mom blossomed into the Dragon Lady.

I thank God that her greatest disappointment was not remaining an unassertive and subordinate housewife.