Robert Rosen

If you read A Brooklyn Memoir (or read it in its pre-pandemic incarnation, Bobby in Naziland) then you're familiar with my mother, Eleanor Rosen. She was an artistically inclined housewife of the 1950s and 60s who kept our apartment spotless, cooked gourmet dishes like crêpes suzette, brought up a couple of kids, and was perpetually frustrated that my father was a candy store owner rather than a highly paid "professional."

Well my mother—she recently moved to Arizona from Florida to be closer to my brother—will turn 99 on December 4. Here she is in her new digs after getting her hair and nails done in anticipation of the big day.

"I'm not going to leave you any money, but I did give you good genes," she tells me every time I see her. 

We'll find out soon enough if I've got what it takes to endure the vicissitudes of the coming decades.

Until then, Happy Thanksgiving!

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