A few pass plays, then a quick cut and we’re in the backseat of my uncle’s Ford Fairlane station wagon watching my mother, looking rather loopy, as she slowly slides down, down, down the front seat and disappears. The only thing left of her is her hand, draped over the back of the front seat, followed by her giving a thumbs-up as the “Notre Dame Victory March” ends.
And scene. Followed by: 60 years and counting...
The early reviews? Outstanding! We watched it again. And again. Yeah, it was that good. Of course, my mother had to fill us in on the particulars of that day in the Notre Dame parking lot. Oh, she blamed my uncle and his libations. Said that she was all caught up in the moment and that it was the first and last time she had puked out a car window.
It turned out to be the perfect gift. For me. That summer I spent staring at my computer monitor, watching all those home movies over and over, I got to see my parents for the first time as people—sometimes out of focus, sometimes overexposed, maybe not always in the most flattering outfits or lighting. But I truly loved what I saw.
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