One of the greatest gifts my mom, a nurse, gave me was encouraging my innate curiosity about how the world works.
By: Jennifer Potash
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| Packet
writers talk about the First Lady in everyone’s life |
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| ‘Giving
and gracious’ |
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| ‘Apologies
to Hallmark’ |
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| My
mother, Sylvia Milgram |
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| My
mother, Helen Potash |
Every once in a while, a reader or a source may
wonder who is to blame for my becoming a journalist. Well, you can blame or (as
I choose to) thank my mother, Helen Potash. (This may come as news to her.)
One of the greatest gifts my mom, a nurse, gave me was encouraging
my innate curiosity about how the world works. And I am grateful she never told
me to stop asking so many "why" questions. (Some of my sources may
not be so pleased).
Trips to the local library, bookstores, and museums were the
typical events of my childhood. (My mom, in a wistful tone, said she should have
purchased stock in Barnes & Noble then.)
Books were not banned in our household even when one
of my schools tried to remove some titles from the library shelves and encouraged
parents to do the same at home.
And far from encouraging me to duck those controversies, she
urged me to think and write about them in journals or essays and, later, school
newspapers. (Although she was less than pleased when my writing about a contested
arts center in my high school newspaper nearly led to a suspension. But she didn’t
ground me.)
To her credit, my mother read nearly every one of those essays
and school newspaper stories. And she regularly reads my articles in The Packet
with some helpful hints when I indulge my fondness for irreverence.
There’s one exception. She skips parking garage articles.
"It’s too byzantine," she said. "Just
tell me where I can find a parking space in Princeton Borough."
Hmm. That might make a good story. Thanks, Mom.