A comprehensive book, including the original 1999 edition Miriam's Gift:,
and all the joyous inspiration and terrible injustice that followed in the
next dozen years.

Chapter 1

I Am a Lover of Life

SEPTEMBER 1988. LONG BEFORE THE FIRST red and gold leaves fell from our maple trees, I could sense my usual maternal anxiety dropping away. In fact, I felt that I had almost finished my work as Miriam’s mother. Not that we wouldn’t always remain close and important to one another. Of course we would. But now she had the tools—intellectual, emotional and spiritual—to forge a superb, productive life for herself. I felt this confidence because she was on her way to London in such a pitch of exhilaration. She’d been away from me the whole summer. Her first performing job—singing and dancing in upstate New York, in a tiny rural town, at a huge theme park. And she did it successfully.

Her talent and potential were crystallizing. She didn’t just embrace life, she swallowed it whole. When we were together I found myself in the presence of an intellect both penetrating and passionate. She was taking on the world of words and thoughts and reflections with an insatiable appetite. She dove into the arts, sciences and history and strove to master the written and spoken word. In only two years in college, she’d grown from a high school honors English student to a poet, a writer of essays, short stories and poems; an actress, a singer, a dancer, a director and even a budding artist.

After Moses led the Israelites across the Red Sea, his sister, Miriam, led the women in a triumphal song and dance. The name Miriam comes possibly from the Egyptian Meri, which means love. Luby was my mother’s name, from Luba, “beloved” in Russian. It was so appropriate to name her after my mother, who was a flamboyant, brilliant and creative woman.

Nobody can describe Miriam better than she can. She told about herself in her application to the Syracuse University International Programs Abroad.

I am an only child, and because my parents separated when I was nine years old and divorced when I was ten, I am a product of what is commonly called a “broken home.” People often expound on the traumatic nature of divorce, focusing particularly on its negative effect on the couple’s children. This always gives me pause, because in my case, it was my parents’ marriage that proved traumatic. However, my parents’ incompatibility as husband and wife in no way prevented them from being wonderful parents to me. On the contrary, they actually complemented each other surprisingly well as parents.

Both Mom and Dad write and edit for a living and are extraordinarily bright, creative and warm people. My love for them is so great that it would be impossible for me to adequately express it in words. So, I’ve decided to focus on what is probably the greatest gift they’ve given me and a ift Mom and Dad share: a great love of learning. By this, I do not mean to focus on my parents’ prowess in an academic setting. Rather, I’d like to stress that they nurtured me in a way which gave me a burning desire to learn, to take advantage of every opportunity and to appreciate the beautiful things in our everyday life.

My dad is a compulsive reader—I have never been assigned to read any work of fiction, classical or contemporary, that my father did not own or had not read. So, he was a little worried that I was already seven years old and was not an avid reader. I loved to be read to at the time, but rarely did I pick up a book and read to myself.

My dad devised a plan of action. Unbeknownst to me, he ordered a year-long subscription to the Read About Me Book Club. Read About Me books arrived monthly and contained stories of various adventures of ME, MIRIAM WOLFE, three of my friends and my dog!! I was beside myself. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how “they” (the authors) knew all about me. I kept asking Dad the reason, but he wouldn’t give up his secret. His only explanation was that the books were magical. And soon, all books held a magic for me. By the time I was eight, I could polish off books with little effort and great joy.

“Books can become some of your best friends, Miriam,” my dad would say. “They will never abandon you and will always bring you joy.” To this day, nothing has proven him wrong.

Unlike my father, who is very spontaneous and unfocused, my mom is extremely pragmatic and thorough. She taught me the importance of following things through and that if you really want to know something, you should take the initiative to learn it. Mom and I used to watch the news together every evening, or read either the newspaper or Time magazine—something relating to current events. Often, I would ask Mom a question about something that confused me. If she couldn’t answer immediately, I would forget about the issue—but not for long. The next morning, I would come into the kitchen for breakfast. At my place setting, I would find several reference books with little markers in them. Mom would say, “Remember last night when you asked me . . .? Well, I looked it up and this is what I found.” Mom found a way to lovingly teach me the importance of taking advantage of resources available to me.

As I write this, I am struck by the magnitude of this opportunity to go abroad; to be an active part of a theater community so rich in tradition.

My upbringing was somewhat unconventional in that I never really had a childhood! My parents never treated me as if I were a child; they spoke to me as if I were no different from any of their adult friends. As a result, I matured quickly, enjoying the company of my parents and their friends as much as I enjoyed kids my own age. This has proven useful in countless ways. I was exposed to more than other children and I tend to believe that self-expression through the arts was second nature to me because my parents exposed me to such a wide variety of types of music, art and books.

My parents also provided me with unwavering support. They never tried to dissuade me from pursuing a career in the theater. Instead, they taught me the importance of becoming well-rounded and not limiting myself. At first I was angry when they insisted that I not attend a performing arts high school. Then, I discovered how much more I could learn at the wonderful public high school nearby. My senior year was spent studying all the things I had always been interested in: constitutional law, psychology, sociology, Latin, French and an Honors English class. This terrific year illuminated for me one of the main reasons I love theater so much: the theater allows me to explore hundreds of professions and people, with every character I portray. I am a lover of life and I try to fulfill that love by illuminating something about humanity through my art. Many students my age feel a need to numb themselves to the pain they experience by drinking heavily or using drugs. I avoid these things. But, my refusal to “escape” in this way is also related to my fascination with the human condition. I know that pain is necessary for growth and my desires to grow and learn and change are too great for me to jeopardize.

IT DIDN’T take a formal essay assignment for Miriam to reflect on life. She explored feelings and ideas as vigorously as Lewis and Clark explored the West. In her freshman SU journal, she said:

I wonder what kind of mother I’ll be? Do I want to be one at all? So many of my friends here have lousy relationships with their parents. I see some moms using their children as an extension of their designer outfits. The kids decorate their mothers like in the English court paintings of the little boys in their velvet suits and lace collars. And I don’t want to be an authoritarian figure, manipulating my kids and molding them into what I think they should be. Nor do I want to be one of them—another sibling, a peer. I’d much rather they consider me a loving mentor who gently shows them the way.

AT TIMES she turned parental. On my fiftieth birthday, when I complained about feeling old, she scolded me: “Mom, you should be ashamed of yourself. You should be glad you’re alive and well to enjoy it.” I took her words to heart—her best friend’s mother was dying of cancer.

A Syracuse drama professor described her as “an extremely inventive and spontaneous young actress.” Not surprising—her alltime idol was Carol Burnett. We’d be in a fitting room at Hecht’s and, with no introduction, she’d break out into an “Ed, Eunice and Momma” skit, playing all the dysfunctional family parts perfectly. It was so manic and crazy, but I couldn’t stop laughing.

Miriam’s own talent for seeing deeply into others was not a conscious effort; it came naturally and intellectually, borne of her own insecurities. She too needed to be liked and loved. This insight served her well in her pursuit of the theater. She was a keen student of the characters she played and had more than a passing interest in psychology. There was a thoroughness about the way she approached everything. And she scooped up fresh concepts the way our dog inhaled Alpo.

She had discovered a quote by comedian Stephen Wright. “You’ll love it too, Mom. He said: ‘The first time I read the dictionary I thought it was a poem about everything.’”

Exactly how I feel. Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary is my favorite book of all time. I have two copies of the eleventh edition: one at my desk and the other in the living room, just a few steps from the kitchen. It’s my adviser and friend.

Miriam was determined to get a well-rounded liberal arts education—despite the possessive schedule of the drama department. “I signed up for a history course on the world wars,” she reported on the phone. But a week later, I heard a different story. “Mom, I got to class the first day and—guess what? It’s a course for ROTC students. The textbook for World War I alone is 700 pages. You wouldn’t believe the detail—panzer division movements, inch by inch. My luck,” she sighed. “I guess I’ll stick it out, though.” She did, and escaped the carnage with a C.

But it was the arts that stoked her fires. “Berthold Brecht really inspires me,” she wrote in her journal:

Brecht is committed to art which serves a purpose other than to amuse. In Three Penny Opera he creates theater which would initiate change. I think the power of his plays comes largely from his ‘black humor,’ which cajoles the audience into laughing and then shames them for doing so. His techniques are amazing. His characters stop in the middle of scenes, walk out on long runways and lecture the audience. And he gets away with it! The result is that he enlightens and educates people so that they, in turn, can act out against social injustices. I think Brecht is as much a social worker as he is a playwright. That’s one of my goals—to write plays with his kind of power. I want to move audiences, to stir them into action.

SEPTEMBER 1988. Miriam’s father and I had been divorced for nine years. Our mutual anger long over, we were, at last, two contented families—which gave our daughter a well-deserved measure of peace. When she was eleven, Jim remarried—another woman named Rosemary, believe it or not, and Miriam inherited a stepbrother, Chris Spencer. She was thrilled to no longer be an only child. “I have a brother now!” she told her best friend.

Now that she was on her way to London, I was actually beginning to relax for once in my life, not only as a mother, but as a new wife. Larry and I had been married ten months, and at age fifty-three I still walked around like a newlywed. He was so kind and caring that I felt like a cherished bride. (And I still do after twenty-three years!) I had also settled comfortably into my new job as an engineering writer for Westinghouse. Larry was an electrical engineer at Honeywell and being in such closely allied industries gave us even more in common.

I discovered too that I had inherited an exceptional new family. Often when individuals remarry in midlife they bring emotional baggage and like-them-or-not extra family to the marriage. But not in my case. I discovered, instead, how gentle and affectionate my new stepdaughters and their husbands were. Miriam now had two super-smart stepsisters who were both artists. After our wedding, Jackie said, “It’s going to be fun having a baby sister.” In the coming weeks, we were to be blessed with our first grandchildren.

Here are Larry’s recollections on his encounters with his future stepdaughter:

The night I met Miriam for the first time, she virtually filled the room with her presence. She was so natural and so wonderfully explosive. It was the highest level of exuberance born of a need to share her life’s experiences and discoveries. I had never met anyone quite like her. This animated enthusiasm extended to every surface and limb of her long, lean, ever-dancing frame. Her shoulders, arms and hands covered almost as much space as her feet as she gracefully darted about. I found it hard work for my eyes to follow her. Her warm and laughing smile drew you to listen and you dared not let go for fear that you would miss some of the charming and interesting things she had to say. My being there, a total stranger, had not inhibited her in the least.

Larry is such an attentive, diplomatic listener. The truth is she talked his ear off for four hours, even in the car, barely pausing to give the waiter her order at the Wooden Nickel.

During those first days of their getting acquainted, I saw my daughter through Larry’s eyes. Weren’t everybody’s kids this intense? I guess not. Sometimes her sensitivity to others’ needs almost overwhelmed her. When she hung up the phone after an hour of listening to a college friend in crisis, she herself was in tears. “I wish there was something I could do for her. I know—I’ll send her Shel Silverstein’s Where the Sidewalk Ends. That’ll cheer her up.” Then there was the telephone with our twenty-five-foot cord. She’d pace from kitchen to dining room, back through the kitchen and into the living room. If we’d had cell phones then, she’d have walked miles during each conversation. But she also stopped long enough to doodle on any piece of paper on the kitchen table. I’d come down to breakfast wondering, Now where is my grocery list? It was still there, but unrecognizable, hidden among exotic critters and squiggles.

I spent so much time doing the formal parenting thing (“Got your book bag?” “Wear a jacket, it’s cold out”) that I didn’t spend enough time just talking with Miriam. I’m hooked on the TV show Brothers and Sisters. What astounds me is the sizzling, often combative conversations, the arguments, the talked-out misunderstandings. Never in my entire growing up did we have such sessions in my house, where my parents’ authority ruled.

When Larry came on the scene, he stepped into the role of friendly debater—not planning to; it came naturally to him. We were on our way to a holiday party, sponsored by the Society gracefully darted about. I found it hard work for my eyes to follow her. Her warm and laughing smile drew you to listen and you dared not let go for fear that you would miss some of the charming and interesting things she had to say. My being there, a total stranger, had not inhibited her in the least. of Professional Journalists, at the H.L. Mencken House in Baltimore. In the car, a heated exchange nearly boiled over. I had had a nasty car accident and was cited for reckless driving. Lucky for me, the case was dismissed; the other driver and arresting officer didn’t show up in court.

Miriam retorted, “Mom, you didn’t deserve to get off like that. You were guilty, you should’ve been punished.” “You know, Miriam,” Larry interjected, “your mother actually did get punished. She got three points on her license and eleven stitches in her head.”

She frowned, unconvinced that justice had been served. With her college freshman fervor and idealism, she seemed to set even tougher standards for me than she did for the rest of the world.

A year later, on our first anniversary, she sent us one of our most treasured possessions, a card adorned with a teddy bear.

Dear Mom and Larry—It is unbearable to be here in London when what I want to do is to wish you a beary, beary HAPPY ANNIVERSARY! I couldn’t be happier for you. You both have taught me a great deal about love and you have an equal partnership that most marriages never achieve. The success of your marriage is not due to luck or chance: you both are extraordinarily giving individuals, which helps you to compromise when necessary. The harmony you have achieved in your relationship spills over into my life and I’m very grateful for that. You are both such special people. You deserve the best that life has tooffer. And you have found it—in each other. May your relationship continue to blossom and change and grow forever. All my love, Miriam.

TO SEND us this card, she had to reach the point where she no longer agonized over the prospect of feeling abandoned, of losing her mother. Did she reach this point easily? Absolutely not.

Editor and Chief McCalls Magazine 1993

Reviewed by Kate White

Reading about Miriam has had a very big effect on my life—I really carry her wisdomwith me every day now. I had gotten away from seeing the joy of each day and she has restored my spirit. What a fabulous legacy.

Amazon.com Book Reviews

An average review of Review Stars FIVE STARS was earned by Miriam's Gift.

Syracuse Herald American

"Mild shares with readers the horrific night she and her husband spent waiting for word from Pan Am. She also describes her own jagged journey from anguish to healing."

"Mild refuses to let the terrorists who stole her daughter's life defeat her by dragging her down in hatred, preferring to take heart from, and share with the world, Miriam's Gift--the gift of love."

Midweek Magazine, Honolulu, Hawaii