In memory of Beverly Yedor, 1929 - 2026

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My mom lived for 96 years. Like everyone, she experienced joy, hardship, success, and failure. But her story was uniquely her own.

Her parents were Jewish immigrants who, as children, fled the eastern European pogroms.  My mom was the youngest of four children raised in an apartment on Chicago’s south side surrounded by numerous relatives.  It was a large, close-knit clan.  My father, Tim, was her Calumet High graduation date who she married a few years after graduation.  They moved into a two-bedroom apartment close to the Graber family.  That’s where my sister and I were born.

My dad sold shoes at Goldblatts, my mom cleaned nearby apartments.  (Please keep this between us; she wouldn’t want my relatives to know.)  My grandmother was my babysitter.  We were probably poor, but it didn’t matter. 

There was love. 

My dad had a big personality, one that commanded attention.  My mom was soft-spoken; content to be in the background, quietly holding everything together.  This was a yin/yang balance common among married couples in the 1950s.  He was the law-giver/punisher.  “Wait till your father comes home,” was a common refrain to any of my minor, innocent and always very cute infractions.  While he led with flash, mom was the silent support system. Like the plate-spinner on The Tonight Show, if one of us wobbled, she was there to keep us upright and spinning in the correct orbit.

We left Chicago in the early 1960s; my dad had upped his game to a manufacturer’s representative.  Suddenly we were rich; well, rich enough to move into a three-bedroom duplex in Des Plaines.  I had my own bedroom! 

How rich were we?  Well, the first summer of Disney World’s opening; all of my friends were vacationing at the resort.  My folks considered it. Past summers were YMCA camp.  My dad, apparently having investigated the cost, settled on a family trip north to visit a “famous” baseball stadium in Wisconsin.  “Babe Ruth once played baseball there!”  I was sold.  But it turned out that the stadium had been demolished a generation ago.  We stayed in a hotel that had an incredible pool containing a wide variety of dead insects and several phyla of algae (my family was “Green” before it became a thing), and slept on a bed that shook when you put a quarter in the meter.  Yep.  It was awesome.

Back for the fall semester at school, my classmates were buzzing about Space Mountain.  I one-upped them by saying, “Bet you've never petted a live goat.”  I guess that’s when I realized we weren’t exactly rich.

But we always had fun.

Of course there were legendary battles.  There was the Food Fight/Religious Wars Period.  My mom kept kosher; my dad did not.  In those early days, mom’s dietary restrictions reigned despite my dad’s mild protestations.  And while my dad rarely ate, he somehow managed to gain weight.  However, once we kids got a taste of the other side and were old enough to vote (well, to whine vociferously), the tide turned. 

Mom: “Who wants a nice homemade dinner, Knish with Gefilte Fish?  For dessert, we could have hamantaschen.”

Dad: “Who wants a McDonald’s cheeseburger and fries?  For dessert, we could have chocolate shakes.”

Sure, my dad easily won the food fight.  But perhaps in the long run lost the war.  He had a heart attack.  And these days I take a statin for high cholesterol.

And let’s not forget the Sibling Rivalry Era.  My sister and I had the typical older sister/younger brother dynamic.  She was a bully; I was a brat.

As kids, every time mom broke up one of our fights, which was often, and fun for us kids, my sister would run to her crying, hold mom’s leg with one hand, my toy with the other; and, as my mom admonished me (that’s where the “wait till your father comes home” phase was coined) my sister would scrunch up her face and stick out her tongue.  She and my mom would leave the room, my sister looking back with a triumphant smile.  What historians refer to as the Three Thousand Day War ended in an armistice when my adolescent growth-spurt kicked in.

So yes, I was the Tommy Smothers of the two; mom liked her best.  Not that it mattered.  It wasn’t like mom could teach me how to throw a curveball.  And anyhow, I had my father. 

My relationship with my dad was parent first, friend second.  For instance, he coached my little league team to ensure I had fun.  But he never showed favoritism.  He refused to anoint me as the starting pitcher. “You haven’t earned it,” he would say.  Although I’m pretty sure all my teammates and many sports reporters disagreed. 

My mom’s relationship with my sister was the opposite: friend first, parent maybe.  And that relationship, with the emotional investment my mom poured into it, would come to prove devastating.  She doted on her; acquiesced to every whim, supported every grandiose dream. 

So, when my sister went on a family self-improvement kick, she announced she wanted to play the clarinet and that I should learn the violin.  My dad said, “What’s a clarinet?”  I said something like, “Get bent.”  (What prepubescent boy doesn’t love taking violin lessons on a nice summer day?)  But my mom was in her corner, “Of course, dear.  That’s a great idea.”  My mom successfully pushed through the legislation on my sister’s behalf. 

Side note: While I initially fought tooth and nail against this outrage, my dad had me covered, advising me to slow my roll.  So I got my violin.  But my lessons kept being postponed because my strings were, for some mysterious reason, constantly breaking.  The violin period ended quickly because my dad said he couldn’t afford to keep buying new strings.  (And that, my friends, is how I learned "The Way," The Art of Passive Aggression; a battle-tested philosophy advocated by Sun Tzu, Machiavelli and Tim Yedor.)  Full disclosure, my sister’s clarinet era ended six months later.

Then there were her presidential ambitions.  (Don’t laugh; it almost came true for our more famous high school alum, Hillary Clinton.)  It started with her high school student council campaign.  My mom was there to provide emotional and financial support.  (I’m pretty sure mom created the first PAC.) 

Lee, my sister’s boyfriend, was her campaign manager.  A brilliant guy (a young James Carville), he developed her platform; theme and strategy.  The theme: “Home and Abroad”

           End the Dress Code (Maine East: Girl’s dresses had to be at least knee-length)

           End the War (Vietnam: it was 1971)

The strategy: To raise her profile, Lee had her wear mini-skirts and hot pants; her girlfriends did the same.  That resulted in numerous detentions and threats of expulsion, and an astronomical rise in her profile. 

Best campaign stunt ever.

If a favorability poll had been taken, opinions might have been split among the female voters.  But the males - well, they were teenage boys; enough said. 

My sister was 5’4”, 110 lbs; cute as a button.  Her opponent, poor Pat Grippo, never stood a chance.  A few months after her election victory, and keeping true to her word, the dress code was repealed.  She ended the war a few years later.

Unfortunately, a decade after that triumphant victory, my sister was gone.  That was a painful loss for the family.  But no one could have taken the blow harder than my mom; a light inside her dimmed in a way that never fully returned.

Over the years, my dad’s energy slowly drained.  A turning point came with his first heart attack.  A few years later, he ended up in the hospital after suffering a massive stroke.  Although still severely handicapped and wheelchair-bound, the rehab facility determined he had “plateaued," discharge was imminent.  My dad surreptitiously asked me to research nearby nursing homes, knowing he could never go back home, fearing the burden would have been too great for my mom to handle.

So plans were made accordingly.  I found a really nice facility; one level above “god awful,” and made the first month’s payment.  When mom found out, she changed.  Literally transformed overnight.  She insisted dad was coming home.  She would take care of him.

I had significant concerns.  Could my mom handle this enormous responsibility?  Could my dad survive comfortably without professional care?  Could I get my deposit back?

Surprisingly, it worked out.  I helped.  I did the easy part – rehab - working arms, legs, speech.  But mom took control, handling everything else.  (Nurses and caretakers of those permanently assigned to a wheelchair know exactly what that entails.) 

He had six good years.  She ensured he had a social life, physical activity, a strict diet and proper hygiene.  It’s easy to overstate her good works while ignoring the bad (I mean, seriously; even prisoners of war aren’t forced to eat helzel & yapchik.)  Let’s just say she had become a cross between Florence Nightingale and Nurse Ratched.

And then he died.  And with that, my mom’s spirit slowly dissipated.  I guess I noticed, but I didn’t really understand what was happening.  A few months after he had passed, I received a call from her beautician asking me to pick her up at the shop.  Did her car break down?  No, she just wasn’t sure how to get home.  “Home” was less than a mile away. A trip she had been making for a generation. 

Cognitive tests confirmed the onset of dementia.  Within six months, she wasn’t sure who I was. 

Mom spent her days at the memory care facility, The Friend Center.  The place was really a godsend.  They offered activities - arts and crafts, entertainment – she looked forward to going.  And the name created a sort of fortuitous confusion in her mind.  She would wake up in the morning and say, “Let’s go see my friends.” 

Her joy was heartwarming, but also heartbreaking.  With childcare, activities build on one another with development.  Adult care – things only go downhill.  Most of the time her memories were gone, but every now and then one would flicker back.

Mom actually had two great activities: the Center during the day and, believe it or not, watching Two and a half Men at night. 

Mom was a feminist and lifelong Democrat.  I have absolutely no explanation for her fixation on that outrageously misogynistic show.  But it is what it is.  I’m not sure if she understood the storylines, but she was always interacting with the show.  She would come home from the Center and say, “Put on Charlie.”  As she watched, she’d say things like, “Oh come on, Charlie.”  Or she would repeat catchphrases when memorable characters appeared.  “Never, never, never.”  Or, “Yeppers.” 

She was very content.  And pleasant.  Her go-to phrase was, “You’re too kind to me.”  She said it for anything.  

I’d pick her up at the Center.  “You’re too kind to me.”

A server would refill her water.  “You’re too kind to me.”

A shopper would bump into her at Walmart.  “You’re too kind to me.”

Sure, her memory had faded. But like a smoldering fire, a few embers would occasionally spark.  Some were pleasurable; she might remember my name or recall a past adventure.  Others were painful.  She would sometimes become upset and fearful, not knowing where she was or why she was there.  Then she would start to cry, questioning her surroundings.

“Where’s my dad?” she would ask. “Call my dad. I want to go home.”

As a disciple of my dad’s “The Way,” I found it distressing but easy to handle.

“Your dad will be here soon,” I’d assure her. “Here, have some more juice.”

Minutes later that spark would die out, and it was back to: “Oh, come on, Charlie.”

That phase of her life ended with a life-threatening operation for internal bleeding.  She spent over a week in the hospital.  Then 92 days in rehab.  She fought for her life.  She survived.  But she came home angry.

Gone were the “You’re too kind to me” days; replaced by, “You’re fat.  Fat, Fat, Fat.”  (I’m really not fat.  Sure, I could stand to lose a few pounds.  But I embrace the body positivity movement, so I’m good.)  It was amusing/embarrassing being out in public with her; she had no filter.  Like a schoolyard bully, she would make fun of someone’s physical defects.  “Big Nose!”  “Pimple Face!”  “You’re bald!”

And she would lash out physically at anyone nearby.  Before switching to Telemed visits, doctors’ exams were a challenge.  This was the scene from her last in-person Wellness exam.

Doctor: “Now Beverly, I’m just going to lean in slightly to listen to your heart."

Me: “She hits,” I warned.  “Do you want me to hold her hands?”

Doctor gives me a look; you know the one – the one that conveys, “I’ve been practicing geriatric medicine for the past 200 years.  I know what I’m doing.”

Me: “I could get behind her and hold her arms.”

Doctor again gives me The Look.  Then, holding his stethoscope, he slowly moves forward and leans down.  “Okay, Beverly.  I’m just going to touch your chest softly to listen to …

“Bam!” Mom shouts as she slaps his head.  “Yourrre baaaald!”

Me: “Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha (to infinity).”

Doctor: This time, a different look.  “A little help here.”

Needless to say, the Friend Center gently bid her adieu. 

So in her last few years there was a certain anger and hostility.  But she was still very content.  And amusingly, she took on a regal air.  I’d help her get dressed.  She would hold up her right hand.  “Ring,” she’d demand.  Then she’d raise her chin slightly.  “Necklace.”  And while watching TV, she would sometimes pound the table a couple of times with her empty glass, hold it up and command, “Juice!” 

And until the very end, she had Charlie.

I was lucky to be her son for 69 years.

May her memory be a blessing.

Corrections and Clarifications:

As felon George Santos might say, mom’s obituary is true-ish. Below are the corrections.

1. My Parents: My mom met my dad after her prom; he was a friend of her prom date.

2. Hillary: She spent her first three years at Maine East High School. She transferred to, and graduated from, Maine South.

3. My Sister (She Who Must Not Be Named):

A. She might still be alive. During her college years she grew angry and resentful towards my parents for imaginary slights and insults and cut off contact. Since then I’ve seen her briefly perhaps a half dozen times, the last being 2001 at my dad’s funeral.

B. The Student Council campaign: 

1. She ran for treasurer.

2. The Maine East dress code had been dropped a few years earlier.

3. Campaign manager Lee Sonin talked her into wearing hot paints for her school  assembly speech and had her girlfriends campaign for her in mini-skirts. 

4. Her opponent was Patty Grippo.

5. And perhaps most importantly, she had nothing to do with ending the Vietnam War.