Thursday, January 16, 2020
I have fostered no small degree of anxiety in the past number of years, that, as Helen grew older, I wouldn't get a chance to see her again. Sadly, that proved true but David, in his boundless generosity, made certain that I was able to have a short chat over the phone with her in the last hours before she became ill. For that effort on David's part, and for those few brief words with the woman herself, I will forever be grateful.
Growing up, as my contemporary on the driveway, David was my best friend. Our house, across the drive, was, in general, a beehive of activity with our family of four boys and the three Perlmutt boys making all manner of mischief and mayhem. Projects abounded from casting molten lead, making wooden tommy guns or fashioning some grizzly go-kart or mini-bike from lawn mowers, bicycles, roller-skates and wire. For me, the Perlmutt kitchen was a sane retreat from the calamity at our place. The comfort level there was all due to Helen's graceful presents. For me, from 4 to 14, she was the most caring woman in my sphere. Even if I were to visit on my own, she would sit me down in the kitchen, always with a wonderful sweet, cookie or cake and, novel to me from a household where our Mom refused us sodas, Coca cola on ice.
I loved the smell of her kitchen, her wonderful southern demeanor, her marvelous sense of humor which brought on her remarkable laugh which always left me desperate to make her do it again. Alas, however, she didn't need me for a laugh, she drew humor from many corners, not the least of which spawned from her joy of children and to no small measure, as I learned as I grew older, her love of irony.
She raised three wonderful people who I have had the great blessing of having (or still) know(n) throughout my upbringing.
I won't forget this gracious person.....
Hugh Taylor
