When my mother met my father, Victor, (through her sister, Irma), she fell head over heels in love. They struggled in the beginning, sharing a bite-sized apartment on 90th Street on the West Side of Manhattan. I soon came along, and they moved closer to my grandparents on 34th Street on the East Side. They scrimped and saved, but my mother managed to send me to ballet school and give me piano lessons, denying herself any little extras. She always said they ate a lot of rice and beans in order to save money. My sister, Renee, and I grew up in a very happy and musical home, listening to all kinds of music. My mother would play her classical 78s, everything from Rachmaninoff to Ravel. I would pretend to be a ballerina and dance to the Nutcracker and others. We both would watch our parents dancing mambo, merengue, and chachacha, waiting for our turn to dance on our father's feet. My mother had a profound impact on my tastes in both music and literature. She loved Spanish and English poetry and literature, and lit a passion for these in me. Mamy would read me abridged versions of the classics, and I can remember attempting to read books such as Pride and Prejudice at the ripe old age of 9 because of Mamy. Everything I am is due to her, and I am so grateful that we had such a wonderful mother. After our dad died in 1965, she became both father and mother to us. We were lucky to call her Mamy, and she will live in our hearts and souls forever. " (May) flights of angels sing thee to thy rest."
