My Mom, Billie Sloan, was stunningly beautiful, inside and out, and everywhere she went, heads turned. Maybe she was aware, but it never showed. She had a Jackie Kennedy way about her, glamorous and yet understated. Her jewelry was simple - a small diamond on a delicate chain hung around her neck, and she had a knack for wearing cool bracelets. Mom’s hands were beautiful with long fingers and red painted nails; the inscription inside her wide wedding band read, “I will love you forever, Paul.”

Mom grew up in Chicago and was the sixth of seven children. I wonder if her humor, calm, and steady demeanor resulted from surviving the noise and drama of such a large family. Her mother successfully managed the busy household through the Great Depression and World War II. Her Dad was in the fur business before moving the family to Columbus in 1940 to open a plumbing company, Sterling Supply. Below, all seven siblings are gathered around my grandparents, seated in the foreground.

Uncle Morrie (standing behind Mom) was my Dad’s business partner, a wonderful uncle, and a very funny man. Joanie loved reading, biking, and my brother, Bobby. Irving was a WWII veteran who fought for three years in Africa and Europe as a tanker. He was also the last to pass away. I can still hear my Aunt Myrtle’s laugh today. She became my hero in 1971 when she convinced me I needed to move to Washington D.C. to be with Rocky. I never got to know my Uncle Roy, who died of scarlet fever in the thirties, but from what I’ve been told, Roy was the most beloved. And the youngest, Uncle Eddie, was a conundrum and always had a tough time finding his way.

Mom was nineteen when she married Dad and only twenty when my twin brother, Steve, and I were born. Growing up with my brothers and everyone else who knew my parents, it was obvious how much in love they were. Flirting and laughing came naturally, and they loved dancing to Billie Holiday and Frank Sinatra songs.  They were romantic and liked eating late dinners with dimmed lights and burning candles.

I idolized Mom. She was smart, compassionate, open-minded, an independent thinker, and into women’s rights long before the feminist movement took off in the sixties. She was charitable to those less fortunate and incredibly generous with friends. More than once, I watched her take a bracelet off her wrist or an object from the table and give it to someone simply because they admired it. She was the first to wear the latest styles, including mini skirts and high-heeled boots.

As for bugs, Mom was afraid of them but told me spiders were ok because they ate bugs. When I started walking in high heels and complained about sore feet, she would say, “Just remember, you have to suffer for beauty!” Regarding guys, her mantra was, “Honey, always play it cool. Never call a guy. Let them call you,” and I took her advice. After being in Kenley Players productions in junior high, “The King and I” and “Flower Drum Song,” Mom thought I should spell my name Suzy instead of Susie. Not only did she like it better, she thought it was catchier and more Hollywood. To Mom’s dismay, my acting career ended after Kenley Players, and I stayed with the name Susie. But when she passed away seventeen years later, I changed the spelling to Suzy. There are so many great stories about Mom floating around, and every time I run into someone who knew and loved her, I get a chance to hear another.

Our home in Bexley had Mom’s designer touch. A billiard room was central to our living space, and our kitchen featured an indoor grill built right into the countertop. The kitchen walls were painted chocolate brown, the latest trend in paint colors, and every light switch was on a dimmer. Maintaining an immaculate kitchen and owning the latest gadgets was of utmost importance to Mom, even though she didn’t like cooking. She never minded being teased about her lack of cooking skills, but when it came to brisket, matzo ball soup, twice-baked potatoes, and crispy French toast, no one had her beat.

My Mom and Aunt Cissie opened one of the first interior design stores in Columbus, The House on Main Street, just outside Bexley. Furniture, art, accessories, and unique gifts filled the house, and I couldn’t wait to work there on holidays and summer vacations. Even though I was young, my Mom, aunt, and designer, Bill Akin, took me under their wing into a world of design and made me feel like I belonged.

Mom adored my friends and having them at the house. The feeling was mutual; they loved her. She was young at heart, hip, and loved joking around. They sometimes confided in her and asked for advice because she was intuitive and honest. Mom’s friends were also coming and going: young, old, gay, straight, Jewish, non-Jewish, black, white, and lots of interior designers. Her girlfriends meant everything to her - Robin, Annette, Shirlie, Rose, Betty, and Joann, to name a few. I was lucky to grow up with these incredible women who became my friends and remained so long after my Mom passed away.

Laughter filled our home, but Mom’s laugh was the most infectious of all. She would begin a funny story and just before the end, started laughing so hard you couldn’t understand a word she was saying. It was frustrating, yet hilarious, and you couldn’t help but laugh right along. There’s no question, if Mom were here today, she would ask with her dry wit, “Why doesn’t your memoir include more stories about me, like the suede poncho story, the Sir Bingo Boy story, or the night I accidentally left the birdcage on the radiator?” Sometimes I hear myself laugh, and it’s Mom’s laugh I hear - as if, for a split second, we’re the same person.

Mom was never shy about performing at parties, but her claim to fame was singing “Second Hand Rose,” and she did it so well. The song became an international hit in 1968 after Barbra Streisand sang it in the movie Funny Girl.

Mom performed it solo or with anyone brave enough to join her, And my Dad was usually the first in line. It didn’t matter if there were twenty people in a room or a hundred and twenty, she gave it her all. Here she is singing with my Dad and with Rocky's Dad.

When Mom met Rocky for the first time, it was instant adoration. She didn’t care we had different religions or that he grew up in a Republican family. What she loved about him (besides his short haircut and the fact his father was a United States Senator) was his kindness, character, and humor. Rocky knew just how to charm Mom and caught on quickly to her sense of humor. She liked to joke about having a lawyer in the family to bail us out when someone got in trouble. It was usually my brothers, Steve and Bobby. One time, I was so excited to show Mom a new watch Rocky gave me for our first anniversary. I proudly stuck out my wrist when she said, “Honey, I see a tiny scratch on the glass. You should probably tell Rocky so he can exchange it.” I was so embarrassed to tell him, but when I did, he replied, “I know, that’s why they gave me 20% off.” My Mom thought it was hilarious! I wasn’t so sure.

My parents made their first trip to Mechanicsburg when Dolly and Bill invited them for dinner; what a night that was! I worried that something would go wrong for weeks because our parents were so different. Mom arrived dressed in white from head to toe - a white blouse, white jeans, and white leather boots. Before going inside, Bill wanted to show off his cattle and invited them to tag along through the cow pasture. Rocky and I decided it was too much to handle and headed inside. When the three of them returned to the house, they found us in the kitchen eating hors d’oeuvres. Just as Dolly was about to hug Mom, everyone stepped back, gasped for air, looked down at the floor, and wouldn’t you know it, Mom’s white pants and left boot were covered in cow dung. Welcome to the country, Mom and Dad!

After Sarah and Jake were born, Mom and I grew closer. I had a greater appreciation for motherhood and what it took to have two babies in diapers at the same time, just as she did. I reveled seeing how much Mom loved Sarah and Jake, but unfortunately, their time together was short-lived. Mom was a smoker and was diagnosed with lung cancer in 1978 at the young age of fifty. She passed away only two weeks later, and my family’s world came crashing down. Steve and I were thirty, and Bobby was only twenty-one. I lost my best friend, and Sarah and Jake would never get to know and love this extraordinary woman they called Nana.  

There was so much more I wanted to know about Mom - stories about her childhood, her high school and college experiences, and the many things that formed her character. With all the love and laughter in her life, there was a deeper, mysterious, and sometimes melancholy side to her I never got to know because she was gone, just like that. Like the words in E. E. Cummings’ famous poem, “I Carry Your Heart With Me,” I carry Mom’s heart (in mine) everywhere I go. Below are the two of us singing her song, Second Hand Rose.