I was reluctant, at first, when asked to be a guest on the podcast, Our Mothers Ourselves. Other guests had raved about their mothers’ inspiring qualities and unconditional love. My mother, Alice Davidson, however, was the quintessential Jewish mother—critical, dominant—who never seemed satisfied with what I did or who I was. She was complex: funny, high-spirited, and creative, and she was quick to become angry and hold a grudge. It was not until the end of her life that I was able to appreciate what I’d inherited from her: a love of story-telling, curiosity, and the confidence to aim high and not let any barriers stand in the way.

Before I’d listened to the podcast, my niece, Summer, sent me a clip of a standup comic, Sarge, doing a bit about Jewish mothers.  “Reminds me of Alice. Love her,” Summer wrote. I sent it to my daughter, Rachel, who said it was not a caricature. “It’s spot on.”

So. Alice was born in Los Angeles in 1914, named after Alice Roosevelt. Her father had traveled from Hungary to New York in 1904, but couldn’t find steady work there, so he went to San Francisco with no better outcome. As a last resort, he took the train to Los Angeles, where Sunset Blvd had just been opened. Because he’d learned the upholstery trade in his Hungarian village, he quickly found a job at Barker Brothers Furniture. He sent a telegram to his wife, whom he’d left in New York with their first daughter. “Sell everything you got and come to California.”

Alice’s dream, growing up, was to be an actress. She studied acting and English at UCLA, but graduated during the Depression, when the best job she could find was as a teacher. She learned from her parents to be frugal and search for bargains, so when we went shopping, we couldn’t just buy a dress I liked. We had to go to four stores to see if we could find a better price, or she’d write down the style number and call friends whose husbands worked in the rag trade to see if we could get it wholesale.

We called her the “send-back queen,” because we rarely had a meal in a restaurant where she didn’t send back food. She once sent back a plate of stuffed cabbage because, she told the waiter, “It’s not the way my mother made it.”

In summers we went to a resort, Highland Springs, which was similar to resorts for Jewish families in the Catskills. We’d have our family table and the first thing Alice asked when checking in was, “Who’s our waiter?”

If his name was Arnold, everyone in the dining hall would hear her calling, “Arnold! Arnold!” She told him, “I want my eggs over easy, not runny, my bacon crisp, not limp, my toast dark but not burned…” Halfway through the meal he’d be running in circles, sweating.

A friend who lives in St. Paul tells me Midwesterners don’t send food back. “They think it’s not polite.” I said I’d seen her husband send food back…. “That’s different,” she said. “He’s Jewish Midwestern.”

Alice was also an expert at returning merchandise, no matter what the expiration date was. Rachel recently texted the family, “You know you’re a Davidson when you make a formal complaint to McDonald’s and get a coupon for a free meal.”

I responded, “You know you’re a Davidson when you get a refund for a special order that was not refundable.”

All her life, Alice had a large circle of friends who adored her. She was entertaining, smart, and did hilarious imitations. I learned from her how to pace a story and use body language, and became equally good at imitations.

The Jewish mother typically rules the house; she dominates, and as I grew older, I chafed at being dominated. She was a fierce adversary, and if I did not agree with her or cave to her wishes, she’d stay boiling for days. I’d come home from school, open the back door, and I could feel the anger seeping through the house like a black fog. It was hard to breathe.

My younger sister, Terry, had a completely different relationship with Alice, who encouraged and protected her. When I was about eight, Alice had a “nervous breakdown” and started seeing a psychiatrist. She later told me she’d learned that she’d placed me in the role of her older sister, who was favored by their parents: “My sister had the largest bedroom, the best clothes, and first choice at everything.” Alice competed and fought with me as she’d fought with her sister. I would get straight A’s in school, but Alice would say, “You get A’s in school but F’s at home.” I was the smart one. Terry was the nice one.

Alice had no fear of standing up to or alienating people. When she was in the hospital for a surgery, her nurse had become frustrated and said, “You’re the worst patient.”

“And you’re the worst nurse,” Alice shot back.

She was a terrible driver, often slamming on the brakes or cutting people off. In her 60’s, she forgot to renew her license and had to take a driving test. Terry and I told her jokingly, “Mom, you won’t pass.” She was not amused. She took the test and when the examiner said she hadn’t passed, she asked, “When may I take it again?

“When do you want to?”

“How about right now,” she said. “I’ve been driving for fifty years, I’m not going to go home and practice!”

When I was preparing for the podcast, I realized that in many ways, she’d been a good mother for a daughter who wanted to be a writer. She taught me to watch and listen to people closely, to look for funny or incongruous details, and to never accept a rejection. “Just go higher,” she said. If a clerk said no, she’d ask to speak to the manager, and if the manager said no, she’d call or write to the company president.

She raised me, by example, to be determined and to go to any length to fulfill an assignment. I loved modern dance, and when my class was preparing for a recital, the teacher asked us all to get white leotards for the performance. I called the nearest dance stores, but no one had a white leotard. This was long before the internet and all we had were ungainly phonebooks. Alice called every dance store in every phonebook in the county until she found a place that had a white leotard in my size. We drove more than an hour to reach the store, but at the next dance class, all 12 of the other students said they couldn’t find a white leotard. I was the only one whose mother had procured one.

When my parents grew older, I thought that if my mother died first, my father would be snapped up by one of the widows they knew. He was cheerful, generous, and could fix anything. But if my father died first, I worried, who would take on Alice?

As it happened, he died at 81, and one week later, Alice had a date with a man to go square dancing. I said, “Mom, Dad just died a week ago…”

She said, “I’m 75. What am I gonna wait for? Your father would have wanted me to keep dancing.”

She was never without a “boyfriend” (four died on her) up to her last day. The final one, a retired doctor, had been in a severe depression after his wife died and said that Alice had brought him back to life.

In her late 80’s, she began to develop Alzheimer’s, and had a radical personality change. She became sweet and gentle, quick to smile, and content with everything. The doctor I spoke with called her state “pleasantly demented.”  She lived completely in the moment and had no memory to compare anything with. When we moved her to a care home in Honolulu, she ate everything she was served, including an over cooked hamburger on a stale bun. She sent nothing back.

For the first time in my adult years, I could be with her without feeling constriction in my chest. So when Terry called from Hawaii to tell me she was slipping and if I wanted to see her, I should come, I rushed to the airport. Terry picked me up and we drove to the care home. I remember thinking she looked beautiful. Her face had a rosy color and her arm was bent up with her palm to her cheek, like a bird with a folded wing.

She did not open her eyes that day but the next, when a nurse came to bathe her with a warm sponge, her eyes snapped open. I put my face close to hers and said, “I’m here, Mom. I love you. I’m so happy to see you.” She stared back at me, and as the nurse continued bathing her, she kept her eyes locked on mine.

“You’ve been a wonderful mother,” I said. It’s okay to let go now. Terry and I are grown, we have children, and everyone is doing well. You can let go…let go into love.”

She pursed her lips, keeping her eyes on mine. “It’s a kiss!” Terry said. Then Alice closed her eyes, and the next day, she was gone.

Thank you, Alice.

Guests on Our Mothers, Ourselves are asked for one word that describes their mother. They’ve said things like “honest,” “loyal,” “protective,” “devoted.” The word I came up with was “a force.” What word would you choose to describe your mother? Please put it in a comment below.

Listen to Sara on Our Mothers Ourselves.