Tilda's parents

One recent Saturday I walked into the Y, scanned my card, and asked one of the helpers at the desk, "Have my parents been in yet today?"
No, she answered, but she'd only been there since 11 a.m.
It didn't occur to me until later how many assumptions I had made: that she knew who my parents were in the first place, and that she had noticed whether they were among the hordes of folks who visit the Y on a weekend.
Then I realized: No. We're talking about MY parents. People remember them, and vividly.
My mother is endlessly curious. She is the reason why I delight in writing about odd plants sprouting in the garden, or who I saw across the room at lunch, and what we ate. When I leave questions unanswered in this column, I get a phone call from her.
"Tilda Lee," she'll chide me. "Where is that man's farm that you wrote about? You didn't say. And what does he do for a living?"
She is also compassionate, friendly to all, and optimistic and has both an uproarious laugh and a well-honed sense of agency and justice that sends her flying to the phone if she spots an error on a bill ("What is this? I don't even know what texting is!"), or if a bag of salad goes bad before its expiration date. My English skills, which pay the bills nowadays, are thanks to her; as long as I can remember we made weekly trips to the public library and joyfully brought home stacks of books.
The other half of the couple is, of necessity, quieter but no less memorable and distinctive himself. My father taught his three children how to talk to anyone, how to shake hands correctly, how to save and spend money wisely and how to negotiate a great deal from even veteran car salespeople. Both he and my mother, by example, instilled in us a competitive drive to "do it right" and a love of work that is a gift beyond price.
My folks started out modestly, and all of us kids now urge them, with exasperation, to splurge on whatever they want, be it Champagne or a condo on Sanibel (yes, even in high season). But just try grabbing a dinner check from Dad; it's not gonna happen.
I'm beyond proud to introduce them to my friends and neighbors, and it tickles me that they enjoy this silly column so much (even though it took them weeks to figure out it was their daughter writing it).
They celebrated their 58th wedding anniversary this month.
Happy Anniversary, Mum and Dad.