Ann Marie Caplan (1933-2024)
A short biography of my non-conformist mom.
My mom, Ann Marie Caplan, recently died at the age of 91. She was not famous, but built a remarkable, non-conformist life for herself. Born Ann Marie McCarthy, she grew up in a poor Irish-American family in Revere, Massachusetts during the Great Depression. Her father earned a law degree, but due to tough economic times he remained a humble railroad worker throughout his career. Before her marriage, Ann’s mother was a buyer for a department store, but subsequently stayed home to raise her three children: Joseph, Ann, and Arthur.
My mom was a classic child of the Depression. “Times were tough” and “Waste not, want not” were two of her favorite lines. Though she never claimed to suffer from actual hunger or homelessness during her youth, extras were few and far between. She often described the one special time that she received a single box of chocolates as a gift. (Along with the way her two brothers stole and ate virtually all of them!) During World War II, she was hired by a lettuce farm with her brothers and cousins to pick the crop. Ann’s family did, however, have money to spare for a Saturday movie — a weekly highlight.
According to my mom, she and her brothers were always the best students in their local schools. She enjoyed books from an early age, and was in her high school drama club. But when she finished high school in the early 1950s, college barely crossed her mind. Instead, she started working — and dreaming of exotic jobs. She soon landed a post working for the U.S. Air Force in Japan right after the end of the Korean War. She was a secretary for several years in Japan as well as Korea, and spent the rest of her life talking about her days as an expat. “When I was in Japan…” came up routinely in my childhood — and always segued into another of her stories.
In hindsight, I suspect that these tales of her youth (unlike mine, naturally!) were heavily embellished. But her photos confirm the broad strokes.
Here’s my mom in a kimono…
and shooting a rifle on a military firing range…
and sitting in a tank.
After her years in East Asia, my mom returned to the U.S. to work for several airlines — including Brazil’s Varig — in the Boston, New York, and Bay areas. In an era when the median age of marriage was barely 20, she kept working — and dating. She loved to tell us about her countless boyfriends, as well as the many marriage proposals she rejected. After one such tale when I was around 10, I asked her “What would have happened to me if you’d married him?” To which she answered, “Well, you’d look a little different.” Not consistent with my view of the Non-Identity Problem, but my mom had little patience for philosophy.
In 1963, my mom was still single and living in San Francisco. She had already turned thirty — an old maid by the standards of the day. And then, to my great fortune, she met my dad, Larry Caplan, a Jewish man five years her junior. After a short courtship, he married this Catholic shiksa over his parents’ objection. They boycotted the wedding, but about a year later, agreed to meet her. Before long, she became their strongest advocate. My grandfather was a difficult man, but my mom bent over backwards to bring three generations of Caplans together for every major holiday.
Soon after marrying, my parents moved to Los Angeles. Until then, my dad had been an indifferent student. Now, he was finally motivated. He quickly finished his B.S. in engineering at UCLA, then a master’s degree, and finally a Ph.D. During those years, the young couple had two sons: my brother Greg, born in 1967, and me, born in 1971. After years of travelling the world and making her own way, my mom became a full-time housewife. Nonetheless, as she frequently reminded me, she “was not put on this Earth to be my slave.”
During those years, my dad combined his studies with a job at Hughes Aircraft. Around the time Larry finished his Ph.D., the best student in the history of Revere, Massachusetts decided to get her B.A. from Cal State Northridge. While she was raising us, my mom dreamed of becoming a teacher — and pursued her wide range of hobbies. First and foremost, she loved creative writing, especially of autobiographical works. Besides her regular CSUN courses, she took writing classes — and wound up befriending her teacher and kindred spirit Frances Rockwell, a compatriot of famed science fiction author Ray Bradbury.
My mom loved talking to complete strangers wherever she went. Despite her kids’ vocal embarrassment, her outgoing nature let her accumulate a long list of friends. While mom’s posse often seemed odd to the rest of the family, she preferred to describe each of them as “quite a character.”
After getting her B.A. and teaching credential, Ann taught full-time for only a single year, at St. John Baptist de la Salle School in Granada Hills. My memory is that she found her students too hard to manage. Or as she colorfully put it, “They were a bunch of brats.” A few years later, however, she started doing substitute teaching for Los Angeles Unified School District, which suited her better. As I was growing up, my mom always kept busy: “I work my fingers to the bone!” was her favorite way to begin a monologue. But not too busy to read to me, drive me to distant Dungeons and Dragons games, or go hiking at the creek.
My fondest memory of my mom comes from the time a stray dog followed me home. When I was returning from school in 5th or 6th grade, I saw a wet black dog on the sidewalk. A nearby homeowner had plainly sprayed her with a hose to send her on her way. I told the dog to leave me alone, but she happily refused. Once I reached home, the rest of the family was away, so I gave the dog some water and cat food. When my mom saw what I had done, she was quite displeased: “We can’t keep her.” But when I half-cried, “We can’t take her to the pound!” she didn’t have the heart to contradict me.
My dad was even less-pleased to see a stray dog running around, but my mom kept him in check. Her compromise: “We’ll take the dog to the animal adoption center this weekend.” Before that happened, however, I named the puppy “Smurfette.” (I liked The Smurfs. Still do). After the adoption center visit predictably failed to find Smurfette a home, I was panicking: “We can’t take her to the pound!” Again, mom didn’t have the heart to contradict me. A few days later, I hopefully asked if we were returning to the animal adoption center the next weekend. When that didn’t happen, I counted my good fortune and kept my mouth shut.
After another week or so, I timidly asked, “So we’re keeping her?” “Yes, but we should think of another name.” Before long, even my dad admitted that Duchess was the best dog we ever had. I had few human friends in elementary school or junior high, but thanks to the mercy of my mom, Duchess was always there for me.
By the time I was in high school, my mom found new time for old interests. She added many new characters to her posse, pursued her writing, and travelled with her friend, Valerie. She never made it back to Japan, but studied Italian for a semester before an extended visit to Italy. In the 90s as in the 30s, she loved the movies. Not stupid action movies with, as she scoffed, “apple carts getting turned over.” But art films like My Own Private Idaho, which she took me to see when I was in college.
Do not see this movie with your mom!
My brother and I kept our parents waiting a long time for grandchildren. But when the next generation finally arrived, my mom was predictably delighted. She visited us several times in Virginia, and even went trick-or-treating with me and the twins dressed as a cardinal. Whenever the grandkids came to L.A., she was an eager babysitter. Her closest grandchild, though, was little Katie, who grew up just five minutes away. And, if I may say, looks just like her nanna.
Well into her 80s, my mom remained active and healthy. The last time I saw her before Covid, she was forgetful and slept a lot, but still feisty whenever she was awake. Sadly, though, her dementia kept getting worse. Our last conversation was in 2021 at her assisted living facility. She didn’t seem to recognize me, but enjoyed singing songs with me, Simon, and Vali. Though I saw her several more times, we were never able to speak again, but thanks to her devoted husband, she lived her last years in comfort and good company. When Vali and I visited her back in April, she didn’t seem too interested in me, but she positively beamed to see my daughter. Who also, if I may say, looks just like her nanna.
P.S. If you knew my mom, her memorial service is this Friday in Los Angeles.
Thanks for giving all of us the delight of learning a little about your amazing mom. Sorry for your loss. It looks like you and your family will always have some interesting memories to talk about.
What a nice tribute to your Mom. Mine is the same age and struggling - what a common human experience humankind shares. Sounds like your Mom was a great one. My condolences to you all.
Now I must watch My Own Private Idaho. I'll raise toast to her and to you.