M to the O to the M

Task 19, May 9 to May 16

“Life doesn’t come with a manual, it comes with a mom.” Martha Brook

Over the course of the last six plus decades I’ve had 4 homes, 17 cars, including a Vista Cruiser station wagon with a searchlight that I called “the dark star” and a ‘59 MGA that didn’t have a top so I when it rained…; I lived with (I say “lived with” rather than “owned” because all of the animals were the property of my wife and I reluctantly, and often indignantly, shared space with them…) 3 cats, one of which, Bucky, was a Manx, which means it had no tail, which I found endlessly amusing; a number of (my brain won’t let me remember how many) raggedy, food-thieving, doe-eyed labs; AND, to swerve back to the theme of this post, I’ve had THREE MOMS. Or more specifically three women that (to use a definition that I cribbed from Reddit) demonstrated an abundance of unconditional love…

Occupying the third spot in my mom-orial is the late “Moms” M. Her first name was Clara (I think…no one called her that) and the true mother of my friend Larry. “Moms” was feisty and sharp-tongued; a shrewd judge of character and incapable of being hoodwinked by scheming teen-aged boys. She ruled as a potentate–infallible and all-powerful–and her throne room was the kitchen, the epicenter of her queendom, where she created the powerful, pungent, potent ragu–Sunday gravy–that seduced the senses like a siren’s lure, and no man nor woman could resist. Occasionally, if she was in an expansive mood, she would let me sit at the small table in the kitchen as she worked over her pot of sauce. It was akin to being led into the pope’s chambers, and I would keep my mouth shut and watch her gently add spices and meats to the bubbling cauldron, stirring endless until, at the penultimate moment known only to her, she would say “it’s ready”, and she would offer me a ladle-ful to taste.

Ok, I was swept away by her gravy, but what truly endeared her to me was her infinite patience and good sense–she wasn’t my mom or my sister or, truth be told, even my friend, yet she embodied the best characteristics of all three, and I will never forget her.

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In second place is the person who is most decidedly not my mother but in my world a mother of distinction: the mother of my children. Every year, when the calendar pages creep toward May, I reach out to my sons gently (or sometimes, not so gently) to remind them to remember Mother’s Day, and I always say “it’s up to you guys to celebrate Mom–after all, she’s not my mother”. But yet, if I had to sum up the attributes of the woman that I have shared my life with for over 30 years, would not the greatest attribute be the love and the absolute brilliance with which she raised our sons? Is that not, in itself, a crowning achievement? Yes, it is, and I marvel at the results.

Finally, in first place in mom-dom, is the O.M., original mom, the late, great Betty...She was a saint, but truth be told, she was also imperious, testy and judgemental.

In modern vernacular, she was old school. She grew up in Hubbard, Ohio, when Hubbard, Ohio was farms and outhouses. Her mother--my Grandma--didn't speak english. When they had chicken for dinner the chicken came from the backyard, not a grocery store.

My mother had rules and they were not to be trifled with.. My dad was terrified of her. We all were. She had a withering stare and she didn't mind threatening us with a wooden ruler that sat on top of the refrigerator.

She was feminine. She was fussy about her clothes--she liked loud colors, like purple--and her hair was never out of place. She had a weekly hair appointment that she never missed, not even for the funeral--of her sister.

She died when I was young, in the early 90s.

I loved her. Three reasons:

1) She was as tough as nails. She got hit by a car when she was in her early 50s. She flew about 20 feet in the air and broke nearly every bone in her body. She never complained about the pain or the years of physical therapy nor rued the bad luck that put her in front of that car.

2) My mother believed in me when I didn't believe in myself. I didn't want to go to college. She wanted me to go to college. We fought for a solid year. She enrolled me in Bowling Green State University (the Falcons!), drove me up to the college and dragged me into a dorm room. I screamed and moaned and cursed at her, but I stayed...and it turned out that college was the good thing--actually the best thing--for me.

3) My mother was tolerant. I came home stinking drunk one night when I was visiting from college and passed out on the floor in front of her--after barfing on her nightgown. She just shook her head and pointed to the shower.

I hated her. Three reasons:

1) She was never wrong.

2) She used to brag to anyone who would listen that she only gained 11 pounds while she was pregnant with me. I don't know why exactly, but that really bothered me.

3) She was vindictive. Piss her off and you were cut off. And she wasn't difficult to piss off.

TASK:

Buy a Mother's Day card or make your own. Then, inside write down the three things you loved about your mother and the three things you hated. Be brutally honest. Then put the card in your notebook.