Well hello it’s Mother’s Day. My mother was an outspoken woman with a wicked sense of humor. She was born May 7th 1920 in Philly and grew up in Rutherford, New Jersey. She worked in The City. That, of course, is New York because, say what you will about NY, but when you say “The City” folks know you can only be referring to New York.
She grew up during the Depression and weathered World War II. Just like America and her allies, she came away with a victory: my dad. They first met at a U.S.O. dance. Dad, who was in the Navy, was there with a shipmate named Dunc. I’m guessing it was short for Duncan, although folks often give their children with unique monikers. Mom was there with one of her friends as well. Upon spotting dad and Dunc, mom’s friend asked “you want to dance with those jerks?” Ah, true romance! She chose to dance with the jerk who would become my father.
During WWII she worked for a firm on Wall Street. No, it’s not what you think. Warren Buffett she was not. Being the curious child, I asked what she did at the firm. She said she couldn’t tell me. Thinking that she had been involved in some covert effort to help America win the war, I pressed harder.
“I can’t tell you because I don’t really know. They would give me numbers which I would plug into a formula to churn out more numbers. What happened after that, I don’t know.” Gee she could have been churning out codes that broke the German’s Enigma Machine and not even known it.
She was also asked to take the deposit to the bank on a regular basis. She said she would walk down the streets of New York with a major chunk of change in her purse worrying that she might be robbed. She never was. That’s a good thing. As someone who experienced her “justice” on several occasions, it wouldn’t have ended well for the robber.
January 25th 1947 they were wed. It would have been sooner, but she told dad she wanted to spend one more Christmas in New York. She left her beloved Rutherford, the Jersey Shore where she worked as teen during the summer, and New York (and yes she really loved all three) and moved to Pearson, Ga. to be with the man she loved even more. No more buses and subways. But there were chickens, pigs, and a dog named Buster. My brother would arrive in 1955. I showed up in 1963. Both adopted. Both loved beyond measure. But she had even more love to give. So mom and dad became foster parents. I can’t tell you how many “brothers and sisters” lived with us over the years. It was great fun for all. Well, most of the time. Mom used cloth diapers so I’m not sure how much fun THAT was.
Mom was a writer. Oh, not professionally. She wrote because if she hadn’t she probably would have exploded. She chronicled our lives together in short stories, but her true passion and voice was poetry. I have hundreds of poems by which to remember her. Some funny. Some sad. Some are devotionals. All reveal an amazing love for words and an important parenting tip.
When young Billy would throw a tantrum, Mom would throw a big word at me. It always stopped me in my tracks. “What does that mean?” “Well, let’s look it up,” she’d say. By the time we got to the definition, I’d gotten over my anger.
Now when you hear me use $2 word you know who to blame….and I know who to thank!
Happy Mother’s Day.
