FAN FRIDAYS

I am a big fan of the wonderful woman who made my life happy, warm, interesting, fun, and unique...

 Mom in the middle, with sisters Mel and Margie.

An excerpt from my book,

Chickens' Butts and Coconuts.

MY MOM, PETE.

I know I told you I wasn't going to write very much about my mom in this book, but I got to thinking. (That’s when I'm dangerous).

What if the dreaded "swine flu" starts bumping off

millions of people in the near future.

All of those unfortunate souls would miss out on my

mom's inspirational life story.

Imagine, if you will, me, getting hit by a "Segway",

suffering brain damage, and rendered unable to write that book about my mom, Pete. (Oh, very funny. I already have brain damage, huh? Ha, ha, I almost forgot to laugh.)

So, yes! I need to write down her story before a

gargoyle, way up on some tower, comes to life, swoops down, and bites my head clean off (I saw that in a movie on the Syfy channel).

Mom's real name was Pauline but my dad nicknamed her, Pete. (No, I don't know why)

My favorite story about my mom, Pete, was the time she had to pee. Real bad!

We were cruising along in the 53 Ford, just a few blocks from home, in the bustling St. Louis metropolis. (I think it was around Grand and Olive streets).

First, mom said it soft-like. "Paul, I gotta pee."

Dad ignored her. He hated stopping the car.

"Paaaul, I gotta pee!" Mom said it louder this time.

Dad said, "PETE, we’re almost home!” “ Can't you hold it?”

Mom called out even louder, "Oh, Paul," "I’m gonna pee the car!".

That did it. My dad would not allow eating, drinking, drawing pictures on the fogged up windows and especially no peeing! (Remember, this was a pristine, pre-owned, 53 Ford.)

So, under these extreme circumstances, dad gives in

and pulls off the road at the busy intersection of Grand and Olive.

Mom gets out of the car to pee. Thank God it was

nighttime.

She is between the car and the curb, near the back

bumper.

Cars are going by at a pretty good clip in a steady

stream.

Mom then proceeds to take the back of her dress and throw it up over her head.

That's when dad freaks out.

“Pete, what are you doing?” “ Don't you know people can see you?”

I will never forget the words my mom said from under her dress.

She said," Paul, don't worry." “They might recognize my face but they would never recognize my a_s!” 

My mom’s favorite saying was, “kiss my a_s on Grand and Olive. I suppose this was the origin of the phrase.( She substituted “foot” if she knew kids were around)

Mom was born in the Missouri Ozark mountains. Stronger than most men, but small and thin.

Perpetually happy and laughing and singing all the time. (Unless you pissed her off) 

Hated wearing shoes. Intelligent, witty, loved to read. Smoked Pall Malls but didn't drink.

(Maybe a wee bit on New Year’s Eve, but that don’t count).

Her dad walked out on the family when

she was a little girl.

He left his wife, my mom's brothers, Roy and Clifford (who was mentally and physically challenged), mom’s sisters, Margie Mel, Opal and mom. All to fend for themselves, during the Depression.

What always amazed me about mom is that she wasn't bitter towards her dad. She still loved him later on in life.

She still visited him and hugged him. She didn’t let his horrific behavior spoil her beautiful view of life.

One Halloween, when I was still a little "munchkin," mom dressed up like a Mexican bandito with a big sombrero and a mustache.

She even darkened her skin to look very, very authentic.

We were still living in the projects at the time, so she just walked a few steps over to the next apartment to visit the neighbor lady.

The next thing I remember was my mom chasing the

poor woman around the block and saying (in a perfect Mexican accent)," geve Pedro beeg kees!” (translation- “give Pedro big kiss”).

Mom scared "the living daylights" out of the sweet

innocent neighbor lady.

It wasn't until mom removed the "stache" and started talking in her normal voice that the woman stopped screaming “bloody murder!” (She couldn't eat taco's for 10 months after that! (I'm allowed to say that because I'm 25% Latino in my imagination.)

There were quite a few homeless people that would

ask for handouts when we lived in the "jects".

My mom always helped them. Even when we, ourselves, didn't have a "pot to piss in!” (As mom would have put it.)

No, she never gave them money. But, they all knew they could get a hot meal and coffee from my mom.

Mom never let them in, but would put everything on a tray so they could eat outside on the curb.

I remember asking mom why she treated these

strangers so kindly. She said, the Bible had a story where angels materialized into men, as a test, to see if the angels would be treated hospitably.

"Maybe the "hobos" (that's what we called them back then) were really angels sent down to test us, she explained.

Woe, mama! I never thought of that!

That reminds me. If we ever made a stupid racial

comment, my mom would say," You better be careful," " How do you know that God is not black or brown or whatever color fit the circumstances.

Woe, mama! I never thought of that either;

What is the meaning of lice?

Well, in my old neighborhood it meant you were a dirty, filthy, scummy person that did not wash.

Now, my mom was immaculately clean but Dave and Dick got head lice, anyway.

Without hesitation, mom walked down to the Rexall to get lice medication.

Upon arriving at the drugstore, mom noticed about a dozen women just standing around the store and acting like they were shopping.

Mom figured out what was going on. Nobody wanted to admit their kids had lice because they thought it was like admitting they were filthy dirt bags.

Boldly, mom walked up to the pharmacist's counter and said, in a very loud voice, “Hey, medicine man.” “ My boys have lice!”

"I don't know where they came from, but I need

something to get rid of the little suckers!"

At that, the women who were standing around started coming up to the counter and telling my mom how their kids had lice too, and how they didn't know where they came from either. So then, everyone got lice medicine, thanks to my mom.

That was my mom. Courageous, caring, funny, beautiful and...my how I miss her!