My Mother

A person never dies if their memory survives. My mother, Barbara Jo, passed away 33 years ago but she's as present in my life as ever. On this Mother's Day weekend I thought it'd be fun to share some stories about her.

Everyone in and near my family recognized Barbara Jo as a potent force. We feared her as much as loved her. Like Stalin my mother surveilled everyone, knew everything and issued edicts. Opposition was futile and destroyed before it could germinate. You could argue with my mother, as my rebellious brother Richard did, but without success. My father, who had been a carefree rogue before he met her, learned his lesson and walked the line. He knew better than to confront the potentate who reigned supreme over our family and friends. 

It wasn't my mother's size that intimidated us (she was under five feet tall), it was her tenacity. A pitbull, Barbara Jo would latch onto your ankle with locking jaw and razor-sharp teeth. If the pain didn't force you to surrender the endless struggle did. Her will was stronger than yours and that won her every battle.

I was shown my mother's power in earliest childhood. I possess a fundamental character that was then considered socially deviant. My mother, who carried the hyper-anxiety of an immigrant, made it her mission to conform me to society's expectation. Given her omniscience and omnipotence the outcome was never in doubt.

In 1971 the book "Summer of '42" became a bestseller. I bought and started to read it. Halfway through my mother extracted the book from my bedroom and refused to return it. When asked for an explanation she declared the book had "too much sex" for a 14 year old boy. I guffawed but knew argument was useless. The book was gone.

A year later my mother discovered the draft of a story I was writing. I had hidden the draft deep in my bedroom but, as noted above, Barbara Jo was omniscient. The story, written as science fiction, was about a man dating a woman and preparing to have relations with her. During sex he's shocked to learn she is a robot. I thought the concept was intriguing but my mother got unduly hung up on my detailed description of the female robot's genitalia. "How do you know about this?!" she shrieked. I was well-read.

This episode taught me the humor of a joke then circulating: "What is pornography? Anything in a sock drawer that isn't a sock." :)

My final tale demonstrates how my mother's rule continued into my adulthood. In 1985 I moved into a new home with my girlfriend Maura. My mother insisted on keeping tabs on us and offering advice (with which we frequently disagreed). Trying to gently avoid her advice I was deliberately slow in getting a telephone at the house. I figured without a phone my mother couldn't call and pester us.

 One Saturday morning, at 5:30 a.m., Maura and I are asleep in bed. BANG! BANG! BANG! "Who the hell is that?" we asked. I go to the front door and see my mother standing there. My 4'11" mother. Fully dressed and irate. Agitated. Hot as a habanero pepper. "GET A TELEPHONE!" she yells, turns around and drives home. 

I can only laugh at these events which display how deeply my mother loved me. She wanted me to have a happy life; we simply disagreed on what that was. Barbara Jo did her best to raise two boys and I'll always love her.

Small Victories

If you looked through my eyes, you'd start to cry. And not stop. I have the least amount of vision possible: a small, dark periscope-view with no peripheral awareness. A physical limitation like this can plunge one into emotional despair. 

And yet... I'm not giving up. Buoyed by unfounded optimism and innate grit I push forward. Today, for example I achieved something I initially believed was beyond my ability.

After handing my beloved motorcycles to friends I'm now trying to sell my two cars. (A beautiful red convertible [2021 Mazda Miata] and sporty hatchback [2013 Fiat Abarth].) Obviously it'll be easier to sell them if they're clean, not dirty, but the cars haven't been driven in a year and have a thick layer of dust from storage.

I contemplated washing them. I quickly concluded I lack sufficient eyesight for that task. But then... today... I felt strong. Powerful. Irrationally exuberant. So I thought, "Why not try? What's the worst that can happen? I fail?" So I endeavored to wash my cars.

One thing you need to know to stand in my shoes is that everything -- everything -- is three times harder and takes three times longer than it used to. Activities now require searching for objects sitting in front of my face, misjudging and correcting distances from my hand to destinations, and cleaning up inevitable messes. At first these added burdens were dispiriting but I developed patience and fortitude. I gradually adopted a mental attitude of moving slowly and deliberately while expecting frequent frustrations.

Washing my cars wasn't easy. A job that used to take one hour expanded to three. Assembling materials, lugging our hose up from the basement, searching for a damn water-nozzle that mischievously hid itself on my workbench all complicated the project. Multi-step jobs like this are more easily abandoned than completed.

But I wanted it done. So I persevered and waded through cold pools of effort and annoyance. There were a few surprising bright spots like being reminded of the sinuous curves of my sporty vehicles whose bodies I'd lovingly handled in the past and feeling muscle-memory from those experiences. I instinctively knew when and where to move closer, deeper and probe the curved surfaces with my wet fingers and soapy sponge. 

Eventually I emerged from the driveway with two clean automobiles and a sweaty t-shirt. Best of all was feeling accomplished. I performed a task that might have defeated others in my condition.

And good news -- I didn't accidentally wash my neighbor's car. :)