Mommy
I'm going to attempt to do Mom justice, though this is a rapidly written post as she is taking me to Kohls at 11. They have wheelchairs and I'll get out a bit - yeah!I usually don't feel I identify much with Mom. She's pretty straight-laced: doesn't drink, a result of an alcoholic father. Never even thought of doing drugs; was shocked to learn I wasn't a virgin at 25. (That's when she found out, not when I lost it, lest I look like the late-bloomer I was.) She's a devout Catholic, anti-gay and pro-life. We don't always have much in common.
Yet sometimes...she cracks me up. Like last night, when she began telling me of the tortures she used to inflict on her younger brother, my uncle Steven. Now, I've seen Stevie maybe 1 in the past 18 yrs? He's not an integral part of the family.
Well, apparently, when he was a little boy, his mom - my grandma - would tell him he was so cute she could eat him up. So my mother, in her infinite mischieviousness (not a word?), plopped her 2yr old brother in a big, ole baking pan. She salted him. She peppered him. All the while telling him she was going to cook him up! And while she's telling me this, she's laughing like a little kid with the giggles. I swear, it was the cutest thing. I don't often see the impish-ness in my mom; it was great to get a glimpse.
She also told me about a Halloween where she dressed Stevie up like Aunt Jaminia (sp?) - the syrup lady. Now, this was in the early 50s - not too much for excitement. But she put gold hoop earrings on the boy; bright lipstick; a turban; and blackface. Then, when she heard her mom coming, she stuck Stevie in the closet and played dumb.
Ah, to know my mom back then.
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