A Christmas Memory with Mom

This morning while drinking my coffee, one of the songs from "A Charlie Brown Christmas" played over our sound system.

The music, as good music has a habit of doing, took me right back to the mid-1960s and one of my sweetest holiday memories. 

I grew up fairly poor. One of the things I've always loved about my mom, who passed away in 2007, was that she always put myself and my sisters first. Our happiness was hers.

But it wasn't always easy to deliver on that happiness. My mother worked hard, both inside and outside of our modest two-bedroom house in the foothills of the Appalachians, but she did her best, along with my father, to see that we were provided for and, if we were lucky, even had some extras.

We may have not had a lot, but we always had enough.

Getting back to that Vince Guaraldi music, it reminded me of one of those special times with my mom that still remains vivid in my memory, even if what happened occurred over fifty years ago.

It was 1965. I was seven years old and was excited to see this new holiday special "A Charlie Brown Christmas" which had been advertised on TV. Typical of kids of my generation, I was often glued to the tube a good portion of my spare time, lying on the living room floor with a pillow. 

Mom had bigger plans for me than just watching the show on our black and white console TV. She knew a woman who bartended at a little neighborhood bar up the street from where we lived.

On the night the show would debut, Mom took me out. Just me. The two of us headed to the bar at the time "A Charlie Brown Christmas" was slated to air. See, the bar had something we didn't have at home--a color television. She wanted me to be able to watch this magical animated special in all its color glory.

We sat together at the bar, which was almost empty at that relatively early hour, drinking Cokes and watching Charlie Brown and his friends discover the magic and true meaning of Christmas.

Like the Christmas tree in that special, this probably sounds humble. But it was, and always will be, special to me because, for once in my life, I had Mom all to myself, just the two of us alone. That hadn't happened before and I'm not sure it ever did again.

That night was one of the most special Christmas presents I've ever received--the gift of not just a classic holiday special debuting, but the gift of quality time with a mother who loved me and who was always spread far too thin. The fact that she made time for the two of us that night will always live in my heart as the true meaning of the holiday.

Giving is always better than receiving. Right, Mom?

The Wizard of Oz and Coming Out

My senior year of high school, back in East Liverpool, Ohio, my school put on The Wizard of Oz as the spring musical. It was a kitschy mix of the original with some songs from The Wiz thrown in to make our version unique and hip.

Since I have always loved The Wizard of Oz (clue #1 that I might have been gay), I had to audition. For the singing part of my audition, I sang "Sentimental Journey", an odd choice for a small town high school boy (clue #2).

For my stellar singing talents, I was cast in the farmer's chorus (swaying in the background as Dorothy sang "Over the Rainbow"); as a ghost in the witch's castle (I got to come through the audience in a sheet, dancing); and as one of the witch's generals.

This last part is what caused me to have a revelation. There were fifteen of us generals and we all said the same line to the single private in the witch's army. If we wanted to stand out, we had to do something to differentiate ourselves. I chose to do a nasal voice (thinking that's all it was). When my fellow cast members heard the voice, they cracked up. It took me a while to realize what they found so hilarious was that they thought I was doing a gay general.

Oh, a gay general? Sure, that was what I had in mind.

Not really.

But now I wonder if it was the subconscious, closeted gay boy yearning to be recognized for who he was coming out. Even though I hadn't intended to be a gay general, I went with it and added a lace hanky to my sleeve and a sashay to my march that was so effeminate it would make Paul Lynde look butch. It was probably a horrible gay Uncle Tom moment, offensive, but I plead ignorance--on a lot of counts.

The audience loved it; they roared.

Now I can look back at that thespian moment in my life and see it for what it was--an unconscious moment of coming out, a moment where I was recognized for who I really was, recognized and laughed at, yes, but appreciated all the same. And remembered. And, in an odd way, accepted--because I was entertaining. Bringing what I so loathed about myself and was desperate to keep hidden to the forefront was, now that I look back, revealing myself.

And the best part was, I was not hurt for it.

#MondayMemories: I Like That

Myself, Lily, Mom, and Bruce a year before she passed.

When my dad passed away at age 62, it was a quick trauma. One night, he was alive and well. By the next morning, he was dead on the bathroom floor of a heart attack.

It was a shock. The next few days, with the wake and the funeral, passed by in a blur.

And, I have to admit it, it was easier than when my mom died.

Mom took her time about it. She went into the hospital in early summer and didn't come out until late fall. And when she came out it, it was to go into a facility where she'd be made 'comfortable.'

She never got to come home.

Cancer is a horrible thing.

I remember the summer and fall of Mom's passing in 2007 with heartache...and, oddly enough, gratitude.

Gratitude because I got to say goodbye. I didn't get that chance with my dad.

My sisters and I (and a few other kind, compassionate relatives) spent a lot of time with Mom during her long goodbye. We gathered around her bedside and, I believe, made her know just how much she was loved and cared about. That there was no place we'd rather be other than this hospital room.

Funny thing was, while we were making sure she knew she was loved, she was making sure of the same thing for us.

There are many memories from that time and, although they all reek of disinfectant and sorrow, I'll always be glad I was able to be there.

But the one memory that sticks with me is one toward the end, when my my husband (then partner) came up from Miami (where we lived) to be with us all because we feared the "time" was near.

I can still see that bright, sunny hospital room. Mom was lucky enough to have it to herself. And I remember bringing Bruce in to see Mom. I'd been there with her for weeks, watching her slow, sad decline. At this point, she wasn't all too coherent.

But when I brought Bruce into the room and we neared her bed, Mom held out her hands to us. We each took one.  

And Mom said, "I like that."

She couldn't say much at that time. Painkillers and other drugs had dulled both mind and tongue, but that simple gesture of reaching out for us with her hands, holding them tight, and saying, "I like that" will always stay with me as one of my most treasured memories.

Mom, if you're listening, we 'liked that' too. And we miss you every day.

Monday Memories: My Earliest Memory

Most of my memories of the time before kindergarten began are missing. Psychologists call this 'childhood amnesia.'

And yet, my earliest memory is from well before that time. To this day, I still remember it quite clearly. There's nothing traumatic about it.

I'm a baby or at least a toddler. I'm in my parents' bedroom with my sister, Susan, and her friend Penny. I'm in the middle of my parents' bed and the two girls are good-naturedly fighting over me because one of them would have to play house with a doll and the other would get to play house with a real live baby.

Me.

In my mind's eye, I can still see them. Still feel the contentedness of being in that room and of being wanted.

I'm not sure why this memory sticks with me. But it gives a glimpse into a time when I may not have even been able to talk yet, so I'm grateful that I can travel that far back in time.

What's your earliest memory?

Monday Memories: That Time I Got Hit by a Car

Me...in the blue shirt at age 6 (1964)

Note: Each Monday, until my memory disappears, I will recount a significant event in my life...to reveal more about myself to you, to collect fodder for future books, and to ward off, hopefully, senior moments....

This week, I'm remembering the time I got hit by a car.

It was right before I would begin first grade at Garfield Elementary School in East Liverpool, Ohio. Back in 1964, parents actually would let their kids out the back door on summer days and allow them to play most of the day with nary a worry about where they were and other more formidable bogeymen parents these days contend with.

As with many other summer days, I was with the neighborhood gang, some of whom you see pictured above at my birthday party that year.

All of us had been sent over to the candy store on Mulberry Street by one of the kids' mothers to get Popsicles for everyone. It was a hot day. While in the candy store, perusing the glass-fronted cases filled with penny candy, an older kid came in, one that was known as a joker*, came in and told little six-year-old Ricky (aka me) that my mother needed me at home right now.

I don't recall questioning it, although I do remember this probably meant I wouldn't get the free banana Popsicle I was lusting after.

I left my friends in the store and went outside to confront crossing busy Mulberry Street alone, which I had never done and, like playing on the banks of the Ohio River a couple of blocks over, was expressly forbidden to do.

Buy hey...I could do this. Hadn't someone recently told me all I needed to remember, when crossing a street, was to look at the traffic light (we didn't have walk/don't walk signs back then--not in my little town). If it was red, I could safely cross.

What I wasn't remembering was that the rule only applied if one was at the corner.

I was halfway down the street when I saw the light was red and assuming, in my six-year-old mind, that I was safe. I darted out from in between two parked cars and...

...was confronted with what I remember as a big-grilled, deep green car bearing down on me.

I don't remember the impact, nor the screeching of brakes. I vaguely remember groaning as I went down on the pavement. I remember a man (and that's all I can recall) jumping from the car. I don't know if he asked me if I was all right or what, but the next thing I knew he had me in his car.

I suspect he was young, because I don't think he knew what to do.

Someone in the neighborhood, I think it was Vic from Fiorello's Market on the corner, ran to our house to tell my mom what had happened.

I still remember my young mother very clearly on that hot summer day, running to the car, still stopped in the middle of the street. She wore slacks and a white blouse with red flowers. There was an expression of terror on her face.

She got in the car and there must have been frantic talk.

They took me to the emergency room, where I was diagnosed with a concussion. I was not so bad off that I wasn't unable to weakly mumble, "I want a toy, I want a toy." One of the nurses found a hand puppet for me.

I was "treated and released" as they would say in the East Liverpool Review's listing of Emergency Room visits (yes, my hometown paper used to catalog all ER visits, with names and addresses). I know they bandaged my head and I was up and around pretty soon thereafter.

But what I really remember, and this still chokes me up to this day, is my eyes widening as we drove up to our green and white shingled house on Pennsylvania Avenue because outside, a crowd of neighbors had gathered, waiting to see if I was okay. That kindness and concern touched me as a little boy and still touches me today, almost 54 years later.

My Name was Never Called when Choosing Sides for Basketball

And those whose names were never called
When choosing sides for basketball

Janis Ian sings plaintively and poignantly of youthful angst in her song, "At Seventeen." The lyrics above resonate particularly loudly with me because I was that kid, back in my school days.

I'm thinking of this today because sports and I have always had a contentious relationship. When I was in school, I was always the "uncoordinated" one, the one whom no one wanted on their team because I was never an asset, always a liability.

I was the sissy and later the fag, the homo. I was teased, bullied both emotionally and physically. Life was rough for me as a kid and, later, as a teenager. Particularly because in my heart, I felt the "different" stirrings within me were justification for being mistreated. In my mind, I was a shameful thing, worthy of the mistreatment I got at the hands of my tormentors.

I'm not bringing this up to make you feel sorry for me. The days and nights of my childhood and adolescence, painful as they were, were steps on my path. I grew from them--they made me who I am today: strong, confident, proud, and comfortable in my own skin. As long as I'm secure in who I am, in my worth, no outside voice or person can take that away from me.

I'm grateful for that.

I'm bringing the above up today because this morning, I made a connection.

Last week, I was in the little Ohio River town where I grew up, East Liverpool, visiting family and old friends. Every six years this town of 10,000 souls or so has an all-class reunion for the sole high school in town. People come from all over, from classes as far back as the 1930s to reunite, to celebrate, to reminisce. The downtown streets are closed off, stages set up with bands, bars are set up too and one is free to wander around with a drink, seeing who might pop up from your past.

It's really kind of a unique and delightful time.

And, for me, a bittersweet one. My school days, although they had their happy moments, were marked by the teasing and bullying I mentioned above. Yes, I've forgiven my tormentors. I've moved on.

But this year, one of the events at the all-class reunion was a 5k race, which I participated in. It was a challenging and hilly course and the morning was bright and sunny, so there was sweat, lots of sweat.

But I came in 12th out of 86 runners and I won my age division (51+). Anywhere else, this might have made me happy, made me proud. But in my hometown, where I grew up one of those kids whose names were never called in choosing sides for basketball, the win had an added significance.

I learned that I stopped listening to that inner voice implanted in me as a child. The one who said I was uncoordinated, that there was no way I could be an athlete because I was too big of a sissy. I believed that voice for so many years, it seemed like truth.

But then I came to terms with who I was--maybe not a great athlete, but not the athlete others defined me as. I was able to shed what I'd internalized growing up and I found freedom and joy in pounding the pavement, the miles melted beneath my feet.

I've come to learn that we should never someone else define who we are. That choice, and responsibility, is always our own.