A Skunk, The Lone Ranger and Some Demented Trucker

My mother, Dottie M., had a small sign in her kitchen. It read, "Bloom where you are planted."

It made sense to her, this wooden reminder, as she was a small town girl who signed on to marry a traveling lawyer man, a woman who never liked to venture out to foreign places, a lady who loved to stay put. She probably looked at that quote many times a day, when she was left alone in the suburbs most weekdays with four children. Bloom she must. As CSN&Y sing, "Rejoice. Rejoice. We have no choice."

But it sure made for some interesting stories.

Like the time a skunk walked through the open garage door to discover a chaise lounge in the form of a long-in-the-tooth spare GoodYear tire, a rubber round innocently resting against the garage wall, its inner space readily available for a skunk snooze. My sister, the then-four-year-old Kathy, witnessed this event, and reported it to the mater who was busy trying to make something-from-nothing for dinner one late spring afternoon.

Kathy: "Mommy, there is a bunny in the garage."

Dottie M.: (not really paying much attention, as a woman with many children learns to do, for her own sanity) "Oh? What kind of bunny?"

Kathy: "It's a black bunny, with a white stripe."

Sound the alarm.

My mother had the skill of turning a small event into the Poseidon Adventure, with a little Wreck of the Hesperus mixed in for what-the-heck-and-why-not. Neighbors were summoned, and soon there was a crowd that seemed like New Year's Eve in Times Square gathered on the driveway. My pop Frank J. motored the station wagon home to see the multitude witness my mother hurling mothballs into the garage through that sinister open door. Methinks he stopped the car, rested his forehead on the steering wheel and thought to himself, "Oh my God, the poor woman has finally flipped."

My mother had a simple explanation.

"I read in Helpful Heloise that skunks don't like mothballs."

To which my old man probably replied, "You all should have been sprayed for stupidity."

Frank J. had a solution. He suggested the crowd disperse, found a rake, threaded its long stick though the tire hole, and moved the rubber resting place to the woods. The skunk must've been hard-of-hearing, as it never stirred. Eventually it woke up, stretched its little skunk arms, and wandered off, taking its potential foul-smell to other tires and mothers. We all went to bed exhausted that night, as I recall.

Then there was the ugly "let's chase the semi and its demented driver" incident.

One winter evening, when all had gathered to partake of the evening meal, the typical question "So what did you do today?" was posed. My mother responded,

"Kathy and I chased a trucker."

That piece of information got everyone's attention. The clink of fork-to-plate was heard table-wide.

Seems Dottie M. was out conducting errands, Lone Ranger commandeering the Ford station wagon along Connecticut roads with little Kathy standing behind the front seat positioned as the faithful Tonto, already skilled at such a young age to hold tight to the fake naugahyde of the front seat top as my mother whipped along country roads, or it was "meet your maker time, kid."

An impatient, probably very-high-and-late-for-delivery trucker forced Dottie M., innocent daughter and trusty steed wagon off the road in the rush to get on with it. It got my mother's Irish up, so she regained her rightful position on the asphalt, and gunned it, catching up to the poor unsuspecting truckah. The consistent flashing of the Ford's headlights convinced the lad to pull his rig over into a gas station to bear witness to Dottie M's displeasure.

Seems to me we all sat at the dinner table that evening, chins to the floor, not quite believing our ears.

"He pulled off into this gas station, and got out of his truck, " Dottie M. announced. "He was mad at me. He said, 'Lady, what is your problem?' I simple shook my finger at him and said, 'Don't force me off the road!'"

"Jesus, Mom, you could have been killed," my brother Fran offered in response.

Dottie M. replied, "No way. I just talked to him like I talk to you kids."

Yep, you could've been killed.

Happy Mother's Day, Maw...wherever you are.

Comments

[Toni Arrington]

Hi Mary,

If you haven't published professionally already, you need to. I so enjoy your column. Thanks for sharing it with the world.

Keep smiling,
Toni

[Douglas C. Hoyt]

Here we are in another Mothers’ Day. Don’t we love our mothers? Well no, I had issues with mine. She was an overbearing wench who murdered my father. I am supposed to feel warm and fuzzy toward the myth of mothers? Yes, but the reality is much different than the myth.

The modern origins of Mothers Day is from Julia Ward Howe who conceived it as an anti war day during the American civil war. But the conditioners of our nation turned it into a commercial holiday to buy flowers, gifts and bestow other emoluments upon breeding women. Our thoughtful leaders turn a buck or two, and product more cannon fodder while promoting our national myth, all through the loving loins of manipulative mothers.

The Norman Rockwell Mothers Day never existed, nor could it. Mothers hold the corporate family together. Portly women scurrying around a kitchen in aprons baking cookies, or bandaging our wounds, or caring for us when sick, is the big lie. This domestic fantasy is only biology in this culture. We are taught the primary lessons by these shrews. Our place is marked for us through their actions, words, and discipline. Our worldview is mapped for us with the kindest manipulations. But to what end?

If we accept the truth, mothers prepare us for our roles as corporate animals to work, maintain and sacrifice for the hierarchy. Mother makes us the killers (for and against society), they prepare us to put the leadership before our own interests, and they hold us hostage to myths, such as god, nationhood, and love.
They suppress the natural inclination toward personal autonomy, the desire to discover, the needs of our biology, and the true love of this life, our reality. Mothers tame our id, and prepare us for our place in society. Indeed, American mothers, your children are murdering other innocent children now in Iraq. This is your job; you have done it well. If anything should be honored on this day, it is your training to murder others, destroy the earth, and plunder the resources of this planet for the benefit of our self-selected group. Congratulations!

Don’t most of us understand that love is really manipulative, possessive and cruel? There is no altruism within our love; it is very selfish. Mothers indeed know little of self-actualization, but much of conformity. It is all a lie, mothers love.

We should not celebrate mothers, but those women who reject the sexual, spiritual, and national myth of Mothers Day. Return to the true origins of Mothers Day and make it a time to promote peace and harmony. As Julia Ward Howe wrote, remember her words:

“From the voice of a devastated Earth a voice goes up with
Our own. It says: "Disarm! Disarm!
The sword of murder is not the balance of justice."
Blood does not wipe our dishonor,
Nor violence indicates possession.
As men have often forsaken the plough and the anvil at the summons of war,
Let women now leave all that may be left of home
For a great and earnest day of counsel.
Let them meet first, as women, to bewail and commemorate the dead.
Let them solemnly take counsel with each other as to the means
Whereby the great human family can live in peace...”

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mother's_Day

[Ford Ranger Forum]

Amazing writing