Mom was a redhead, Irish at that. This alone should explain a lot.
It has been said that gentlemen may prefer blondes, but it takes a real man to handle a redhead. My dad was a real man but he was smart enough to know when to back off.
Mom was a balance of fierce love of family with a proper disciplined hand. If I got out of line, no need to call Dad. She could tend to it. Home before dark meant home before dark. She wasn’t big on saying “No” more than once.
I grew up in a small Methodist church. “Blessed Assurance” was her favorite hymn. Ed Baggett was her favorite pianist. My favorite Sunday meal was fried chicken.
I was given a quarter for the collection plate. If I tried to hold out, all it took was a flash from her blue eyes to set me straight.
If I could go back for a day in my youth I’d take a summer morning when I was eight or nine years old. My mom would be the focal point.
On Saturday mornings I’d throw tennis balls against the garage door and field grounders like Nellie Fox. In the kitchen she would be making a pie for supper.
She had an old GE mixer, nicked and bruised over time and looked to weigh around 50 pounds. Her pies, chocolate, lemon and pecan, were unparalleled.
Somehow she had just enough ingredients left to fill a small pie pan. It was my treat.
I’d recline on the back stairs, savoring every bite and waiting for Saturday morning’s skywriter. Soon a small plane would appear overhead and begin the day’s aerial commercial.
Occasionally it spelled out “Pepsi” in a trail of lingering white smoke. On another day it might be “Coke.” My favorite was 7 Up.” The 7 was gigantic.
At times Mom might sit nearby shelling black eyed peas. The love she gave was unconditional and her boundary lines of respect inside and outside the family were clear.
I’d like to again tag along as she navigated the aisles of the nearby A&P. Where baggy PJs are acceptable now, Mom wore print and navy blue dresses with splashes of white. She dressed the part whether it was the grocery store or church.
When she reached the checkout line she always plucked the latest “Silver Screen” magazine from a rack. She considered Jack Elam a villain and Greer Garson a saint.
Many of you are going through your memory banks about your mom right now. I suspect your recollections are on the same lines as mine.
Ted Buss, a former TRN sports and business editor. He can be reached by emailing tedbuss@hotmail.com.