.
Part IV.
It's a curious thing the
relationship between a mother and her sons.
Take the three of us for example.
We all lived together, shared the same environment and the same mother. Yet when we compared notes it was as if our
mothers had nothing in common.
The archangel had nothing
but good things to say about her. What
would one expect when his mother actually ironed his underwear? He was quite comfortable in his role as the
archangel Michael as long as mother took care of everything.
Archangels must be pretty
demanding because her first son required pretty much all the energy she could
muster. There was simply no gas in the
tank when it came to the afterthoughts.
My kid brother Bosco found
any grown up revolting who stood between him and his mission to burn down
everything, the ultimate pyro. While the
archangel was getting his pants pressed me and the pyro were outside blowing to
smithereens with firecrackers every toy soldier we could find.
My arsonist days ended,
however, not long after we threw a box of 22 shells into the incinerator and
World War III broke out in the alley. We
had failed to blow them up slamming bricks on the shells.
I have to admit it, there
were times my kid brother scared the Hell out of me. He was reckless, probably possessed, and not
at all interested in what was going on in the world. But we had a bond, we were both motherless
children, having lost our mother to the duties of rearing the archangel.
One day Bosco and I raced
down the hallway by the archangel's room and noticed the massive American Flyer
train set, one of our dad's prized possessions, was set up in the room. Better yet, no one was around.
The layout was quite a
work of art and engineering, qualities found in the Putnam DNA. A board bigger than the bed folded up against
the wall normally, but today it was down and all the trains, villages and
mountains were in place.
Now Bosco and I had long
debated what would happen if we started a train on top of the mountain and
another at the bottom headed toward each other at full speed. How much damage
could the two trains do to each other when they crashed?
Thanks to my mechanical
skills we had everything working in seconds but when the trains smashed together
nothing broke, they just flopped over sideways off the track. It was nothing like the movies. What a bummer.
So Bosco, having morphed
into movie director Cecil B. DeMille, restaged the train wreck scene only this
time, to make it seem more real, he loaded one of the train engines with
fireworks. I warned him the M-80s might
be a bit too much but he insisted. He lit
the fuse and sent the train flying down the mountain leaving me seconds to
launch the other one up the mountain.
The two trains weren't
even close when the engine simply blew off the face of the earth, while the
rest of the cars tumbled down the mountain with shrapnel flying all over the
room. As we dove under the bed the
avalanche of debris crashed into the other train leaving a tangled mess.
When dad walked into the room, having heard the house shaking explosion, his stunned reaction was priceless. His mouth opened to scream but no sound emerged. The way he trembled and his veins popped up indicated a high degree of nerve instability so the vocal paralysis was probably a good thing, It allowed him to calm down before he might have killed us.
We denied any knowledge of
how an entire American Flyer train engine could possibly dematerialize and disappear,
though we did acknowledge our role in the wreck and agreed to spend our
allowances for the next 15 years replacing all the broken village and mountain
pieces.
In hindsight I realized
trusting Bosco's judgment was far too dangerous to risk in the future.
As for me and mom, when I was about six
months old the archangel and I were in our apartment with our mother when the
kitchen went up in flames. From that
infant age on I knew better than to trust her cooking.
Mom saved the archangel, I
was left for the firemen to rescue.
[Okay, it might not have been quite like that but at 6 months old it is
a lot to expect me to remember.] Still,
everyone escaped with little physical injury.
Psychologically it might
have been a different matter. My Druid
influence from the Celtic ancestors on both sides of the family caused me to
ponder why mom was a heroine for saving the archangel when she was the one who
caused the fire in the first place.
This is important because
once again I had been metaphysically forewarned about an impending danger, the
danger of fire, and I had failed to get the message. It was a warning to be wary of that soon to be born rascal
Bosco.
Though I had plenty of opportunities, such
psychic premonitions, visions and insights were generally ignored by me,
probably because of my Catholic grounding. To me it was like getting the answers before
taking a test. No challenge - no point
in participating.
What fun is knowing the
future and how can you ever hope to learn from your experiences when you
already know how they will turn out?
Back to opinions of our
mom. The archangel thought she was
great, Bosco was far too busy to pay attention, and then there was me, the
thinker, and this was a subject that required a great deal of thought.
Having been an ardent fan
of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and read every Sherlock Holmes book that existed, I was a
student of deductive logic. But when I
tried to apply it to my mother in an objective manner it didn't work.
Her world was certainly
not logical, a big problem. I'd already
had a few bumps in the road involving her at an early age so you might say I
was unduly influenced in a negative way.
There was fleeing the
apartment fire..
Being hospitalized with
the mumps and given intravenous feeding.
Being hospitalized with measles with a 105 temp
and being put in an ice tub.
Attempting to assassinate
me with creamed spinach.
There were times when I
was more than a little suspicious of her motives. Occasionally the thought would cross my mind
that maybe she wanted more time for the archangel.
By the time I started school
many things were already clear to me though the rest of the world was too
oblivious to know. In spite of her
pleasant persona my mom was a nut case. She
was like a computer without a hard drive, a cell phone with a dead battery.
I once told my Grandpa,
her dad, that I thought my mother had a serious wiring problem but it was no
reflection on him. He laughed but did
not dispute my assessment.
Of course I knew she
really wasn't my mother because she wasn't Jewish, but I was still stuck in the
alternate reality.
By second grade I realized
the only way to survive with her was to give her a note every morning with her
instructions for the day and reminders of what would help her get through the
day. She would not have made it without
them.
As for counting on her for
anything, it was high risk. She couldn't
cook so I had to make alternate arrangements to eat. I did my own cooking, laundry, lunches and
most other grown up things for myself.
By that time, when I was
seven years old, she pretty much did whatever I told her to do because I was
always fair and just with my assignments and understanding of her limitations.
When I brought home report
cards from school with teacher comments and she had to respond I let her answer
at first. Then I realized she was sabotaging
my education career by agreeing with everything the nuns said I was doing wrong.
One time my favorite nun, and
they were few and far between in the strange town where I grew up, wrote a note
saying I seemed to be distracted and she wished I would participate more in
class because I had so much to offer the others.
Mom wrote back that I was
distracted at home too, distant, detached, as if I was in "another universe". Then she said maybe the teacher was not
challenging me and should give extra work and assignments.
What she wrote back shocked
me. Telling the nun I was in another
universe did not sound like a good thing. Nor did telling the teacher she didn't know
how to teach.
When I gave the nun the
card and she read the comments she looked up at me and said she guessed I was
worse off than she thought, and then she laughed. It was the last time she communicated with my
mother that year.
And it was my mother who
started the rumor that I was Lucky, the luckiest person she ever knew.
Each time my team won
state baseball championships I was lucky.
What about all the work it took over the years to win the dam titles? I was lucky to get good grades, often straight
A's, and lucky when I got a good job.
Most of the time I ignored
my mom and it was better for all involved since we had nothing in common, I
knew everything she did and didn't do, and she preferred to keep away from me.
She was convinced I was
possessed along with some of the nuns and priests. When I was accused of abusing the authority
of priests by questioning a priest on the intent of the Bible, then challenging
his conclusions, in 7th grade mind you, the priest and nun demanded I be
exorcised of the demons.
Mom was most certainly
cheering them on demanding they put the heretic to death at the stake, just
like in the Salem
witch days. I got covered with holy
water but refused to repent because I could see no reason for the fuss when the
priest clearly did not know what he was talking about.
After my spiritual
cleansing mom agreed the priests could take me on a weekend silent retreat where one
could only attend Mass each day and hear a short lecture, spending the rest of
the time in spiritual meditation.
I thought it sounded cool,
like a Buddhist retreat, and said I intended to study notables in the Bible for
my penance. Then I went to the town
librarian, a friend because I checked out more books than anyone in town, and she
helped me gather all the books I could find on my Bible characters. There was Lucifer, Satan, Beelzebub, and any
other demon I could find mentioned in the Bible.
The priests were horrified
when I showed up for the silent retreat armed with books about the dark side of
Biblical tales, but they could not throw me out because they were all Bible
notables.
By this time in my life,
when I was 13, I'd seen more than my share of good and bad in life and in
people so I was thinking I better get to know the bad guys, then I might know
what to expect from them in the days, weeks and years ahead.
In my own way I loved my
mother like a mother deserved regardless of how good she might be at being a
mother. As long as we stayed apart we
were close.
.
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