Moms were in a league of their own during my Catholic
grammar school days. First, many of the dads had fought in World War II and
these vets lived lives that were a lot tougher than most men today. Moms seemed
focused on dads’ happiness and did an incredible job keeping things together in
the post-war family. Many moms of the Era would famously say that at times they
thought of murdering their husbands, but they never considered divorce!
Our dads were hard working and many of them had second jobs.
So, the moms were often the ones to run all the errands: take the kids to
doctors, deal with the schools, buy all the groceries and clothes, and many
others that are shared today—at least in part. Sure, the dads could
be tyrannical at times and bossy, but I remember moms ruling the roost.
Our next-door neighbors were Lithuanian immigrants who came
over after World War II. Mr. Sankas was an engineer, a mechanic, and a
restaurant owner. Mrs. Sankas was beautiful and we got a kick out of her
English—well,
the little English she knew. The Sankases
had an airplane in their garage, a Studebaker bullet nosed car, a yellow
Rambler station wagon, a vast collection of opera records, hundreds of Popular
Mechanics and National Geographic’s magazines, and enough electronic gear to
manage communications with relatives all over the world should an invasion take
place here in America.
My friend, Mike the Menace, used to hide in the bushes when
Mrs. Sankas came out of her home at dinner time to call her sons in. She would
yell out, “Stanleeey, Seeleey (Sylvester), and my friend would yell out from
the bushes in his South Side Chicago accent, “Coming Ma.” Mrs. Sankas would
look puzzled at the response, but she would turn around and head inside thinking
that Stanley and Sylvester had heard her call.
Another noteworthy mom in the neighborhood was Mrs.
McCarthy, Mike the Menace’s mom. She came from rural Canada and was a mom who
could cook anything including a variety of game that her older sons had hunted.
For most of us, the only meat we ever saw had been processed by a butcher and was
wrapped in plastic. We were city kids
after all! But Mrs. McCarthy would not only cook the food, she would skin and
clean the animals by herself. I remember
walking down in their basement one day and seeing a pile of dead squirrels on a
chopping block that were in various states of butchering. It was an eye-opener
for me. I was told they taste just like chicken.
Mrs. O’Meara lived across the street and had an Irish
temper. Like a lot of moms, when she was
mad at one of her kids, she would yell at them using their formal first,
middle, and last name: “John Kenneth O’Meara, you go out in that yard and
pickup your baseball mitt and DON’T LEAVE IT OUT THERE AGAIN!” Sometimes we
could sit across the street and hear an entire 10-minute tirade from Mrs.
O’Meara word for word.
Most of the women took pretty good care of themselves. Men might be the boss at times, but the women
placed limits on what they would tolerate from their men. And when the women
got angry, the men would fold up the tent in a hurry.
We did have one exception and that was Mrs. Lonus. She was
one of those women who was a housewife and cleaned houses for a few wealthy
people outside the neighborhood. The plight of Mrs. Lonus was always on the
mind of my mother. Mrs. Lonus was always taking the bus to her work, but her
husband took the car to his job. When the Lonuses pulled up to their house with
bags of groceries in their trunk, Mr. Lonus would walk into the house empty
handed. Mrs. Lonus on the other hand could be seen carrying heavy bags of
groceries in. My mother was not prone to swearing, but when she saw Mrs. Lonus
carrying the groceries in to the house, my mother’s colorful curses echoed
through our house to describe her absolute loathing of Mr. Lonus. In fact, her voice would sometimes carry up
and down the block like one of Mrs. O’Meara’s tirades. The final judgement on Mr. Lonus came from his
total absence from Mass attendance. Mrs. Lonus was at church every Sunday and
she walked. But Mr. Lonus used the time to wash his car. And as far as my
mother was concerned, anyone who would do unnecessary work on Sunday and not
attend Mass, was destined for HELL.
Most of us got comfortable with our moms around the
neighborhood. Our neighborhood friends
knew the odd and the whacky aspects of our families. But when we got together
for rare gatherings with all those we knew from our parish in public places, we
were often a little embarrassed by our parents when our other classmates or
teammates might see them.
The worst place for embarrassment was at football banquets—especially
my 8th Grade Football banquet. First, most the time at St. Cajetan,
we had good teams, but that year we had not excelled. So, our celebration wasn’t
much to look forward to after the season. Second, depending upon how many of our
neighborhood friends showed up, I might end up spending the entire night
sitting with our parents. Third, I knew my mother had no interest in sports at
all and she would be looking for other ways to entertain herself.
It was winter and icicles had formed all around the old neighborhood
houses. I had just received an old blazer from my cousin and I was sporting it
that night. The tan, green, and gold plaid blazer could have been a fashion coup
for me, only it was several sizes too large. I was also sporting one of my dad’s
wide ties—something
that Dick Tracey might have worn.
My parents’ car was an oil-burner. On the trip to the fancy
banquet hall, black smoke flew behind us. I ducked down in the back seat so no one could
see me. When we came to the banquet, I
was anxious to get inside, but my mother was taking her time—this
was a date for her and she wanted all the validation that came with it. My
father opened the car door for her and held out his arm for her journey to the entrance.
My mother was wearing a hat that I despised. It may have been influenced by something
Jackie Kennedy had worn in France, but the American Discount Department Store
version of it looked like it had been created in five minutes with some glue
and rose-colored toilet paper. It was a times like this that moms went heavy on
the make-up and perfume. Not the kind of stuff that endeared them to their
sons.
The banquet hall was a typical variety of garish chandeliers,
marbled carpet, and white cloth-covered round tables spewed out in a generous
room. It included rectangular tables in the front for dignitaries and a hundred
cheap plastic trophies on another group of tables. The guys couldn’t keep their
eyes from the plastic golden prizes, but we were later disappointed to find
that they had “participant” engraved on them. A podium stood front and center.
It turned out that night that 8th Graders were
required to sit with their parents, but several of the cool guys had managed to
come by themselves. So, tables were a mix of parents and their kids with a few
lucky stragglers. The usual banquet food flowed forth as the speakers came up
to the podium and talked briefly about the positive influence of athletics. I remember
a bad joke about a swearing priest who was out playing golf with a Rabbi and a
Protestant Minister. And then the trophies were handed out with great speed as
the night was coming to an end.
I was feeling embarrassed and I expect many others were
feeling the same way as their parents were sharing stories with a few beers for
lubrication. The kids had maneuvered to what became all-kid tables and were
shooting the BS. The ever-dapper Dennis Costello was talking about girls and
holding court. He sat back in his seat sporting a suit that was
altered to fit his thin physique. Costello suddenly paused and asked if any of
us had seen one of the moms, Mrs. McQueen that night. Most said no, and
suddenly Dennis stuck his pointer finger out in the direction of the ladies’
room. There was Mrs. McQueen prancing across the way with a short mini skirt, a
low-cut blouse, high heels, and a bleached blond beehive.
With a collective sigh, we all looked at each other a little less embarrassed
about our own moms.
Copyright 2017, Sporting Chance Press
Lawrence Norris is the author of The Brown and White, a fictionalized memoir of Chicago Catholic high school days that takes place during the late 1960s.
