I Remember Ma

Our old black and white Zenith introduced me to many great times and interesting people. Among my favorite shows when I was a child were "You Asked For It," "You Are There," "The Ed Sullivan Show," "The Jack Benny Program" and "The Buster Brown Show."

But there was another program, one I particularly loved. It came into our home accompanied by the sound of percolating Maxwell House coffee. Then, as slender feminine hands opened and began leafing through a family photo album, a soft, smooth woman's voice began recounting memories of her father and brother(s). Then, dropping her voice to a special tone of love, she says, "But most of all, I remember Momma."

Neither I, nor my sisters Rosemary and Priscilla, ever called our mother "Momma." Our familiar form of the word mother was, and has always remained, "Ma."

When I remember Ma, the glow that engulfs me is one of sincere unconditional love, safety and comfort.
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I am perhaps eight or nine years old. Summer is getting old and dusty, its afternoon heat lacking the strength to hammer the asphalt as it did in its youth. When it does muster strength, the heat causes updrafts and the clouds gather and grow in height and breadth.

Ma calls my two younger sisters and me in for supper. The bright sunlight is softening, diffusing through the gathering blankets of moisture. I look up at the immense, gathering thunderheads as I climb the porch stairs, feeling the breeze quicken and cool.

While I'm in the cellar lighting the old copper water-heater, the storm strikes. The first crack of thunder is a great rifle shot -- a quick snap-crack-bang followed by a deep reverberating base note that shakes the foundation of the house around me. I run up the cellar stairs to the kitchen.

Ma is scurrying around slamming windows shut. "Run upstairs and close the bedroom windows!" she says in the commanding tones of a captain whose ship is about to encounter a hurricane.

I scurry upstairs and out onto the yardarms.

Ma's room has only one open window. The sheer curtains are blowing inward and twisting like torn sails. I slam the wooden framed window screen closed, set it on the floor and pull down on the window. It won't budge. Years of old paint re-enforced by humidity swollen wood, hold it tight in its track.

The first sheet of rain hits the outside pavement with a sound resembling marbles being poured out onto a hardwood floor. I jump, grab hold of the top of the window and let my whole weight fall. The window releases with a snap and swishes closed.

The bathroom contains a single, brand-new window that slides obediently and smoothly closed.

By the time I get to my room, the rain, wind and flashes of lightning are putting on a spectacular show. I bounce across my bed and slide off the other side. The floor is wet with small puddles. The windowsill is soaked. The wind blowing into my face smells of wet leaves and recently oiled pavement. I shut and lock the window, wipe the sill with my hand producing a loud, rubbery squeak and run downstairs.

The front door is open. I walk through it and onto our large covered front porch (Ma calls it a "veranda"). Ma is sitting in the old wicker loveseat leaning forward with her elbows on her thighs. I step out onto the porch just as the sky lights up with a bluish flash which instantly silhouettes all the trees and houses in the neighborhood. I run to the love seat and snuggle in close to Ma and my sisters, managing to arrive just before the low, distant rumble of thunder.

"Did you see the dragon?" Ma says.

We looked at her quizzically.

She points to a large tree across the street and whispers, "Keep your eyes on that tree."

The four of us watch the tree obediently, not knowing what to expect.
Then it happens: a quick three-flash strobe is fired from the heavens. Rose screams. Priscilla buries her head in Ma's shoulder. I stare, dumbstruck. For an instant, the tree is no longer a tree. It is a huge and menacing monster with two large flaring nostrils, a high eye socket and jagged scales as big as spearheads. He's looking away from us, over his shoulder, up the street.

"Wow!" is all I can say. Rose laughs, then squeals with delight and relief. Priscilla keeps her head buried in Ma's armpit.

For the next 30 minutes we watch as a menagerie of animals, monsters and cartoon characters come to life in the neighboring trees.

As the storm retreats, Priscilla slides into Ma's lap and drifts off to sleep. Ma begins singing about a man who had a goat. I ask her about the red shirts that that old goat coughed up and flagged the train with. Ma patiently explains that all trains have to stop for a red flag. I vow to remember that important fact.

Rose asks Ma to sing the song again. I rest my head on Ma's side and can feel the words of the song vibrating within.

The thunder is far away now. We sit cuddled together listening to the rain. I feel nicely warm and comfortable.

The love that Ma gave must have been indeed great for I still feel it. Today, whenever the lightning causes the world to appear in silhouette, I somehow feel safe. Between the flashes, in the black and quiet of the night heavens, I can see her smiling. In the rumble of the fading thunder I hear her singing: "There was a Man. O please take note. There was a man who had a goat..."

Just An Old Hippie

I was "ridin' and guidin'" my 18-wheeler through the flatlands east of Montreal, Quebec when I saw the specter striding meaningfully along the side of AutoRoute 10, his eyes fixed straight ahead, an old duffel bag wedged under his arm. He was dressed in patched bell-bottom jeans and a faded, tie-dyed T-shirt. The leather thongs of Roman sandals were wrapped several times around his lower legs and he had a short cigarette (I think it was a cigarette) stuck out of the corner of his mouth. Looking in my rearview, I noticed he was not young, his full beard and flowing long hair contained many streaks of gray. I wondered where he was coming from and where he was headed. As he faded from my view I felt a chill, then abruptly put him out of my mind.

Later, as I beheld the skyline of Montreal -- that conglomeration of old and new set upon the banks of an ageless, wide river -- the words of an old pop song crept into my mind like a pre-dawn fog: "I'm just an old hippie and I don't know what to do, should I hold onto the old, should I grab on to the new. Just an old hippie trying not to make a fuss. I ain't trying to please nobody, I'm just trying real hard to adjust."

Where in the world had that come from? Then I remembered the striding specter.

Over the next couple of hours, I became a haunted man. I couldn't shake that darned song from my consciousness. I would shut it for an hour or so only to catch myself humming the tune. Tiring of the fight, I surrendered, flipped on the cruise control, relaxed and gave the song my attention.

I never was what anyone could call a hippie. I didn't have time to be: I was married at 18, a father at 19 and a grandfather at 35. While all the hippies I knew were running around naked and/or stoned at the corner of Haight and Ashbury, or rolling in the mud of drugs, sex and rock and roll at the original Woodstock, I was trying to put in a little overtime to buy my kids a new pair of shoes.

I tried marijuana a couple of times, inhaled and got sick (guess I wasn't presidential material). As a young 20-something, while members of my generation were spending money on Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd, I was falling asleep at the supper table to an old Johnny Cash record -- a 45 at that.

Now don't get me wrong. I'm not complaining. I made choices in my life and most I don't regret. I was made to be a family man, I knew that by the time I was eight years old. I don't regret not having been a hippie. I was happy with what I was and am happy with what I am. But, why was that darned old song bouncing around in my cranium like a possessed Ping-Pong ball?

Well, the miles went by, the days piled up and I forgot that old song and the specter. Then, Thanksgiving rolled around.

Thanksgiving was a joyous day. My oldest daughter and her husband arrived with their youngest daughter, my granddaughter (I have 12 grandchildren and one greatgrandson), for a visit. We laughed together, gave thanks together and over-ate together. Later, at the video store, the song came back to me.

I opened the doors to that old hippie when I asked my granddaughter what she wanted to see. She gave me a quick litany of 50 or so current films complete with their stars and co-stars. I quickly realized that I had never heard of any of the movies, to say nothing of their shining stars. To make matters worse, whenever I questioned her about them she just smiled as though I were kidding and said something like, "Oh grandpa, you're so funny."

No, not funny, just an old hippie, emphasis on old. I began thinking about other things, about pop music and young fashions. These days I'm still listening to Buddy Holly, downloading Gordon Bok and think I'm cool in tweed (I always had a secret admiration for Henry Higgins' style in My Fair Lady).

Ask me to name two top singers on the pop chart and I'll give you a blank stare. Ask me to name a popular movie and I go mute. I still think baseball caps should be worn with the bill facing forward, rolled into a slight curve; baggy pants went out with the zoot suit; knee socks look good on young girls; sneakers should be made of canvas; and hip-hop only sounds good around a flaming barrel in the Bronx, and then only if there are no do-whoppers around.

Well that settles that. No, I cannot grab onto to the new, for besides computers I don't have a clue what the new is. Further, I'm not sure I want to know and if I do, I don't want to make the effort to find out.

Just an old hippie who never was a hippie -- that's me. So, if I can't grab onto the new I had better hold onto the old. I rather like that idea. I'll hold onto family, and love, children and puppies, snuggling and holding hands. I'll hold onto working hard and resting as if it were a blessing. I'll download some more Gordon Bok, throw in some good jazz and folk and then not have the time to sit and listen to it. I'll continue to despise insurance companies (health insurance most of all) question the godly stature of physicians, and completely distrust anything corporate including most politicians.

I will continue to hold sacred such things as Bing Crosby's "White Christmas," Gene Autry's "Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer," and Roy and Dale Rogers' "Happy Trails to You," while considering remakes of these by new artists anathema and new arrangements heresy.

I still like John Wayne movies, anything written by Mark Twain, and Road Runner cartoons. I do not consider the Three Stooges violent (I'm so sick) nor do I necessarily view men who cry as being weak or women who stay at home as being unfulfilled. I have trouble tolerating intolerance and have been known to spend an hour looking for the eyeglasses that are on my face.

I'm just an older man getting to like getting older, getting to appreciate the increased perspective. No, I won't grab onto the new -- I'll pick and choose, thank you. I will hold on to the old for it has sustained me well for more than half a century.

And, wouldn’t you know? Some of that old stuff is becoming new. Go figure.