But, as I think about those women he concocted, I focus on the character he allegedly based on his own mother. Bree Van De Kamp as played marvelously by Marcia Cross. The seemingly perfect person with lots of angst buried underneath. Emotions so masked and hidden that even the most powerful of oil rigs couldn't tap that payload.
Now, I'm guessing Marc will neatly tie up the loose ends of his serial and give us all a thoroughly satisfying wrap-up to the show. If only life could be that simple. Because my edition of Bree, namely my own mom, passed on and left me with way too many cliffhangers.
Yep, it is Mother's Day and that's her at the top of this post. More on that photo in a bit.
My mother, much like Bree, liked to focus on appearances and the outward facing view of our family. Certainly, when home, she tooled around in a housecoat and slippers. But, once out amongst the public, every blouse was perfectly ironed. Every piece of jewelry was thoughtfully selected. And, God forbid, if her hair was not impeccably coiffed every Saturday morning at the good ole beauty parlor. I guess everybody thought that my mom had it all together.
Er, no.
But, then again, whose parent did? I've often said that you don't really know somebody completely because, after that front door closes at the end of the day, you have no clue what really happens behind it.
Like perhaps a lot of you, I have some unanswered questions that will never be addressed because all the answers now reside at cemeteries like Woodlawn in the Bronx and Ferncliff in Hartsdale, New York. The reminder here is to ask about the things you wonder about when the folks are still with us. Sadly, there is an expiration date for that total access. And, personally for me, I am now way past it.
I will never know anything about my maternal grandparents. I know their names were John and Esther. They died almost simultaneously in the early 30s from one of those influenza epidemics. And, as for useful information, that's it. Their early departures sequestered my mom and her older sister to spend their teenage years in the Leake and Watts Orphanage of Yonkers, New York. Talk about your "hard knock life."
I wonder out loud if that really bad turn of events is what precipitated both these ladies into a bit of a drinking problem years later. My dad used to say that my mother and my aunt had what he would refer to as 'hollow legs." When I innocently asked any questions about her parents, Mom would give me my standard parental reply.
"You ask too many questions."
Too many and, apparently, not enough. Meanwhile, there were never any photos of John and Esther. Odd? So, I had a grandmother and a grandfather who I have never seen.
Unlike on "Desperate Housewives," I can't simply wait for the next season's first episode to get my cliffhangers solved.
When I was a kid, I would hear little side comments that my mother had once dated my father's brother, whose name I bear after his death in the waning days of World War II. Hmmm. Was this serious? So Mom's initial connection to the family was not through my dad but an uncle I never met? Knowing that I would get nowhere playing Sherlock Holmes with my mother, I quizzed my father on this matter. Was I ultimately a product of a rebound romance?
"You ask too many questions."
Yeah, I heard. Not only was my parents' generation the greatest, it was also the quietest. And most guarded.
And then there was my mother's hobby. Coloring black-and-white portraits. She was the original Ted Turner. Indeed, the photo that graces the top of today's post was the product of the little special crayons that Mom used to lay out across the kitchen table. Friends and relatives would flock to give my mother their black-and-white snapshots for coloring. It was almost a cottage industry. And, somehow, she had an innate ability to know exactly what some distant cousin's cheeks should look like in color.
I was curious. Was this something she learned in school? Was this a creative trait that she wished she had developed into something more? The quintessential "what, where, and why."
"I don't know how it started."
Huh??
Well, at least I didn't get the usual retort about asking too many questions. Eventually, Mom stopped this hobby. And why did she?
More answers silenced forever.
When I was thirteen, I was even more perplexed by a reaction from my mother, that was as harsh as it was unexpected. Marc Cherry has told a story about being kicked out of a car by his own mother, who drove off and left him on the side of the road for a while. He later wrote it into an episode of his show. He always wondered about the desperation that was behind his mother's actions that day.
Yeah, me, too. I have my own saga. Back when I was an utterly confused thirteen-year-old.
My older cousin was getting married and, for some strange reason, I was asked to be an usher for the guy she was marrying. I had never done this before and I was completely thrown for a loop by all the frenzy. Getting fitted for a tuxedo. Escorting people up and down an aisle. This was way over the head of some kid who much preferred to be "up the block" playing Strat-O-Matic baseball with his buddies. With all due respect to my cousin, I didn't want to be there. And, of course, I really hadn't been asked. This was arranged through my mother and you certainly didn't go against etiquette and decorum when she was involved.
The day of the wedding came and I was a mess. Can I go home now? And that was before the ceremony even started. I felt like a complete different human being in that monkey suit. Who am I and where the heck is my dignity??
I got through the church part okay and headed off to the reception hall. There would be the bridal party introductions. Oh, God, even more attention was going to be called to....ME. To make matters worse, I was the escort of my cousin's little sister, who was about four or five years younger than me. Today, this is a minor age difference and I communicate with this cousin frequently. Back then, on the cusp of my own puberty, I was horrified at it all. Kill me now. Somebody!
I remember being incredibly embarrassed by that long, long, long entrance into the reception hall. I recall the emcee commenting on the "littlest" member of the bridal party. Little??? You bastard!!!! My cousin is little. Me?? I'mm thirteen years old, goddamnit.
One indignity piled upon another until I could no longer take it. I had reached my boiling point. Time for Len to take a stand.
"Okay, we'd like to invite the littlest members of the bridal party to come out to the floor for a dance."
No fucking way. Or whatever words meant the same sentiment to a thirteen-year-old.
I just shook my head. I was coaxed and cajoled by the sleazeball with the microphone.
No. No. NO!!
So my poor little cousin wasn't left dance partner-less, some old guy, apparently the by-product of a very early cocktail hour, staggered out to be my replacement. The world seemed to laugh at me. This was beyond ugly, but I had stood my ground.
When my dad saw me later on, he simply shook his head at my antics.
"Would it have killed you?"
It might have.
It was my mother's reaction to this that really hurt. In reality, I had gone against every ounce of etiquette and outward-facing appearances. This was an almost mortal sin. She responded by simply not responding. She looked at me and then silently turned her back on me.
And then did not speak to me for the next two weeks.
The first couple of days, I tiptoed around her, desperate to get any response at all. Can I go to the grocery store for you? Can I clean the dishes? No, let me vacuum the living room carpet.
Nothing.
I gave up and settled into what likely would be the "new normal" around our house. I started to hide out downstairs with Grandma where the television was always tuned to my favorite programs.
What kind of punishment was this? It would have been one thing to be confined to my bedroom or denied television privileges. But, complete silence between a mother and a youngster? If she was trying to be mean, it worked.
I don't remember how and why my mother removed the cone of silence, but she simply started to speak with me. And the whole incident was never discussed again.
Until years later. I broached the whole fracas again and was curious to why she had such a harsh reaction to that day. How does a mother not speak to her son for almost fourteen days?
"I did? I don't remember that."
This time, I was directly involved in one of the questions I was asking. And I still couldn't get an answer.
And, like about two dozen other queries, never will.
Happy Mom's Day to all. If you still have yours around, please ask her a question. Any question. Do it for yourself. Do it for me.
Dinner last night: Bacon mushroom burger at the Hard Rock Cafe.
1 comment:
My mother was my introduction to the duality, the complexity of human nature. She had one face for the world, another for her family when the door was closed and there were no outside witnesses. There were versions of my mother. Guess that's true for most families.
My mother could be fighting with me. She knew how to raise her voice, insult, and accuse. But if the phone rang, she masked her anger instantly with her "phone voice", a bizarrely British accent and phrases like, "Oh, surely."
This was the Bronx where no one says, "Oh, surely." "Fuck off," maybe. "Drop dead," definitely. But never, "Oh, surely."
(Watch "Raging Bull" to hear what the Bronx really sounds like.)
She peppered her Brit chat with French, adding to my confusion. She didn't speak French. She took it in high school. But she liked to drop in the French when there was an audience to impress.
Our fights are over. She's buried with her mother, father and sister.
I don't wait for Mother's Day to think about her and work on the strange mysteries of the human heart.
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