Call Your Mother.

            1/4/20.  Mom died.  She had a stroke in October.  A few months later, covid.  In between that, a perfect and beautiful daughter Janice was born on 2/19.  To be depressed would be selfish. 

So it goes.   

           

I grew up as the near-sighted youngest third son of devoted, antique-peddling parents in the wonderful 1980's.  Mom and pop helped manage Werts and Bledsoe Antique mall, named after the original mercantile store owners whose signage still stood above the 150+ year old building.  It was originally referred to as an antique co-op, not a mall.  Many days occupied with a cast of authentic, specific characters.  Bruce, the promoter / raconteur / ringmaster.  Mary, the motherly figure dealing in depression era glass, always with a smile and a bowl of candy by the cash register.  Teddy, matching my Old Man’s work ethic, beard, flannel shirt and beer gut, fixed mostly old chairs and furniture.  Kenny the auctioneer wore wedding dresses while whipping crowds into bidding wars at the Okeana auction on ridiculous Friday nights.  Many others. 

Momma loved Jadeite.  Now a wildly popular postwar collectible on a level she would have never imagined.  The Old Man found and restored early farm primitives, mainly trunks, and Native American artifacts.  Early childhood memories involve searching for arrowheads in recently tilled fields in the Fort Ancient and Miami Valley.

Mom and dad had an antique lifestyle a generation before they were emulated by the American Pickers type of reality shows.  Their heyday was in advance of being able to go to a store or Amazon and buy massed produced, worthless pieces of Made in China made to look stressed and old.  A true, genuine antiquity, not made by someone who was paid 8 cents an hour in a sweatshop 2000 miles away, can bring life, conversation, and soul to an increasingly homogeneous and soulless world. 

My parents had connections paid off at scrap yards where the Old Man would buy piles of old signage, Americana, art, tractor parts, discarded furniture, coca cola coolers, anvils.  Yes, anvils.  Think Roadrunner / Wile E. Coyote.  A rep from some national food chain (Applebees?) would come by once a year and fill up a trailer with odd Americana to eventually be nailed to the wall of one of the Same Old Corporate Restaurants ™ to enhance your dinner experience.  Mom and dad’s search required many mornings at scrapyards, barns of retired farmers, attics of little old widows, and, most importantly to me, flea markets. 

My personal favorite rummaging spot was Ferguson’s market, formerly a popular west side drive-in for the post-war generation.  A mammoth, weathered screen raining rust whenever a strong gust passed, hovering over a prairie of speaker poles symmetrically sprouting out on a vast open field.  Just 10 minutes north of Kenner St.  That is another story for another audience.

The older I get, the further away dad gets.  I honestly do not remember or would recognize the sound of his voice.  I’m ok with that.  I used to not be.  I wonder when I will forget mom’s voice?  Mom’s slightly too loud, absurd, wonderful, often nonsensical, joyous, beautiful voice. 

Time has taught me that there is nothing is to gain from thinking of all of my kids never spending time with their grandparents.  My Old Man.  Now, mom.  We had all the time in the world for her.  Until we didn't. 

Janice will never know Janice.  Joey, of course, won’t remember, either. 

So it goes. 

Please.  Visit your parents.  Visit your grandparents.  Call your mom.  Perhaps you won’t be able to soon.  Whatever you are doing right now is not as important.   

Where Ferguson drive-in/ flea market stood now stands the symbol of contemporary American progress: a Wal-Mart Supercenter.  Progress?  I still sometimes see the old cast of characters when I frequent nearby flea markets and malls.  They are older.  Fatter.  Grayer.  They could say the same about me. 

Teddy died about 20 years after dad.  His store was 2 blocks down from mom and dad’s place.  Mary died about 15 (?) years ago.  Bruce is still alive and well, thank God.  Some aren’t as fortunate.  Time is a terrible, scary, stupid reality. 

So it goes. 

"The most extraordinary thing in the world is an ordinary man and an ordinary woman and their ordinary children."-G.K. Chesterton.