This Is Thanksgiving, Not Mother's Day

Friends, it's Thanksgiving! Raise a glass with me, and let us propose a toast ... to Mama, the Dearest on Earth to Us. You may be a perfect stranger to me every other day of the year. But please join in, for on Thanksgiving we're all family. Eh? Are you raising your glass? Raise it! And let us toast Dear Mama, just like we did way back when, on the very day they told us, "This is Thanksgiving, not Mother's Day."

It was actually a revelation -- however unwelcome it seemed at the time -- since we were admittedly a bit carried away honoring Mama. And ignoring the bird spread naked and golden brown on the ritzy dining table of that deservedly expensive hotel. They had a spread loaded with thighs, breasts, and drumsticks, and they charged an arm and a leg for it. What money? Money means nothing on Thanksgiving!

The real problem started with toasts. Most of us don't make toasts on a regular basis. Everything we know about toasts we learned from movies and TV. Which so often specialize in fictional happenings, goings-on, stories with a plot, a conflict, working through the conflict, and resolving itself in a happy ending. Meaning, if a toast doesn't sound like it sounds on TV, there's something wrong.

We went out for Thanksgiving, the whole family. Daughter, sons, their kids, Papa and of course Mama. Mama's the center of the family in most families, especially if your family is anything like ours. She makes our heart melt. We have memories of her tenderness when Papa was gruff, or whatever. We nursed off her, literally, giving us the step-up in life we needed when other kids were bottle-feeding or seeking nutritional refuge in the arms of a goat or something worse.

So when we went out for Thanksgiving at the best place in town -- Expensive! So expensive it's like throwing money down the drain -- it really meant something. We were very sensitive about the experience. Usually we pinched pennies, now we were living it up, like the Rockefellers or the Gettys. Papa had his money withdrawn, it was big-bucks time at Thanksgiving! Every plate was expensive, crazy expensive. So much you could've eaten five times somewhere else and had money leftovers.

It's the same feeling you get at other holidays when the expectation is to go beyond your ordinary means. Christmas is the biggest example, but each person's individual birthday is a mini version of the same thing. Or New Year's, when Papa came home with eggnog and salami and chocolates and candles. You're wondering if it's the same guy who's always so tight. Papa's family went through the Depression. They had to scrape for everything they could scrape together.

OK, so there we were at this hugely expensive place. And naturally, with the money buying us the biggest, best Thanksgiving meal, our tender thoughts turned to Mama. Who was spared cooking the big meal for a change. But would've gladly done it if we hadn't gone out. She would've come up with a turkey, cooked it, carved it, made dressing, made pies, all the fixins, bread by the bushel, and drinks.

I took my drink and lifted it by way of a toast, and the rest of the family immediately joined in. "To Mama, the center of our family, our life, our common love, our heart, our soul." "Here, here," the others said. Then my next brother, not to be outdone, lifted a glass and cleared his throat: "To Mama, who binds us together as one, not just our life but our everything, the best Mama we could've ever hoped for." Then my next brother (3), who of all the siblings saw Mama over the years more than those of us who'd moved away, had a tear in his eye. He lifted a glass and toasted her: "We should probably be toasting Papa," he started to chuckles, "because Papa is the one who found Mama. She was a natural beauty, although, as we've all heard, she was 'a diamond in the rough.' But she had the upbringing in her own family and saw the example of her own parents, and now has exceeded them, which I say not to question the merits of Grandma... Family, raise a glass to Mama!" The fourth brother had a decent toast, and the daughter (5) and the last son, last but not least. His toast was a tearjerker, because when you're Number 6 you're just happy to be alive. Statistically, Number 6s are rare, and reflection on that gives you a keen ability to make good toasts.

When all was said and done, I led the way for everyone, including Papa -- barely able to walk even with a cane -- to get up and go over to pat Mama on the back and give her his own personal plaudits. She was trying to wave us off -- her wonderful modesty and self-effacing nature, further reasons to love her so much. But we went on anyway, patting her, giving her kisses, hugging her. True, the food was getting cold, but that's OK. Thanksgiving comes but once a year, whether or not you have a Mama, and we knew someday we'd lose her. But it wasn't that day! That day she felt the fullness of our love. Even though she tried to wave us off, that was her day!

We were laughing, praising Mama, and outdoing one another something fierce. "This turkey is probably the most expensive turkey in the world, since the meal is so outrageously expensive at this fancy-schmancy place, but it's nothing compared to the turkey Mama could've made!" Similar sentiments were shared. Praising the different aspects of the meal, but discounting it compared to what Mama could've done. When the waiter, obviously at the beck and call of the head cook -- who probably should've been demoted to assistant chief bottle-washer for the remark -- came out and scolded us, saying, "Folks, we'd like to remind you, This is Thanksgiving, not Mother's Day," our table became stone quiet. I looked at my brother like, "What the fu-?"

We might've rioted -- I was personally that close to gutting that particular waiter, and Brother 3, with his greater familiarity with Mama and the over-protective nature he'd nurtured, looked like he was daydreaming of a noose for the head cook. We would've hung him high right there over that very table had Mama not stepped in, saying, "The waiter is only doing his job, beloved family. And he's right. You started in praising me, your Mama, and of course I appreciate and love each one of you always, but in the sentiment of the moment we were all carried away. So let us get back to our meal, dear ones, because as he said, and he was right, "This is Thanksgiving, not Mother's Day."

Mama Don't Allow

Note: If you're concerned about the lyrics of modern songs, and the negative impact they can have on society and morals, this is the post for you. I also long for the good old days, long ago, when an occasional reference to "hoochie koo" was the worst you'd hear.  Even then, it went over most people's heads, thinking it had something to do with sneezing.

A song that really gets my goat is a country song called "Mama Don't Allow." The key thing in this song is that the instrumentalists in the band have a chance to show off their chops. Seems pleasant enough until you listen closely to the lyrics. In each case, it has to do with disobedience to Mama, as it is clearly stated that she doesn't allow whatever-it-is, the dobro, guitar, piano, etc.

Mama don't allow no guitar pickin' 'round here,
Mama don't allow no guitar pickin' 'round here.
Well, we don't care what Mama don't allow,
We're gonna pick our guitar anyhow.
Mama don't allow no guitar pickin' 'round here.

At which point the guitar picker joyously takes the instrumental break, and I turn it off. Because, in my opinion, that's shameful. If you're just wantonly going against your Mama's wishes, you're flirting with the destruction of society and life as we know it. In my opinion, Mama's will, her desires for us are only good. And whereas it might not be immediately clear to us why Mama would disallow guitar pickin', the piano, the dobro, fiddle, and all the rest, she must have a good reason; it's not necessarily for us to know.

For me, that's the policy that's going to get us furthest in life, accepting Mama's will whether we understand it or not. I firmly believe that. Was I ever disobedient to Mama? I actually was, and I lived to regret it! One day she caught me at the lake, playing with salamanders, when I was clearly told that I should never visit the lake by myself. She was angry, I'm sure, but since her whole concern was for my well-being, I know she was mostly relieved. I hadn't drowned nor suffered salamander poisoning, which was very bad that year.

From that moment on -- and I suffered terrible dreams of being dangled over the fires of hell -- I resolved to treat Mama's word like inviolate law. She said it, and whether her reasons were crystal clear to my feeble mind or entirely inscrutable, that's the way it was. Which policy, incidentally, led to me to be the clearheaded, mentally strong, entirely wise person you know so well today.

But too many people, I'm afraid to say, haven't had those experiences or dreams. And so they've never taken the vow. And these are some of the ones singing this vile song, "Mama Don't Allow." They think they're just having a "good time," laughing it up. Maybe their Mama was broken down in spirit, and kept to herself in the other room, and twiddled her thumbs. If she did, I'm sure she had her reason, worried that her children had somehow tragically slipped her grasp. The other Mamas held her up as an example of what not to do.

Of course I understand life, I understand how it goes. The very nature of music is it appears to grant greater freedom to the soul, which quickly veers off into some dangerous territories. Because if it's received by someone without sense and maturity, they can fall off the deep end just like that. Mama comes running in, her dress up around her face, crying her eyes red, but nothing can bring her children back. The transgression is accomplished, and the foundation of society, at least in miniature, has collapsed.

Somehow, tragically, to will the good is not just in us; it's tough to know the difference. Even Mama, I'm guessing, had to learn it somewhere, probably from her Mama. She knows boundaries are important, that you want to screen yourself off from what is negative. Just like she doesn't want you running in to expose yourself to dangerous viruses and bacteria, so she wants your mental condition to be kept safe.

So, next time you hear some jug band, or acoustic combo, going strong on "Mama Don't Allow," and they're giving you that big old stupid grin like they're enjoying themselves wantonly flaunting their disobedience -- going strong and confident on the dobro, piano, guitar, harmonica, bass, or even drums -- just withdraw from the scene and save yourself. If you can pull a person or two aside and tell them what's really going on, that would be good. But for Mama's sake, don't allow yourself to be pulled back in!

We want to get back to a righteous standard. And we need more Mamas speaking up to their children and loved ones before it's too late. That's my desire in life, now that my own Mama has passed on. I can still remember, of course, and, besides, I'm getting about old enough, music isn't much of a temptation at this point. I hear it from a distance and hobble the opposite direction just as fast as I can.

Go Away, Dad, It's Still May

It seems like every year it gets worse, the encroachment of one holiday on another, and opening up the shopping season way too soon. You hear people crying out about it, complaining, and even picketing stores -- Who can forget the great anti-Christmas sit-in of July '74? But they still do it, the moneygrubbing stores, worshiping the Almighty Buck! If they had their way we'd have the tree up in April and Easter in October.

Of course I see it personally every year. I've gotten used to the cycle, and, being as easy-going as I am, for the most part I just shut it out. I expect to see Valentine's merchandise the day after Christmas, and that's that. And the fact that 99% of retail workers have to work Thanksgiving to get ready for Black Friday, I'm OK with that, just as long as they keep their end of the bargain, the promise to keep Thanksgiving some time in the last six months of the year.

But give 'em an inch and they'll take ... Mother's Day!?

Am I seriously supposed to believe what my fool eyes and my other fool senses are trying to tell me?! There better be some mistake here! Even Mother's Day is up for grabs!? Excuse me, this is too much -- cough cough, let me catch my breath... Good Christ in Heaven, is nothing sacred anymore? I saw it the last couple years but didn't say anything, because I was hoping my mom wouldn't notice, and I wouldn't have to explain it to her. But now that she's passed on, I'm taking the gloves off. As for her, I'm glad she didn't hear. I can only picture her rolling in her grave, had we not opted for cremation.

But it's true! There's no mistaking it. It's still May, and has been for some time, close to a month, and I saw it right away, Father's Day gifts out and for sale so early. Of course I don't personally have a dog in this fight, since my dad's also passed away, traditional burial. But I don't think it's a very nice thing to give Mom (the memory of mine and everyone else's still-living Moms) the short shrift. Screwing her once again, this time out of her day-month of recognition.

No doubt there's some lousy dads out there -- deadbeats -- who are OK with this. You have to guess that some of the moneygrubbing guys in retail are dads. Either out to line their pockets, or, to put an even worse spin on it, to totally diss their wives and girlfriends by whom they've had children. Dads, does that show real care for your wife and the various mothers of your children, that you can't even make their day-month special? You have to take it for yourself? I remember when men were men...

The gifts on display are plentiful, too, no shortage. We're not talking about what they do for St. Patrick's Day, which is to have a 10 x 10 foot area of green hats and necklaces in the middle of January. Far from it! There's entire sections of the store, large areas, devoted to things Dad would like: Slacks, shirts, ties, sporting goods, fishing supplies, hardware... Go right on down the line. Anything and everything Dad might like, they've got it, nothing missing, no holding back. Just blatantly ... right there ... in your face, bold as life.

It takes away the specialness of Mother's Day and Father's Day. You know what I think a good dad would want, the all-American red, white, and blue dad? For the store to clear away all those things that appeal to men. Just get rid of them, put them in storage the last week of April. Then keep May, the whole month, centered exclusively on Mothers. And then all the workers work overtime the last day of May, starting around 10 p.m., bringing Dad's stuff back on the floor. So that Dad gets June, the way he's supposed to.

I Try To Fix A Pro Wrestling Match

I had a bright idea that the Organization should get involved in the professional wrestling game, specifically, to fix the biggest match in this area in some time, coming up tomorrow, Polish champ Stanislaus Zbyszko vs. dried up Jack Taylor.

I told Tony -- Mr. Big -- my idea, and he was dubious we could pull it off. One, he's never heard of pro wrestling being fixed before; it's always on the up and up. Still, I had his blessing, if I could successfully arrange it. He said he'd put 50 Gs on the match with a Zbyszko fall. Because of course Zby's the overwhelming favorite.

We got ahold of Al Reynolds, the promoter. I heard him yawn on the phone, "Surrrre, come over, bring your boys, whatever..." Tony told me to take the only former pro wrestler in the Organization, Big Brute, to help out, who was also skeptical. In short, we made threats, we used the old strong arm technique, both usually effective as an opening gambit ... but not in the field of pro wrestling! Those guys would not bend!

So Tony and Brute were right. And I'm thinking, You mean to tell me pro wrestling's on the up and up? Why aren't there reports of matches in the daily news, sports journals, and almanacs? You're telling me those big garish belts are actually awarded to legitimate winners? I couldn't believe it!

I said I wanted Zbyszko and Jack Taylor to trade falls, then for Zby to take a powder in the 3rd and final fall. Geez, what money there'd be! Stanislaus is a future hall of famer, no one expects him to lose! Taylor's best days are far behind him. Why they even picked that half dead layabout, I'll never know. Not when guys like Earl Caddock and Ed "Strangler" Lewis of headlock fame were available! You tell me!

Anyway, I didn't want to take no for an answer. I pulled out my gun. Brute tried to calm me down. I went up on the ring, shot 40 shells in the mat, and said, "That could've been your head!" They weren't impressed.

I asked the wrestling boss if he had any pictures of his kids. He tossed me his wallet. I took out a big string of pictures, stuck them on a nail on the wall, and shot the shit out of them. These photographic memories of his children, once so recognizable you could pick out each one as a distinctive individual, were like New Year confetti. You couldn't tell which were girls and which boys. All traces of gender were gone, as were all traces of anything, except you could still see the original photos were in color, since the pile of resulting confetti was colorful, as confetti generally is. It didn't matter, he said, the integrity of the sport was too important.

You mean to tell me?.....

I still had one huge ace up my sleeve. Before arriving, some of the guys had abducted some of these guys' mothers. We led them in in chains. They were crying, etc. But everyone remained very calm. The mothers were assisted into the ring, and some of the other boys brought in a full arsenal of machine guns. We were going to get a deal or the mothers would die!

But now it was the mothers' turn to plead, which turned out badly. Instead of pleading for their lives, they pleaded for their sons to keep intact their honesty. "We will gladly die, please allow us to die! Just do not stain your honor or that of professional wrestling for any reason as selfish as keeping us alive. The sport must be Number 1, it must go on! We've lived a good life. We are ready to die." They laid it on thick, as you can tell.

Meaning, we eventually let the mothers go, and gave up. I couldn't believe the sport of pro wrestling was indeed a sport, so entirely above board and incorruptible. I thought it was a sham. But every word is true. It happened just like I said...

In the end, I was philosophical about it: Into every life a little rain must fall. At least I thought that was the end. Al Reynolds and some of his bruisers grabbed us and tossed us around the ring like rag dolls, supplying us a full and vicious pummeling for good measure, their feeling on the subject, not mine.