My mom, whenever I would rustle up the cats as a kid, would say, "Susi, don't mollox the cat!" So, like, there's no such word as mollox, at least not that I could find. And there's no way she can stop me now. I'm still molloxing my cats--Lester, Timmy, and Gully.
This is a picture of my family before me. Or, as I like to say, "My family BM."
Mom was born in Bird's Run, West Virginia. What I later referred to as West Virginny.
I posted a version of my Mom's word "mollox" on Facebook the other day. One of my friends referred me to a podcast that discusses words. You may have heard of them? A Way with Words? No? Me either. Anyway, I did and it seems they might be as flummoxed about my mother's word as I am. No matter. This post isn't about words, although it's filled with words. Selah.
Other things Mom said...
Her: I'm going to call you Imbecilic Person from now on.
Me: That's a mouthful, Mom.
Her: I'll shorten it to IP so you know when I'm talking to you.
Mom always got the final say.
She called me this when I was around the age of eight, maybe ten. Who knows? I'm an imbecile, it seems. But remember, she birthed me so what does that make my Mom? The Queen?
At aged, fifty-eight, or there around, after I told her that I had a few of the qualities of someone with ADD (attention deficit disorder) and smatterings of OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder). To which, she said, "I always wondered what was wrong with you." This from The Queen.
Obviously, Mom had the heart of a saint. This is how it goes...you get called names...you call others names. Or at least that's my belief because now I call Bob things like Booger Butt and Stink Pot. And I just called Joey, Moron. Not nice but if the shoe and all...
And... if you hadn't noticed...I like ellipses...
I guess I'm being a bit hard on Mom considering she had to raise my sister first. Which, truth be told, was like raising a spider monkey on meth. Ask me how many times my sister ended up in the ER? Just ask.
I guess I've been thinking about my mother because, as we near the holidays, I am reminded of a few things...
How clean our houses had to be in order to have people over for Thanksgiving and Christmas because if our houses were NOT clean, we would never hear the end of it. Ever.
How horrifying the holidays were because, well, every family member--no matter who--turned into raving idiots. Biological family as well as married-into family. Raving idiots all.
And, finally, because my mom died just before Christmas effectively killing any future happy Christmas memories (all with very clean homes) for survivors--meaning me and my spider monkey sister.
Do I sound mean? Okay, cranky? Snotty? Well, judge me if you will. Call me those names. I wouldn't blame you. I'm sort of taking it out on Mom, right? Kinda sorta? But, you see, I'm more amused by my upbringing because she left and can in no way argue with me about this post. No matter what. Although if I trip and fall down the stairs after hitting "post" I'll believe it was Mom reaching down from her heavenly home one more time to let me know she's still listening or in some way, knows I posted something about her that might make her appear wolfish.
Which, by the way, makes me wonder how she ever found out about me going to see The Exorcist when I was fourteen after her express instruction not to go. I went because of Spider Monkey and her then, boyfriend and now, husband, Spider Monkey Lover. Mom had a cow!
The saying, "The fruit doesn't fall far from the tree," sure seems fitting right now. Because Spider Monkey is having a flipping cow right now. Trust me. The fruit, you see.
So, Mom asks me about seeing The Exorcist and, like, I confessed. Why? Why did I confess? I could have simply shrugged or acted like I'd gone deaf. But I owned it. I shouldn't have owned it. I wonder how the future would look from that point forward.
"Child gets sudden case of deafness!" Written in the medical journals as a freak incident. Thus, labeling me a freak from there on out. Maybe the truth is better. Maybe it does set you free. I think I read that somewhere in the Bible. Yes. I'm sure I did. Like this: And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.
Told ya.
I, on the other hand, was more like my dad. But what does that tell you? He married Mom. I think more out of that "What the?" sort of attraction for her. She was pretty, though. Beautiful, actually. Dad was the consummate geek back then. He was a DJ, a spinner of sounds. Fresh out of the Army.
Back in the 1950s, Mom used to watch him (I imagine) at the Big Apple restaurant in Phoenix through soundproof glass where Dad worked pumping music into the restaurant but also into the airwaves of KOY AM 550. Mom married a celebrity. Now, who else from Bird's Run, West Virginny can say that? Not many. Mainly because Bird's Run isn't even a town. It's a hamlet. Okay, a half a hamlet with a side of cheese.
Mom's family had cows and chickens. She said that Gramma once nearly killed a chicken that went after one of the chicken's own chicks. Grabbed it by its legs and whacked its head against the trunk of a tree so hard the chicken stumbled around for a bit. Never went after another chick, she told us.
I imagine that's how mad she used to get with me and my sister. You know her name.
Mom also said she had a favorite cow named Daisy. Mom loved that cow maybe as much as she loved our dad. I pray not for so many reasons, I can't say.
This is a picture of the booming metropolis Bird's Run. I see they now grow round hay bales.
No! I am not judging my mother. I'm just being ultra-observant. This is what I saw. This is what I remember.
I write a lot about Mom, in both fiction and nonfiction work. I like tapping into those past memories and emotions. If for nothing else than to see what I still think of when I think of my family back in those days.
And, no. We didn't have an exceptionally bad upbringing. In fact, it was the best and weirdest childhood anyone could have. We weren't nearly killed by our parents. Well, except maybe for Spider Monkey when Mom... oh, never mind. You don't need to hear about that.
Mostly, what I remember about growing up, is my knack for making up stories. One of my first stories popped up when we all went to Chavelo's to pick up some Mexican food for dinner. We were in the back of Dad's pickup truck and after he parked the car and went in to get our food, two more cars pulled in--one driven by a man and the other by a woman. They left the woman's car in the parking lot, got into the man's car and drove off. My story was that they were meeting there on the sly and having some wild affair. I was maybe eleven at the time but I already knew about these things--husbands and wives having affairs with other people's spouses.
My dad was a storyteller too. As it turns out, while reefing through the plethora of paperwork Mom left after she died, Mom was a storyteller too. She not only painted her stories but she also wrote. Much to my surprise. She kept that a secret. Makes me wonder what other secrets she kept. I'll have to make something up about that.
Oh, yeah. Spider Monkey is a storyteller as well. You can find her books at https://mirrorgatechronicles.com/. She and Spider Monkey Lover team up to write fantasy, mystery, and historical fiction. They write damn well. You won't be injured by their books. Even when they kill off people and creatures. Wait! Oh, I'm sorry. They don't do that...
...or, do they?
Judge not, that ye be not judged. 2 For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again. 3 And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother's eye, but considerest not the beam that is in thine own eye? ~Matthew 7: 1-3
I like the King James version of this if for no other reason than for the "metes" and "ye's."
My memoir, The Heartbreak of Time Travel will be out soon. You can pre-order now for $1.99. If you do, I hope you enjoy the read.
God bless you all! ~Sus xoxo
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