In my response to the Pride In Family memoir prompt I take a somewhat creative look at one event that cemented forever my view of mom…

Man Oh Man, that’s what I said about mom at her funeral 6 years ago. And she deserved every one of those three words many times over. So often I would find myself shaking my head in pleasurable disbelief at what my mother would say or do, anyone watching would think I was a smiling bobblehead.

The first reference I can clearly remember to just how much a M.O.M. she was came way back in the winter of 1969-70. On one specific cold, snowy day, my mother displayed so much familial love, community spirit, and ‘let’s go kick some ass for what is just’ that I became awestruck forever.

It all started after I lugged my makeshift sled (a wringer washer lid I found somewhere in or around the basement of where our family lived) two blocks up, across the busiest street in Dayton, and another three blocks to ‘Mansion Hill’.  The affluence level between the neighborhood we lived in and the one on the other side of Salem Ave was very uneven, at least at one point. Recent to 1969, the area surrounding ‘Mansion Hill’ was in fact a hollow shell of a very well to section of Dayton. There were a number of vacated estates and rundown villas that were under the protection of billowing evergreens and overgrown, full shrubs. This was also the case for ‘Mansion Hill’, a knoll that was as tall as a rural church and one time site for a stately manor. The manor was long gone and all traces of the dwelling were cleared away, save for the ever present guardian shrubbery.

‘Mansion Hill’ was in my blood that snowy day and I was going to seize it!

One of the amenities at ‘Mansion Hill’ was a set of cement steps that snaked its way from the bottom of the hill, through various concealing ground cover, and dump out at the top, presumably where the former front porch was. As I made what would be the last trip up the serpentine stairs, I noticed four older boys standing at the top of the hill. I remember thinking, ‘Who are these guys?’ Well, when I got to the top, I felt like a weed in a forest when I got to the top. I was a tall eleven year old, but I had to look way up to them.

“Give us the sled,” one of the oaks said.

My keenly honed survival instincts kicked in and I skillfully dropped the lid and started running like hell; not once did I look over my shoulder as I scurried down the hill and zig-zagged across the broad boulevard that separated the two lanes of the ‘rich’ part of the street I lived on. Fortunately for me, the crosswalk signal at the busy street was green and I was able to use my cheetah like speed to continue the trip home in urgent haste.

Up the porch steps to the gray stucco duplex we lived in and busting through the door, I ran to the kitchen where I found mom drinking her coffee.

“Heh ewast leheah HUKRET  heh!” To this day, I have no idea how mom understood me, but she did and there was an immediate mustering of the troops. She had the other three kids bundled up, herself ready, the dog (a Belgian Shepard named Boots) leashed and all of us marching out the door in no time flat…NO TIME!

With Boots in the lead, and the rest of us in single file, the locomotive left a purposeful trail of collective breath in the crisp air as it ambled towards the mission specific  sledding hill. It was like a scene from The Outlaw Josey Wales as we picked up straggling neighbors and one postman (Clarence) to help us in the counter-offensive attack on ‘Mansion Hill’. There was much saber rattling and maybe even a rousing round of The Battle Hymn of the Republic was broadcast loudly (okay, that IS a stretch).

Once we reached the foot of the hill we spread out and started a bold frontal assault to drive up the incline and retrieve the golden wringer washer lid. Fighting hard against slippery snow, ice, and mud, our army finally made purchase at the summit only to find that we attacked unopposed. We all swore we saw the tell tale signs of breathing on a cold day at the top of the hill as we step by step, inch by inch fought our way to the prize.

The forest had moved away (shades of Macbeth).

Searching the perimeter turned up the lid as it appeared to have been tossed aside in the hasty retreat by the original maniacal ne’er do wells who accosted me in the first place.

A raucous cheer went up and I swear my mom, with Boots dutifully on guard at the end of the leash, looked like General Patton as she surveyed the victory ground around her.

After a brief victory celebration, the troops were rallied and the lighthearted march began home, with the prized makeshift sled in tow. Bragging rights were established, jovial ribbing was handed out, and big rounds of thanks were given to the neighbors and Clarence as the left the march along the way.

I’m sure that mom’s call to arms that day had nothing to do with the fact that dad would have had to buy yet another wringer washer lid that winter if we had not recovered the one that was taken from at the hill. No, she was all about defending her family and making grand statements about it where she could strategically validate her pride in her brood. My mother, just like millions of other mothers, was the world’s best mom, and I saw that in motion every day since the assault on ‘Mansion Hill’, until the day she died.

Man Oh Man.

© 2011, Alex Crabtree. All rights reserved.

Years ago I started writing Flash Fiction for just the sheer enjoyment of writing, and now it has turned into a full blown addiction. I can't quit the horse, man! Another dirty little secret about me is my ability to write all kinds of web content. SEO content, articles, blog posts, manifests; you name it, I'll write it. Looking for some help? My gun hangs at r.alex.crabtree@gmail.com

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This entry was posted on January 5, 2011 at 12:29 am and is filed under Memoirs. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.