Have you ever seen tonsils that are infected? I love images; I think they add so much to a story. That’s why I decided to make this a blog and not a book. So, of course, I went looking for a photo to illustrate tonsillitis. I wouldn’t print one of those photos even if they paid me. That is one ugly illness, and I’m sticking to illustration. Now, on to my story.

After my dad died, things were pretty tough on my mom. She had not worked for years and was forced to go back to work in a donut shop across the street from where we lived to take care of us. And there’s no question that, since I was only nine when my dad died, she was going to cut me a lot of slack on a lot of things. And I knew it. However, I was prepared because even though I could pull the wool with the best of them, once I was found out I was pretty much a dead woman.

So, given that fact, I have to say I pulled off my greatest caper around this time. When we were young, taking someone’s tonsils out was pretty routine. I mean, it got to the point where people took them out even if there was no infection or inflammation. It was like precautionary surgery. “They’re going to act up sooner or later, Mrs. Della Piana, so we might as well take Mary’s out too.” I mean, wtf, who needs ‘em? My sister Joanne had to have both her adenoids and tonsils removed, so our pediatrician suggested that my oldest sister have  her tonsils removed at the same time. Since I had escaped the surgery (I was too young at the time), I used my tonsils to pull off one of my greatest capers.

School and I were always uneasy riders. It wasn’t that I couldn’t do the work. It was just…there. My son always says to me now, “You know, ma, that school doesn’t interest me.” And I do know what that feels like. I had to be pretty close to his age (he’s eight now), and there were just so many other things to do besides go school. Like, play pirates. Or go out at 3 p.m. and play baseball. That was a little more tricky since it involved suddenly feeling well enough to go out. Anyway, this went on for weeks. I mean weeks. A few days at school; several days off. My mother was obviously preoccupied and, by the time she realized what I had been doing, I had twenty-three absences. One morning after telling her I was sick, she called my bluff. Around 10:00 a.m., she came into the living room and announced that I was going to have my tonsils checked by Dr. Berson that afternoon. I knew I was in trouble. My throat didn’t even hurt. I tried to maintain a positive philosophy. Hey, all good things must come to an end. What’s the worst that could happen?

So, at 2:00 p.m., the bell rang. (Yes, those were the days when doctors made house calls.) I could hear them talking in the living room and, within about five minutes, she led the doctor into my room. The jig was up; no question. He looked at me and said, “You’re not really sick, are you?” Now, most kids my age would be meek and upset. All I could think was, when is he going to stop this game and just call my bluff. I did the best I could. I shrugged. He talked to me a little, took a look at my throat, and told me he’d talk to my mom and tell her to go easy on me. Yeah, right. Go easy on me. Like, what did that mean, I’d have some hair left on my head when she was done? Nope. She might tell the good doctor that she’ll go easy on me, but she was absolutely not going to go easy on me.

Not only was she mad at me, but she was made at herself for letting me get away with this for so long. Why? Because she looked dumb, and I had a ton-shit of work to make up in order to move up a class. She knew that portion of the program would be a misery. There was only one thing I disliked more than school, and that was homework.

Anyway, here’s how it played out that afternoon. As soon as Dr. Berson left, I heard from the kitchen, “You little son of a bitch.”  I was walking back to my room through the dining room when I saw her coming at me with the broom. “Ma, listen, I’ll never do that again.” I looked at her face. She wasn’t buying it. She heard that the last time I did it.  She was swinging the bristle end of the broom at me. My only hope was to hide under this giant mahogany dining room table that we had. It had many legs because the leaf was always left in. It slowed her, but it didn’t stop her.

She really didn’t want to whack me with the broom. No. Not enough pain inflicted with that. What she really wanted to do was pinch my ear. Yes, you heard it. Pinch my ear, and she was serious about it. All she did when I hid under the table was use the handle end of the broom and poke at me until she drove me out from under the table. Then, she pinched my ear all the way back into the bedroom. I was banished there for the day and night until I got up for school the next morning. And then, I could spend every day after school in there until she saw fit to spring me. That sucked. I can’t say I didn’t deserve it because I did. (But it was worth it.)

Writer’s Note: Funny thing about that dining room table. I think about it to this day every time I see a St. Vincent de Paul charity truck. After my dad died, we stayed in Revere for a short time. My mother really could not afford to stay out on her own, even working. We ended up living with several relatives and then, finally, moved to Everett with my grandmother. We couldn’t take everything with us when we were moving around, so we ended up donating the dining room furniture — and the table that saved my life a number of times — to St. Vincent de Paul.

It is Mother’s Day, a time of reflection for those of us not fortunate enough to have our mothers with us. That is the case with me. That is not the case with Beth, however, whose mother is still with us. I’ll not elaborate any further on that topic. The photo here is of my mother holding my oldest niece, Maria (another of my very favorite people on the planet, by the way). Dig that crazy fucking hat.

Anyway, I do not have my mother here, but I do have a bunch of good memories. Now, mind you, these are not the Donna Reed-type memories. I’m not talking about the idyllic fictional perfect type family memory. Those are Hollywood creations. That people buy into that is absurd, but anyway, each to his or her own brand of illusion.

No. My memories are different kinds of memories. Peach fuzz used to drive my mother crazy. She simply could not handle it. When I was little we had a telephone table and my mother would sometimes sit at it to talk to people. I used to crawl up behind her and rub a peach down her arm. I’d get the same reaction every single time. She’d immediately drop the phone and grab her arm, muttering “Ooh, you little son of a bitch!” Then she’d compose herself and sit down again and apologize for the break in the conversation, explaining the infraction of her wayward daughter. I wouldn’t mind, but this was a pretty common occurrence, a repeat infraction if you will, but it was like she never expected it to happen. That’s why it was such an appealing infraction. Even when she was an old lady, she had the same reaction.

Here’s another memory. This is a good one. I went to Catholic school for many years, but I bet I was in the second or third grade when this happened. One of the little punishments you’d get for misbehaving from the Sisters of the Spanish Inquisition was a series of slaps (for lack of a better word) on the back of your hand with a ruler. I came home from school one day and the back of my hand was red, so my mother asked what happened. I told her and she was absolutely incensed. She immediately went into the bedroom and started getting dressed, muttering something like, “Think they can hit my kid. Well, we’ll see about that.”

Then, of course, she asked why it happened and I told her I got caught passing a note across the aisle to a friend during class…and that this happened right after I got caught talking in class. You know, if one method didn’t work, I tried the other. Got caught both times. My mother, of course, pointed out that I was wrong to do what I did. Still, she told me that they had a lot of nerve thinking they could hit her kid. “Let’s go before they leave for the day.”

We only lived a block or so from the school. It was an easy walk. Actually, it was more of a march. I remember how smug I felt. Yeah, baby, these freakin’ nuns were going to get theirs. I have personal experience here. This mutha’ was nothing to fool with. I was ready for revenge. She marched right into my homeroom. I think (but I cannot be absolutely sure at my advanced age) that her name was Sister Honorious. I know the school was the Immaculate Conception in Revere. I am positive of that. Anyway, she promptly told her in no uncertain terms that she did “not give permission for anyone to hit her daughter.” No sir. Then, she said. “If anyone is going to hit her, it’ll be me.” It was at this moment that I received the very much unanticipated flat-hand whack on the back of the head. That was just in case I was still feeling smug. No threat from DSS in those days, man.

I can tell you that I was never again exposed to a ruler in that school. They knew they weren’t dealing with just anyone here. In our house, Mother’s only half a word. We’re talking about the first woman in Everett to wear pants. Somewhere in my family, there’s a newspaper photo of my mother in pants walking somewhere in Everett. I can picture it in my head. I just don’t know where the photo is. If I find it, I’ll publish it.

Anyway, hope all you Mothers have a great day.