On Mother's Day, A Bit Of Yesteryear...What To Say?...Where To Begin?...

By EDUARDO PAZ-MARTINEZ
Editor-In-Chief

McALLEN, Texas - A long time ago, when my life was that of a child, it was always my mother's view of the world that framed my days. This is Mother's Day weekend, the third one I observe without her. And although my Life is a nice Life these days, I'd trade it in a jiffy to once again be eight years old, or nine, or ten, once more in her care, in her comfort and in her world.

My big-hearted mother no doubt was no different than other mothers who raised their kids in the Rio Grande Valley of the 1950s and 1960s - a time when drugs did not ruin the young, but also a time when the struggle was no less easier. We didn't have much back then. My stepfather worked as  butcher at a local grocery store. He did his job without complaint that I remember, and he provided for a family of six, only one his own. Those days came slow, or so it seemed. School claimed its spot on my mind. I always liked school, even the after-school marches with the Catholic nuns from elementary school for those seemingly endless Bible classes in the basement of the then new Sacred Heart Church downtown. It was during the two-three years before I started playing Little League baseball for, of all teams, the Hidalgo Lions, which had selected me after a few groundballs during player tryouts. Third base was my position. I played it like Gil McDougal of the NY Yankees played it, dirtying my uniform at every opportunity, diving at grounders that needed no diving.

It was a kid being a kid. My older brother had bought a glove for me in between punch-outs he administered just because that's what older brothers do. These days, he lives in Pharr and when we talk about those days he likes to laugh about the horseplay. I don't tell him to remember the times I was left beaten to a pulp on the floor and the severe scolding he would get from my mother. That, too, is likely shared by anyone who's had a big brother. I'm okay with it now. Perhaps those punch-outs being clear in my mind help me get back to my youth.

When my mother passed away three years ago last April, we all finally got together after years of being apart. My kid sisters moved west, to Colorado and Southern California and my younger brother to Minneapolis. It was a sad occasion, but we managed a few familial conversations. The eulogy I gave for my mother at the same Sacred Heart church where I'd studied the Bible centered on the many things she did for her children. I spoke about the time she bought me a shiny, new Baltimore Colts football helmet I would throw over my head when I took to the street in front of our house to play football with the neighborhood kids. And then one Christmas, she bought me a a sawed-off rifle used by the actor Nick Adams in a TV western whose name I forget. Who knows what happened to it.

There would be more of that over the years. Mothers are like that. They go out of their way to do the little things for their kids, to get them toys they want, clothes they want, snacks they want, even as Dad openly wonders about the why. Mothers get it. They have their priorities straight. They can hear the latest request from a child and maybe not tend to it right away, but they'll get around to it sooner or later. It's more than just parental joy; its the very essence of motherhood - perhaps the most under-appreciated human trait, the most just-expected behavior. Mothers can take crap from Dads forever when defending a child. And for that child, it is the sole saving grace when wondering what Dad will do next after that window's been broken, that furniture damaged, that bad word thrown out at the dinner table.

Thank God for mothers.

My life went places when I grew up, into the military, to the university, to a writing career in newspapers, magazines and books. My life today is another life, more comfortable, more flexible, more expensive.

I would trade it all for one day with my mother. You would, too.

Happy Mother's Day...

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