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A Mothers Day Story: The Day She Surprised Us Kids

I remember a day—a long time ago—when my mother surprised us all. We thought, naturally enough, that anytime an adult complained or criticized one of us kids that my mother would be in full agreement. 

That's the way it was back then in the mid-'60s when we lived in Chicago's Austin District. If the nun at school said you were misbehaving or being lazy, or if one of the neighbors called to tell your mother that you were being disrespectful or engaging in some shenanigans like climbing up a ladder that a construction crew had left leaning against a building, then it was the whole truth and nothing but. You—the kid—were always in the wrong.

To be honest, most of the time they were right. But in those days people had no problem yelling out the window or stopping  a moment to correct some act of devilry. Frequently on her way home from the IGA food store, Mrs. Dianna would stop to correct one of us kids. I recall once how she parked her two-bag personal grocery cart indignantly on the sidewalk. She was addressing my brother, who is 16 months older than me.

She yelled out something like, "Jimmy Conley, if you don't stop throwing crab apples at those squirrels right now,  I'm going to throw crab apples at you." Another time I overheard her say, "Jimmy Conley and Marty Ziegenhorn, you two had better watch traffic more closely when you cross the street. Saints preserve us," she said bringing her hand over her heart, "That car almost knocked the two of you off your bikes."

My Brother Jimmy

When my big brother Jimmy was about 9 years old, he was an astute student of the unofficial Three Stooges Slapstick School of Comedy. This meant he was fun to be around, talented, mischievous, smart—too smart for his britches is what my mother would say. He and his best pal Marty frequently got into jams. They'd break a window while playing baseball; leave bicycle tire tracks on somebody's lawn because they were in a hurry and cut the corner; they'd take pleasure in interrupting a girls' game of Double Dutch Jump Rope—my friend Patty Ann and I were forever upset about that. The frustration we expressed loudly—"I'm telling!"— served only to egg them on. The more we complained, the more they tortured us. 

I guess the boys had earned the title, "trouble maker."  

I remember one particular catastrophe in the making. It was on one of those long summer days when the sun was so hot it created hazy mirages off the steaming concrete. Jimmy and Marty were playing ball at the St. Angela Elementary School playground.

Meanwhile and nearby, Linda Linderson—I think she was 7—her little sister Becky and younger brother Timmy were playing Statue Maker. You know, it's when someone spins you around till you're dizzy and fall. Then you remain in whatever position you end up until the spinner taps you. Once tapped, you have to pretend that you were maybe a policeman directing traffic, or a rock star playing guitar on stage, or whatever career comes to mind.

As fate would have it, the ball game spilled over into the game of Statue Maker. This time Jimmy ran into Linda and knocked her down. Of course she cried and ran home. Her mother was quite upset because Linda had scraped her knee; it needed cleaning and a bandage. All Mrs. Linderson needed to hear was that Jimmy and Marty were the so-called culprits. She called Marty's mother and got nowhere. Then she decided to organize a petition drive to have Jimmy banned from the block. Within a few hours, she had gotten a handful of signatures.

Jimmy's in Big Trouble

Armed with a petition and flanked on all sides by her innocent babies, Mrs. Linderson marched down to our two-story brick bungalow. Patty Ann and I knew she was on her way, so we rode our bikes there as fast as we could pedal. Jimmy and Marty were hiding out somewhere.

My mother had a job as an elevator operator at Wieboldt's Department Store on State Street. My father was already home from work. He was firmly planted in his favorite chair in the TV Room (an extra room in the back of the house that today would be referred to as a Family Room.)      

Anyway, it was about 5 p.m. on a Friday, and my mother was just getting home. She was tired and hadn't changed yet out of her uniform when Mrs. Linderson and her gang of victims arrived.  Linda's dishwater blonde hair was in a tight pony tail. On her knee she sported an oversized bandage that looked pathetic when paired with white anklets and black T-strap shoes. It was the look of sheer innocence.

From the front lawn, Patty and I watched the scene unfold. I was certain that Jimmy would be practically jailed.

My mother answered the door. She was surprised to see the Lindersons. She really didn't know them. Then Mrs. Linderson, who was wearing a pair of light blue pedal pushers and a sleeveless blouse, stood in front of her. She got stiff like an Army sergeant and the kids squeezed in close around her. She pushed the petition at my mother's hand, and said, "Your son is a menace to society!" Pointing then to Linda's knee, she said, "He knocked over my little girl and nearly caused her to get stitches."

She rambled on a bit about how Jimmy 'terrorized" the neighborhood, and how everyone agreed that he should be banned from the 1300 block of North Massasoit. Splitting up Jimmy and Marty was the only solution to "save the neighborhood."

My mother, who'd been raising children a good many years more than Mrs. Linderson, held her ground. She was cool, calm and collected. I was shocked. I was waiting for a more ominous reaction. Then she asked Mrs. Linderson, "Are you through?" Mrs. Linderson offered a haughty "yes."

Patty Ann and I gave a wide-eyed, breathless stare.

My mother simply said, "Mrs. Linderson, I understand your complaints. And I'm sorry that Linda got her knee scraped. From the looks of it, I think she'll live." Now to the point of your visit, "I am fully aware that Jimmy is all boy. He's mischievous, but he's certainly not the devil. And let me tell you something. I know a thing or two about girls. I have three of them. The one thing I know about girls is that they like to tease the boys. Those girls of yours are no different. They're not telling you everything. I'll bet they were just happy as clams to be teasing the boys, and then it got out of hand."

My mother handed the petition back to Mrs. Linderson. And she said, "I suggest that you grow up and show your girls how a mature woman behaves. Now you go home and peddle papers elsewhere." Then she slammed the front door.

Mrs. Linderson was beside herself. That wasn't the reaction she had anticipated.

Mrs. Linderson and the victims left the house with their tails dragging behind them. When Jimmy got home—he knew he had to face the music—my mother greeted him with news about the unexpected visitor. She wasn't happy.

I'm sure she warned him to behave himself and to stay away from the Linderson kids. And she told him that she loved him.

Then her voice rose about two or three octaves, and she said, "It'll be over my dead body the day some obnoxious woman unfairly makes up rules for my kids!"

Later that night, I remember huddling together with my older sister Jane and Jimmy in one of the upstairs bedrooms. We talked about the petition. We all knew that this was likely the one-and-only time that providence would smile on Jimmy this way. Jane warned him. "You'd better watch out or next time you'll be in hot water." That famous sly smile crept over Jimmy's face, and he nodded his head in agreement.

Years later at wakes and weddings—when those kind of memories are rekindled— Jimmy is apt to talk about the Linderson petition and what it meant to him. It meant that my mother proved right then and there that she loved him unconditionally. She was not as easily swayed as we had thought.

She's in her grave now, but Mothers Day won't pass without missing her; remembering the day she stood up for him against all odds, and thanking her for that support.

Happy Mothers Day Mom!

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