Determined To Succeed » Memories of My Mother

If I Knew You Were Comin’ I’d've Baked a Cake

Bill Ivory Larson — Fri, 11 Mar 2011 15:35:52 +0000

Hey, everybody. How’s it going on this Friday? Well, I hope. I wanted to share something with you guys that was inspired by a random visit to my local ACME grocery store on Ash Wednesday. I really do believe our loved ones are with us wherever we go and no matter whether your parents are with us or not that it helps trigger for you a wonderful, warm memory that takes you into the weekend and brings the sun out in your lives.

According to Wikipedia®, the song “If I Knew You Were Comin’ I’d've Baked a Cake” was a popular song written by Al Hoffman, Bob Merrill and Clem Watts published in 1950. As with many songs before and after, it was recorded many times in many countries by many artists over the years (even including a 1969 version sung by Ernie to Cookie Monster on the very first season of a little show you might have heard of called Sesame Street). The big hit version of the song was recorded by Eileen Barton in January 1950. The recording was released by National Records and when the song became too big a hit for National to handle, it arranged with Mercury Records to help with distribution. The record first reached the Billboard Magazine charts on March 3, 1950 and lasted 15 weeks on the chart, peaking at #1.

Why do I bring all this up? Why am I mentioning a song that hardly anyone remembers anymore and is sixty-one years old this year? Simple. On Ash Wednesday 2011, I just happened to be at my local grocery store and a woman who easily is in her mid-to-late sixties (at least) was bantering back-and-forth with her co-worker and she sang that song. As she sang the main part of the song she smiled widely and bopped side to side having fun the entire time. I could tell she was remembering how much fun she must have had as a child listening to that song on her record player and singing it with her friends, you know, like the kids do nowadays with their fancy-schmancie iPods.

“If I Knew You Were Comin’ I’d’ve Baked a Cake…”

Instantly, I felt a memory rush back to me that I had long forgotten. It was from my childhood. It was of my sweet mama, JoAnn, singing that song to me in our apartment in Hyde Park. I don’t remember what would have prompted her to sing the song (maybe it was one of our birthdays or somehow we got on the subject of cake) but I now remember vividly her singing the song to me. And it wasn’t the only time she sang it. We were at our local grocery store one day and she burst into song there, too.

“If I Knew You Were Comin’ I’d’ve Baked a Cake…”

I am ashamed to say I also remember how I felt at the time as she sang that song to me. I thought it was silly and thought my mom was a bit loony for doing it. I mean really, who comes up with lyrics like “If I Knew You Were Comin’ I’d’ve Baked a Cake” anyway? Moreover, when we were in public I felt embarrassed that my mom was singing out loud this silly, weird song and all I wanted to do was walk away until my mom stopped this wild, wacky behavior. However, in retrospect, she must have felt as the grocery clerk did on Ash Wednesday. My mom must have remembered how it felt to connect to a song when she was a child (she would have been eleven-years-old at that time) and how much fun she must have had listening to it on her fancy-schmancie contraptions of the time, most likely her radio. As the memories came back I pictured her as she sang to me, smiling widely, bopping back and forth, trying to get me to smile.

I came home and told my girlfriend, Laura, about what had happened and I almost cried. I told her about the woman in the store and how her singing that silly song brought up such a powerful memory of my mother and how I just miss the sound of my mom‘s voice. Sure, I miss everything else about my mom, too – her smile, her laugh, going to the movies or to the store – but most of all, I miss her sweet and tender voice because when that voice wasn‘t trying to reassure me that everything was going to be O.K. with the world it was trying to make me smile and laugh with silly, goofy and weird old songs sung out loud at home and at the store.

Well, Ma, the smiles were there, then and now.

Ever since that day in my local store I have thought about that song, singing the refrain in my own head. And thanks to computers and websites like YouTube® I can not only hear it but see Eileen Barton sing that song (well, at least see a photo of her as a recording plays over my speakers). Hell, I can even see Ernie sing the song to Cookie Monster and remember what it was like to be a child having fun and singing silly songs because that was our job at the time, to laugh, have fun and play. Moms know that. It’s part of what makes them moms. If it’s our jobs to have fun then it’s their jobs to keep that party going because, as all of us know, childhood ends too way too soon and memories like that give way to the pressures and thoughts of the real world, kind of like Neo being awakened by Morpheus in “The Matrix.” But for a short but magical time we are children and our moms are gods, leading the party of smiles and fun because no matter how much money you have (or how much money we didn’t have) mom have that special something that always make us smile and laugh. At least mine did.

So thank you, anonymous grocery store clerk. The next time I see you I swear I’m going to tell you all about how you brought up that memory of my sweet mama and her singing that song to a little boy in Chicago and making him feel loved beyond reason. And thank you, Mama, for being brave enough to sing to your little boy even if it did embarrass me in public. You always seemed (and still seem) to know when I need (ed) a smile (I know it was your spirit who guided me to hear that clerk sing it that so I could hear it and remember and connect with you). And to all you kids (and adults) out there who think it is or was stupid that your parents sang silly little songs to you to get you to smile, wise up. That is how parents become our Higher Powers, it is how they lead us, connect with us and protect us. Most of all, it is part of how they love us, and believe me when I tell you on this grey and gloomy overcast day in southern New Jersey…when the singing stops and you have to fight to remember the party of smiles you miss them more than words can ever express.

Coffee Cans and a Lesson Learned

Bill Ivory Larson — Mon, 16 Aug 2010 21:38:10 +0000

I don’t know if you guys have ever visited Chicago around the last week of June/first week of July but there is a world-famous food festival that takes place during that time called Taste of Chicago. It is a foodie’s Mecca, where 70 or so Chicago restaurants take over downtown and you can sample everything from alligator (which I have tasted – it’s rather chewy) to frog legs (they DO, indeed, taste like chicken – just fishy chicken) to good old-fashioned BBQ, hot dogs and cheesecake.

When I was a kid, that same festival was called Chicagofest and it was nowhere near as renowned as it is today. In fact, it was in the days when Chicago was a much grittier, grimier city than it is now. But I’ll tell you what the food, especially to a kid who didn’t have money at all, was always spectacular. But food costs money, money we never had in abundance and money that was always in short supply.

But leave it to my mom to come up with a brilliant plan.

Usually with big city-wide festivals there is some sort of sponsored promotion involved and Chicagofest was no exception. At the time they were sponsored by either Maxwell House or Hills Bros. Coffee (I can’t remember which) and the promotion stated that if you brought one of the giant metal coffee cans (like the kind you’d find in a workplace kitchen) you’d be able to trade that in for food tickets.

Leave it up to my mom to hatch an absolutely brilliant plan.

You see, JoAnn Larson loved her coffee. Loved it, I tell you. Cream and no sugar, that’s how she took it (which to me still is icky since I like my coffee as sweet as possible, crunchy even, with sugar). Anyhow, she loved coffee and so did her co-workers at the old (long since shuttered) Sears Roebuck & Co. warehouse on Homan and Arthington in Chicago. They went through tons of coffee at that place, or it least it seemed like they did because one day this brilliant and beautiful woman brought home about twenty or so of these giant, clangy metal coffee cans.

She said to me, “Son, we’re gonna eat good this weekend,” and she laughed with an exuberant “whoohoo.” That’s when I knew she really was happy. Turns out she’d been planning this for months, asking her co-workers to save her the coffee cans so she could take her son to eat at Chicagofest. My mama was loved by everyone, so they did. They saved her twenty or so cans and she lugged them all home one Friday afternoon (since we couldn’t go during the week because she had to work).

Now to a child, any child, anything that looks weird is potentially embarrassing. So imagine my chagrin to learn we had to then take all of these cans on the 6 Jeffrey Express all the way from Hyde Park to downtown, walk a couple of blocks – IN PUBLIC – to just be able to redeem them. I was mortified. I knew we were poor but now we were gonna look it, too. But mama said “trust me,” and I did and that next day we got on the bus and headed downtown, cans and all.

Damn those things could “CLANG!” I felt mortified being on the bus with those things. I could feel eyes on me as I grasped my giant Hefty garbage bag of cans while my mom, confident as a peacock grasped hers. She knew something, I could tell. So I took that strength from her, shut my eyes (standing up) and blocked out the world.

When we FINALLY got there (can I tell you again how absolutely embarrassed I was?) we approached the ticket trade-in booth and mama said “we’ve got a lot of cans to trade in.” The lady behind the counter was shocked that one person would be trading in all those cans, not because of the cans but because of how many tickets she had to give us for them. I don’t remember how many it was but it was a TON! Back then, there were no limits of how many you could bring and my brilliant mom took full advantage of that allowing us to eat like royalty that day.

We ate anything and everything and, most importantly, she didn’t have to tell me “no, son. I don’t have the money for that.” It was amazing! Absolutely amazing. And what capped off this culinary caper? The infamous Chicago BBQ turkey leg. We each got one, a giant piping-hot turkey leg hand-dipped in a sweet and savory BBQ sauce. It was awesome. We ate all day and into the night when the Chicago fireworks would happen over Grant Park (Chicago used to for years and years and years have their major fireworks display on July 3^rd instead of July 4^th). And thanks to my mom I knew what it was like to have money that day.

On the way home she looked at me and smiled in an ever-so-slightly sly smile and said “you didn’t believe me when I said it would be O.K., did you.” I shook my head and said “no,” but from that moment on I never doubted her brain. In all my life I never met a woman who had moments of brilliance that would stun Einstein like my mom did. She smiled her smile and knew she did good that day for us both, and I was happy just being near her sharing in that love – and that food.

Mama, I miss you so much but when I need a smile I think back to that time and how well you did for us. How much food we had and how it was all because of you and you not being ashamed of bringing home simple metal canisters. Those cans became our gold that day and you made me feel like a prince. Thank you for that, Ma. But truth be told, you always made me feel that way, food, money or coffee cans or not. I was your son and that was all that mattered in the world and that was one of those time where you were so smart it lit up the sky – like the stars or 4^th of July fireworks.

I love you, mama, and thank you for keeping and bringing home all those coffee cans for us. Who knew a little coffee could go such a long way?

You did. That’s who.

A Letter To My Mama

Bill Ivory Larson — Thu, 10 Jun 2010 01:14:26 +0000

Dear Ma,

Today was a helluva day. It’s hard to believe it’s been a year since you passed away. Sometimes it seems like just yesterday, and sometimes it feels every minute of every hour of the last 365 days. It’s just past 7:00 p.m. here and the time you past away last year has come and gone as quietly as the moment did then, and I sat and thought about last June 9th – how peaceful it was at 5 o’clock, quittin’ time, when you breathed your last breath and became eternally healed.

I woke up today feeling a mixture of emotions. Some of them were happy because I remembered the kinds of things we did together especially when I was a kid, like when we went to the movies together. How cool that was that you’d let me bug the shit out of ya so we could get to the show early and stand in line to get some popcorn (if we had the money) and get a good seat. Some were sad because I thought about how much I just miss picking up the phone and talking to you. I miss the way you said “hello” when you picked up the phone, the way you laughed and how our last movie together (”The Mummy”) was now just about eleven years ago. Damn, time flies way too fast sometimes. Don’t it, Ma? That’s why I’m writing you this letter. I’m just thinking about you so much.

This morning, after I wrote my blog (a sort of way to keep a diary of thoughts using the computer), I got dressed and took a walk in the park. It felt so damn good to just turn off my music and just talk to you. I didn’t care if I looked crazy, I just wanted to have a talk with my mom. It felt good to just talk about what’s going on in my life like we used to. I liked being able to tell you everything. I’m so glad we had that relationship. It’s rare. And yes, I cried a bit. Hell, who am I kidding? I cried a lot. I cried as I was writing this morning and I cried walking in the park. I didn’t care, though. I just needed my Mama. I just wanted to be closer to you especially because it was rainy today. You see, after you were cremated I spread your ashes in the park you took me to when I was young. It’s called Harold Washington Park now, and it was raining that day like it is today. That made it seem better somehow, more peaceful, and thank you for holding off most of the rain until I got back in the car. I appreciate that.

Yeah, I thought about you so much. In my blog I wrote about what kinds of food you and I liked and it made me happy to remember all the times we went to Valois, or to get beef chop suey. And Mama, thank you for calling Rosalyn that night we were so broke and so hungry and for walking over to her house at eight o’clock at night to get us the chicken and spaghetti she made for us. In the park today I wondered if I did a good job of telling you how great a mom you were (and are). I wondered if I ever told you how much I loved you for doing stuff like that. I know it had to be hard but you did a wonderful job taking care of us and I love you. Thank you.

The thing I miss the most is just talking. It just felt so fucking good to talk to you, like I had been storing it all up for a while and let it all just come out in a good and happy way. And I know you can’t answer back but it’s like a friend of mine said, I just have to know that you do answer me just in different ways now. It may not be your voice but you do listen and are with me. Like you were last Saturday at the Oprah thing, or holding the rain back like you did today. I just have to listen for you with different ears.

There are definitely times I screw things up, I know that, but I hope I am making you proud of me. Since I got let go from the zoo I’ve been using my time to live out my dream of writing. I used part of that time to take that trip to Egypt you always wanted to take. I am doing my best to help people as much as I can. Hell, I have even been trying to do my best and communicate with Linda (we will see how that one goes). I may not be perfect but I am your son and everything you taught me makes up the best parts of me. I hope you know that, too. We didn’t have a lot but we had each other, and that’s all that mattered.

What’s it like in Heaven, anyway? I imagine it like a big neighborhood. You’re all healed and better and feeling good and you come out on your front porch and say HI to the people keeping you company up there. The cats we used to have, Tiger, Princess and Big Boy, all came to greet you last year when you arrived and now they are all curled up with you enjoying the sun as you pet each one. Please give Tiger a big hug for me and a kiss on her head. I miss her, too. Grandma is there, Virginia is there (say HI to her, too, will ya?) and you have no more pain or sadness. That’s what I imagine Heaven to be like, and your spirit is happy as it always deserved to be.

Down here, things are the same. Still worried about money (I may need to find a job soon), still thinking about getting my “big break.” Still missing you. But I’ll be OK.

I know I could keep talking to you all night, Mama. I guess I just want you to know you did a great job as a mom. You really did. We had some hard times but we also had great times, too. And you made me laugh, like when you said I was your favorite son. It took me a minute the first time I heard you say that and I said “but I’m your only son,” and how we had a great laugh over that so many times afterward. Your smile always made things better and you fixed everything so I didn’t have to worry. Sure there were things we couldn’t afford but you gently said “I can’t get that for you because we can’t afford it.” Thank you for teaching me about money and about the reality of it. Thank you for treating me with intelligence even when I was young. That is why this section of my computer diary is devoted to you. I always was, am and always will be so very proud of you. Those are the memories I will share with the world and the ones I will shout out to whoever will listen.

I really do hope Heaven is like I envision it to be. You worked so hard all your life, Ma. You deserve the rest in such a beautiful place. And you bet your ass I will keep talking to you about what’s going on. I miss you, Mama, so much. So pet the cats, take care just know I love you very, very much.

Your favorite (and only) son. Me.

A Life Lesson from My Mama for Mother’s Day

Bill Ivory Larson — Sun, 09 May 2010 03:13:04 +0000

Today is Sunday, May 9, 2010. It’s Mother’s Day and, as expected, I feel the emptiness and pain from missing my mom inside my gut, like the sickly dull pain aftershock of being kicked in the stomach. And while the pain has dulled since her passing on June 9, 2009 it has by no means, and will never, completely go away. And, quite frankly, I don’t want it to.

There are so many memories of my mother, JoAnn Larson, that I want to share with you guys but I feel weird being so morose and somber on a day when others are out and about celebrating their moms or celebrating being moms (like my best friend, Mike’s, wife Ewa who recently gave birth to their beautiful son, Thomas Michael). Happy Mother’s Day, guys.

So today should be filled with happy memories, or at least memories that make us laugh a little. It should celebrate life as my mom was so full of life. She was goofy, warm, personable (she never met a stranger – ever) and disarmed you instantly. And even when I thought she didn’t understand something she came out with such insight, knowledge and advice I was amazed – no, humbled – by her for she was also very, very wise.

When I was 16 years old I attended Kenwood Academy High School on Chicago’s South Side neighborhood of Hyde Park (go Broncos). My sophomore year was an unusual one because I, as we all are when we’re 16, felt a bit adrift and therefore floated between different circles of friends that year. On one particular Friday I was invited to a party thrown by the “cool” kids. Yes, me, Bill Ivory Larson, partying with the cool kids. I couldn’t believe it. Me, at a party with liquor, music and girls. A real party. I was so excited.

Now, before I continue I will go all tangential and admit I had a fake I.D. yes, yours truly had a fake I.D. that made me 22-years-old (I thought being slightly older than the bare-minimum 21 would be less conspicuous). I got it after seeing the fake I.D. of a school mate of mine, who told me exactly where to get this masterpiece of subterfuge, this ticket to pre-mature adult hood (O.K. basically to drinking). It cost all of $8 and about two hours of my time one day after school. But I was in, baby, or so I thought. This comes into play a bit later…

Back to the story. So Friday night rolled around and my mom, who was awesomely cool, let me go to this party because I was a fairly responsible kid. Admittedly it is different for boys than girls and yes, it was a different, seemingly less dangerous time where kids could run around a bit more in an age of no cell phones, etc. No matter what, though, she trusted me to be good and not get into any trouble, at least any of the “call the police” variety.

The party was jumpin’. The House Music (slightly different than the House Music played in clubs today) was being spun by my friend, Dave, whose house we were using. His trusting but gullible parents let him “have a few friends over,” although that quickly turned into 20 or so people, all of whom were underage, and all of whom were drinking heavily…including yours truly.

As the night wore on we ran out of booze. So we all looked at each other to see who had the best shot of “scoring,” and that turned out to be me. I was pumped. Not only was I with the cool kids but I was now looked at as the savior of the party. The guy with the plan and the I.D. So a couple of people drove me to the liquor store (not the one my mom and I went to all the time for candy bars and Pepsi, but a different one) and I could feel my heart beat in my chest. “What if I get caught? Oh my God!” I was so scared but I screwed up my courage and walked into the liquor store on 51^st Street to peruse the aisles for enough hooch to keep us going all night.

I got a fifth of Old Granddad (yes, that nasty-ass Old Granddad), Jack Daniels and a few other things, including another 24-case of beer (as long as it wasn’t Coors – a house rule of Dave’s), and walked up to the counter. I felt sure the woman at the register was going to ask for my I.D., see right through it and call the long arm of the law. But she didn’t. I couldn’t believe it! She just rang me up. And even though I fully admit to looking much older than I was I was pissed because I DIDN’T get to use my shiny new fake I.D. But I don’t know what got me madder – not using the thing or being served alcohol and being a minor (something that still sort of troubles me today). Anywho, I got back to the party and drinking resumed and it carried on all night. At about 2:00 a.m. at least I think it was (I was so freaking drunk I couldn’t tell a two from a cat) I called my mom to say I was spending the night at Dave’s place. My mom was cool and thanked me for calling (I was always told to at least just check in and I did – her rules). And I crashed out by like 3:00 a.m. or so.

Saturday morning rolled around and I felt like shit. Real shit. My head was pounding so hard and I felt so sick to my stomach I wished I could have thrown up and died just to feel better. Yes, it was my first hangover and it was a doozey. Worse yet, I remembered I had to be at work in the children’s shoe store (my first job) by 9:00 a.m. that morning. There was no freaking way, I thought. As I bade my sleepy and still-drunken friends adieu I stumbled out of his place into the brisk morning air.

All the way home I was trying to puke. It would have made me feel better, as would a bullet to the head or being struck by lightning would have. I felt awful and I had no one to blame but myself. When I got home I told my mom I felt terrible (“sick” I actually think I said) and that I couldn’t go to work that day. But being the wise and wonderful mom she was she said “no, son. You are going to work today.”

And while my mom was cool, I knew she meant every word of it.

Needless to say I was a tad late getting there, which was sad given I literally lived around the corner from my job and began my day. I arrived at 10:00 a.m. and didn’t make it to noon. I was so hungover and I’m sure reeked of booze. I begged the forgiveness of my boss and went home to sleep it off.

Somehow my mom knew I wasn’t going to make it all day at work. When I got home she let me sleep, and sleep I did. I slept until like 5 or 6 that afternoon. When I woke up she looked at me not with anger but with a smile and said “betcha won’t do that again, will ya?” I smiled right back knowing instantly how much she knew I was messed up and in need of a lesson. I told her all about the party and she was so cool about it all. She looked at me after a while and asked me one simple question: “you know that’s why I made you go to work, right?” I nodded my head and laughed, and so did she. She also confessed to having a bit of a laugh at my expense over the whole thing wondering how long I was going to last at work (which, again, was not very long).

I never forgot that lesson. It was so important and special and cool and everything I needed at that time. It was a life lesson taught to me by a woman who was wise enough to know it was the only way I was going to learn the consequences of my actions, that I still had responsibilities to handle no matter how drunk I got. She taught me that people depended on me and I let them down because I was stupid. Oh, and let’s not forget she taught me I should never get that wasted the night before I have something to do the next day, a lesson I broke only one other time in my life and I was well into my 30s when I did. I’ll tell you about that sometime over a, er, drink.

When I look back at that story I smile because my mom knew going to work was all the punishment I needed to learn that life lesson. And she was right. It wasn’t the first nor the last time her pearls of wisdom were laid on me to teach me what I needed to know when I needed to know it. She was excellent that way. Excellent.

So for all you folks out there who still have your moms with you never take your mom’s words for granted. They and the lessons they teach us won’t be around forever and you’ll miss them deeply and terribly when they’re gone. And to all you moms out there, thank you. Thank you for teaching us kids what we need to know when we need to know it. It may not be what we want to know but it sure as hell is what we need to know.

On this Mother’s Day I will raise a glass (of something non-alcoholic) to my mom, JoAnn. I miss her voice, I miss her laugh, I miss her smile and I miss her words of wisdom. And even though I can’t pick up the phone and say “Happy Mother’s Day, Mama,” I hope she knows how much I love her and miss her and how much she’ll always be in my heart and always be my Mama.

Sneaking Into The Movies

Bill Ivory Larson — Wed, 24 Feb 2010 16:08:30 +0000

It is raining in southern New Jersey. A slow, steady rain that makes a day perfect for movie watching.

Going to the “show” as we called it was probably the top on the list of favorite things to do with my mom. On Sundays when I was a kid we’d get the Sunday paper, a couple of fresh sweet rolls from the bakery and her coffee and we’d read the paper. But while she read the news I’d flip to the entertainment/movie section to see what movies were going to open up that following Friday, read about the celebrities starring in them and see what the new posters looked like.

My mom started taking me to the movies when I was five years old. At least I think I was five because I knew I saw a couple of movies before “Star Wars” and I saw that when I was six. Hell, I not only went to the movies that young I saw crap no child should see. Stuff like “Jan Michael Vincent’s “White Line Fever,” and Diane Keaton’s and Richard Gere’s “Looking For Mr. Goodbar.” Those films were “Rated R” but my mom did something every parent should do…

…she told me “son, you know everything you see up there isn’t real.”

That simple sentence was all it took to take away the fear of horror flicks, the seeming brutality and reality of murder/thrillers and the danger of action movies. In other words, it was my mom wrapping me up in a security blanket of knowledge. That even though she surrendered me to the film for two hours she never stopped protecting me from what I saw on-screen. That was awesome and I will always love her for doing that.

But there was one time though that made me smile above all others going with my mom to the movies. It was summer of 1982, which was a decent year for films. We took the 6 Jeffrey Express bus downtown from Hyde Park and transferred to the 151 Sheridan and headed to Water Tower Place, Chicago’s signature downtown mall. Unlike most malls we’re used to this mall was built up (a necessity for any mall constructed in the middle of downtown Chicago). And nestled inside on the mezzanine level back by the Lord & Taylor and popcorn shop were the Water Tower Theaters (which, unfortunately, no longer exist).

That day I was so excited. We were going to see “Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan” for the up-teenth time. You see, it was no longer playing at the theater across the street from us (my beloved Hyde Park Theater) so we had to go downtown to see it. The film (tied with the newest “Star Trek” as the best “Trek” film ever) was amazing and was over all too soon. But my mom, my beautiful, sweet and wonderfully sneaky mom said “Hey. Wanna see E.T.?”

I was confused, but I took my mom’s hand as she quietly led us into the theater about to show E.T. I was so scared. We were being so bad sneaking into a “free-ture” (free feature) but I didn’t care. My mom was at that moment the coolest mom, ever, and she was sneaking me in to see the biggest movie of all-time (at least in the days before we knew what the hell an “Avatar” was).

We watched E.T. (and yes, I cried) and it was awesome. I was having such a great movie day with my mom. And afterward, as we left the theater we walked by the teenage ushers, who I was convinced were going to throw us both in jail and throw away the key. But they did nothing. They said nothing. Hell, I don’t think they even noticed – or cared. And if they did, who cares.

The most important thing in the world was that I was with my mom, the person to whom I owe my love of movies. And while I never will be able to repay the wonderful feeling of that special day 28 years ago (God, has it been that long already), I hope she knows how much I think of her every time I go to my local multiplex…

…or stay home on a rainy day, curled up on the couch, watching my favorite movies.

Those are the best days ever.

You Can’t Go Home Again

Bill Ivory Larson — Thu, 28 Jan 2010 22:34:16 +0000

Have you guys noticed the retro Pepsi commercials hittin’ the airwaves? Seems Pepsi and Mountain Dew “Throwback” sodas are available through the end of February featuring the same original formulas and real sugar.

Even though I am now a devout Coca-Cola drinker I was taken back to very fond memories of the Pepsi I drank growing up as a kid, finding spare change with my mom and going to the liquor store or the corner store to get ourselves a Pepsi to split.

Back then Pepsi and other soft drinks were in heavy but beautiful long bottles. They came in eight packs and you had to pay deposits on the bottles (even more incentive to get you to bring them back to the stores). You had to have bottle openers to even open them. But no matter how much they weighed and no matter how much a pain-in-the-ass they were to carry with bags of groceries, there was nothing – NOTHING – like opening up an ice-cold Pepsi and having good times talking with my Mama.

I still remember the light cloud of white that appeared at the tops of the bottles when you’d open them. And blowing it away before you’d take the first swig made a cool “whoosh” sound over the bottle’s opening. Then the taste of it, the sweet taste of Pepsi, was like a drug. But more so it was something my mom and I did together. Finding that loose change was incredible. We didn’t have money growing up but we had fun and we could always enjoy a Pepsi together.

Sometimes we’d take bottles of Pepsi to our favorite spot on 53^rd Street in Hyde Park (the old benches at the Hyde Park Bank), on the South Side of Chicago and crack ‘em open there. Or even take them to the park. Sometimes we’d buy cans of them and sit in the Laundromat watching the old black & white TV as our clothes dried on “inferno.” Most times, we’d have ‘em at home watching TV and talking. That was the best.

Why am I telling you all that? Because it’s all of those memories of my mother that made me purchase one of those retro bottles of Pepsi the other day. I got the coldest one I could find (which was pretty cold). And I was so excited. This was a chance to reconnect with my childhood, my Mama, and taste a sweet soda from my kid-dom. I miss my mom so much and I was just so excited to be presented with a chance to have a comfort food and think about how alive my mom was.

But, as they say, you can’t go home again.

The long-necked glass bottles have been replaced by plastic screw-cap ones. And the taste, which seemed way sweeter, was so different than I remembered. Wasn’t this the Pepsi from my late-70s/early 80s youth? It had the same logo. It claimed to be that old formula. It brought back the best memories. But the taste wasn’t the same and I was at once sad and deflated. I wanted so bad to have that swig of Pepsi and imagine me and Mama sitting up watching something on TV talking about her day at work or what movie we’d see that coming weekend.

But you can’t go home again.

So I finished the 20-oz. bottle of Throwback Pepsi and set the bottle on the table. I sat and thought about my Mama and said to myself “Well, Ma. It’s just doesn’t taste the same.” And I could hear her in my head responding “It be like that sometimes, son.”

I guess so, but I wanted to have that smile again just one more time. Not just from the taste of Pepsi but from the look on my mom’s face when we found that change and bought them. I thought about when my beloved first (and ironically last) cat, Tiger, died how I went to get some comfort food egg rolls from my favorite childhood place and how they’d changed the recipe for those, too.

You can’t go home again.

Oh well. Some things change and some will never change. But thank God for memories. They are truly what we have when we miss our loved ones so very much. It’s been over seven months now since mom passed away and I am still heartbroken over it. The world lost a wonderful and bright star that day in June but I can still hear her wonderful voice, see her bright smile…

…and remember the “swoosh” of the Pepsi bottles we opened up together.

I miss you, Ma. Here’s to you. And I hope wherever you are you are having that nice tall Pepsi we both loved so much.

The Worst Birthday Present Ever

Bill Ivory Larson — Sat, 09 Jan 2010 15:33:22 +0000

Today is my mom, JoAnn’s, birthday. It is also the seven-month anniversary of her passing. She would have been 71-years-old today but with a fresh dye job would have told you she was still forty. I always loved my mom for that. It made me smile so much and always will.

I must have been seven or so at the time. I never remember quite how old I was but I do remember being young and having to shop for a present for my mom’s birthday. Being the Seventies I could go out by myself to the local strip mall and shop so I did.

I didn’t know what to get her. I didn’t have a lot of money but could have gotten a nice card or something. Some cheap I’ll-never-wear-it-but-it’s-the-thought-that-counts perfume, etc. But nooooooo. I bought her a cops and robbers car set. The one I had had my eye on. In my child mind I thought this is a win-win. It’s a present for her and I’d get to play with it.

How selfish could I be?

When I gave it to her her look said it all. She said “Oh, son (in only the way she knew how). This present is for you and not for me.” I felt mortified but rightly so, and it was a good lesson to learn. To put aside yourself and think of others especially on their birthdays.

And even at seven-years-old my mom gave ME such a wonderful present on her birthday. Wisdom. It is for that reason and so many more that I will honor her today by doing my best to think of others and do for others today. And by the way I did get better about getting her stuff to celebrate her birthday

My mom was wise beyond her years, and I hope I always do her and her memory proud.

Happy Birthday To You

Happy Birthday To You.

Happy Birthday, Dear Mama.

Happy Birthday To You.

I love and miss you very much.

The Last Photo of My Mother

Bill Ivory Larson — Fri, 06 Nov 2009 18:45:13 +0000

I don’t know exactly where to begin when it comes to putting memories of my mom, JoAnn, to words. So I guess I will begin at the end.

My mom, JoAnn, who grew up in Cicero, Illinois, passed away on Tuesday, June 9, 2009 from pancreatic cancer. Pancreatic cancer is the sneakiest, worst and most evil of cancers because when you find out you have it (which is usually Stage Four) it’s too late. Pancreatic cancer “presents” itself when it gets so bad it causes some type of other physical symptom. In my mom’s case, it was jaundice.

I was getting my hair cut on the afternoon of Friday, May 22. Since I was having a stressful time at work I wanted to relax while getting my haircut in my favorite salon (yes, sometimes, I pamper myself that way). So, I left my phone in the car. I figured “who’d call me in the hour I’d be in there.”

My Aunt Linda, that’s who.

When I left the salon, I went to the car and saw Linda didn’t call just once. She called four times. My heart began to race as I dialed my voice-mail. You see, for the past couple of years my mom had been in and out of hospitals with her diabetes and other circulatory problems. In fact, Christmas 2008 was spent at her hospital bedside. Hell, at least I knew she was getting good care so it was, ironically, the time when I could relax and just be with her.

But this time was different. Linda’s voice had an immediacy to it I’d never heard before. “Bill. You need to call me as soon as you get this. I don’t want to leave this on a message.”

When I called Linda said she had never seen anything like it. My mom instantly went yellow. They rushed her to the doctor and admitted her. That was May 22.

On May 23, the doctors told me about a “mass” on her pancreas, and after some consultations with oncology it was confirmed as pancreatic cancer, the Malifacent of all cancers, on Sunday, May 24, 2009.

I rushed to her bedside as soon as I could, which was that following Tuesday and, except for a couple of days where I came back to take care of some work things, I was at her bedside the rest of the time. She was transferred from hospital care to hospice on Wednesday, June 3, 2009.

That was the last move she ever made.

I have to say the people who work in hospice care are true angels on this planet. They know when patients come to them it’s for end-of-life care. For them to deal with that and give the amount of care and compassion they do on a daily basis is nothing short of remarkable. I will be forever in their debt for their care of my mama.

When Tuesday morning came I went, as I always did, to the hospice unit and my mom’s breathing had taken a bad turn, even from just a few hours before. Hours passed and she took less and less breaths. Her limbs were growing cold. I played some movie music on my computer to help ease her and I told her it was OK to go. I was watching her, holding her increasingly colder hand for as long as I could until finally I watched her pass away peacefully at 5:00 p.m.

I was so surprised that, even though my mom had a room next to the busy Cicero street, there wasn’t a sound. It was as if the whole world had stopped to observe a moment of silence as my mom took her last breath at “quittin’ time.” Just then, an overwhelming sense of peace came to me, as if her spirit passed through my body to tell me it was OK, now. Everything’s fine. No more pain and suffering. My mom was now healed and all better, just not here on Earth.

Just as I walked out of the room so that the wonderful hospice nurses could tend to her the daughter of my mom’s roommate came out and talked to me. She was teary-eyed herself but not because of my mom. In fact she didn’t even know my mom had passed until much later. No. She needed a hug and some talking to about her own mom, who was lying in the bed next to my mother’s. I couldn’t believe what I did next. I actually had the strength through that peaceful wave that washed over me to hold this woman and talk with her about her mom. We are both only children, you see, even though this other only child was about 25 years older than me. I held her and gave her a hug and said, no matter what, her mom would soon be at peace. That she was a good daughter. That she was doing what she was supposed to do and just be there (a bitter pill for me to swallow since I wanted to fix everything just a few days before). I held this poor woman’s hand and said that it would be OK. I knew it would be. That even though death is painful, it’s a part of this life. A sucky part, but a part, nonetheless. And it was happening the way it should happen. Where we, the children, say good-bye to our parents and do their memories honor by being the best children we can be – for them and ourselves.

According to her wishes my mom was cremated without much fuss (she never did want a big to-do, nor did she want any kind of traditional wake) and I spread her ashes in East End Park which is now called Harold Washington Park (after Chicago’s late, great mayor), the park she took me when I was a kid. It was raining lightly and beautiful and everything was so green. It was so green that you could almost touch the color itself without the leaves. I clutched my mom’s ashes and took a walk, alone, in the park.

I was glad it was raining. That meant no one was around. I was glad it was raining. No one could see me cry if they were there. I started having a panic attack. Where would I spread my mom’s ashes? Which part of the park? Not the childrens part. Not here. Not there. It finally came to me that we had so many good times just walking and talking so that’s what I did. I talked to my mom and I let the ashes drain slowly from their plastic bag. It was beautiful, and rainy and warm and it was just me and her.

When the ashes were all scattered in a winding path in the grass throughout the park I stood there and cried. I cried because that was the last time I was ever going to get to hold my mom.

Over these past few months I have been saying good-bye in different ways again and again. Taking care of her bills and estate and finalizing things with lawyers and insurance companies (who have all been wonderful, actually). And I continue to say good-bye again and again as the bills are taken care of one-by-one. Letting go of my mom’s physical self a little bit every time.

But the one thing I am so grateful for is photos. I always took them for granted so, so much when I was growing up. I hated pictures of me (and still do), but it wasn’t until I found old pictures and negatives of my mom that I found that sense of peace again. Not just from knowing she was healed in every way and in far better places, but seeing these photos and reconnecting with her as she was living. Some photos taken before I was a gleam in her eye. That was cool, too. To look at this young girl, this young woman who would become my precious mother. It was nothing short of a miracle.

So on these pages devoted to her I will share with you more memories and photos. And before I forget the reason I started at the end in the first place I wanted to share to share this photo in particular – the last one that I know of taken of this remarkable woman, JoAnn Larson. It was from 2007 and she is with our old cat, Spooky (we found him around Halloween – go figure).

Admittedly I cropped out her surroundings because they are not how I want you guys to see my mom. She lived in a state of disarray, in a state of constant mess both mentally sometimes and definitely physically. What I cropped out was the mess of her room. I did this so you could concentrate on her face. Her smile. The smile of my ma (the way we Chicagoans say mom) when she was 68-years-old and we hadn’t yet known that this ugly cancer was growing inside her.

I just look at her face (the original of this picture is on my desk) and I smile, and sometimes cry. I miss my mom and her voice so much and always will. But thank God for photos. Whether they are taken with the mind’s eye or with a camera, they help us to remember that our loved ones are with us always and forever.

Memories of My Mother

Bill Ivory Larson — Tue, 27 Oct 2009 15:20:36 +0000

JoAnn Larson, circa the 1960s, near Lake Michigan in Chicago

Page under construction…This page will be devoted to my personal memories of JoAnn Larson, my mom, who passed away on June 9, 2009 from pancreatic cancer. While it may sound like a downer, her life was rich and full and I will share with you some wonderful memories and photos of her (and of me) as I come across them