Determined To Succeed

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.