Determined To Succeed

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.

Day Four.

What does it mean to be my mother’s son? When I was a child, it used to mean going to school, doing my homework, staying out of trouble and helping around the house so that my mom didn’t have to worry about me when she went to work. She’d leave at about 7:00 or 7:30 a.m. to begin her long haul to work in Cicero, Illinois, and would come home to Hyde Park between 5:00 or 6:00 p.m. after a hard day of packing catalog orders for Sears. I am quite sure during that time period every single day my mother prayed to God that I was O.K.

Well these days I’m pretty fucking far from O.K.

I’ve been lying to people ever since I was a kid. I grew up in a one-room, roach-infested hotel room in the Hyde Park Arms Hotel which was not something ANY child would EVER want to be known, let alone seen by friends. My mom, JoAnn, who worked her ass off making sure we had SOME roof over our heads and food in our stomachs, who went out every day on two buses and a train to work in a warehouse, did the absolute best she could to make sure we had SOMETHING, especially since my father gave little to no support to us in any way including financially. It may not have been much, and it may have been something about which I was embarrassed, but it was good, innocent, honest and our truth.

My mom also said something to me that stuck with me and continues to stick with me now which was the basis for what would become my lying lifestyle. My mom said, “Bill, no one has to know our business but us.” It’s true. Who wants everyone to know everything about them? Do you? Ask any person you see today how often they lie or omit truth to keep something private and you’ll find out the number is overwhelmingly in favor of lies.

But with those words I knew two things: that I could tell my mother anything and everything (and did) and that I had permission to lie to people if I wanted to preserve our secrets and reality. That’s when my creative mind came into play. As I got older I got much better at lying, so much so that even I could barely remember what lies I told which person. I had to start keeping my lies “straight.” And for what? For the sake of making myself look and sound the best I could be to ALL people?

No one can be all things to all people, and my mom is now the one who would be embarrassed of me. I haven’t been my mother’s son for many, many years.

When truth is told trust is earned, plain and simple. Someone knows they can depend on you based on your words backed up by your actions. In this weight loss thing (the only thing I have done right especially these last few years) I knew I had to be honest with myself and others about what I ate and shit I did that made me heavier. The accountability I made public was the one truth – the one absolute truth – backed up by my actions. Too bad the rest of my life, while showing glimmers of my mother’s son, was lost.

There were times I glimpsed him. Either I’d see him looking back at me in the mirror or I’d see him out of the corner of my eye. But he was never there for very long and his image would always fade. Nowadays, with all my lies exposed I am actually beginning to see signs of him again where I hadn’t for so, so long.

Look, I know weight loss is a bitch. It is, but  there is lying there, too. How many times do you eat a pint of ice-cream, nibble on cookies, sneak a piece of cake, grab an extra portion or go through the drive-thru and not tell anyone. I know I’m no saint but I admit that every day to you. That is where there is trust. I screw up and eat shit I shouldn’t but I get back up and try to do better the next day. Through all of this the past few days I have been less hungry because I am literally not trying to keep my lies down or make myself feel better with food. But my mother’s son was never meant to exist just as someone definable by weight loss. He was meant to exist because JoAnn Larson worked her ass off and did her best to raise a boy to be a man that people could look up to. To be that somebody parents tell their children they can be.

Now, for the first time in my adult life ever I am beginning to be that somebody and finally be the man my mom would be proud of. As I go through old photos I see that innocent kid and I think about what happened to him over all these years and it’s enough sometimes to be proud but also enough sometimes to throw up. But I will get back to him again. I will get back to being my mother’s son and stop wasting time, energy and effort because truth does mean trust and I so want to trust in myself again and be the man she always wanted me to be.

A plain milk chocolate Hershey bar. That was one of my mom, JoAnn’s, favorite treats.

Today is June 9th, the one-year anniversary of her passing. It is also the last of the firsts without her physically being present on Earth (you know, the first set of holidays, my first birthday, her first birthday, Mother’s Day, etc.) and you guys know I have been thinking about this day for quite some time now, sometimes with a bit of sadness and sometimes with a smile from a wonderful memory.

And sometimes, like today, with the strongest taste for a plain milk chocolate Hershey bar.

I have shared many things about my mom with you but I don’t think I’ve ever shared with you some of her favorite foods. The foods that made her happy. The foods that made us both heavy. Hell, even the foods we didn’t have sometimes. The foods we could (and couldn’t) afford. So today I am going to celebrate my mom’s life by talking about her favorite foods (and some of my own, too). It may not be the healthiest blog post I’ve ever done but it will be fun…and slightly mouth watering.

My mom, JoAnn Larson, was always fond of saying how much she loved to eat two things when she was pregnant with me – Chinese food, and chocolate and vanilla ice-cream. She used to eat so much ice-cream in fact that she was convinced that was why my tummy is slightly lighter on one side than the other (my birthmark – a chocolate ice-cream half and a vanilla half). I have to laugh at that one given my half-white/half-black bi-racial make-up. It always seemed corny but I could never disprove it, especially since I had physical proof.

She also loved her some beef chop suey.

When my mom was kicked out of her home in Cicero, Illinois for daring to date and bear the child of a black man (gasp, the drama) she moved to Hyde Park on Chicago’s South Side. This was a wonderful place because it was so mixed in terms of it’s population. It also had the best kick-ass Chinese food on the planet from Lung Wah Chop Suey. It was there she found her love for beef chop suey (and gave me mine). My mom had it when she was pregnant with me and treated us to it all the time (when we had the money) when I was growing up. It was our fast food of choice, over McDonald’s, Wendy’s and even Harold’s Chicken. An order of beef chop suey and three egg rolls is what we used to get. Damn, those were the days.

There was also Pat’s Pizza, the pizza joint right across the street from where we lived (and where my mom established credit for us during our leanest times). I don’t know how the name just came to me (I couldn’t remember the name for the longest time) but I am thankful it did (thanks for the reminder, ma). Even if we didn’t have money my mama made sure we, and I, ate and there were many a night when we had either meatball sandwiches or a large sausage pizza. Sure there were times we got sick of it (because we had it a lot) but damn it was good, and their pizza had such a distinctive taste that when I found Al’s Italian restaurant and Pizzeria one year ago as my mom lay in hospice I cried because it tasted exactly the same. I needed that taste of childhood at this time last year.

Then there was Valois, the cafeteria-style staple of Hyde Park. This was truly a place where the melting pot of Hyde Park’s eclectic community came to make soup. My mom loved their breakfast – sausage, two eggs over easy and potatoes with white bread toast – and their lunch – pot roast, with mashed potatoes and gravy and fruit Jello for dessert (there’s always room for Jello). On Saturday’s Valois had spaghetti and meat sauce. We used to get that with a side order of “mash and gravy” (don’t ask why we had potatoes with spaghetti. Just roll with it). And many a Thanksgiving was spent there, if not at my mom’s best friend, Rosalyn’s, house, having their “traditional” Thanksgiving dinner (turkey and all the trimmings). And did I tell you this place has grits for breakfast? Awesome!!!

My mama also loved her fish, and we visited the Cafe Enrico frequently to take advantage of their “all you can eat” fried perch dinner. Hell no, it wasn’t good for us but it was damned good and damned cheap, too. In later years, when she lived with me for a while on the City’s North Side, we got fried fish and fries from a place called the Fish Keg on Howard Street. Again, not healthy at all, but some damned good-tasting food.

Rosalyn was an awesome cook, too. She’d make us fried chicken, spaghetti, greens, corn bread, beans and rice…everything. She even fried up some chicken wings and made spaghetti one night when we were so broke all my mom had was bus fare to get back and forth to work. My mom called Rosalyn in what had to be a pride-breaking moment and asked if she could make us something to eat – and she did. Thank God for Rosalyn. That night we ate and didn’t go hungry, and it was also that night I firmly remember saying to myself I’d never EVER go that hungry again. That I’d help my mom any way I could understand how to make money stretch so we’d never have to feel that poor. That was when I began my truest understanding of how cold money could be. If you have it, great. But when you don’t have it…

…but this is not a sad talk. It’s a talk about food, and no food conversation about my mom would be complete without memtioning her love of fried chicken, speaking of chicken. We used to eat at Harold’s Chicken all the time, but her first love was Kentucky Fried Chicken. For as far back as I can remember she loved (and therefore I loved) their extra crispy chicken (until they messed it all up and made it spicy crispy. ick.), mashed potatoes and gravy (noticing a trend?) and cole slaw (which I am now sure contains a level of crack cocaine or other addictive narcotic). Even when she was diagnosed diabetic in her later years I used to bring her the occasional KFC meal and sit and enjoy it with her, and she loved every bite. her and the cat, that is.

On Sunday’s we used to get sweet rolls and other pastries from the fresh bakery that was perfectly placed between where we lived and the park we went to every week. We used to get danishes, and she’d get her coffee (extra cream, no sugar) and we’d enjoy decadent sweets while sitting in the park or reading the paper at home. It was in this park I scattered her ashes almost a year ago.

Lastly, my mom loved her Pepsi. Back in the day, pop could be purchased in actual glass bottles (still the best-tasting way to enjoy an ice-cold soda) and we used to save our pennies, nickles, dimes and quarters to be able to afford a case of “the good stuff.” We’d put it right in the fridge and, when it was cold, would pop open a bottle and enjoy it together. Or we’d sit outside on the benches a couple of blocks away and enjoy a cold one on a hot summer night. Those were awesome times. And even though I have switched and am now a Coke man, I will occasionally have a Pepsi and think of my mom. For old time’s sake.

Well, as they say times change and you can’t go home again. Lung Wah Chop Suey, Pat’s Pizza and the bakery no longer exist. When I spread her ashes almost a year ago I would have given anything to have at least an egg roll from Lung Wah just to ease the pain a bit. But no dice. Or maybe that’s a good thing. Harold’s is still just as active as ever and I do have it from time to way occasional time when I visit, and there is nothing like trying to find a table in the now-double-the-size Valois for a taste of breakfast served just the same way as when I was a kid.And if I ever get a hankerin’ for pizza, I’ll always (hopefully) have Al’s.

But no matter where I go in the U.S., no matter what time of day and no matter what convenience store in which I shop I can always have the first and best thing that reminds me most, culinarily speaking) of my 0f my sweet and beautiful mama…

…that simple, wonderful and amazing plain milk chocolate Hershey bar.

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.