OK. Here I am, a gawky, skinny 15-year-old walking into where he was talking, not nicely, to my mom.
There he is, way bigger than me. He coulda easily killed me.
I said in my high squeaky voice, “Frank, you’ve had too much to drink. I think you’d better leave.”
He looked at my mom and asked, “Do you want me to go?”
She answered, “You heard him, didn’t you.”
I was so proud of her. He left without further incident.
Let me back up.
My mom was an attractive “widder lady,” as they would say in some small towns. But we lived in the biggest “small” town anywhere, New York City. Ergo she had lotsa suitors, and I had lotsa uncles that weren’t really my uncles.
One such “uncle” who I liked a lot was Uncle Frank.
When I first met Uncle Frank, he was part of a pair. Uncle Frank and Aunt Emma. Yes, he was married. Aunt Emma wasn’t with him when he visited frequently, apparently on his way home from work. He and my mom would usually sit on the sofa and talk. He would send me out a lot to bring home ice cream. I was never gone more than 30 minutes, and they would still be on the sofa talking when I got back. He was always kind and generous to my mom and me.
Uncle Frank was a big man. An electrician, plumber and general handyman, who worked at several big factories in the NY area. One he mentioned a lot was the Breyer’s Ice Cream factory in Long Island City. The iconic, gigantic Breyer’s Ice Cream sign was a fixture on my many subway rides from my hometown, Flushing, to Times Square in the heart of Manhattan.
Uncle Frank enjoyed a drink now and then.
One evening near Christmas, he arrived after having several drinks somewhere. After a short conversation with my mom on the sofa, he became verbally abusive. Since they weren’t whispering and our apartment was small, I could hear every word from the kitchen. I heard her ask him to leave. He didn’t start to leave right away.
So, I walked in.
As scared as I was, I still think I kinda became a man that Christmas, at that moment.
But that wasn’t the only moment.
I’ve been thinking about when a boy becomes a man. Not the legal stuff — the voting age, the draft age. I mean when does he start behaving like one. When does he accept responsibility. When does he understand the impact of his behavior on the people around him.
For me, that incident with Frank was the first. Here are the other two.
The Draft Card
At age 18 in New York in 1957, I received my Draft Card, formal documentation of manhood. With a Draft Card at that time, I could buy booze.
The day I received it, I entered a local liquor store and bought my mom a pint of Imperial, an inexpensive blended whiskey. I knew she enjoyed a very occasional highball. That’s a shot of whiskey in some Club Soda and ice. She couldn’t afford it normally, so this would be a well-deserved treat for her.
First legal booze purchase… went straight to my mom. Yes, we had a unique mother/son relationship.
The Dentures
From about age 12 to 18, we were dirt poor. We were squeezing the nickel so hard, the Indian was ridin’ the buffalo. (Google that one, young folks.)
My mom needed a set of dentures bad. Her front teeth were terrible and she was embarrassed. She often covered her mouth with her hand while talking. But the $$ were not available for the dentist.
Then things started to get a little better. I was working part time with the Post Office. My pay went from $1 an hour, as a porter/dishwasher, to $2 to sort mail. For you math majors, that’s double. My mom had a decent paying job at Family Circle Magazine. We were paying our rent on time.
So I saved enough to help her get a set of dentures.
How often does a young man buy a set of false teeth for his mom?
Enuf.
