A Better Late than Never Tribute for Mother's Day by John Brady

LUCY BURDETTE: Last winter I convinced my hub John to take Hallie's class on narrative writing while she was in Key West. He was dubious, but he loved it! His essay about his mother turned out so well that I asked him if I could share it with you.

The Day My Mother Chose the Frying Pan by John Brady

 Mom, stirring her ersatz version of goulash, paused. In our Pennsylvania kitchen my older brother Bob was recounting what he had heard was going on behind Russia’s Iron Curtain: “Those kids have to report their parents to the police if they say something bad about the government.” Mom interrupted her cooking and looked at us: “They could put me in this frying pan before I turned in any of you.”

Dorothy Lindsay Brady - 1913-2015

The image of our mother squeezed into a pan, naked, seared into our young brains. We were stunned, and proud. Wow, she would do anything to protect us.

Both our mom and our dad were children of the Depression, with the emotional scars to prove it. Whereas Dad was a champion kidder, our mom’s personality had square corners. There wasn’t always a middle ground.

She always wanted the best for us. I think she only stopped begging me to “take a math class” after I got my first job out of graduate school. But if someone outside the family said something bad about one of her chicks, look out!

Mom was a natural teacher. “Down the ramp and you’ll be OK,” she coaxed, pushing the little blue bike we all learned on. Then, there I was, flying down Main Street on a two-wheeler!

We normally walked the mile to St. Titus School. But if it was raining, she stuffed the seven of us into our Pontiac station wagon. With her I had to be careful what I wished for. If I pretended to be sick to stay home from school, that might mean a day of licking S & H Green Stamps and pasting them into books.

Mom’s job was more mundane, and a lot harder than Dad’s. After my seventh sibling was born, she got terribly sick. A flotilla of casseroles and Jell-O concoctions arrived at our door. We were all scared; I thought she had polio. After that, Mom quit smoking those Pall Malls, and she got some household help.

Mom grew up on a large ranch in Oklahoma. She was a great horsewoman. She drove competently and fearlessly, so much more confident than most women of her time. She was also a natural athlete - good at tennis, and an amazing putter in golf. She had a hole-in-one in her 80s and came close to shooting her age.

After WWII she came back East to my father’s hometown with many important life skills. When confronted with a live chicken that was wanted on the dinner table, she promptly wrung its neck, which quickly impressed her new father-in-law.

There was only one time I remember seeing her cry. We were at her mother’s house in Oklahoma. Walking into the kitchen, I found her sobbing against her sister Tess’s shoulder. Today, I think she was overwhelmed with her responsibilities, and hated being so far away from her mother and family. At the time, it was frightening to see.

Mom tried to make time for all of us. When I was in the first grade, I complained that all the other kids’ mothers met them as they came out of school. Shortly thereafter, there she was, pushing Lewis or Lisa in a baby carriage up to the steps.

Dorothy had always wanted to have fun. She hated the idea of people just standing around at parties, so hers were memorable affairs that always featured a game, like charades. The passing of years softened her square corners, too. She became less serious… the sense of humor that had always been there emerged… she could laugh at herself as well as at others.

Her grandchildren loved her. No wonder, she knew them from their beginning. When a new grandchild was born, mom packed up her bags and arrived to “get that baby on a schedule.” Was that helpful? Yes! When mom left after getting our first child, Molly all set up, Jana wept.

One of the hardiest laughs I ever heard from her came shortly after she had a stroke at age 102. She had just heard that Donald Trump was running for President. Mom, a lifelong Democrat - she thought the idea preposterous!

Shortly thereafter, she went into a coma. But ever-protective, she wasn’t going anywhere until all of her chicks had arrived. Only then would she set out on her journey to the next world.

If you were telling a story about your mother, where would you start?

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TRAVELING WHILE FEMALE by BARBARA O’NEAL

LUCY BURDETTE: I am always so happy to welcome writer Barbara O’Neal to the blog—and even happier that her newest book, A THOUSAND PAINTED HOURS, will be published in August. (I have already pre-ordered.) She has some interesting thoughts today on traveling as a single woman…

BARBARA O’NEAL: Last night, I was on a fairly empty train rather late, at the SFO airport. It was grim lighting, that tungsten glow that makes everything seedy.

It occurred to me with some surprise that I wasn’t worried about it. As a young woman, I would have been looking over my shoulder, checking for men who might be dangerous. Constantly. I am still aware—I’m not a fool; I can still be pickpocketed or mugged—but this is no longer an overarching, constant, tense, alert worry. I walk through the world like a man. At ease. Sure. Because I have crossed into the blessed territory of invisibility.

What a delight.

Eating dinner at the airport food court, I saw a young man pass, staring at a very young woman at a table in front of me. She was eating. Her hair was a little messy from travel. She didn’t notice him, but he walked twenty feet staring at her so obviously that it irritated me. I wanted to stand up and whack him with my purse. Keep walking, bud.

I remembered when it was me worrying about the unwanted attention of some random guy, finding a place to sit between an old woman and a mother with a child so the strange man couldn’t sit near me.

My son, age 25 or so, talked about going out to the New York clubs with a small group of women. One was very fearful, jumping at shadows, worried about alleyways and knots of guys on the street. Her friend said, “Don’t worry, Ian is with us. No one will mess with us.”

He said, recounting that story to me later, “I had no idea women worry about this all the time. All. The. Time. Did you know?”

Um, yes, son. I did.

I’m taking my granddaughter to Japan next month. She’s 14 and leggy and eccentric, with a wild head of hair that draws the longing gaze of white women (“I love your hair”) but also the meanness of boys at middle school. I feel some sense of relief about the safety of that country, but I also know I will be instructing her constantly, quietly, on how to be female while traveling. I want her to be mighty. And safe.

I honestly worry less about this one than her younger sister. My wild-haired girl is fierce and knows her own mind. She’s the girl other kids ran to when they were being bullied. Her sister is pliant and a pleaser and very pretty in that way some males want to claim—if it is beautiful, it is mine. We will go somewhere, too, in a couple of years. She longs for Germany, which she visited a couple of years ago. I will instruct her carefully.

I wish this was not necessary. I wish I had not spent 40 years sizing up every space I walked through. I traveled anyway, but often I was nervous.

Now I stride through the world like a white man, able to occupy any space without apology or fear. I just wish my granddaughters could begin here, instead of waiting decades to age into it. 

Readers, do you worry when you’re traveling or otherwise out of your element?

More from Lucy, Barbara has some news for the upcoming A Thousand Painted Hours: If you would like a signed copy, you can order one now, and we have some very special things that go along with it. The first is a giveaway of an original piece of collage art I created to commemorate the book. One golden ticket in the books will win the original art.

To order a signed copy, visit Author, Author

You can also pre-order all the other versions—kindle, hardcover ($2 off if you order now), paperback or audio, which is going to be especially fantastic this time. I’ve heard the clips from my narrator and I am so very excited. Pre-orders really help visibility of a book, so I appreciate any help in that direction.

Chekov's Gun in Ulster American

 LUCY BURDETTE: The week before last, John and I dashed into New York to see the play Ulster American at the Irish Repertory Theater. This is a small theater on 22nd street, so it has none of the razzle dazzle of Broadway. But on the other hand, the theater is very cute, the sets simple but perfectly done, and the audience is very close to the action and the actors. 

(Photo from the Irish Rep Instagram)

Two years ago we saw Kate Mulgrew (the cook called Red from Orange is the New Black) in The Beacon, and we’ve supported the theater ever since. The Beacon was both a wonderful show and wonderful performance even if a dark story. (To be fair, the shows we’ve seen are universally Irish and always dark.)

Ulster American takes place on the eve of rehearsals for a new play whose director, playwright, and star actor (Matthew Broderick) are meeting for the first time. The play was dark all the way through, ending with a bloody denouement that I won’t describe in case you go to see it. 

There were some disparate discussions and elements throughout the performance that caught my attention along the way (Maggie Thatcher, a jar of pencils, an eye patch). This had me thinking of Chekov’s Gun:  "One must not put a loaded rifle on the stage if no one is thinking of firing it". Apparently Chekov was talking about the efficiency of a narrative, recommending that everything unnecessary to the denouement should be removed. And believe me, everything I noticed on that stage showed up again by the end!

This had me thinking about the novel I’m writing—do I take out bits and pieces that don’t advance the narrative? How would I even know at the beginning of a book what will become important by the end?

Red readers and writers, do you think about this question when writing or reading? How often do you notice things in a book that aren’t necessary or don’t belong?