Wednesday, May 18, 2016

My Mother Wasn't June Cleaver

Tomorrow would have been my mother's 100th birthday. If you didn't know her, you missed out on a treat. In her honor I share this blog.

I grew up watching several “perfect” families on television. Two of my favorite characters were
Wally and the Beaver. They were two clean-cut screw-ups with a perfect set of parents, Ward and June Cleaver.

Ward and June never said anything mean. They rarely became upset and yelled at the boys. Whenever problems arose they always had quiet, meaningful, wisdom filled talks with them. The house was always spotless. The meals were delicious, nutritious and always on time. Ward always wore a suit with a white shirt and tie. That family gave me the creeps.

We weren’t the Cleavers but there were some similarities. My dad wore a shirt and tie every weekday. It was his business attire. One day, after he had retired, he showed up at the kitchen table in a shirt and tie. When I asked why he was dressed up, he looked surprised and took off the tie. Old habits die hard. We and the Cleavers were also similar in that my mother’s name was June.

But my Mom was no June Cleaver. The mother of my growing up years was many things -- interesting, funny, unpredictable, a wonderful cook, willing to try almost anything, good with kids (especially teenagers), counselor, fixer of tragedies, painter (of walls and canvases), seamstress, dog trainer (our dog loved to bring her "ripe" dead rabbits), and resident theologian. Mother was not known for her nurturing skills. If one stayed home from school, one spent the day in one’s room – ALONE. At noon she might slide a sandwich under the door, but there was no other interaction.

She was many things, but a perfect, plastic reproduction of a mother wasn't one of them.  She was June McConnell, NOT June Cleaver.

One picture of my childhood stamped indelibly on my memory is of my mother, in gaudy, golden house slippers, with her housecoat flapping in the breeze, disappearing over the hill on the back of my best friend's motorcycle.  He had come to show me his new Triumph cross-country cycle.  The one his mother was afraid to look at, and certainly would not ride on.  He made the mistake of jokingly asking Mom if she would like a ride on his bike.  She, of course, took him up on his offer. He was shocked. I was not. That was just Mom.

I believe my mother forged my father's signature on every paycheck my father ever brought home. That was especially humorous when you realize that, as treasurer of the company, Dad's signature was on the front. And friends, she made no attempt whatsoever to make the signature on the back even remotely bear a resemblance to the signature on the front. She then took that check to the bank, cashed it and proceeded to work miracles with the money in taking care of five kids who were black holes that money disappeared into.

With it they paid for a beautiful home in the country, fed five children (two teenage boys) who could consume vast quantities of food at a sitting ("While you're up would you get me another glass of milk?"), put nice clothes on our ever-growing and changing bodies, shod our constantly expanding feet, came up with weekly lunch money and allowance, paid for the "little extras" that seem to mount up into the millions, and saw to it that a college education could be a reality.

And then there was Mom's home cooking. When we children were in the house, mother was a cooking machine. After we grew up and left, not so much. After cooking for a herd, it was difficult to get motivated to cook for two. The menu changed.

To give you an idea how unusual it was, my children always looked forward to trips to their grandmother's house so they could have her gourmet jumbo hot dogs and micro waved White Castle hamburgers.  When she did cook, it is not that she didn't fix scrumptious, nourishing meals, it is just they were not necessarily traditional.  Sure, Mom could fry chicken with the best of them and she made a mean pot roast.  Sunday dinner, which was usually shared with company, was traditional fare with homemade pie for dessert. (Chess pie was my favorite.) Umm, umm, good.  But lord only knew what would show up on the table weeknights. Good stuff. But not things I would feed to children. Shrimp cocktail, Reuben sandwiches, chef salad, liver, Kentucky Hot Browns and of course, our all time favorite, rubber duck.

The rubber duck is another story. My father occasionally got the urge to "provide" for the family in the tradition of his ancestors and went hunting or fishing.  He rarely returned to the house with much game. Once he arrived at the door with a stringer full of beautiful fish in his hand and a strange look on his face. We still suspect he bought those fish. On this occasion, Dad (bwana, Capt. Ahab, great white hunter), went duck hunting on a cold, drizzly, nasty early winter day and returned with one sorry-looking duck. We boys were dispatched to the back yard where we dutifully plucked and cleaned it and Mom cooked the thing. It smelled awful. Dad couldn't slice it to serve (no heartbreak to the assembled tribe) because he couldn't get his fork in it. My brother Bob suggested the duck had "Goodyear" stamped on the bottom. We threw it out for the dog. The dog buried it. The entire family agreed that the dog made a good choice.

I don't want the reader to get the wrong idea. Mom wasn't weird. She was just unique. My sisters loved to tell her that if she ever suffered from Alzheimer's we will never be able to tell. She did all of the things one hears about moms doing. Mom fixed our meals, bound up our wounds, kissed our "owies," listened to our problems, dried our tears, mended our torn clothes and broken hearts, told us about God, threatened to turn us over to our father when he got home, and ran interference for us when the task or problem was more than we could handle. 

An example I clearly remember was the time I, a teenage driver, brought home my first and only speeding ticket. I ceremoniously laid it and the car keys in front of my father as he sat at the kitchen table.  He looked at the ticket, at me, at the keys, back at me and took a deep breath to begin what promised to be a monumental and endless lecture on topics as varied as safe driving habits, my attitude (he always threw the attitude part in for good measure), the cost of living, his childhood, and, of course, how I would be welcome to use the car again sometime just before I reached middle age. But at that moment my mother's voice, like a warm, gentle, sweet summer breeze, floated gently into the room and Dad deflated like a cheap balloon.  She simply said, "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone." End of lecture… return of car keys.

My Mom was not June Cleaver. And for that I will be eternally grateful.


Bill McConnell is the Interim Minister at Norwood Christian Church in Cincinnati, Ohio, and is a Church Transformation consultant and a Christian Leadership Coach. He is a frequent speaker at Church Transformation events. His latest book on church transformation is DEVELOPING A SIGNIFICANT CHURCH and is available at Westbow Press.

He can be contacted @ bill45053@gmail.com. Connect with him on Facebook @ William T. McConnell or on Twitter @billmc45053 or visit his Amazon Author Page @ Amazon

1 comment:

Unknown said...

I loved reading your story about your mom & family. I wonder what happened to moms today. They seem to have lost the values of moms from yesterday. Thank you for sharing your memories Bill.

My mom wasn't a June Cleaver as well. Mom would be 98 years old on June 20th. She was born in Decatur Alabama & the youngest & only girl out of 4 children.

She was a very special person in all our lives and was loved by everyone with the exception of my dad's sister who had issues with just about everyone anyway.

She was the one that really raised us 4 girls because Dad usually worked 2nd or 3rd shift and only really saw him on weekends.

Mom was a great cook always made sure we had healthy food on our plate, made our clothes, did all the shopping for food and clothing unless she was making our clothes. Put in a vegetable garden, cut our hair, chopped the head off the rooster that attacked my sister when she was small. Our alarm to get us up and off to school every morning was the clanging of pots and pans at the end of the hallway that led back to the bedrooms as she shouted out exercising commands.

She volunteered in the church a lot and was a member of the United Methodist church Women's group. When she had to take a break away from Dad, she could always be found up at church with the women in the United Methodist Women's group.

She was involved in girl scouts and if it wasn't being a cookie chairman then she was the leader. We all went through girl scouts from brownie to a senior. She
made all holidays special and something we all looked forward to.

She was a firm believer, if you can't say anything nice then don't say anything at all.

In our eyes, she was the best mom anyone could ever ask for!