Happy Mother's Day to all who are mothers, have mothers, or have made someone a mother. I'm reposting one of my favorite Marge stories for your Mother's Day pleasure.
Marge, on left, and pal
My mother Marge has been a continuous (yet unintentional) "sauce of entertainment" to the sane members of my family over the year. She comes out with the most inane and ridiculous things, usually at completely inappropriate times. (A recent example of this was posted here, but long-time readers of this blog are quite familiar with this trait.)
When we were kids, she loved bragging to us about what a popular teenager she was, how many guys were after her, and how she was the first girl in her neighborhood to drive and own her own car. She'd go on ad nauseum about how many hands she had to slap from her knee while driving. (hopefully the looker to her left in this photo wasn't one of her suitors)
The love of cars and driving is something that she and my father had in common, and on my dad's mailman salary we always owned brand new vehicles ("You don't want to buy someone else's headache!") which my father would eventually plow into the trunk of a car he was tailgating. (Once, he did it on the way home from the dealership. At 10 years old, I felt very much like Ralphie in "A Christmas Story" as I cringed through the stream of obscenities that followed.)
Anyway...fast forward to about 15 years ago, my parents in their 70s, driving their gold-package Crown Victoria (or, "The Police Car" as we like to call it) in Florida, with my two nephews (15 and 13 at the time) in the back seat. Sal was driving with Marge riding shotgun. Cruising down I-4 at 85mph, they had the front windows open all the way and big band music blaring. When the wind inside the car reached gale force, my mother turned around and yelled, "HEY...ARE YOU KIDS GETTIN' A BLOW JOB BACK THERE?"
I guess we know why she was so damned popular in that car of hers!
Hey, do me a favor and go vote for Robert Leleux's wonderful book, The Memoirs of a Beautiful Boy!