For Mrs. Jones & The Other Moms
Unlike these days, I never called “the other moms” by their first names. Back in the 70s & 80s nobody did. It would have been unheard of to do so. For the times, this was not politically or culturally correct. I am not sure what the punishment would have been had I the nerve to declare an actual first name to one of the other moms. All I know is that the look of shock on her face, along with the after shock of the dual punishment from her and my own mother would have been long lasting. This was the age when belts, paddles, large wooden spoons and wide sweeping swats from the front seat to the back seat while driving were still acceptable. Even now, as a 50+ year old grown man with a family, it just feels best to lead with the formality of “Mrs.” when back in their presence.
The other moms that I am talking about lived down or up the street from me on Clearview Drive or in other neighborhoods around my community. All were connected to my mom and or my buddies. Some were intimidating, others so sweet and a few seemed like my biggest fans. But they all fed me and shaped me in some way. The memories with them are so vivid. The front porches, kitchens, dining room tables, the garages, the front or back yards, and the insides of their cars are what I flashback to. I can see their faces, hairdos and almost smell the cigarette smoke, while still wishing I could hear their southwestern PA accents call my name.
Over the last three years, my true gratitude for “the other moms” began to slowly germinate in my soul with the passing of my own mom (Sara Jane “Sally” Rhen 12.11.17), visiting my old neighborhood twice in the last six years and conversing with three of them by divine appointments in person just last June. Like many of us raised in that era, my list of “the other moms” grew and grew during my 20 years in the Greensburg/Latrobe, PA area. It included: Mrs. Boney, Mrs. Grabiak, Mrs. Smith, Mrs. Weaver, Mrs. Conti, Mrs. Schaefer, Mrs. Biss, Mrs. Takitch, Mrs. Cunningham, and Mrs. Fenton. One threw me out of their yard for swearing too much, others asked me to go home after I broke something or was too bossy, many told me to quiet down in the middle of the night when staying over, but each always invited me back into their house, asked me how I was doing, fed me once again, endlessly offered me something to drink, drove me there or brought me home, and a few even took me on their family trips or told me something they liked about me, which stuck in my spirit.
Mrs. Jones epitomized them all. Her kids were older than my sister and I, so she was a veteran mom. Maybe that was why she had such a gracious ease with me. Or maybe, it was because I was Sally’s son and she was a part of my mom’s neighborhood inner circle. Living just five houses up the street on the same side, across from the school bus stop that was at the baseball field gave her a constant presence in my life. Every time I saw her she would say, “Hello, Brian Rhen, it is good to see you.” And my respectful reply would be, “Hi Mrs. Jones.” Deep inside I always knew she was for me, though it was never formally verbalized. That must be why I had the nerve to call her up in 2014, after not seeing or speaking to her for 20+ years. On that call, I asked her if my family of six could stay a night at her house while on our 67-night summer road trip around the United States in our Honda minivan. She welcomed us on that typical hot and muggy afternoon in early July, loved on my kids, who she had never met, and invite one of the other moms, Mrs. Smith, and dads, Mr. Smith, over to see us. So similar was the welcome she gave my dad and I, when we arrived unannounced last June 2019 on our way to an event in Ligonier PA. At the door, she exclaimed with a smile, “Well hello Bob and Brian, isn’t this a wonderful surprise, come on in!” Her vibrance, stories of her golf that day and the laughter on her back porch made her ageless to me. Consequently, hearing of her death just a few weeks ago in April 2020 was so sadly surprising. Yet, in the past month, since her passing a few poignant memories have come pouring out of me about her.
I remembered Mrs. Jones being my protector when I was around 7 years old. It was just another humid summer night. Being that it was almost dark and the lightening bugs were about to turn on, the neighborhood kids were out playing ding-dong ditch. The older kids convinced me to ring the door bell at the feared Cochenour house. After I bravely rung their door bell, we scattered to hide and watch the response. However, moments later a siren could be heard from a distance and one of our delinquent gang yelled, “It’s the police. RUN!” Though my logic should have prevailed knowing that kids under ten don’t get arrested for ringing door bells, my elementary mind went into extreme fright and flight mode. So, I just ran and ran and ran. Soon, I found myself sprinting through Mrs. Jones’ back yard huffing with tears rolling down my face. Upon hearing her friendly concern of “Brian Rhen what is wrong?”, I jumped into her arms and sobbed uncontrollably about not wanting to go to jail. She soothed me with her calming words. Soon after, Mr. Jones came out to join us. Then, my older sister arrived with an explanation and my mom was not far behind. All was well.
During others times, Mrs. Jones was my provider. As a young boy, at her annual Christmas Eve parties after mass, she gave me an endless supply of cookies to counteract my boredom as everyone else chatted on and on. When in elementary school or cub scouts, she bought whatever I was selling, so I could earn my fundraising prizes and badges. In the summer as a teen, she funded my social life in exchange for cutting her lawn, building her brick sidewalk pathway, cutting the shrubs or whatever she needed.
As an adult, I will never forget calling her the morning my mom died. It was December 11, 2017. My dear mom, who was on hospice, was found with no more breath prior to 7AM EST, in her in-law unit bedroom at my sister’s house in Massachusetts. Living in California, I received the 4AMish PST dreaded call from my sister in my drowsy state. After hearing the final details and crying some of the toughest tears, I owned calling the friends of my parents. As I dialed and dialogued in those early morning hours sitting next to our Christmas tree with its lights on, the deep joy and pain of my childhood collided as I stated a similar line after each “Hello” I received. “Mr. and Mrs. ______ or Mrs. _____ this is Brian Rhen, Sally’s son. I want you to know that my mom passed away this morning.” I am not sure what time I got a hold of Mrs. Jones, but I do remember what she said as we ended the call. I had just thanked her for being such a good friend to my mom and there was a pause. Then she replied, “I loved your mom and we had so much fun together. And Brian, I love you.”
So on this Mother’s Day 2020, I give thanks to God for Isabel (Jones), Margot (Boney), Rita (Grabiak), Velma (Smith), Karla (Weaver), Kate (Conti), Norma (Schaefer), Bernie (Biss), Joan (Takitch), Beverley (Cunningham), and Patt (Fenton). Some have died way too soon, others are heading toward one hundred years in age and a few I’d really like to have a meal with. In the end, my experience with them was by God’s grace, because I was just a kid who wasn’t the best, but was so blessed by them all.
And for “the other moms” who I have not included, don’t feel left out. You mattered also. I just couldn’t remember your first names.