Queen– a Tribute to My Mother
A fox over fifty, I remember swinging open the oversized mahogany doors to reveal the small screen of our Philco, twisting the knob to turn on the set, and clicking another knob in position for NBC. My mother adjusted the rabbit ears on top of the set, rendering us royally ready to watch Queen for a Day (1956 – 1964).
Jack Bailey, the popular show’s host, who trailed a long wire on a vintage handheld mic, announced, “Would YOU like to be queen for a day?” Then, popping his p’s, he introduced and interviewed contestants one at a time where each woman aired her financial and emotional hard luck.
Perversely, the harshest circumstances under which the contestant labored, the likelier the studio audience would ring the “applause meter” to its highest level. The reigning queen for a day would be draped in a velvet robe, crowned, ushered to a throne, and handed a dozen long-stemmed roses to cradle while her requests were granted and augmented with other grandiose prizes. Considered the forerunner of modern day reality TV, the show was criticized for being insulting and degrading. Nevertheless, my mother wept into her hanky along with each reigning monarch of the day.
Though my own mother was no lady of leisure and never pampered herself like a queen or put on airs like one– she is the only woman I’ve encountered whom I dub worthy enough to wear the platinum crown. Should any protest my proclamation—I advise you to write your own tribute or tell your story walking to those who need to hear it, as obituaries or eulogies are so passe, if you get my drift. The fact that I can string along words to any degree is because my mother instilled in me the love for language by reading stories to me when I was two years old. Under her tutelage, I became a proficient typist by the age of nine, and soon pounded chapter stories replete with dialog on a girly-pink Tom Thumb typewriter.
My mother’s harsh circumstances in life would ring an applause meter to its highest level, but she never once wallowed in self-pity, instead ever grateful to count her blessings. Two pearls of wisdom she often dispensed were: “Don’t follow the crowd—be a leader”; “Before you criticize someone, walk in their shoes.” Widowed in her early thirties, my mother blazed trails during a time when no parental support groups or network pop psychologists existed. I could write a tome in tribute to my mother. Nevertheless, a minimalist approach works best to honor someone so disdainful of pomp, circumstance, or fanfare; for someone who doesn’t mince words or cut any slack; for someone so loving and generous without calling attention to herself; for someone who continues to exert her profound influence…
*A newly single parent who just got her driver’s license, my mother got behind the wheel of her gold Chevy Nova and gunned it out of the driveway, intent on giving my junior high school principal a piece of her mind after I’d informed her he’d been paying visits to the girls’ gym locker room. Needless to day, we didn’t see him “no more.”
*Before the start of my sophomore year in college, I wanted to quit because the classes I needed to register filled up and closed, making me frantic in my attempt to drop/add, drop/add. Exhausted and blistered, I blurted my intention to my mother. Though she sympathized, she extended no pity, telling me I wasn’t the only one to face a challenge. Nevertheless, she made a call to the Dean telling him in no uncertain terms that if she paid tuition, she expected me to get the classes I needed to graduate. The following day, the Dean opened up more sections for those in my similar plight.
There are countless personal and private memories which I will not air like the laundry my mother hung on our clotheslines year round which have spawned their own written accounts by me. In my family we don’t wear our hearts on our sleeves or cry on the shoulders of others, preferring to suck it up and move on. Though this tribute to my mother does not begin to scratch the surface, I know she will be touched by the gesture as I intend to print this on fancy stationery and have it professionally framed. We’ve never needed special occasions to express our love, though she and I will traditionally celebrate Mother’s Day as we always have at The Old Grist Mill—quietly and contentedly sharing an inextricable bond between mother and daughter. Gratifying to me is that my mother basks in this crowning glory without needing an official title or ostentatious crown.
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Women's Fiction novelist: Undergoing a midlife renaissance, I rekindled my passion for storytelling by composing fiction that taps into significant issues affecting the lives of women. Tired of reading about super women reinventing themselves by scaling mountains or paragliding—I attempt to exonerate unsung heroines who navigate life’s arduous course on a daily basis.
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