Mothers from the South Side of Chicago

Moms were in a league of their own during my Catholic grammar school days. First, many of the dads had fought in World War II and these vets lived lives that were a lot tougher than most men today. Moms seemed focused on dads’ happiness and did an incredible job keeping things together in the post-war family. Many moms of the Era would famously say that at times they thought of murdering their husbands, but they never considered divorce!  

Our dads were hard working and many of them had second jobs. So, the moms were often the ones to run all the errands: take the kids to doctors, deal with the schools, buy all the groceries and clothes, and many others that are shared today—at least in part. Sure, the dads could be tyrannical at times and bossy, but I remember moms ruling the roost. 

Our next-door neighbors were Lithuanian immigrants who came over after World War II. Mr. Sankas was an engineer, a mechanic, and a restaurant owner. Mrs. Sankas was beautiful and we got a kick out of her English—well, the little English she knew.  The Sankases had an airplane in their garage, a Studebaker bullet nosed car, a yellow Rambler station wagon, a vast collection of opera records, hundreds of Popular Mechanics and National Geographic’s magazines, and enough electronic gear to manage communications with relatives all over the world should an invasion take place here in America.  

My friend, Mike the Menace, used to hide in the bushes when Mrs. Sankas came out of her home at dinner time to call her sons in. She would yell out, “Stanleeey, Seeleey (Sylvester), and my friend would yell out from the bushes in his South Side Chicago accent, “Coming Ma.” Mrs. Sankas would look puzzled at the response, but she would turn around and head inside thinking that Stanley and Sylvester had heard her call. 

Another noteworthy mom in the neighborhood was Mrs. McCarthy, Mike the Menace’s mom. She came from rural Canada and was a mom who could cook anything including a variety of game that her older sons had hunted. For most of us, the only meat we ever saw had been processed by a butcher and was wrapped in plastic.  We were city kids after all! But Mrs. McCarthy would not only cook the food, she would skin and clean the animals by herself.  I remember walking down in their basement one day and seeing a pile of dead squirrels on a chopping block that were in various states of butchering. It was an eye-opener for me. I was told they taste just like chicken. 

Mrs. O’Meara lived across the street and had an Irish temper.  Like a lot of moms, when she was mad at one of her kids, she would yell at them using their formal first, middle, and last name: “John Kenneth O’Meara, you go out in that yard and pickup your baseball mitt and DON’T LEAVE IT OUT THERE AGAIN!” Sometimes we could sit across the street and hear an entire 10-minute tirade from Mrs. O’Meara word for word. 

Most of the women took pretty good care of themselves.  Men might be the boss at times, but the women placed limits on what they would tolerate from their men. And when the women got angry, the men would fold up the tent in a hurry.  

We did have one exception and that was Mrs. Lonus. She was one of those women who was a housewife and cleaned houses for a few wealthy people outside the neighborhood. The plight of Mrs. Lonus was always on the mind of my mother. Mrs. Lonus was always taking the bus to her work, but her husband took the car to his job. When the Lonuses pulled up to their house with bags of groceries in their trunk, Mr. Lonus would walk into the house empty handed. Mrs. Lonus on the other hand could be seen carrying heavy bags of groceries in. My mother was not prone to swearing, but when she saw Mrs. Lonus carrying the groceries in to the house, my mother’s colorful curses echoed through our house to describe her absolute loathing of Mr. Lonus.  In fact, her voice would sometimes carry up and down the block like one of Mrs. O’Meara’s tirades.  The final judgement on Mr. Lonus came from his total absence from Mass attendance. Mrs. Lonus was at church every Sunday and she walked. But Mr. Lonus used the time to wash his car. And as far as my mother was concerned, anyone who would do unnecessary work on Sunday and not attend Mass, was destined for HELL.

Most of us got comfortable with our moms around the neighborhood.  Our neighborhood friends knew the odd and the whacky aspects of our families. But when we got together for rare gatherings with all those we knew from our parish in public places, we were often a little embarrassed by our parents when our other classmates or teammates might see them.  

The worst place for embarrassment was at football banquets—especially my 8^th Grade Football banquet. First, most the time at St. Cajetan, we had good teams, but that year we had not excelled. So, our celebration wasn’t much to look forward to after the season.  Second, depending upon how many of our neighborhood friends showed up, I might end up spending the entire night sitting with our parents. Third, I knew my mother had no interest in sports at all and she would be looking for other ways to entertain herself. 

It was winter and icicles had formed all around the old neighborhood houses. I had just received an old blazer from my cousin and I was sporting it that night. The tan, green, and gold plaid blazer could have been a fashion coup for me, only it was several sizes too large. I was also sporting one of my dad’s wide ties—something that Dick Tracey might have worn. 

My parents’ car was an oil-burner. On the trip to the fancy banquet hall, black smoke flew behind us.  I ducked down in the back seat so no one could see me.  When we came to the banquet, I was anxious to get inside, but my mother was taking her time—this was a date for her and she wanted all the validation that came with it. My father opened the car door for her and held out his arm for her journey to the entrance. My mother was wearing a hat that I despised. It may have been influenced by something Jackie Kennedy had worn in France, but the American Discount Department Store version of it looked like it had been created in five minutes with some glue and rose-colored toilet paper. It was a times like this that moms went heavy on the make-up and perfume. Not the kind of stuff that endeared them to their sons. 

The banquet hall was a typical variety of garish chandeliers, marbled carpet, and white cloth-covered round tables spewed out in a generous room. It included rectangular tables in the front for dignitaries and a hundred cheap plastic trophies on another group of tables. The guys couldn’t keep their eyes from the plastic golden prizes, but we were later disappointed to find that they had “participant” engraved on them. A podium stood front and center.

It turned out that night that 8^th Graders were required to sit with their parents, but several of the cool guys had managed to come by themselves. So, tables were a mix of parents and their kids with a few lucky stragglers. The usual banquet food flowed forth as the speakers came up to the podium and talked briefly about the positive influence of athletics. I remember a bad joke about a swearing priest who was out playing golf with a Rabbi and a Protestant Minister. And then the trophies were handed out with great speed as the night was coming to an end. 

I was feeling embarrassed and I expect many others were feeling the same way as their parents were sharing stories with a few beers for lubrication. The kids had maneuvered to what became all-kid tables and were shooting the BS. The ever-dapper Dennis Costello was talking about girls and holding court. He sat back in his seat sporting a suit that was altered to fit his thin physique. Costello suddenly paused and asked if any of us had seen one of the moms, Mrs. McQueen that night. Most said no, and suddenly Dennis stuck his pointer finger out in the direction of the ladies’ room. There was Mrs. McQueen prancing across the way with a short mini skirt, a low-cut blouse, high heels, and a bleached blond beehive. 

With a collective sigh, we all looked at each other a little less embarrassed about our own moms. 

Copyright 2017, Sporting Chance Press

Lawrence Norris is the author of The Brown and White, a fictionalized memoir of Chicago Catholic high school days that takes place during the late 1960s.