My Mother Made Me Laugh

Saying that someone was funny is no good; you’ve got to give examples. The problem with my mother’s examples is they were only funny to me and a few other disordered minds. However, these are supposed my memoirs, so I owe it to her offspring to give it a shot. Ma never made me fall over laughing until I was in high school. Before that, if I’d laughed out loud at her, someone would have hit me. Actually, what would have happened was she would give me a mighty scolding, tell me if she set a hand on me she wouldn’t be able to control herself, so I should wait until my father got home. Then she would tell him to hit me. It wasn’t really that bad. I think it happened maybe once, but I learned my lesson. Don’t frighten, annoy, embarrass, or laugh at my mother. She was probably a little sensitive about being laughed at because my father and sister made it clear they thought she was stupid. She wasn’t stupid. She was Polish. And Jewish. So she talked with her hands. My father and sister could speak with sophistication on any subject. Ma, on the other hand, lost her English in the face of opposition, and resorted to a polyglot of Yiddish, “Uh, you know,” and hand waving, thereby utterly losing all credibility. A former boss of mine once wanted to find something critical to say about me so he told me I walked too slowly. This meant I wasn’t good at taking care of details. When I replied, “If you think I’m not good at taking care of details, why do you keep me in charge of managing our trade shows? Why don’t you remove me and assign someone who can do a better job?” He changed the subject and left the room. I bring this up because I think that’s the kind of life my mother led. She was expected to attend to all the details, which she did, while at the same time being told she was too ignorant to join in on the conversation. In fairness to my father and sister, in later years they realized the error of their ways and tried to make up for their former unkind behavior. However, I think it was something they did out of a sense of fair play, not because they thought she was a fun person to have at a party. It wasn’t until I was close to being grownup that I saw her for what she really was: the life of the party. I’ll tell you quietly funny stories later, but now I want to share two belly laughs. We used to take the bus to downtown Los Angeles to do all our shopping at nifty department stores where all the merchandise was out on display for everyone to touch. One of her favorite things to do was try on hats and make me laugh. She would sit at a vanity table with a big mirror and try on hat after hat. These were the days when every woman left home wearing a hat, so the selection was sizable. All of you, even the male readers, know that how you place a hat is a critical decision. If you’re trying on a Fedora, you can either look like Fred Astaire or one of the Three Stooges, depending upon how you set the thing onto your head. Imagine the range of angles available for ladies hats! The proper tilt could turn you into a proper princess. Ma opted for the Three Stooges approach. Staring deadpan into the mirror, she would plop each hat straight down, like an upside down milk pail. Then she’d stare into the mirror with a vapid expression that dared anyone to mock her. After a moment of reflection, she’d extend her hand out for the next hat, which I would remove from its pretty display stand and give her to plop on her head. I could hold it together for two, maybe three hats before I’d start having a fit of the giggles. Four of five hats into it, and I’d be hanging on the hat tree, howling with laughter. Other hat shoppers would start looking uncomfortable and leave the area. Salesladies would give us dirty looks because we were scaring off real customers, but they didn’t dare say a word. You couldn’t in those days, if you were a saleslady. You’d get fired. I know this because I was soon a saleslady at the Broadway and I had to squeeze size 15-1/2 lades into size 12-1/2 dresses and tell them they looked really pretty or I’d get fired. It wasn’t until the entire department was emptied, every hat was tried on, and I was prostrate with hilarity, that she would decide she’d had enough fun for one day. She’d plop her own hat back on her head, collect her purse, and leave like Queen Victoria heading out for tea, with her attendant, me, trailing behind, wheezing and wiping tears off my face. I got in trouble for laughing at her during another downtown event. I couldn’t help it. If you saw what I saw, you too would be leaning onto the brick facade of the closest building, trying to not fall down kicking your heels in hysterics. That is you would if you had a horrible sense of humor. You see, in those days we had elastic that didn’t work. Oh, it worked for a little while, but pretty soon the elastic waistbands on petticoats and unmentionables would stretch out and your five-layer net crinoline would be down around your ankles somewhere between algebra class and gym. Spare string was a necessity in every pocket to help tie things back in place. Yes, it was embarrassing. It was mortifying. I should have been more sympathetic when my mother’s drawers stared to fall off on Hill Street, half way between Fifth and Sixth. At first she started walking close the buildings, clutching the sides of her dress to her body. That was my clue as to what was happening. I stayed behind to watch. Now that I think of it, I should have attached myself to her side long enough to get her inside a store that had a lady’s room. That’s what she wanted me to do; she may have even hissed at me to help her, but no, I lacked the milk of human kindness. (I’d like to think that today I would rush to someone’s rescue, but on that day I was too busy enjoying the show and trying to not fall down.) She had a decision to make. Stay where she was until nightfall when no one could see her and the buses had stopped running, or brazen her way forward. Since I was of no use, she opted for the Queen Victoria model. She walked on, head held high, until her panties were around her ankle, stepped out of them, picked them up, shoved them into her purse, and went on as if nothing had happened. The people around her were too polite, and probably too familiar with the elastic failure syndrome to make it clear they’d seen her step out of her undies. She might have gotten away with it altogether if I hadn’t still been bent in half, leaning on the nearest wall, sobbing with laughter, causing notice among the passersby. She was very, very happy when she made me laugh at her hats. Underpants, not so much.