AUNT MARY LOU

   If you name your child Mary Lou, you have pretty much mapped out what type of person you will get.  A Mary Lou will be a bit of a hell raiser, quick with a quip, speak her mind and never be middle of the road (the same can be said for a Vinny, Lou, Patti spelled with an I and Wanda).

   I have an Aunt Mary Lou.  She is my mom’s older sister and has been part of my life since I can remember.  She is in Applewood Nursing Center now, and struggling.  It is tough for her and tough for everyone who cares for her, especially my Mom.  Mary Lou is the last living member of my Mom’s family growing up, her parents and twin brother having died some time ago.  

   Aunt Mary Lou’s current difficulties belie the life she lead.  Her legend has come to me through both direct observations and story.  These are some of the stories that go into making a Mary Lou:

*As a young adult, Mary Lou would ride the train from Detroit to Chicago just to party with the World War II troops going between those two cities.  To my knowledge, she did not have any other destination other than fun.  Destination reached.

 *In my earliest memories of Aunt Mary Lou, she is wearing loud print dresses and oversized earrings and necklaces, sporting what she always termed her “Italian hair-do” (long I sound on Italian, if you please).  I can see her at family Christmas parties dancing into the kitchen using an empty holiday plate in one hand as a prop.

*When the after affects of surgery left Mary Lou with a severely enlarged arm, she did not hide it in embarrassment or get pissed if anyone noticed.  Instead she laughingly referred to this enlargement as her “bionic arm”  and hinted at its possible use as a weapon.

*Church at St. Francis Xavier in Ecorse was a big part of Mary Lou’s life.  Though she could not drive ( thinking back, I never recall her driving and am not sure if she ever had a license), Mary Lou made it to church most Sundays with rides from my Mom or my sister Chris.  On one particular Sunday, Chris picked her up and was stunned to see that Aunt Mary Lou’s carefully penciled in eyebrows were colored a shocking bright blue.  Everyone was careful not to mention this change, though my brother Tony did secretly dub her “Aunt Mary Blue.”

*Aunt Mary Lou had a difficult time in church using her inside voice.  Not a big deal unless she was commenting on something that did not suit her fancy.  When a cell phone went off during mass, the only sound louder than the ringtone was Mary Lou’s admonishment that, “That is the rudest thing I ever heard.”  When a churchgoer showed up in a tank top, Mary Lou loudly observed, “It looks like she is going to a weenie roast.”

*Upon seeing Aunt Mary Lou at a family function, my daughter Rachel asked, “How are you doing Aunt Mary Lou ?”  Her reply, “Everyone I can sweetie, and the good ones twice.”  Rachel has never forgotten this.

   This is no eulogy, Mary Lou is alive and doing the best she can with the help of family and dedicated health care workers.  The reason I write this somewhat rambling list of memories is threefold:

1. Lesson for all you youngsters:  When you see an old timer with baggy eyes, loose neck skin and hair sprouting from their ears, chances are the person inside that wrinkled suit of skin has a past that could make your toes curl.  Be careful what you say to that person, they may have enough vitality and memory left for one last ass kicking.

2. If you meet a person named Mary Lou (or Vinny, Lou, Patti with an I or Wanda), stick close.  You’ll probably be in for a wild ride.

3. If you find the face looking back at you in the morning mirror aging, don’t despair.  You still have a reflection, after all.  And, no matter what name you were given at birth, if you live your life like a Mary Lou, chances are the people you bump into along the way will be better for the bumping.  There will always be plenty of routine and mundane, and not enough Mary Lou.

Cheers! Jim

SNOW GO

   It was just our bad luck that Christmas and New Years Eve fell on consecutive Fridays  and we had to waste two precious Bug Juice nights hanging with friends and family doing that wholesome holiday thing.  A loving family reminiscing about Christmas past and eating home baked goodies or pathetic singles dancing badly to classic rock while over-indulging in expensive booze.  A genuine puzzler.

   After two G rated Fridays, Little Brother and I badly needed to get our drink on, more specifically get our drink on at Edison’s Bar in Birmingham.  We like this joint a lot (it’s an older crowd, dark as hell, suitably desperate) and find that it is worth the ride.  

   But not worth the ride in a driving snowstorm, the only driving snowstorm in the past month.  Look, we were going to go out, we’ve been out in worse ( I almost killed us swerving around a rogue possum a few years back during a blinding snowstorm in Melvindale).  It’s just that Edison’s was out and we wanted Edison’s.  

   I was pissed, but Tony was pisseder.  His time at home, between returning from work and being picked up for the evening’s revelry went something like this:

5 p.m.:  Walk in the door cursing.

5:15 p.m.:  Walk into the bathroom to take a shower streaming profanity.

5:30 p.m.:  Go into kitchen, open pizza box, select two pieces of pizza by stabbing them through the heart with a kitchen knife (“I want this piece, and this piece”), put on a plate and retire to the dining room questioning the presence of God.

6 p.m.:  Head upstairs to take a pre-booze nap mumbling  ( I can’t confirm that the profanity continued through the nap, but I can’t say it didn’t).

   It was no picnic at my house either, though I did manage to stop just short of selecting my pizza slices with a shiv.  I only complained about everything until my wife and son were sick of seeing/hearing me.  Next time I’m going to fall to the ground and kick my feet up and down and see how that works.  What a dick! 

   In spite of the falling snow and slick conditions, we didn’t fully give up on trekking to Edison’s until we saw a couple of cars plow into the center wall of the Southfield Expressway.  At that point, Downriver, and the shot swilling, foul mouthed, big gutted gargoyles that populate the area’s bars became reality.  There would be guys too.

   All three of the bars we hit are reviewed in greater detail somewhere on the vast wasteland that is our blog, but a quick peek at the three:

Cecil’s Da Bar:  If “Da” is in the title of the bar, you pretty much know what’s inside.  Plus size gals in Wings jerseys, guys with tattoos on their necks cursing the hockey game on TV, barmaids not working too hard, and two old farts getting lubricated at the bar for $3 a round.  Our Kid and I left after a couple of beers.  Sliding into a retaining wall seemed preferable to more of this shithole.

Marlowe’s Chill and Grill Sport’s Bar:  A more civilized crowd, the chance of getting into a fight cut by fifty percent.  Tony and I grabbed a good spot at the bar and settled down for the serious boozing portion of the evening.  The service is great, easy to score beers though double the cost of Da Dump.  We hung out, made a zillion side bets at Keno, watched the Wings win in a shootout, all in all a good time.

The Glass Mug:  This hole in the strip mall wall has saved our bacon on many a Friday, but has ben failing as of late.  It is now officially dead.  Not many patrons, and those in attendance this snowy Friday needed a good delousing.  Anthony and I amused ourselves playing pool.  When I won the first game, Tony bellowed, “That’s eleven in a row.”  I did have a good streak going, but have not played eleven games of pool in the last twenty years.  He cooled off a bit after beating me the last two games (I let him win to keep peace in the family).

   At any rate, we close this entry with another edition of Poetry Korner.  This week’s theme is winter and all its horrors.

Neither rain nor sleet nor snow,

Will stop the boys from giving it a go, 

Of the weather we have no fear, 

Not with music, dancing, keno, and beer, 

We will put the truck on autopilot, 

Believe me these lads ain't no shrinking violet, 

Out on a Friday when the degree is one, 

Shivering, shaking still up for fun, 

Old man winter your hurt may linger,

Our only response is our middle finger.

Anthony

“Missing Edison’s on a Snowy Evening” (apologies to Robert Frost)

What bar to visit, I think I know

It sits in Oakland County though

M-39, there’s no safety there

Blizzard Friday is just not fair

Our little truck must think it queer

To stay downriver drinking beer

Between Oakland and Wayne County line

Class distinctions, they’re not so fine

In the snow our truck did shake

To travel far a big mistake

The wretched sound from Da Bar

The yell of skids in rusted cars

Edison’s is lovely, dark, deep

But Winter’s wrath, from it’s doors did keep

We drank Downriver and now we sleep

We drank Downriver and now we sleep

Jim

Cheers!