THE GRAPES OF WRATH (AND I DON’T MEAN WINE.)

Growing up in my family under the loving care of my mother and father was a dynamic structure that I lived under. This structure was by design made to foster my total obedience and understanding that I would stay in line or else.

 There was never a way to avoid it, God knows, I tried many times! Mom’s toolbox to rearing me, in particular, was sparse, just one thing was employed, her wooden spoon.

 Being a fan of history, I often recall Teddy Roosevelt and his policy of: “Speak softly and carry a big stick!” Mom’s was somewhat like Teddy’s: “Yell once (OR MAYBE NOT) and wave the wooden spoon.” She was a master of wooden spoon diplomacy, She could throw it at 10 yards, have it curve around a wall and out of the blue land on my head. I suspect she had an implant of a honing device to my head and the bowl of the wooden spoon!

  

There was a psychological component to Mom's methods, obey or deal with the consequences based on my behavior. Whatever I did intentionally wrong would be based on my decision or forethought and was subject to what loomed in perhaps a very limited future. To this day, whenever I am tempted, I see her face in front of me.

 "WAIT ‘til your Father gets home!" This was to say that there is always a two-part plan to keep me in line: 1) The wooden spoon, 2) Dad. When Mom advised Dad: "Do you know what YOUR son did today?" Dad would listen and maybe shake his head, cross his eyes and look at me.

 At the tender age of 5 or 6, I was known as a ‘rip'. What's a rip I don't know, but I was one.

 In her psychological war using words only, she often used: "WAIT, Just Wait to you have children like yourself" or "Someday, I HOPE you have children just like yourself!"

a rather mean thing to wish on me.

"The way you make your bed is how you will sleep in it!" This statement was made to confuse me I had NO idea what she was talking about! "WHAT YOU DO TO ME, I HOPE YOUR CHILDREN DO TO YOU, NO, TWICE THEY SHOULD DO IT!"

 Most of the trouble I got into was simple things like teasing my younger sister who was always on the verge of "Poor me Mamma"! A situation might materialize like this:

 "Ma! He's looking at me! He’s sticking his tongue at me!"

 "JOSEPH, stop looking at your sister!"

 "Ma! He's still looking at me!"

 "Then don't look back!"

 Guilt was an effective tool to use on me, as often Mom would yell, ‘STOP, YOU ARE GOING TO MAKE ME BUST!" I, of course, would stand back in fear of the explosion. Her usual declaration before corporal punishment as she reached for the wooden spoon was: "OK, I've had it UP TO HERE!" This was the trigger for lightning-fast foot movement!

 Mom was very skillful as a negotiator.

"Ma, can I have a bike?"

 "No."

 "Why not?"

 "Because I said so!"

 But Gerry's father got him a bike."

 "Good! Go ask Gerry's father for one."

 Every morning before school she would hand me my lunch in a lunch box with Roy Rodgers and Dale Evans on it. (I was in love with Dale and wished the bad guys would finally get Roy so I could make my move.) As the lunch goods were transferred to my possession it came with a stern warning with her index finger pointing straight at me: “If I find out that the teacher had to discipline you, when you come home you will get the rest!”

 There could be more!!!

For years under I grew taller than Mom I thought she looked liked an index finger!

 Ah! ‘The house of discipline’ designed with me in mind.

 I love my mother, without that love I could have turned out worse, thanks, Ma.

My mother was a diplomat, God rest her soul. She could negotiate with her children in simple terms, imposing simple solutions for our dislike of whatever she needed from us.

 I was her biggest difficulty when it came to negotiations, having to say it once and then look like she meant it. The instigation of hi-jinks against a sister, the retribution for acts of ratting me out and all other acts considered high crimes and misdemeanors by me were all met swiftly with reprisals, sometimes the wooden spoon hurt more than usual since it was just used for stirring the pasta in the hot water!

 There could be more!!!

 Mom had a special place in her heart for me. Actually, she had two special places, one being her heart as her child (however unbearable that might have been) and one in the corner where I spent most of my time.

 Her teaching tool was her wooden spoon and being Italian it was a utilitarian bonanza, ‘cook’ and ‘discipline’, how great was that?

 I swear she had a strike counter each time it was applied to my head. After so many strikes she would replace it. We weren’t rich, Mom had no special jewelry until later years, but she did have that one prized possession, her wooden spoon. As I would walk into the house and announce: “MOM, IM HOME!” she would wave it as an acknowledgment of my greeting and subtle meaning: ‘don’t destroy my mood.

 I, on the other hand, knew that I had to stay outside of her arm range. Often the times we would race around the dining room table, me running and waiting for the first whack and her with her ever menacing spoon looming mere inches from my cranial cavity, empty as it was. If I felt particularly robust that day and caught Mom off her game, I would take pity and we would stop, sit on the chairs and when she was catching her breath I would ask, ”You ready again, Mom?” Somehow I like to think I was being considerate. She reached the age or retirement once I married, where she gave me the spoon and I painted it gold and she named it: “GENTLE PERSUASION”