My Mom is the Bomb.

My mother was married by age 16 and had two children by age 18. While there are many mind-blowing things I cannot talk about without hurting someone’s feelings, let me share with you what I can talk about.

My mother’s own mother, Louise (whom we referred to as “Mama Lou”), was not kind to my mother. Mama Lou was the only grandparent I remember, and I believe she died when I was 8 or 9. I don’t know much about my mother’s father, but I know she has spoken of him fondly.

I have written several songs about my father. My father has influenced me in many ways, but more so out of “what not to do” rather than what I should do. My father was very small-minded, but that come from his own disruptive and painful upbringing. I can forgive him now for the violence and deep mental abuse he inflicted on my siblings and mother, but only because I know that he himself was sick and hurting in many ways. Having said that, when my father wasn’t on the road driving for Yellow Freight or drinking almost nightly at the “corner store” in Galveston, and when he was actually sober, he was a fascinating man—quite the character, sharp witted and funny as hell. Though I know he was not capable of being a successful father due to his own internal conflict and heavy drinking, I love him for his basic essence—the man he started out as. Of course, sadly, I did not realize nor show my love while he was alive. That is something I will live with forever.

So, how did my mother, who suffered all types of indignities, abuses, minimal education and back-stabbing for decades and decades, turn out to be the amazing rose that she is? If I could tell you everything I would, but suffice it to say that it is nothing short of divine intervention that she turned out as no-nonsense, smart, trusting, funny and wise as she did. And at age 76, she gets more so every year. My mantra is something she often says, “If you don’t laugh about it, you’ll probably cry about it.” From this comes my ability to find humor in most things, appropriate or not. Gift 1 of many: The coping mechanism.

My mother is an extremely talented, self-taught artist, who won one of those “Draw Bucky” contests you used to see on the back pages of magazines way back in the day. She did not accept the scholarship, though, and chose to marry, possibly to get away from her own home life. Out of the frying pan and into the fire maybe, but I think the fire was a little easier for her to manage than the frying pan.

She was a successful artist at a once-popular department store in Galveston, Eiband’s, and worked her way up the ladder. She taught some of my other siblings to draw or sketch and my oldest brother was even a cartoonist for a while. One of my sisters continued art into the digital age, but for my mother, retirement came for her about the time everything went to photo, much less digital.

When my mom was married to my father, we lived all over the place. We lived in a warehouse at a huge gallery that my father managed outside Dallas. To the best of my memory, all 8 of us lived in one small room, as far as sleeping quarters. But during the day, we had the run of the warehouse while my father worked, and my mother would practice Für Elise on the piano she loved so much. My mom found some peace in practicing that song, probably like the memories I feel when I hear it.

The main place of residence I recall living at with my parents when they were married was the motel on the seawall in Galveston, the S.S. Galveston. I believe it was finally torn down, but the S.S. Galveston was shaped like a ship. We had two rooms that connected and a whole bunch of us lived there. There were loud, crazy fights when my dad would scream at my mom. There are so many memories to tell about, but it would turn this post into a memoir.

While I have some memories I’d rather forget from living at the S.S. Galveston, there is one that clearly sticks with me today. While my father was very prejudiced, regularly using the N word (and much worse), it was my mother who I took after when it came to skin color. There was a maid at the S.S. Galveston named Florence. She was, back then, referred to as negro, black or colored. My mother struck up a friendship with Florence. She would have long chats with Florence. My own mother, stuck living in a motel with who knows how many kids and an abusive husband and possibly living off foodstamps, felt compassion for Florence. She would often give Florence hand-me-downs, some of which probably started out as hand-me-downs. I recall once my mother giving Florence a bag of shoes that my mother no longer wore. After we moved out of the motel, my mother stayed in touch with Florence as much as possible, until they lost touch. Florence was gentle, kind, sweet, and my mother felt some common theme between them.

After one of numerous violent incidences involving my mother and my dad, she offered him $100 and the keys to the car if he would leave. He left. At times, my mother has expressed anguish over that decision, because in spite of everything, she loved my dad. It was, however, the only way to stop the violence. She has told me that when he started hitting the kids was when she finally realized it had to stop. Actually, I think he was not only mentally and physically abusive for a while before she realized it, but once she did, she got him out of the picture.

Some of my siblings carry anger (misplaced or not) over my mother’s decision. I, for one, think that sometimes divorce is a solution.

My mother has helped every single one of her children in countless ways. She sometimes gets stabbed in the back, but forgives, because we are her children. Mostly, we appreciate and adore her.

When I lived in NYC, I called her crying because I was lonely and scared. I had been there 3 years and things had fallen apart for me. I think she was on a plane the next day if not within two days, and we drove back to Texas together. She has continued to help me out in numerous ways into my forties. I talk to her often. She gives sage advice, and we often laugh hysterically at things others would dare laugh at—especially with their mom.

Some of us are able to pay her back in ways that help more than others, some continue to take from her, and some give what they can. I can only give words.

I don’t know what makes a woman have such depth of character when no one gave her the tools or the guidance to have it. Or to have such an ability to get past some incredibly hard times and go on with a smile the next day, but I am in awe of her every single day. She always finds the positive in a negative situation, is a firecracker, and cusses like any good sailor. If this woman were not my mom, and I could choose anyone in the world for a mother, it would be her.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. I love you so much.