What I Learned From my Mom

My mother recently passed away. Her funeral was yesterday and the numbness has descended upon me. I hate to be Captain Obvious but losing a parent is a terrible thing. I lost my father three years ago and now my mother. I think that’s all of my parents but you never know who may show up. Life is strange.

My mom was a wonderful woman. At her funeral, a lot of people came up to me to tell me how much they loved her, how nice she was, and how she was a such a warm and welcoming woman. (She also taught me alliteration).

I’ve spent the past few days thinking about my mom, all she did for me, and what she taught me.

Open Your House and Heart

This is one of the top things she taught me. The door to our house was always open to new and old friends. It didn’t matter who you were. You were always welcome.

There is no better example of this than her love for our honorary sibling Harold Driver. Today Harold is a 6’8″ black man. Back in the late ’60s he was a 6’8″ black man. In fact, he was born a 6’8″ black man. My brother and Harold met in 1967 and quickly became best friends. Their best friendship continues today.

My brother on the left, Harold on the right. 1973.

In 1967 race riots were an everyday occurrence. In July, 1967 alone there were roughly 15 major race riots in the United States. My mother hated that the riots happened. She didn’t see race. She saw people.

Harold immediately became her third son. In hindsight I’m pretty sure she loved him the most. She didn’t think twice about his skin color. It never occurred to her. She didn’t care. Harold was my brother’s best friend and one of the nicest guys in the world and that’s what she cared about.

My mother gave Harold the nickname Howie. She said Howie was short for Harold. Never mind that a) it’s not, and b) it’s not any shorter syllable wise. That’s what she called him and Harold loved it.

One night Harold was over for dinner. With him was another one of our good friends, David Carpenter. It was the first time David was in our house. We were having BBQ chicken that night. We all picked up the chicken and started eating. We looked at David and he was cutting the chicken with a knife and fork.

Harold said, “Cola, (David’s nickname was Cola, which wasn’t short for David but my mother didn’t give him that nickname), what are you doing with that knife and fork? You’re at the Brown’s house.”

My brother said, “Is this the first time you’ve been in a white person’s house?”

David said, “Yes.” And he wasn’t kidding.

Mom said, “Put the knife and fork down, David. It’s easier to eat the chicken with your hands.”

Cola smiled that amazing smile he had, put down the knife and fork and picked up the chicken with his hands.

You were always welcome at our house. And our house was your home.

I try to live up to my mom’s example. I don’t care about race, nationality, sexual preference, or anything else used to classify people.

You’re always welcome at my house.

Thanks mom.