Querida Abby:
DEAR ABBY: Every year on Mother's Day, you feature letters about cake-baking, hugs-and-kisses mothers. The stories are heartwarming, but all of the women depicted seem to have been cut from the same schmaltzy cookie cutter.
My mom, Kitty Myrtle White, was a beautiful, 5-foot-tall, heck-raising Texas lady who could drink any strong man under the table and out-cuss any drunken sailor. A single mom in the '40s, when there was no welfare, Mom worked 12-hour days to support her three children. Even though her job required that she carry large sums of cash to the bank every day (we lived in a tough part of town), Mom never worried about being robbed. On top of being a tough little broad, she also carried a snub-nosed .38 caliber revolver in her purse and was a crack shot. Twice, would-be assailants were sent on their way with bleeding scalps after Mom "parted their hair" with an accurately swung R.C. Cola bottle. Mom was scared of nothing!
To relax in the evenings, Mom would entertain her beaus in our living room. All she ever needed was a table, a bottle of Four Roses whiskey, music from our radio and a man. Since she was one of Texas' greatest storytellers, what she really wanted from her "gentlemen" was an audience.
With great Southern charm, she would sit them down at the table with a drink and then tell them endless tales about the crazy people she'd known and her own "eccentric" family. When a hot tune would come onto the radio, she'd "boogie-woogie" with her guy while holding her cocktail in her hand. When the song ended, she'd let out a loud rebel yell, slug down her drink and slam the empty glass into the fireplace.
Because of her zany ways, some of her dates waited for the opportunity, then bolted out our side door. (Some were never heard from again.)
Mom was a genuine character and was much loved by her kids and just about everyone who knew her. So, Abby, this year, instead of printing one of those mushy mom stories, remember that not all good mothers are cut from that same pious piece of cloth.
KITTY’S KID
IN GLENDALE, ARIZ.
pdf
My mom, Kitty Myrtle White, was a beautiful, 5-foot-tall, heck-raising Texas lady who could drink any strong man under the table and out-cuss any drunken sailor. A single mom in the '40s, when there was no welfare, Mom worked 12-hour days to support her three children. Even though her job required that she carry large sums of cash to the bank every day (we lived in a tough part of town), Mom never worried about being robbed. On top of being a tough little broad, she also carried a snub-nosed .38 caliber revolver in her purse and was a crack shot. Twice, would-be assailants were sent on their way with bleeding scalps after Mom "parted their hair" with an accurately swung R.C. Cola bottle. Mom was scared of nothing!
To relax in the evenings, Mom would entertain her beaus in our living room. All she ever needed was a table, a bottle of Four Roses whiskey, music from our radio and a man. Since she was one of Texas' greatest storytellers, what she really wanted from her "gentlemen" was an audience.
With great Southern charm, she would sit them down at the table with a drink and then tell them endless tales about the crazy people she'd known and her own "eccentric" family. When a hot tune would come onto the radio, she'd "boogie-woogie" with her guy while holding her cocktail in her hand. When the song ended, she'd let out a loud rebel yell, slug down her drink and slam the empty glass into the fireplace.
Because of her zany ways, some of her dates waited for the opportunity, then bolted out our side door. (Some were never heard from again.)
Mom was a genuine character and was much loved by her kids and just about everyone who knew her. So, Abby, this year, instead of printing one of those mushy mom stories, remember that not all good mothers are cut from that same pious piece of cloth.
KITTY’S KID
IN GLENDALE, ARIZ.
entrada de QuiaSint a las
21:01
3 comentarios:
Querida Abby:
Cada año, el Día de la Madre usted publica cartas sobre madres que preparan pasteles y dan abrazos y besos. Las historias son tiernas y conmovedoras, pero todas las mujeres sobre las que se escribe parecen haber sido cortadas con el mismo molde.
Mi mamá, Kitty Myrtle White, era una hermosa dama tejana de cinco pies de estatura, una gran alborotadora que podía beber más que ningún hombre fuerte y decir más maldiciones que cualquier marinero borracho. Madre soltera a los cuarenta años, cuando no había ayudas para las solteras con hijos, trabajaba doce horas al día para mantener a sus tres niños. A pesar de que su trabajo le obligaba a transportar grandes sumas de dinero en metálico todos los días al banco (vivíamos en una parte problemática de la ciudad), mamá nunca tuvo miedo de que le robaran. Aunque era una pequeña y ruda mujer, siempre llevaba un revólver calibre 38 en su bolso, y era una gran tiradora. En dos ocasiones, unos aprendices de asaltantes tuvieron que venirse por donde vinieron, con la cabeza sangrando después de que mamá “les hiciera la raya del pelo” con una botella de R.C. Cola. ¡Mi mamá no le tenía miedo a nada!
Para pasar las tardes, mi madre entretenía a sus pretendientes en el saloncito de casa. Lo único que necesitaba era una mesa, una botella de whisky Four Roses, música en la radio y un hombre. Era una de las mejores narradoras de cuentos de Texas, y lo que ella en realidad quería de sus “caballeros” era una audiencia.
Con gran encanto sureño, los sentaba a la mesa con una bebida y luego les contaba relatos sin fin acerca de las personas alocadas que había conocido y las excentricidades de su propia familia .Cuando sonaba alguna canción de moda en la radio, mamá “bailaba” con su acompañante mientras sostenía su bebida en la mano. Cuando terminaba la canción, lanzaba un fuerte grito, se bebía el wisky de un trago y estrellaba el vaso, ya vació, sobre la chimenea.
Debido a sus arrebatos, algunos de los hombres que la frecuentaban sólo esperaban la oportunidad para salir corriendo por la puerta trasera. De algunos de ellos nunca se volvió a saber nada.
Mi madre era un personaje genuino y era muy querida por sus hijos y por casi todos los que la conocían. Así que, Abby, este año, en lugar de publicar una de esas historias de madres sentimentaloides, recuerde que no todas las buenas mamás están cortadas con la misma tijera.
KITTY’S KID
IN GLENDALE, ARIZ.
jajajajaaaaaa..... ¡brutal! ¿De dónde has sacado esta maravilla, Boloquerido??
Me la guardo.
Bessssssssos,
it ;-))
El texto, Fusa del alma, es una carta dirigida al consultorio de Abigail Van Buren, periodista como usted pero bastante más fea, en las páginas de The Galveston County Daily News. Si tiene usted a bien pinchar en el pdf que culmina el post podrá usted bajarse la página, y de paso aprenderá cómo no debe peinarse jamás en la vida. ¡Tejanas!
Siempre suyo:
Sirwood
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