The Legend of Sona

It's been almost 3 months since my mom died.

…I say "died" because I hate the term "passed away".

I hate anything that softens or sugar coats difficult situations or experiences.

This has been hard enough to deal with as it is…and those that are close to me know that I'm not dealing with this all that well in the first place…I don't need delicate phrases or cushioned observations. 

"Passed away" sounds like there's a possibly she might be back. 

"Died" is about as final a sounding word as we have. 

So when people ask, I say, "she died". Because that's what happened. 

So anyway, it's been almost 3 months. And in that time I've had a lot of time to reflect. Not just on my mom's life. But on my life and life in general. 

I've had time to talk to people. Friends. Family. My mom's friends and co-workers. People I knew, people I kind of knew and people I only heard about from her. 

And not just make idle conversation.

But really talk to them. 

Get to know their story and the person my mom was to them specifically. 

You may not realize this, but you as an individual, are perceived differently by different people. You stay the same internally, but externally your identity changes from person to person, and you don't even know it's happening. It's really amazing when you think about it.

Kind of like the way a work of art is interpreted by different people.

Same painting, just different emotional responses.

I have a very specific characterization of who my mother was.

It's clear-cut and exact. And when someone comes along that challenges my personal definition, be that good or bad, I naturally get defensive. 

Because it goes against the woman that I knew. 

But everyone has a different description because people perceive things differently. 

However, there are of course, things that are universally seen within a person. Certain character traits, that everyone, regardless of relationship, can see and agree on. With my mom, it was the fact that not only was she a tender and caring woman, who was well loved by all... but that she was a highly skilled professional bullshit artist. 

I say that with the utmost reverence and respect and I finally, after all these years, learned where I got it from. 

My father is a pretty straight-forward guy. He's kind of outgoing and somewhat personable. He has a great sense of humor, but it's dry and sarcastic.

My mother, on the other hand, was a genius when it came to tomfoolery and mischief. It was an art form. She would weave these intricate webs of bullshit that sparkled and glistened. You couldn't help but be drawn to it...enticed by it and then ensnared within it. The best part, you had no idea you were even caught. She would sit there and snicker, while you were stuck, taking in all the shiny goodness of her tall tales. 

Since I was five years old, my mother told people I was "peppery".

She would tell every babysitter I ever had, "Watch out for Mikey, he's peppery". 

But after talking to my mom's friends, I can see that it's something of a hereditary trait.

Let me just stress that what I'm talking about here are not lies. 

My mother didn't lie. She hated lies and hated liars.

In fact, she made it a point to instill in both my brother and I the ability to face, accept and tell the truth, no matter how tough it might be (which is probably why I hate the term "passed away) and only lie when it comes to filling out a job application or doing your taxes. 

But don't get me wrong…I'm a word class liar. 

Just ask any of my friends. 

They've all seen me lie my way out of impossible situations without flinching.

I'm not a hypocrite. I fully admit that I'm a liar.

But I'm not my mother. 

My mother did not lie.

...she embellished....exaggerated....she festooned the truth with accessories.

Much the same way women use makeup.

Are they lying about their appearance?

No. They are just garnishing it.

Let's just say there was a lot of parsley on the plate of my mom's stories.

But, in all fairness to her, at the end of whatever sordid tale she was telling, she would let her victim off the hook with her famous sly smile and a "just kidding" nod.

If the story was a hoax, you knew before you left the room.

I guess to her it was the thrill of the hunt.

She usually had a pretty strict "catch and release" program….but not always.

Not when it came to Sona.

Sona was and still is, a very dear and close friend of the family.

That's the best way I can describe him. 

He loved my mother and was always protective of my brother Chris and I.

I cannot think of a time when he was not in my life in one way or another. 

And to this day, there is nothing that he wouldn't do for us. 

He met my mom at an Arthur Murray meet-and-greet social shortly after she and my father separated. From what I understand, he was drawn to her because she seemed so timid and shy…two adjectives that couldn't describe her any less… They hit it off and that, as they say, is that. 

It was the start of a friendship that would last the rest of her life.

Sona (not his real name – that's just what we call him) was born in Turkey and moved here when he was in his 20's. He achieved a certain level of fame, both in Turkey and England as a professional soccer player. 

In fact, it was because of him that I started playing soccer when I was a kid.

When he moved to the United States, he used some of the money he had earned as a professional athlete to invest in certain businesses. And that's basically what he does to this day. In the 40+ years that I've known him, he's owned everything from gas stations to convenience stores to construction companies to restaurants. The last one being Dervish on 47th Street in New York.

When we were growing up Sona would come by once or twice a month.

He always drove a brand new Cadillac and always carried a brief case filled with cash. If that sounds like it might be a little shady, well, you'd be right.

Best not to dwell on it.

That is the real story of Sona.

It may not be the full story, but it's as close to the truth as you're ever going to get. 

As I've been finding out these past few months, it is not the story most of my mom's friends have been getting. Apparently, for the sake of her own personal amusement, she crafted Sona into a somewhat mythical figure of modern folklore and has been, unbeknownst to me,  spinning wild yarns about him for years. 

Different people got different stories and so far, no two stories have been the same. Even people I thought must know the truth, apparently do not. 

And I have to tell you, I am loving every minute of this discovery. 

Let's start with the person closest to my mom, besides me and my brother, my Aunt Terry. My aunt and my mom spoke every single day. 

Every……single……day. 

Sometimes two or three times a day.

If my mom, God forbid, didn't answer her phone, my aunt would call me in a panic and tell me to rush over to my mom's house to make sure everything was ok.

That happened at least once a month. 

I have no idea what two people talk about every day.

I can go weeks at a time without giving my wife much more then a grunt.

But they were obviously very close and spoke to each other all the time. 

And she, my aunt, barely knew that this man's name was Sona.

When my mom talked about him, he always called him "Turkish".

So my aunt called him "Turkish". 

In fact, when my mom died (there's that word again) my aunt asked me if I had called Turkish. I had no idea who she was talking about or even what she was saying.

She repeated "Turkish, Turkish" and I actually thought she was having a stroke. 

Now, I know that's not a great example, but trust me, it gets better.

About 20 years ago, my mom worked with a woman named Denise.

Shortly after my mom's funeral, Denise and I were talking and the subject of Sona came up. She asked how he was doing and had I been out to his farm recently. 

"Farm"? I asked.

Denise told me all about the farm in upstate New York that Sona had purchased years back after he retired. According to my mom, he moved up there to raise pigmy llamas and sell pies.

I looked at Denise and wondered if she too, was having a stroke.

I told her that I had not been to the farm but that last I heard, he was doing well.

I didn't have the heart to tell her that Sona would rather die then retire, had never, in his entire life, ever, been on a farm and that I don't even think there is such a thing as pigmy llamas.

Next was another friend of the family and former neighbor named Eddie.

Eddie and his wife called me about two months ago just to see how we were all doing. He asked about my dad and my brother. Then he asked about Sal.

"Sal"?

Eddie, who knew my family for decades…Eddie, who watched my brother and I grow up…Eddie, whose own daughter used to babysit me…was not spared from my mom's shenanigans.

Turns out that to Eddie, Sona was Sal from Puerto Rico and he owned a deli and a fleet of ice cream trucks.

There is so much nonsense in that description that I don't even know where to begin.

I was starting to see a pattern so I decided to investigate further.

And what I found was not only astonishing, but downright hilarious.

This was monkey-business of the highest order.

My mom's friend Gail knew Sona as a fitness instructor.

Her co-worker Amy heard he owned a charter boat.

And another former co-worker said he used to sell oriental rugs out of a van.

But the best so far was from a woman named Rosemary that used to know my mom through the PTA. Apparently, years ago, she told this poor woman that Sona was my real father and that Robert (my dad) didn't know and could not ever know.

How this story managed to stay together for so long completely baffles me.

I guess Rosemary didn't bother ask my mom any follow up questions because this entire fable would have fallen apart with even the slightest amount of investigation. I actually felt bad telling her the truth. But when I did, she was surprisingly upbeat. "Just like your mother", she said. "Just like her".

And it was.

It was just like her.

I love you mom.

Thank you for being peppery.

Pixie

This next story is another one from my Aunt Terry.
And even though it's her story, I'm the one that's going to tell it.

See, the thing is, I debated whether or not to share it at all.
It's a funny story, but it contains some vulgar and (possibly) offensive language.
And in order to tell it correctly, I can't censor it or clean it up.
Otherwise, what's the point?
But I can add in some exposition, which is why I'm telling my Aunt's story from my point of view.

Ok...on to the story of Pixie.

Pixie was my Aunt's dog.
She was a small light brown wire-haired Cairn Terrier. And if I remember correctly, she lived to be about 700 years old.

Pixie was a good dog. Playful, friendly and energetic.
Pixie was also an amazingly proficient escape artist.
There were no fences, no cages, no chains and no walls that could contain this dog.
She could open doors, jump through screens and hotwire a car.
My aunt tried for years to contain this dog, but to no avail.
Pixie went where Pixie wanted to go and nothing short of Fort Knox type security was going to stop her. Eventually, my aunt just gave up trying and honestly, everyone was happier for it.

Everyone except Fran.

Fran was my aunt's next door neighbor and the biggest bitch in Rockland County.
That's not just an opinion or a broad generalization.
Fran was a county champ. 4 years running, gold medal-winning giant bitch triathlete.
The heights of her bitchery knew no bounds and has yet to meet it's equal.

Every morning my aunt would leave for work at around 7am.
By 7:03, Pixie had gotten out of the house.
It was like a little game they both played.
Before my aunt would leave, she would look over at Pixie, who would usually pretend to be asleep.
As soon as my aunt pulled out of the driveway, Pixie would get up, make sure the coast was clear, and leave for the day. Sometimes, it was a simple escape. She would jump up on the kitchen table, get a running start and leap through the window screen and out to freedom. Some days, it was more elaborate. She would run upstairs, open the second story window, hop down on to the air conditioning unit and then down onto the roof and then hood of my aunt's second car.

Nobody is sure exactly what Pixie's routine was. Mostly it was just wandering around the neighborhood or running around in the field behind my aunt's house. But occasionally there were reports that a dog matching Pixie's description was seen wearing a cowboy hat, driving a black Trans Am, heading eastbound and down. Of course, none of this was ever proven as Pixie always made it home before my aunt.

The one thing that's certain, is that every morning Pixie liked to leave a little doggie present on Fran's front lawn. And every evening, Fran would come banging on my aunt's door to complain.

One evening Fran's bitchiness went into overdrive.
She came over to my aunt's house and started banging on the doors and windows, screaming at the top of her lungs about Pixie. Let's just say, Fran made a fuss.
She said she had had enough and that if my aunt wasn't going to do anything about it, she would.

And she did.

The next day, after my aunt left for work, Fran grabbed Pixie and brought her down to a local vet and demanded that they put her to sleep immediately. The vet, sensing that something was obviously not kosher, asked Fran if the dog belonged to her. Fran said "No" that it was her neighbors dog and a nuisance. The vet told her that they can't put down someone else's dog. Nuisance or not. They suggested Fran leave and return the dog to my aunt.
Instead, Fran drove down to a local animal shelter, the Hi-Tor Animal Care Center, and threw Pixie over the 6 foot high, chain link fence that separated the main building from the yard.

When my aunt got home and saw Pixie was gone, she knew something bad had happened.
After all, it's not like Fran had kept her intentions a secret.

My aunt called my mom up in a panic and explained what happened.
And even though she lived 2 1/2 hours away, my mom grabbed my brother and I, jumped in the car and raced up there.

We all spent the rest of that evening and the next morning looking for Pixie.

Around two o'clock in the afternoon the following day, my aunt had us swing by Hi-Tor. She thought that maybe there was a slight chance someone had seen Pixie and dropped her off there.
And no sooner did we pull into the parking lot than Pixie came running out from under the fence.
No worse for wear. In fact, she didn't seem to notice or care that something had been amiss.

As we were driving back to my aunts house, we spotted Fran standing in her driveway.

We all got out of the car and headed right for her...my aunt and my cousin David, yelling and screaming the entire way. Fran gave as good as she got and within seconds it was pandemonium.
Grunting. Snorting. Cursing. Fists clenching. Arms waiving. It was a slobberknocker.
We were one body slam away from it being an over-the-top 10 man battle royal.

Up until this point, my mom, who usually avoided confrontation when she could help it, had just been standing quietly in the back, Watching this free-for-all unfold. But I guess she had heard enough because she pushed her way through myself, my aunt and my cousin, knocking him over in the process - and right up into Fran's face and said "You fucking bitch! We're calling the cops. You're going to prison. And I hope you enjoy getting fucked in the ass!"

And then everything went quiet.

We all just stood there in silence.
Just kind of looking at one another.

Astonished.

With out mouths agape.
If this was a movie, you would have heard a needle scratching off of a record.


Let me just say, if you've never heard your mother threaten someone with forcible sodomy, I assure you, it's eye opening to say the least.

Doubly so, when we're talking about my mom.

My mother could curse a blue streak when she wanted to, but she was by no means a boorish or crude woman. In fact, it was quite the opposite. She was always polite and always gentle. Never vulgar.

But to see her stand up in front of someone like that, without flinching, without a hint of fear and talk about prison rape, well, it was pretty damn spectacular. I guess she just thought this situation warranted a little something extra. So she dropped the kid gloves, put on the pimp hand and went straight up gangsta.

In the blink of an eye, this:

became this:

And the rest of us just looked like this:

The battle with Fran pretty much came to a screeching halt after that.
We all backed away slowly from Carol - who just stood there with her finger planted firmly in Fran's face. Even Fran was silent. Her eyes dropped down to her shoes and she eventually disappeared into her house.

The best part, was that after all this, Pixie continued escaping from the house and continued making daily deposits on Fran's lawn.
But oddly enough, we never heard another complaint from her again.