One For Now, One For Later

One For Me….One For You

It was a typical day in Pittsburgh……In December…….Blistering snow storm, blowing the ‘pretty to the eye’ white stuff into your pie hole if you open your mouth at the wrong time, slick slushy roads from the morning sun creating sloooooshhh sounds as the ‘big man’ trucks would drive by on the busy “back way” to the bustling little town over the hill in “the rocks”…. and me…in town from ‘it never rains in southern California’ to teach an acting class to a sturdy group of kids who have waited months for my return.

“Oh shit.”

“How am I going to get downtown in this?”

My Momma snickers a chuckle…

“Patricia, it is always like this…..in December…..when you come home….every year…..and yet, you still schedule a class on December 20th in downtown (that’s because I have to finance the family holiday I think, thank God silently, in my head)…..you can’t keep doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result… that’s the definition of…”

“CRAZY” (I chime in)

“I KNOW I KNOW MOTHER…..BUT…..”(I zip shut the warmed pie hole lest it spew out chewed crust).

“Ahhhh…”(I sigh, resigned to the truth of it instead)

“I’ll drive you”…she says like the warm blanket that is not white in the winter.

“Thank you Momma.”

I am 21, and spend two months in the winter and two months in the summer and one month in the fall, at home, in Pittsburgh where I can recuperate from the insanity that is my whirlwind life in LA…not realizing at the time, that it was kinda the same here in the ‘burgh, but with a snowstorm instead of a whirlwind. At least here, I had my Momma.

And, yes, she still drives me around and drops me off at my classes and auditions and, and, and…as if I were still ten.

I relish this action. It is the thing that only she and I share. Together. A chance, over and over again with each turn of the wheel to heal my little girl, the one she didn’t have time for then.

We get dressed…..me in five minutes, my California hair still wet (which will gather ice balls on the long auburn curly strands by the time we get into the car). Cute, colorful red sequined swing skirt that I’ve had since high school. Black silk long johns underneath (the secret weapon to all cold weather cities). A plain black long sleeved t-shirt (a California staple). A fab pullover Christmas sweater, replete with hanging bells, bows, and Rudolph’s nose (it was my Grammas’, and it was ugly and fabulous before the ugly Christmas sweater was a thing). My wool socks (before I knew I was allergic to them) that cost more than my entire outfit (an investment my Gramma insisted I wouldn’t regret). And. my two buck Uggs……

OH. THESE. BOOTS.

Who would give these up? And why? (I can and will tell you…I’ve devoted a whole chapter to these life changers, altho’ an update…as I write this, almost twenty years after the discovery of the joy of walking in ‘another man’s shoes’ the sole/soul ripped right off of them after a particulary wet and windy beach excursion this morning. I am heart broken. Really. It’s like losing your virginity, and the man that caused it, all in one moment of extraction. Only in this case, my foot. Possibly from my mouth as well right now).

“At least it’s not your ass”, my Momma would say.

‘Beach Bum Tan’ suede outside, luxurious sheep skin fleece for warmth in, and on the sole, “three layers of cushioned foam that mold to the feet for all day support”. Utilitarian was the original intent of these Australian surfer’s specials in the 1960’s, a treasure I discovered at a California thrift store (surprisingly), and a staple in my wardrobe since then…even in the summer….even on the beach with a bathing suit….and especially during my chemo and radiation treatments (although those would garner the sequin Ugg specials, the pleasure of which, now that they are a fashion statement, cost me a coupla zeros after the two, and worth every penny…I even wore them under my gown to the Emmys).

My momma, on the other hand spent a whole half hour. Perfectly done from head to toe. Short auburn hair with Farrah Fawcet wings, layered back with Aqua Net Hairspray. Sky Blue eyeshadow, only on the lids from Maybelline. The Great Lash Mascara we both loved, in black, housed in the pretty pink tube I still use today (when I wear makeup, which is not often). Peach Powder blush from Cover Girl, and Revlon Peach Pucker Matte for the lips over a layer of Vaseline for shine and moisture (the secret cure for much of what ails you).

Her long ‘good gold chain’ with the ruby cross I brought her, blessed from the Pope in Italy, a scapula of the blessed mother on the chain with it……for me, a reflection of my Momma…..blessed and true.

A cap sleeved, loose flowing flowered top, preferably in purple, that hits no lower than the bottom of the groin, because she is short, and doesn’t want to drown in it, or look frumpy. Her wedding bands which I bought for her from a thrift store in Santa Monica, when hers fell off and flushed down a toilet at a restaurant in same said locale.

Plain practical pants, with a stretch band so food and lots of running around isn't an issue. Thin white ankle socks folded down on the top, as even in the winter her feet were always hot. And finally, her footed staple, not the Uggs of mine, but perfectly white (she would clean them with dish liquid and toothpaste on an old toothbrush to maintain that fresh white aesthetic) Asics tennis shoes in eight and a half wide.

She grabs her plain black no name shoulder purse. The one with all of the pockets separate, so you can remember where everything is when you are in a hurry.

I grab my crossbody green sequined Christmas bag, my Langley high school waterproof duffle filled with scripts, a bag of presents from ‘overly logo-ed’ Warner Brothers chachkis for my students, and my Charlie's Angels lunch box.

I am ready to go.

If I were in California.

But, I’m not.

And I’m late.

I know, I know, like I always am when I come home. But in my defense, it is only 4am Cali time….still the hour I awake…my heart home time of 7.

Ugh.

I grab my green down filled hand me down down coat from my niece Jen, the warmest coat I have EVER owned (and Yes, I still have it), throw on a Steelers scarf, hat, gloves, step into two clear plastic garbage bags, secured at the calf with broccoli wads (thick gumbands, Pittsburghese for rubber bands that hold broccoli stocks together when you buy them at the Giant Eagle grocery store) to protect my Uggs from the slush, and my wool socks from soaking up water and becoming water weights……

And, btw, Pittsburghese is the language of the Pittsburgher. Residents of Pittsburgh who have a certain dialect that consists of LOUD, MEZZO PITCHED CONVERSATION THAT MAKES EVERYTHING SOUND LIKE THEY ARE ANGRY…sprinkled with words and phrases that belong only to the practical, plucky people who preside over the Pittsburgh way…..known as “Yinzers” by outsiders, because of the use of the word “yinz”, in place of the longer and more boring, “you all”. A much more efficient and salt of the earth term.

“Yinz ready”? I chide my two bucks for the inaugural initiation about to take place. I know they are, because they were ‘born ready’. I, on the other hand, not the virgin, still, experience it as if I were. As if somehow I forget.

Run out, defrost locks, turn on car, and the heater to warm the engine and the inside up, no auto then, scrape the windshields, brush off the newly acquired snow, run back up the steps into the front door, grab all of the bags from mother before i can enter because of the mess, run back down to the car to put the bags in the trunk…oh shoot the handle inside doesn't work, stop the car take the key from the ignition open the trunk put the bags in go back into and start up the car then run back into the house for ten minutes while it warms up.

Take all the outer gear off. Drink some water. Take inner layers down to pee.

ReDo it all.

Ten minutes is up.

I hand the keys to my Momma….hurry down the steps and around to the passenger side, careful of the busy-ness of the harried worker’s cars, even on a Saturday. Try to open the door that has refrozen shut…spit on it after swirling the flem around in my pie hole for a few minutes to warm it like my dad showed me…and BAM I’M IN A SOMEWHAT WARM CAR DESPITE THE BLIZZARD AROUND ME.

Mom.. strides down casually in her car coat, a light jacket that allows for movement when driving. A design the came about in the fifties when women would ‘run down to the supermarket’ with their newly acquired drivers license, but still, usually, in the king of the house’s car, to get something they forgot. They could do this in their nightgowns if they simply put a “car coat” over the scanty Fredericks of Hollywood special, along with a “hair hat” (much like the shower caps of today but make of silk instead of plastic so as not to stick to, or rip out any precious hairs on your head), to cover the pin curls they slept in. Not that I’ve ever SLEPT in PIN CURLS…OMG……one hundred to one hundred and fifty strands of semi wet hair…divided and separated with a fine tooth comb (ouch) and rolled round and round and round (with long hair there are more rounds) pulling tighter as you go up, up up until it is stuck to your scalp with a harsh shit brown metal bobby pin….straight pin edged, unlike the softer rounded edges of today’s pins. (ya wanna know why they are called ‘bobby pins’? “They are named after the asshole who created them” my Gramma would say….”A BALD MAN” she chided as she moved on to the next). The price we paid for beauty….my Gramma and I…not my Momma tho’….no fuss, no bs for her.

She strides down the steps in her practical black polyester car coat, a hand me down from her more financially fortunate best friend and partner in crime, Dee.

She is immune to the weather.

Used to it.

Thrives in it.

Like a Mama Bear in the North Pole.

She slides in….no need to adjust the seat. It is always set to MOM. This is not the man car, or a family station wagon. It is the perfectly practical, gently used, Honda Civic that I bought her with the check from my first gig on the soap opera “General Hospital.”

SHE LOVES THIS CAR. (and I can write it off on my taxes when I work in Pittsburgh, so it’s a WIN WIN).

If you are not familiar with the phrase, WIN WIN, my personal definition is: A situation where both people feel an equitable joy, without any consequences in regards to it’s price. (unlike the pin curls, where the painful price for beauty is excruciatingly high).

Oh how I like WIN WINS.

Momma drives “the front way” slosh sloshing on the wintered streets through our ‘charming when covered in snow’ neighborhood slum, down Carson street to my favorite local landmark…The Corliss Tunnel.

It was erected in 1914 as it says on the front arch….16 feet tall of big black coal stained blocks, laid by hand by those that came before my fathers, father. In the winter, long thick icicles hang down like on the castle in the Disney movie “Frozen” …. the song “Let it go” comes to mind (but I will not sing it aloud, lest God hears me) as we get close to being directly under the icicles….thirty to forty long daggers of ice that through the recently un-fogged sunroof, look like the witches warning to NOT ENTER HERE.

“Momma, stop.” I say as we hit the center point of the frozen castle tunnel.

“Patricia, there are a line of cars behind me, it’s rush hour”.

HAHAHAHAHA…….in Pittsburghese….that would be 3 cars max.

“Mum, (the phrase I use when I am annoyed with her), you can’t play that on me now. I live in LA with a couple of million cars honking up my ass on the 405 every damn day.”

“Patricia, I HAVE TO LIVE HERE and please don’t use that language and tone with me.”

She stops anyway, in the perfect spot, until the honker behind us ruins it.

She glances at me with “SEE” flaring from her ocean blue eye balls, set off by Maybelline. Well, she Let It Go without a word…but I never needed one to understand and connect to my Mother.

We drive through the hallowed tunnel…the horn blare echoing with the slush of harried car tires on the melting ice covered pavement. We are about to emerge, but ‘catch the light’ red as it only lets a few cars out of our tiny town at a time.

My Mother doesn't like getting stuck under the icicles.

“You remember what happened to your Uncle, don’t ya? We can’t afford a new windshield right now, let alone the bill for an eye surgeon.”

Always be prepared for the worst…this is the Pittsburgh way.

We escape the red for green and the sharp right turn into oncoming “I’m from the rocks and red doesn’t apply to me” traffic ensues. It’s hard to concentrate on the road when you emerge from the darkness of the tunnel…because when you do, there is a beautiful view of the river, covered lightly with iced chunks floating like the mini glaciers in Alaska. When you turn right, the breathtaking skyline of the city and the convergence of the three rivers at point park, line the left side of Carson street as we make our way downtown. It is beautiful, bridges over the water as far as the eye can see. All a little different length, height, color, and all with names that are functional, like the rest of our residents, breathing and non. Titles like, The West End Bridge, The Andy Warhol Bridge, The Hot Metal Bridge….each has a story to tell, inherent in it’s name…much like my given name, Patricia.

A Catholic name, the female St. Patrick, the patron saint of Ireland. Practical Pat. (Non-Binary).

Patty (which I hate).

Patrice (which is pretty, the choice of one of the famed local newscasters and former beauty Queen… but which no one has called me).

Trisha (not spelled with the logical cia aka T r i c i a… the shhhhha is my twist, an inside joke known only to moi and now thou, and preferred moniker, plus I like the way it looks on paper, the 'cia' while noteworthy consonants when put together, creep me out visually…feels like chalk on a chalkboard, but to my eyes…okaaayyyy TMI).

Carson Street gives way at a fork to under or over and today we choose under the overpass that leads to the West End Bridge which goes to the Stadium…THREE RIVERS STADIUM where my beloved PITTSBURGH STEELERS play……..football for those of you in Cali who have repeatedly asked me if my jacket with the STEELERS logo on back is a new movie. No. Of course now that LA has it’s own football team, two, as a matter of fact to make up for lost time I suppose, that rarely happens, and even better than that, it is a fashion statement and conversation starter or ender…depender (hehe) on who you talk to.

Its a quick decision to make as to the over or under and if you make the wrong one, like many of the ‘classic’ roads in the ‘burg, you will have to go a looooooonnnngggggg way out of your way with twists and turns and non direct routes to go back from whence you came.

Under the leaky train tracked overpass….slowwwwllllyyyy because the drips of water turn into ice below 32, and down along the river until the next under or over, but this time it’s up…..and from the top, Oh My, the city in all it’s majesty, stands there in it’s weathered moods, depending on the time of year and the state of the steelers wins, greeting you with wide open arms. Not the arms of love per say, but more like the arms emoji on facebook…care…with a picture of a heart to soften the blow.

Now, 'out of towners', beware. A split second after the metaphorical breathtaking view, you can have a literal one when you get rear ended while trying to merge into 6 lanes of traffic coming from the dark Liberty tunnels emerging behind you with said same virtual view…….we have to cross quickly, get to the 3rd from the right lane to take the down ramp into downtown, if you cant get there in a hurry, or take the wrong ramp, bridge or overpass, all with big signs looming above your head, NORTHSIDE 583 take the left bridge under the right arrow, MONROEVILLE 249 right lane only carpools stay left

“You make a better door than a window”.

A phrase she borrowed from my Dad who would spit it out if you blocked the TV. My cue to sit back so as not to block the side view mirror.

My Mama navigates this New York city-esque cab driver stress with ease…like the way she handled everything in her life. No fear. Just jump in and find your way. Today. It will be different tomorrow. But. you will take with you the experience you had from yesterday. Yes. Yes. Thank you for the reminder on this about to be stressful present of a day. The one day she didn’t make it through without a scratch, but in fact was rushed to the hospital by ambulance when a truck, slid to the wrong side of town. She saved him from going over the bridge and in to the icy river, he saved her from thyroid cancer. Without that rush to the hospital, the goider hidden in plain sight in her neck, might not have been discovered in time.

There is a reason for everything Patricia. Even if we don’t know what it is right now.

Patience…would usually follow that wisdom…but today there are no goiters and we glide down the ramp to the beginning of downtown…a quick swing to the right with a quick glimpse out of the newly clear and clean driver’s side window reveals the Horne’s Dept store Christmas Tree….a staple in our town…made of ceramic by a Tiffany artist standing 30 foot tall and molded around the front left corners of the building so as to been seen from several angles. It is lit 24.7 the week before Christmas, and as is the gloomy tendency this time of year, it reminds you to …

“Keep your light lit, no matter the outside circumstance.”

Yes, “Shine Trisha Shine, You are gonna shi i i ine” the music with my name inserted plays in my head as it has for many years…..a beautiful inherently bright reminder….one I will pass on to my students on this gloomiest of winter storm days.

“It’s a good idea to stay put today as we brace for the worst snow storm of the season so far. Gusty winds of over 4o mph off the Monongahela River to the West into downtown Pittsburgh to take the brunt of it”… Patrice King Brown’s authoritative but compassionate voice plays on WDVE the local AM radio station….as we don't get FM in this car, thats for the fancy peeps.

My Mom ‘side eyes’ me with the news as we sit at the longest red light eve….laden with more urgent weather including those ‘get the hell out of town beeps’ that scare the shit out of you when you are home on the couch, let alone driving thru the oncoming, incoming, oh no, here it is, storm.

MY MOTHER DOES NOT LIKE TO DRIVE IN A SNOW STORM.

And, within a split second, we can not see a thing. I think our car could be lifted with the wind right into the river behind us. The light turns green, the one thing you can see thru the thick white blowing layer. It is soooooo beautiful.

Until the honking behind us, blares it’s impatience into our momentary serenity.

I can’t see the road Patricia.

It is a 6 way light, and with the Pittsburgh left turn on red before green goes ahead, rule…you don't want to rush into a blind intersection.

I hand crank the window down, and stick my already wet head out to get us down the final stretch of road to my destination. A side street laden with homeless people year round. One like its residents on the outskirts of town. People just let this street go…look away and get to where they are going.

Look at them, no where to go. And in this weather. My God.

I look away, my heart already soft here. I need to keep it together for the kids.

The blusters get bigger and louder. Any normal person would cancel class. Or if we were in another city (like LA…no one would show up if there were even a drop of rain from the sun filled sky). BUT THIS IS THE BURGH AND WE SHOW UP NO MATTER WHAT. It’s a badge of honor…commitment.

With one last right turn left, albeit onto the white wind from the Allegheny River side…we pull in front of my destination.

Thank you Momma…..(I reach into my purse) Here’s two fifties…can you pick up some groceries sometime later after the storm?

Now Patricia, you don’t hafta give me money for food.

I know I don’t have to Mama, but I can write it off, otherwise it’ll just go to the government.

Oh, well lot a good they done us. Okay then. Thank you sweetheart.

This is the exchange we need to have to make it ok. When I got in last night from the flight, the refrigerator was pretty bare, and this sent me into puddles of tears. I don't ever want my momma to suffer again. Not ever. Not while I’m around. I don't care how hard I hafta work. But the fact that I am not here all of the time and don't know when she is running short, breaks my heart into a million pieces. And she will never ask me for help…she says I do too much already. And she is proud. So I tell her I can write the groceries off on my taxes…and that makes it okay for her to take the cash. Two crisp fifty dollar bills from the Coast Bank I got yesterday before my flight.

I hand them to her, she looks at them.

Huh, don’t see fifties often.

I open the hard door against the wind. She kicks hers open with her foot. She has to turn off the car and take out the key in order to get into the trunk with said key to get my supplies for class (yep youngins’ this is how it used to go). She walks with me to the front door of the building, hands me the bags, the crisp fifties now crunched around the handles as she passes them off.

Mom, the money?

Oh geez….I wasn't payin' attention, it's so friggin' cold.

I hand them back, and close them in her cold arthritic hands.

I open the floor to ceiling glass front door of the building, step inside, put the bags on the floor for a minute to brush off, and turn back to make sure my momma got back into the car okay.

The world slows down as I look back thru the flurried window at my mother, a cue to pay attention to what I am seeing. An occurence during impactful moments in my life. It used to terrify me, until I gave in to it’s wisdom. Slow motion vision of my Mama…not at the cold car door… but across the street, smiling that warm smile that could heat up the antarctic. She is bending over, her car coat hanging open as she hated restrictive clothing, it’s black tails blowing softly in the windy wind. She is reaching out and as the snow falls gently on her bare hands, her palm opens, taking the dirty hands of the weathered by life older man, huddling in the doorway of the abandoned building across the street. One hand over, one hand under, cradling with comfort, your hands in hers… that is how my Mother did it. I see her mouth forming familiar words.

Keep the faith.

As her hands retreat back into her pockets, and she turns to return into the still running car, I see through the smoke of the exhaust, the man, discovering a little bit of green backed faith that found its way to him, via my mother, and me. I see the two crinkled, now wet fifties, being admired in awe, held to the heavens like the Eucharist at Sunday mass…and then my mama, head down at the ground, releasing the pain to be recycled into love, as she wipes a tear from her eye, and gets in the car.

She does not see me. Nor what I think. Thank God. Because I can never be as good as her. I could never, in all of her own need, give it all away. Why couldn't she just give him half? Why couldn't she take care of herself and him? And why do I feel so guilty for feeling this way? One for me, one for you. Balance, right? Balance. Putting your own life jacket on first and blah blah blah…..I don’t have the answer, but...

I did have food in the refrigerator when I arrived home.

God provides. He always has.

That’s what she would say, if I inquired. I know it. But in this case, In God We Trust came from the hard working hands of mine. I provided. And I sacrificed a lot to do so.

But look what God has blessed you with…so that you can.

There is no arguing with the faithful. You will lose every time. I know better. So I zip it, and sneak a few “less auspicious” twenties and tens in her travel kleenex turned cash stash pocket of her purse.

None the wiser.

Or maybe somewhat wiser.

Depends on how much faith you have.

And she...had a lot of it.