Coffeehouse Chronicles ...Happy Mother's Day!

Happy Mother’s Day, Chroniclers—and a Venti, extra-foam, cinnamon-sprinkled Happy Mother’s Day to all the moms out there. Got your cup? Good. Pull up a chair, because today’s special is moms, memories, and a double shot of pure family chaos.  

I’ve had a front-row seat to some wonderful mothers, especially the HB. But my own mom? She was not the June Cleaver, pearls-and-casserole, standing-on-the-porch kind of mother. Not even close. My mother was the opposite of a helicopter parent. If helicopter moms hover, mine taxied by, cracked the window, and hollered, “Y’all be careful.”  

Piggy and I were free-range before free-range became a parenting philosophy. Back in the 60s and 70s, we walked, biked, caught the bus, and navigated Los Angeles like two under-supervised private investigators. We knew how to get around LA before GPS started talking to people like it pays their car note. We survived Hollywood, which ought to qualify a person for a medal, a therapy coupon, and maybe a sandwich.  

Walking Hollywood Boulevard as a kid was an education nobody asked for. We saw runaways, hustlers, weirdos, and enough wild behavior before noon to make a grown man stop and pray. It was less a childhood and more a field internship in discernment. But we made it.  

And speaking of Hollywood nonsense, there was the brief season when Zoly Spitzer got me to sell Maps to the Stars’ Homes. I think I lasted about three weeks, which honestly should still be listed under special skills. There I was, junior high age, posted on various Sunset and Santa Monica corners with a giant sign, waving at traffic like I was directing planes at LAX, hoping some tourist would roll down a window and say, “Yes, tiny stranger, show me where famous people sleep.”  

I had maps for $3, $6, and $10, and I sold them like I was building a luxury empire. Best day I ever had? A red-headed working girl told her customers they had to buy a map from me before she got in the car. That woman believed in community partnership. I sold more maps that day than ever before or after. The liquor store owner was mad like I had orchestrated the whole thing. Sir, I was 13. I had a cardboard sign, no mustache, and no criminal empire.  

Then there was the Fourth of July beach trip—another shining example of my mother’s astonishing faith in children making sound decisions. She took me and Piggy to Santa Monica early so we could get parking, because apparently parking was the true enemy. Later, when she was ready to leave and we wanted to stay for fireworks, she pretty much said, “All right then,” handed us bus fare, and left me and my nine-year-old sister to sort it out. We got home around 11 or 11:30 after buses and transfers, and back then that was just called child-rearing. Today that story would end with an Amber Alert, three podcasts, and a Netflix special.

The HB's examples

But as wild as all that was, I’ve truly been surrounded by wonderful mothers. My late mother-in-law, Barbara Jean—known as ”Bobbie!” or at least that was what my father-in-law would yell across the house when he wanted to share with her something he was watching on the television—was one of those women who could turn chaos into comfort. Christmas at the Joseph house was bedlam wrapped in love. Nine siblings, spouses, a mountain of grandkids, noise bouncing off every wall—and somehow she made it feel warm, joyful, and exactly where you wanted to be. It was loud, it was crowded, it was one casserole dish away from collapse, and absolutely perfect.  

She traveled with us for the kids’ games too—those long softball trips to Florida, Oklahoma, Colorado. Barbara Jean was always ready to climb in the RV and roll out. She was loyal, loving, funny, and sharp enough to keep me humbled on a regular basis. I’ll always remember our back-and-forth. Some people leave memories; she left a whole atmosphere.  

And then there’s the HB. That woman loves hard. She follows right in her mama’s footsteps and tries to make every game, track meet, and sporting event she hears about for our nine grandchildren. If she knows it’s happening, she is already emotionally packed, snack-ready, and on standby. Sometimes the parents remember to tell us, and sometimes they do not—but if HB finds out, she is going.  And now the HB Junior is celebrating her first Mother’s Day as a grandma, which is beautiful and amazing and just one more reminder that the story keeps rolling. That’s what moms do. They shape us, steady us, pray for us, laugh with us, and every now and then send us across Los Angeles on public transportation with bus fare and a blessing.  

So if you have the chance, call your mom. Love on your mom. Honor the women who raised you, encouraged you, fed you, corrected you, and somehow got you across the finish line. Because one day, you won’t have that chance, and you’ll wish you did.  Happy Mother’s Day, Chroniclers.  

And as always—drink ’em if you got ’em. 

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