Doug Monroe's OPENLY OLD

Happy Mother's Day!

I always called my mother “Mama.”

Her name was Winifred Black Monroe. She was born in 1918 and died in 2004 at the age of 85 from congestive heart failure. I held her hand as she passed away. A hypnotist once told me that her spirit was still attached to me. The hypnotist, who himself was afraid of death, died later. Otherwise, I would punch him in the snout for putting that kind of shit in my head.

The older I get, the more I want to fight.

I need to work out more. A lot more.

One of my high school buddies belongs to a Japanese healing cult that sends attached spirits into the light, so I’m going to see him soon just in case. First, we will eat some BBQ. I hope he can send Mama into the light, if need be, and heal some of my pain and disease. I went to see him 10 times for debilitating depression when I worked at IBM.

A few weeks later, I was riding the Merry Go Round at Six Flags Over Georgia, and it became manifestly clear to me that there will be Merry Go Rounds in Heaven.

I want to wish Mama a heavenly Mother’s Day.

Please don’t get the idea that I am religious. The older I get the more I hate religion. I think heaven can be right here on earth, like when I’m with my grandchildren.

I’ve already written a newsletter saying I want to achieve enlightenment without going to church. I only go to churches for funerals. But I will not have my own funeral. I am going to be cremated and have my ashes tossed into the Oconee River here in Athens. My family can tell some funny stories and then go to dinner in Athens. I would like someone to play the Beach Boys’ song, “Sail On, Sailor.”

My grandson once asked me, “Papa, when are you going to die?” I just laughed. If he asked me today, I would say, “Maybe soon.” I am in a lot of pain and have a disgusting disease in my intestines. Doctors are just itching to give me powerful drugs that might kill me.

My Winnie Wall

Mama was a wonderful artist. I saved her paintings and, in her honor, I now hang them on the living room wall.

I call it my Winnie Wall.

Here’s one. Like many of her paintings, it has a clown in it. I can’t tell if the clown represents my father or Atlanta Mayor William Hartsfield.

Mama pulled me into the kitchen when I was a teenager and told me my great-aunt Fanny had a long-term affair with Hartsfield. Fanny was his executive secretary and ran his law practice while he was mayor. I’ve spent enough time in Emory’s library to confirm the affair to my satisfaction. Hartsfield paid Fanny’s medical bills after her stroke.

Mama often spilled the beans about family scandals when she summoned me into the kitchen. I called these sessions “Kitchen Shockers.”

A Whole Lotta Laughs

I once asked Mama why she painted so many clowns.

“I wanted to be one,” she said.

Indeed, she was funny. Very funny. One time, she was watching Daddy drinking glass after glass of bourbon. My sister, Trisha Campbell, was there, plus our kids.

Mama declared, in her old Atlanta accent, “Watch yo’ Daddy drink his liquor … glug, glug, glug.”

Another time she was in her recliner and started shouting: “I want a glyus of milk! I want a glyus of milk!”

Poor Daddy went gallumping into the kitchen and came back with a paper cup of milk. Mama shouted: “I wanted a GLYUS not a paypah cup!” Daddy went gallumping back to get a glass of milk.

Mama looked at me and Trisha and asked, “Why is he so stupid?”

And, as funny as she was, she also could be scary.

Very scary.

Schizophrenia

When I was little, I followed Mama around like a baby chick. I was always trying to make her laugh. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn’t and she would whirl around, her face distorted with rage, chewing her lip, and bend down to scream at me.

I was terrified. I just stood there, shaking, thinking about what I could do next that was funny enough to make her laugh.

This is how I beclowned myself.

One time, when I was in my 40s and Mama had calmed down as she aged, I saw her chewing her lip. My heart stopped.

I’ve written about some of this before so forgive me if this is repetitive, but I have new subscribers who haven’t met Mama.

When Mama was in her late 40s, she worked as a secretary at a Presbyterian magazine in Atlanta. She published a poem in it. One day she had a screaming breakdown at work. An ambulance rushed her to Grady Hospital on a gurney. My father checked her out against doctor’s orders and told me and Trisha this and nothing more: “Don’t upset your mother.”

I tried to piece together what had happened. I asked our family doctor, “What’s wrong with my mother?”

“We think she’s schizophrenic, but your father refused to get her psychiatric care,” the doctor said.

What unimaginable cruelty.

Here’s the thing.

Mama used to take us downtown to movies and then we would go shopping at Davison’s (later Macy’s). We always made a long stop at the Carnegie Library downtown (torn down by Atlanta, of course.) I was in elementary school at the time. Then we would meet Daddy at the S&S Cafeteria for a yummy dinner.

While at the library, I went into the room with encyclopedias. I would get the “S” volume of the Encyclopedia Brittanica and look up “schizophrenia.” I didn’t understand it at all.

But I was ten years old. How did I diagnose my mother? The only explanation for me is that in a previous life, I was a psychiatrist or something similar. If you don’t believe in reincarnation, we should probably fight.

Here’s another thing.

Mama has been dead for 22 years. I still love her with all my heart. Happy Mother’s Day, Mama!

I just went out on the porch and found a shiny dime Mama must have left me. The dead sometimes leave shiny coins for the living, so I’ve got that going for me.

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