Momma

Momma just loved to be Momma. I figured out by the time I was 13 that momma's care for my every need was for her benefit, not my benefit. At 13 she still wanted to tie my shoes for me. Pop was envious of the care she gave me, but he didnt understand her very well. I didnt need my socks put on the radiator every morning so they would be nice and toasty for me to put on.
Everybody wanted to have a momma like mine, but I saw through to the problem.

Later, when I was a young hippie living in the Central Village, the tearful letters began. "Come home! Come home!" my mother would plead--actually it wasnt my home--my father, for some insane reason, had bought a saloon out in the deep redneck part of North Florida, and he wanted to be a "cracker"--for him, that was a compliment. Since my mother's letters would break your heart, I came "home". Worst decision I ever made! Decided I would never do it again, and took the opportunity to move to California, before I really started setting down roots in NYC.

In a short time, here came the letters again. This time she was sending money, too, $20 here, $30 there--plainly my mother was trying to buy me, now. And of course, she was "Momma" to everybody in the saloon. What also came were shouting matches on the phone with my father I would tell him 'that is not my home" and he would roar "This is your home!" Well, home is where you feel at home, I say--it's a metaphysical thing, not a physical location, home is where you feel happy and satisfied, and all your doubts are resolved, and all your questions answered--that is home according to Srila Guru Maharaj--home sweet home. Although I have never owned a house here, and sometimes have been homeless, even, California is home for me--and I aspire to that greater Home known as Golok.

Momma ended by having a severe stroke which paralysed her left side entirely--no more waiting on us hand and foot--Pop had to put her in a nursing home--he was too proud to get Medicaid for her, so he had to spend thousands of dollars keeping her there, and she lasted about a year there and died--Pop died six months later--they were both 82. Pop hated California--which is good, we dont need crackers here! And I didnt go to either of their funerals--and I guess that ended my association with North Florida, too. Which is not a bad place, but there are only three reasons to live there--first, you were born and raised there; second, you have a really good job there, and finally, you met this really hot chick there. Barring any of these three reasons, go someplace you can get bagels!