Julia Twomey Meara, my sainted mother, passed away 14 years ago this week. That does not seem possible. She was such a force of nature that it is hard to believe she is gone. I am still waiting for her call, asking when I am coming down to Foxborough for a visit.
Other people think of their mother’s voice, her plum pudding for holiday dessert, all the smart advice she imparted.
I don’t know why, but I cannot forget my mother’s Indian head pennies. She tried to save them in a jar in a China cabinet. They could not hide them from me any more than the loaded .45 that was in their bureau. I knew where everything was. I always checked the date on the coins. They were from the late 1800s.
I don’t know what she was saving them for, perhaps her later years. She lived to be 92.
All I know was when I was a lad, the ice cream man came every afternoon at about 3:30. I had to have my root beer Popsicle, come hell or hot weather. Can you see where this is going?
You could hear the ice cream truck bells from a block away. You had to get your seven cents ready and get in the street or he would drive right by, gone for at least 24 hours. The pressure increased as the bells got closer.
She won’t miss those seven pennies, right? I would get my root beer fix and never thought much about what I was doing.
This week I noticed a report on the internet about those Indian head pennies. I had tried to sublimate the memory of stealing from my mother. Too late.
The most common Indian head pennies found today are worth a dollar or two.
But there are exceptions. If you have an 1877 penny in “extremely fine” condition, for instance, it may be worth $1,754. Ouch. The 1871 edition can bring you $311. I was a stupid kid and never checked the exact dates other than to notice they were from the last century.
I mean, those were some great popsicles which I got for seven pennies. But if those seven pennies were of the 1877 variety, I was paying $12,278 per popsicle.
No popsicle tastes that good.
It’s a wonder my mother let me live in her house. There were numerous other transgressions, including way too many fires. I lived a in a pyromaniac neighborhood. I still remember the name of the kid who redecorated his three decker by burning off three porches. It was a West Roxbury hobby.
Transgressions continued when we moved to Sharon, Massachusetts. We weren’t there a month when I wanted the family car to go to Boston for a date with a charming coed. My father said all right, but you have to go to the dump first.
I loaded the car and headed for the town dump. There were no “transfer stations” in those days. The dump was closed. There wasn’t enough time to go back to the house to return the rubbish and make my date.
What could I do?
I drove down the dump road to the exact middle of nowhere and dumped the trash in a field. Off I went, just like “Alice’s Restaurant.”
The very next day I awoke to a knocking on the door and a police car in the driveway. Busted. They tried to tell my mother that some idiot dumped trash in a field. Half of that trash had our address on it. My mother who was … excitable … was just winding up to scorch the poor officer, when I stepped outside the door. He only had a gun and billy club, poor guy. I confessed my sins and agreed to go get the trash.
We were not in the semi-classy neighborhood for a month before I brought the gendarmes to the door. She was not pleased. But she let me live another day.
I am sure she had a long list of transgressions that I don’t even remember. But I will say it once again — because of my very expensive popsicles.
Sorry, Julia.
Emmet Meara lives in Camden in blissful retirement after working as a reporter for the Bangor Daily News in Rockland for 30 years.