Cheech and Chong and Aunt Barbara

By Richard Young
The Herald

May 10, 2008 11:47 pm

— EACH year brings changes to every aspect of the McFadden family reunion, except for the seating arrangement.
When I arrive, my mother directs me to the picnic table where she’s laid out the plastic spoons and forks. (Come to think of it, they don’t change either, as she won’t let us throw them away but insists we recycle them for next time.) While Mom sits nearby, my wife is to my one side, and to the other is my cousin Mark.
He and I more or less grew up together, but now, sadly, we see each other only at such functions where we catch up on news before we retell some classic family stories and commiserate over the Pittsburgh Pirates. (They don’t change much either.)
It was at such a setting a couple years ago when our Aunt Barbara came up behind Mark and me, put her arms around both of us and told my wife exactly how she felt. “These are my boys. Yep, these are my boys.”
I hold on to that moment dearly, now that she’s gone. (Loss. That’s another thing that doesn’t change.)
To me, Mother’s Day is a misnomer. It should be Mothers Day, in the plural, because those of us blessed with a large, extended family have more than one mother. My family has had a network of older women, my mother’s sisters, who have provided a surplus of caring and support that has extended beyond their own children and nurtured all whom they embraced. My own mother, whom I honor today, would agree. The women in my family are mothers to many. Aunt Barbara was one of them.
That was no more evident than in the summers of my youth, particularly the summer of 1975. It was tradition that every year Aunt Carole, mom’s youngest sister, gathered me up with her three boys, Mark, Matthew and Nathan, and headed for Aunt Barbara’s house in Brockway. There we met up with our other cousin, Tommy, Barbara’s son, for a weeklong retreat that featured junk food, late night TV, sleeping out and other kinds of hijinx that teenage boys are prone to. It was the one time in my life I felt I had brothers.
It was summer camp with a Huck Finn twist, complete with nearby woods and creek. But instead of counselors we had the safety net of mothers who kept us fed and made sure we never got into too much trouble, and in my case, my own mother, 80 miles away, never learned all the details.
What kind of mischief was it? Well, not too bad really. Nathan, then 5, ate 17 Popcicles in one day; still a record. Matthew, a few years older, was glued to the television, absorbed in hours of TV dramas he wasn’t normally allowed to watch. Mark, Tommy and I? At 15 we ruled the town, or at least we thought we did.
We chased the Brockway girls who were always so cute, though we never caught any. We woke up the neighbors one night when our camp got a little too loud, but the worst thing we ever did was smoke cigarettes. We got caught and were reprimanded; but we were ultimately offered forgiveness, possibly the greatest trait a mother can possess.
Forgiveness, the ability to let things slide with an understanding smile, is why I remember Aunt Barbara today. That and for the time we introduced her and Aunt Carole to Cheech and Chong.
While in the record department at a local mall that year Tommy, Mark and I thought it would be a great idea to pool our money and buy an album by the day’s hottest comic duo who were known for their raunchy, lewd, drug-laced, sophomoric humor. Their routines were mild by today’s standards, but my aunts didn’t see it that way.
 “What are you boys listening to?!!!? Bob, (Carole always called Barbara “Bob”) do you hear what these boys are listening to?! They’ve bought a dirty record!”
 “Oh my!,” Barbara said. “What did you boys do? Tommy, why did you waste your money on that trash?”
The initial shock was a great one, especially since Nathan, only 5 remember, started repeating some of the off-colored jokes of “Pedro and Man” (he didn’t understand them). Yes, we good church-going boys should not have bought such a thing, and yes, maybe it was a mistake. Or so I thought, until a day later when we found Aunt Barbara and Aunt Carole listening to the record themselves and cackling all the while. 
There they were, my two aunts, who the day before chastised us for buying smut, laughing heartily at Cheech and Chong! And not only that, they would play that “dirty old record” as it came to be known to every guest who stopped by that week: Cousin Jim, Cousin Linda and family friend Windy Anderson.
“Just listen to what these boys bought! Ha, ha, ha!” It never failed to amuse or amaze.
Not many people would couple Cheech and Chong with Mother’s Day, but I do for this reason: A mother’s gift is to love her child no matter what, to celebrate and laugh whenever possible, to forgive when necessary, and to understand always. Aunt Barbara did just that.
Despite taking over her house for a week, despite the stupid things we did, despite Cheech and Chong: with a chuckle and a smile, Aunt Barbara let her boys be boys, knowing that we would turn out OK.
Rest well, Bob, and thanks. Your boys miss you.

Richard Young is a design editor for The Herald.

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