THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Friday, May 12, 1995 TAG: 9505110172
SECTION: VIRGINIA BEACH BEACON PAGE: 07 EDITION: FINAL
COLUMN: Over Easy
SOURCE: Jo-Ann Clegg
LENGTH: Long : 105 lines
I have had many Mother's Day presents in my life. Some were memorable, a few were forgettable and a handful were downright bizarre.
The year that my sons, then teenagers, arranged for a special Mother's Day treat because their dad was deployed definitely fell into the bizarre category.
``We've pooled our money and we're going to take you to the Officers' Club for Mother's Day,'' Bill Jr., the family's all purpose instigator, announced.
``Andy only put in 50 cents,'' John, the banker, both then and now, disclosed.
``Because that's all I had,'' Andy said defiantly.
``I offered to lend you your share,'' John told him.
``At 20 percent interest a day, you did,'' Andy snarled.
I shuddered at the Mother's Day that I could see coming.
It got worse.
``It's your big day, I'll drive,'' Bill said as the other two piled into the station wagon and started fighting over seats.
``You don't have your license yet,'' I told him.
``It's legal. I've got my learner's permit,'' Bill assured me.
``Since two weeks ago last Wednesday,'' I reminded him.
``Hey Mom, trust me, I can get us to the club and back,'' he said with that ``why-can't-you-have-a-little-faith-in-me?'' look that teenagers are so good at giving.
Against my better judgment I relented, fastened my seat belt, gripped the dash and pressed both feet to the floorboard.
Twenty minutes later I unglued my fingers, one by one, from the dash, unfastened the seat belt and wiggled my feet vigorously to restore circulation.
``Now that wasn't so bad, was it?'' Bill asked. ``Gee, the guy I turned in front of even yelled something that sounded like `Happy Mother's Day.' ''
That was not the greeting that I heard coming from the trucker's mouth, but I wasn't about to spoil the day by making a point of it.
Someone else was about to spoil our day, however. Or at least try to.
We walked into the packed club and took our place in line behind a family of four who, despite the hostess's inability to find their names on the book, claimed that they had made reservations.
The father was defiant, the kids were surly and the mother, as best I could determine, spent most of her time chanting over a big pot while wearing a black cape with pointed hat and shoes to match.
``There we are, right there. Party of four, two o'clock,'' she snapped triumphantly, as she pointed a long skinny finger to a line on the reservation book and gave the hostess what could only be called an evil eye.
``Hey, that's our reservation!'' John, who could read letters an eighth of an inch high upside down and backward at 50 paces, yelled.
``No, it's not,'' the broomstick riding champion of the western world yelled back at him. ``The stupid girl who took our reservation obviously got the name wrong.''
``And what is your name?'' Bill, the Inquisitor, asked.
``Murgatroyd,'' (or something to that effect), one of the witch's kids replied.
``It sounds a lot like Clugg if you're not listening right,'' the witch retorted.
``The name is Clegg, not Clugg . . . ,'' I began but stopped short as my three sons invaded the Murgatroyd kids' space with mouths open, fists flailing and murder in their eyes.
I really don't remember much of what happened after that, at least not until the club manager arrived one step ahead of the Shore Patrol to pull the two families apart.
By the time he had separated us every eye in the place was turned in our direction.
The manager, always a gentleman, miraculously found two empty tables and seated us at one and the Murgatroyds - or whatever their names were - at the other.
The tables were four rooms, one bar and two city blocks apart.
I sat, stunned, at the table with one hand over Bill's mouth (he was, as usual, still trying to get in the last word) and the other placed firmly between John and Andy who had apparently entered into a little side bout of their own.
A few minutes later the manager appeared at our table carrying a tray of soft drinks for the boys and a glass of champagne for me.
``These are on the house,'' he said softly. ``By the way,'' he added with a grin, ``I know that was your reservation. I'm the `stupid girl' she claimed took it.''
I thanked the club manager without removing my hand from Bill's mouth or loosening my grip on the other two.
I gave the kids the eagle eye, that ``don't you dare even think about doing what you're thinking about doing'' look that I had spent four years in a teachers' college perfecting.
Finally I very slowly released my grip on the trio and reached for my wine glass.
The kids sulked and sputtered for awhile, then raided the buffet table and returned with heaping plates of roast beef topped off with chocolate eclairs.
Fortunately they did not meet the Murgatroyds along the way.
``Guess you'll never forget this Mother's Day,'' Bill said as he glided past the gate guard, cruised through a yellow light changing to red and headed for home.
``Never, no matter how hard I try,'' I replied through clenched teeth. My fingers were once more glued to the dash, my feet pressed firmly to the floor. by CNB