Love does that.

I'm thinking. About myself. And about my own upbringing. And how I was influenced by my mother. More than by anyone. Far more than by my dad. In many, many ways, I am the creation of my mother. I had a very good mother. A loving mother. But a mother that was rather controlling. And maybe that’s why I tend to be controlling. Of my environment. Of my life.

I think my mother always sought happiness. But at times it was elusive. As an 18-year-old, she entered into a marriage of convenience. With Art Broede. My dad. And I think she knew almost from the start that it was a mistake. And so, for 17 years, from 1932 until by dad committed suicide in 1949, it was a marriage filled with tension. I grew up in a house of tension. I really didn’t consciously understand that until I left and went away to college. Because I thought tension was natural. That tension was the norm. Maybe that, in part, was why I became a writer. For newspapers, of all things. Because it was a profession filled with tension. Stress. Meeting deadlines. On a daily basis. I thought that’s the way one is supposed to live. Under stress. It seemed so natural. I suppose it’d be a little like growing up with a headache. It would begin to seem natural. Conflict began to seem normal. Even to this day. Maybe that’s why I thrive under conflict. I’ve been trained for it. Strange, isn’t it?

But I’m also trained to love. To care. That comes naturally, too. Maybe my mother taught me something about love. Her second marriage was truly a loving marriage. The 33 happiest years of her life. This time she married for the right reason. For love. She fell head over heels in love. With a married man. Our across-the-street neighbor, Ernie. Her boss, too. She worked for him. He owned a business, an office supply store. It was something of a scandal in our small town. Their affair. Blanche (my mother) and Ernie. The talk of the town. And they had to move away. He sold his business and they moved to Denver and started a new life with each other. They established a business. Together. And she also became an interior decorator. She was damn good at it. A natural. They lived together in Denver even before they were married. Before his divorce. But they were made for each other. Very compatible. They brought each other happiness. It was a good marriage. A very good marriage. Ernie’s one big vice, by the way, was his addiction to cigarettes. He died of lung cancer. Age 83. He was born in 1905. Five years before my dad. Mom was born in 1914.

Anyway, after my dad died, I became closer to my mother. I truly understood her unhappiness. And I empathized. I was the son who stepped in and tried to be the man of the house. At age 13. I got a job delivering newspapers for $3.65 a week. And I offered to give my earnings to mother to help pay the rent. And it wasn’t long before Ernie hired me at his store to stock the shelves and to do maintenance for 50 cents an hour. And every day after school I reported for work, and on Saturdays, too. I hit it off with Ernie, who, of course, became my step-father when I was in college. And he and mother helped to pay for my college education. Of course, I worked, too, part-time, while attending college.

I always felt close to mother. In some ways, she became a model for me. My brother and sister thought I was the favored child. That I got special treatment. That mom loved me the most. That I was mommy’s boy. And maybe they were right, to a degree. I was the good son. The one that set the example. And that especially annoyed my sister, Babs. And she was alienated toward mom from early on. Even blamed mom for dad’s suicide. Which, to me, seemed preposterous. Because dad was an habitual gambler. And spent most of his time away from home. Because he was a traveling salesman and a bartender. On the road weekdays, and often away even on weekends. It was a big event to have dad at home. When we knew he was coming, my brother Bruce and I rode our bikes down to the end of our street, and waited for him. And when we spotted his car – I remember a light green Plymouth coupe loaded with dry goods samples – we raced home behind the car and gave dad warm greetings. We wished he had spent more time at home. We liked him. We loved him. And we missed him. But I don’t think we ever really understood him.

And yes, I was a mama’s boy. Because mom was present. On the scene. Mom was there. And mom was often more unhappy than happy. Until Ernie entered her life. In a big way. That changed her life. For the better. Love does that. --Jim Broede