Just in time for Mother's Day, a story that might surprise you

In the spirit of moms everywhere, I’ll give you fair warning.

What follows could change the way you look at Mother’s Day.

It’s going to be complicated, occasionally confusing, sometimes contradictory but always entertaining, at least that’s the plan.

Let’s start with Ann Jarvis, who’s widely considered to be the guiding hand behind the movement that resulted in a national celebration of American mothers. In the aftermath of the Civil War and seeking a way to help unify a nation torn asunder by four savagely bloody years of conflict, she had an idea. Together with Julia Ward Howe, who, as you probably know, wrote “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” she began a crusade to create a holiday.

Thus it came to pass that in 1914 President Woodrow Wilson established the second Sunday in May as Mother’s Day, and for a time, there was peace and contentment throughout the land.

But then, well … Ann’s daughter got more than a little angry.

Her name — stay with me now — was Anna, and upset that her mother’s vision had begun to be tarnished by crass commercialism and corporate exploitation, she started a movement of her own — to wit, the complete repudiation of what her very own mother wanted, once it had become the province of money-grubbing scoundrels.

History, of course, is most often written by the winners, which means Anna’s admirable efforts on behalf of Ann failed.

Hence, we’ve become inexorably and eternally saddled with a Hallmark holiday that feels more mandatory, more compulsory, than perhaps any other celebration on the American calendar.

What began as a journey toward togetherness is now a guilt trip.

My own mother, to the surprise of no one who ever knew her, didn’t really have much truck with being told what to do by anyone at any time, ever. No, Mom was fiercely immune to conformity’s dog whistles, zigging while the rest of the world zagged, rearranging her priorities to fit her view of what was simply right.

In short, she had a pretty strong streak of vengeance in her psyche.

Mom was preternaturally fond of the ethos spawned by “The Godfather” and was known to mutter aloud, “For justice, we must go to Don Corleone,” then knock back the last of her highball.

It was in just such a kitchen-table tableau I emerged with a burning determination to do my mother’s will, no matter the cost.

Here are the facts as I recall them, more than 50 years later:

—Our house was situated on a corner lot, directly across the street from an undisturbed field of grass, perfect for playing football and baseball, shagging golf balls, and walking the dog twice a day; in short, ideal for a growing family.

—The town’s hospital sat in close proximity.

—Rumors began to circulate about plans to build what the newspaper termed a “nonprofit clinic” in the open field.

—A surveying crew showed up one day and began driving wooden stakes into the ground, marking boundaries.

—My mother, in her quiet way, went absolutely insane.

“‘Nonprofit clinic,’ my eye,” she scoffed. “It’s a cash grab.”

She went on and on about the desecration of the hospital grounds, the increased traffic, the blight of a hideous parking lot, the noise.

That’s when I decided to do my very best to stop the madness.

When you’re 16 years old, you’re already caught in a swirling maelstrom of conflicting realities, trying to navigate your way through a maze of uncertainty, seeking the straight and narrow path but all too often wandering into dead ends, a no-exit life.

Girls, schoolwork, learning to drive a car, mowing neighbors’ lawns, saving up for the new Rolling Stones album, sleeping in.

It can be exhausting, but when your mother speaks, you must listen.

And that’s how it happened that on a spring Friday evening, after sharing a delicious dinner of tuna boats, tater tots and tomato soup with my family, I headed for the garage and grabbed a three-iron.

Then, with visions of Michael Corleone walking out of that restroom, armed with an untraceable revolver, I crossed the street.

How many wooden stakes did I decapitate? Fifty, maybe 60. All I know is that when I was finished, not a single one was ground level, each of them lying useless, as if a scythe had come through, wielded by a young man who saw evil and tried to eradicate it.

But history, as I’ve already attested, is usually reserved for the winners to write, leaving futile gestures like mine in the ash heap, remembered by no one, though Mom had been impressed, saying, “That was some kind of smart … no way they’ll ever catch you.”

The nonprofit clinic soon metamorphosed into a thriving private practice, and that’s how it remains to this day, just printing money.

You go ahead and celebrate Mother’s Day any way you want: send cards and flowers, take Mom to lunch, smile the day away.

I think I’ll head for the cemetery, raise a toast and laugh out loud.

Mike Dewey can be reached at Carolinamiked@aol.com or 1317 Troy Road, Ashland, OH 44805. He invites you to join him on his Facebook page, where Luca Brasi still dreams of overdue revenge.