Happy Mother's Day to all you mothers out there. (read: mothers, not muthas) You know who you are and you know what you are. Whether you've squeezed out a child or seven yourself, adopted a young 'un, acquired the title through marriage or found yourself in the foster care program, I salute you one and all. Of course, this only pertains to mothers of human beings. This does not apply to pet owners. I will say this once and once only-they are animals, not children. Continuing to assimilate them into society is wrong. Have we not learned anything from Planet of the Apes? Please stop the madness now.
Anyway I love mothers. My mom used to be one. She's no longer with us, having passed away in 2001. Phyllis Lucille Galvez was born in Alameda, California and grew up all around Northern California. Her family settled in Galt, on the outskirts of Sacramento, in the early 1940s. She attended Galt High School with a young red-headed lad named Bill Richardson, who later moved to Hollywood and changed his name to Darren McGavin, star of The Night Stalker and A Christmas Story. Later in the decade, she met a Hungarian bartender with a sly smile named Adam Cherney and soon became his wife. She gave birth to three kids, the baby being me. I was named after Zachary Scott, her favorite actor (pictured above). I was almost Zachary Scott Cherney, but instead took Zach's last name and my dad's for a middle. (For more info on Zach, click HERE.Pretty cool stuff.) After raising her three lil' boomer chillun, my mom went back to school to learn accounting at Humphreys Business College, turning it into lifelong employment at the University of the Pacific.
I miss my mom. She was a great supporter of mine, seeing just about everything I did on stage until she got sick. She was even present the night I won the stand-up comedy competition. She used to claim that she wasn't much different than Milton Berle's mother. From that, she meant that she was my biggest fan. It meant everything to make my mom laugh.
When someone was leaving, she used to say, "Catch your act later", some catch-phrase probably from the '40s.
That's always stuck with me. I even told her that the last time I saw her alive, laying in a hospital bed, her mind pretty much gone the way of all dementia. I'd have given anything to hear her reply. It wasn't meant to be.
So now, I'll just say it again, but first I'll say:
Happy Mother's Day, Mom
I'll catch your act later.