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.
