In the memoir Nine Ms and a Mother Like No Other, Martial Bednar brings warmth, wit, and insight to this entertaining narrative about his family and their trials and triumphs as they survive a messy divorce, cross-country road trips in broken down jitneys, several siblings split into foster homes, and life-threatening medical experiences . . . and in the end, still consider themselves blessed. Told with candor and humor from the "kid brother's" unique perspective, Bednar begins with a colorful description of his mother Peggy-an heiress whose husband walked out after twenty years of marriage and nine children-who became a desperate housewife long before it was in vogue. As he chronicles his jaw-dropping childhood adventures, Bednar also introduces his siblings (the nine Ms) and shares the inspirational story of his brother Merrick, a priest-in-the-making whose profound health crises not only strengthen his own faith, but also the fabric of his entire family. This true story-often hysterical, at times heartbreaking-gives testimony to the inseparable bonds of family, the incredible power of perseverance and prayer, and the life-sustaining gifts of faith, hope, and love.

Nine Ms and a Mother Like No Other

By Martial Bednar

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2009 Martial Bednar
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4401-5508-6

Chapter One

It took guts to do what she did-and if nothing else, Aunt Sade had plenty of guts.

Although her cheating husband and most of her conniving siblings had robbed her of her happiness, her self respect, and her peace of mind, they could not strip away the gutsiness that she displayed so tragically at 9:48 a.m. on Thursday morning, July 18, 1946-just two days after her sixty-second birthday.

She appeared out of nowhere and stood between the tracks at the South Washington Street crossing. A deeply religious woman, she bowed her head as if praying.

Moments later-which to her may have felt like an eternity-the powerful eastbound passenger train collided with the frail, desperate woman who stood calmly in its path. The one hundred-ton killer catapulted her fragile, ninety-pound frame from the crossing and slammed it against a mail pouch standard some hundred and ten feet away. The locomotive simply roared on; its engineer, whose window faced away from the tragedy, knew nothing of the incident until he arrived at his next stop some fifteen miles away.

The people of the tiny western New York town of Randolph, busy with their days' errands and enjoying a sunny morning in their typically serene village, were horrified by what they had just witnessed. The unusual and disheveled woman from "the home," once again dressed in black from head to toe despite the hot July sun, had walked to the post office that day, like she had done so many times before, to drop yet another letter in the mailbox. She attracted no more attention or pity than usual, I imagine, as she made her way out of the building, walked just a few blocks, passed the local Catholic church-where it would not be uncommon for her to pay a visit-and ultimately made her way alongside the tracks.

As the swift-moving train made its way through the town, she knew the time had arrived. With the roar of the engine growing louder and closer, she ignored the shouts of a handful of petrified spectators. Her heart must have been racing and her body drenched in sweat. Yet she stood firm and did not waver.

Did she, for one fleeting moment, I wonder, regret her decision?

Death, of course, was instant. But the impact of that horrifying day would live on for many years to come.

Just, I am sure, as Aunt Sade had planned.

Chapter Two

It all began under a tree-her life, that is.

That's right, my mom entered this world under a towering maple tree on South 13th Street in the "nice-to-grow-up-in" community of Olean, New York-an obscure but intriguing little community nestled among the enchanted hills of the southwestern corner of the Empire State. (My mom would kill me if I told you the year, but it's interesting to note that the Great Crash of '29 occurred just a couple months after she was born.) The tree, which was just minding its own business that first hot August day, was situated perfectly between the cracked sidewalk just a few feet in front of the simple white house that my mom's parents rented and the curb of that now historic (in my family's history, anyway) street. I'm not superstitious, but there is something rather peculiar about the fact that if this one-of-a-kind wonder had to be born on a street-instead of in a hospital, like most of us-it, of course, had to be 13th Street. Anyway, that bizarre and zany entrance into this great world of ours surely was an indication of things to come.

I guess that means that with my mom's life, my family's life-our life story-had its humble beginnings under that tree all those years ago. And as you'll come to learn, both her life and our story have been far sudsier than any episode of The Young and the Restless-my Gramma's favorite soap (and, if the truth be known, the rest of the family's as well). In all honesty, my mom-or Peg, as most who know her either lovingly or irreverently refer to her-has loved harder, laughed louder, shed more tears, received more glory, and climbed more mountains than Nikki Newman, Katherine Chancellor, or, heck, even Erika Kane could ever dream. She's the epitome of life at its very best and its very worst, all rolled into one lively package. Her tenacious spirit is often an inspiration, and at times a frustration. After meeting her for the first time-at a party, which she's usually the life of-a friend of mine summed it up in a nutshell: "Man. Your mom is a trip!"

Oh, yes ... a trip indeed.

But no matter how you slice it, this remarkable woman-who, yes, usually votes for herself for president of the United States of America-is the heart of my family's soul, and the glue that held us together in the worst of times.

As far as I know, no one actually planned for Peg to be born under that lucky tree on 13th Street. But I'm told that her mother, one very pregnant Josephine Richardson-an equally spunky, delightful character in and of herself-was painfully awaiting a ride from her doctor's office to the Olean General Hospital, some two miles away, as her water broke. But nature had no intention of waiting for a ride that August first, and thus created this most unique "grand entrance" into this world for this most unique "grande dame." This true episode is proof beyond a doubt that what goes around truly comes around, since today this lady I proudly call Mom has spent a good portion of her life bumming rides and being late! When Josephine did get to the hospital shortly after the harrowing episode, she somehow managed to present her newborn proudly at the desk before both were whisked away to be examined by the medical staff.

Amazingly, both mother and child survived the bizarre episode without too much wear and tear. As a matter of fact, the trauma of giving birth to her second child and first-born daughter, Margaret Anna Richardson, didn't faze Josephine a bit. She just kept on having more kids. Five more, in fact.

Which just goes to show that you really do have to be a little nuts to be a mother.

Chapter Three

My mom and dad were two people who never should have been married, but fate got in the way.

She was the spoiled princess who believed that life should be one big fairy tale, and he had all the makings of a dashing prince-or so she thought. When they met, she was in many ways Olean's version of a movie star: a wealthy glamour gal who turned heads with her stunning looks, vivacious personality, fun-loving ways, and black Pontiac convertible. As runner-up for "Ms. Bonaventure" at her collegiate alma mater (the actual title went in jest to a returning adult student), she was definitely the catch on the newly coed campus. Enter my dad: a tall, dark, and handsome basketball player who clearly knew all the moves, both on the court and off.

I'm sure they made a stunning couple.

Their courtship, from what Mom tells me, was short but intense. She was still on the rebound from a difficult break-up with the love of her life, and my dad-in basketball and in life-apparently knew how to rip a great rebound and slam dunk the game-winning score. They were definitely part of the "in" crowd, and apparently met at a party following one of his big games. They shared many of the same friends, and in less than a year from their first date in September of 1951, he proposed to her as they sat in her black Pontiac convertible parked on campus-near the statue of the Blessed Mother, of all things-just around Valentine's Day, 1952.

"I can't live without you," she says he told...