The Best Babysitter Ever ~ "Good Ol' Uncle Mommy"

Barbara, Joan, Rory, me in the summer of 1958

Pryor children babysitting rule #1: all assignments outside the Pryor apartment were only accepted by our grandparents and my mother's two sisters. All other houses begged off. There was one unbreakable caveat with the aunts and the grandparents ~ no one would watch the two of us together. The extended family agreed, "Tommy and Rory were not allowed in the same house without parental supervision."

Rory and I fought over any spot on the couch the other was in; the last slice of bacon and battled to the death over who licked the tuna fish bowl after Mom made our sandwiches.

When Bob and Patty Pryor went out, Rory stayed with the Ryan grandparents or Barbara and Mickey. I stayed with the Pryor-Rode grandparents or Joan and George.

Freedomland 1962

Rory and I had our needs met at all households, but Joannie had bongos, an FM radio and a bullfighter poster on her wall. She had a calypso bar with high stools and wore clam diggers as she danced and sang around the living room. I kept expecting Trini Lopez to drop in.

Uncle Mommy, me, on Hudson, 1963

Joan and George took me to the beach named after Joan. This was good since the Pryors didn't have a car.

I loved my grandparents, aunts and uncles, but my favorite babysitter was Mom. Sometimes, it was just her and me. She called me her “Cow, Cow, Boogie,” and I called her "Good Ol' Uncle Mommy," because she was the best uncle I ever had!

Mom giving Dad the business 1962

We snuggled on our tiny 83rd Street couch watching The Twilight Zone and Hitchcock on Friday nights after Rory conked out. Her smile stopped my clock.

I was a lousy artist, a stinky poet, and I had a stutter. None of this disrupted me from trying to make Uncle Mommy laugh. She loved Rory and me like a freight train. Mom died today a long time ago. I'm still working on stuff for her.

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Tonight at No Name... & A BAG O' CHIPS: SUMMER READING EDITION '15  I'm telling a hot fun in the summertime story in Mom's honor. The Free show starts at 7pm when The Summer Replacements get in tune.

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If you enjoy my stories please  check out my memoir, "I Hate the Dallas Cowboys - tales of a scrappy New York boyhood." Available at Logos Book Store or online at Amazon or Barnes and Noble.

The book has 109 Amazon five star reviews out of 109 total reviews posted. We're pitching a perfect game. My old world echoes TV's "The Wonder Years" ~ just add taverns, subways and Checker cabs.  

You can also purchase my photography portfolio, "River to River - New York Scenes From a Bicycle" on Amazon.

Best Babysitter Ever ~ Uncle Mommy!

Pryor babysitting rule: assignment outside the Pryor apartment was only accepted by grandparents and my mother's two sisters. All other houses begged off.

There was one unbreakable caveat with the aunts and the grandparents: No one would watch the two of us together. The extended family agreed, "Tommy and Rory were not allowed in the same house without parental supervision."

Rory and I fought over any spot on the couch the other was in; the last slice of bacon and battled over who licked the tuna fish bowl after Mom made sandwiches.

When Bob and Pat went out, Rory stayed with the Ryan grandparents or Barbara and Mickey. I stayed with the Pryor-Rode grandparents or Joan and George.

Rory and I had our needs met at all households, but Joannie had bongos, an FM radio and a bullfighter poster on her wall. She had a bar with high stools, and wore clam diggers as she danced and sang around the living room. I kept expecting Trini Lopez to drop in.

Joan and George took me to the beach named after Joan. This was good since the Pryors didn't have a car.

I loved my grandparents, aunts and uncles, but my favorite babysitter was Mom. Sometimes, it was just her and me. She called me her “Cow, Cow, Boogie,” and I called her "Uncle Mommy." We snuggled on our tiny 83rd Street couch watching The Twilight Zone and Hitchcock on Friday nights after Rory conked out. Her smile stopped my clock.

I was a lousy artist, a stinky poet, and I had a stutter.  None of this disrupted me from trying to make Uncle Mommy laugh. She loved Rory and me like a freight train. Mom died today in 1998. I'm still working on stuff for her.

Storytelling at Ryan's Daughter Tomorrow Night

My grandmother's shopping cart from the late 1950s is still going strong.  There is no rubber left on the tires, the sound I hear when I wheel it is metal on concrete.  This is the same shopping cart that carried my bible every Friday, "The TV Guide." I'd study it like I was going to be questioned by the police and ready with every answer.

Cop: "Sunday 8 o'clock?"
Me: "Ed Sullivan, Sir."
Cop: Friday 10 o'clock?"
Me: "Alfred Hitchcock."

My mother's maiden name was Patricia Ryan, aka, Ryan's Daughter. Her father Patrick Leonard Ryan was a piece of work, and didn't like the name Patrick, so everyone called him, "Lennie," except us kids, he was Pop Dutchie to distinguish him from Pop Cuckoo two blocks away on York.  I had all four grandparents on York on my side of the avenue, so I could visit them when I was old enough to ask somebody to cross me.

Tomorrow night, is my first storytelling show ever in Yorkville and appropriately the event happens at Ryan's Daughter, upstairs @ 7pm, it's a free show, we have a wonderful line-up, and we will take you back, promise.

Patricia Ryan Pryor, Tommy & Pop Cuckoo

Helen Ryan, Mom, Dad, Pop Dutchie "Lennie" at Sparkle Lake

Mom busting Dad's chops

October 24th, I'm bringing "Stoops to Nuts" home for a special show ~ my first Yorkville storytelling show @ Ryan's Daughter. It shivers, me timbers!

It happens on Wed, Oct 24th @ 7pm at Ryan's Daughter, 350 East 85th Street, (bet. 1st and 2nd Ave).

The Yorkville bound artists will knock you out: Daniel Guzman, Nicole Ferraro, Thomas Pryor, Francesca Rizzo ~ featuring music from our dreamy memories by Eric Vetter, Carlo Fortunato & Alex DeSuze & friends.

At the Ryan's show, I'll sell and sign "River to River: New York Scenes from a Bicycle."
"Yorkville: Stoops to Nuts"
A Neighborhood Storytelling Show
@ Ryan's Daughter
350 East 85th Street (bet. 1st and 2nd Ave) 

Mom's Hard Work & Humor Made Her My Star

"Oh, my God!" I yelled in my five year brain when I came out of my room and looked through the kitchen at the living room window where I saw a pair of legs with slippers on dangling from the inside of the closed window facing me. I couldn't see the top of the body because soapy water was spread over the glass. I knew it was Mom but I had to double check. Running over and careful not to get near either leg from the side I could see Mom in her house dress balancing her upper body on the outside of the building four stories over the backyard. A clean freak, Mom made sure every spot on the window sparkled and worked without a net. While doing so she stopped my heart.

Mom, Patricia Pryor, passed away a long time ago on July 24th. Today, I'm thinking of her outside the 83rd Street window, doing kitchen work with the dish towel over her shoulder, and making pancakes and bacon for dinner.

Shine On, Uncle Mommy

Paying tribute to Uncle Mommy, Patricia Pryor, today would have been her 82th birthday. When Mom was my age she made Dad drive her to Eisenhower Park in Long Island early on a Sunday morning to be at the finish line of my first and only half marathon. When I came in she met me with a hug, kiss, flowers and a quart of orange juice that she encouraged me to drink straight from the carton (Dad hated that). 

Mom gave me many nicknames, Tee, Klutz, Cow Cow Boogie, but the sweetest and my favorite, she called me “her little mouse.” I love cheese and she said I gnawed toast with my teeth instead of biting and chewing it. (I did, to make it last longer).

Below, is a charcoal drawing of Mom by Dad when she was 31 years old in 1961. (I remember the night Dad did it on 83^rd Street. Dad kept telling Mom to stop moving). Also below, a few photos of Patty or Pat, the names were interchangeable. Everybody loved her, and Pat's coffee cup for 40 years along with the hot chocolate cup she gave to me, Tom, her little mouse.

I am lucky, I have a film of my parents going in and out St. Stephen’s on their wedding day in September 1952.  For the first time in about 10 years, I watched it the other day three times and had a good cry.

I’m grateful to have had people in my life that I miss all the time. She’s gone 14 years, but I’ll never stop thinking about and loving with my whole heart my Uncle Mommy.

Happy Birthday, Ma!

Tonte Gets Her Irish Up!

Antonino Cuccia in Yorkville 1927

March was nuts in my house. Mom began getting her Irish up right after Valentine’s Day.  My father couldn’t stand it.  Even though he was half Irish, he acted like he was born in Florence. Which I later found odd since his Italian grandparents were from outside Palermo, off the boot. Antonino Cuccia was a shepard, his wife, Giovanna, was a milk maid.

Mom & Joan 1957

So first we got the St. Paddy’s thing going ~ my mother’s family were all Ryans.  We had a dozen family birthdays in March, including me, Mom and her sister, Joan, my godmother.  Those three rolled in one week. The 20th, 24th & 27th.  By the day Julius Caesar got it on the Ides we were ready to go.

Throw in the year round passion for our favorite three saints in all households, Saint Jude, Saint Francis and Saint Anthony. I couldn’t pass a wall in any apartment without a statue or painting of one these three miraculous saints smacking me in the head. Why these three?  My family had many hopeless cases, we loved animals and we were always losing something.

Giovanna Cuccia 1929

The only thing I ever saw Dad do that somewhat acknowledged he was Irish was put a green St. Paddy’s hat on Tonte his dog. Tonte instantly got her Irish up.

Tonte Pryor Getting Her Irish Up ~ 1977 

Our March Madness has nothing to do with basketball.

Our next City Stories: Stoops to Nuts show is tomorrow, Tuesday, March 13th @ 6pm at Cornelia Street Café. Our artists are Claudia Chopek, Joe McGinty, John Newell, Rick Patrick, Thomas Pryor, Rivka Widerman & Ward White. Giving away ten drinks. Getting our Irish up, its birthday week, bring your best game. $7 and saying "hoity toity," gets you in the door with a free drink.

Time Out Magazine  picked "Stoops to Nuts" as a darn good thing to do this week.  See link.

From Uncle Mommy's Cookbook: An Irish Sandwich

Tom & Uncle Mommy on Circle Line to Bear Mt. 1962

Just made an Irish sandwich: Iceberg Lettuce & lots of Hellman's Mayo on Wonder Bread. Uncle Mommy taught Rory & I how to survive when the fridge emptied before the Sloan's grocery run to 86th & York Avenue on Friday afternoons after school. New TV guide day, maybe including color pictures of Emma Peel, Elizabeth Montgomery or Mary Ann from Gilligan’s.










Murray Parker on n/e cor of 83rd St. & York Ave ~ 1966



Murray Parker’s grocery on 83rd & York filled in the food gaps during the week when Mom forced a two milk & a pack of Marlboro’s expedition. I’d be playing in the street and she’d throw money out Chickie Murphy’s apartment in the front of the building. One out of two times the coin laden money ball would whiff through my hands and smack me in the forehead. I'm a clutz.




Marvin Gaye was on my transistor radio.

"I'm Going to Friggin Kill You!"

It happened a hundred different ways. Here is one.

3:15pm on a rainy school afternoon in 1963. No where to play, Rory and I came indirectly home from school, drenched because we fought through and dove into every puddle on the way to our house from St. Stephen's.

It started on the 4th floor landing when we tried to get in the apartment door and Mom pushed us back into the hall.

“Sons of bitches, I just bought  those shoes, they come out of my house money! Undress, there!”

Rory and I get down to our drawers and took off our blue socks. Mom arrived at the door to see how we were doing.

“Holy Christ, half the sock’s dye is on your feet, into the bathroom.”

After Rory and I belted each other around the tiny bathroom while soaping off the blue stuff, I came out and went in the refrigerator leaving Rory in a ball stuck between the toilet and the tub. I gave the fridge a thorough look see and said to Mom, “How come you don’t buy more cake and soda like my friends mothers do?”

After receiving a death ray from Mom’s cold blue eyes she said, “How come your father hasn’t raised my house money in five years?”

I didn’t completely finish saying, “you should take that up with him,” when Mom’s swinging foot brushed my head still bent over in the fridge.  Her wild miss spun her body around.  By this time, Rory was back in the kitchen and we both ran away while Mom yelled, “I’m going to friggin kill you!” 

Rory & I sang that right back to her, first in falsetto voices then deep in a monastery chant, “I’m going to friggin kill you.” Really stretching at the "yooouuuuu."

Whatever she said from that point on, we sung it back to her word for word. We could harmonize, we were pretty good, “Take it, Phil!”

But Mom didn’t appreciate this. If we kept it up she would leave the chase, go to her bedroom and come back with Dad’s belt.  We’d carefully look at her eyes, if they had rolled up into the back of her head, she was seeing black and we were in real trouble. We’d run to our bedroom and get under our bunk bed going all the way to the wall.  Mom had short arms and though she tried she couldn’t reach us and we’d be there giggling as she wildly swung the reversible brown/black 34 inch belt. Only after exhaustion struck did she stop and with heaving breath say, “Wait till your father gets home.”

And she waited, in a chair in the kitchen holding the belt cursing to herself.  We used this time to locate items we had lost under the bed weeks before and thoughtfully picked dust balls off each other.

When Dad got home it never worked out the way Mom wanted.  He’d be in a good mood or self absorbed in something, she’d be feeling semi-guilty about getting the belt in the first place, he’d say, “where are the kids?”

Rory would come charging out, “Hi Dad!”  I’d come out cautiously keeping a sharp eye on Mom while she looked me over and weighed her next move, and there usually wasn’t one.  It was just another typical rainy afternoon on 83rd Street with nothing to do.

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Tomorrow, Tues, Oct 25th @ 6pm I will be a guest on Diana Navarro's terrific radio show "Working Things Out," you can listen live at Centanni Broadcasting Network on this link.

Happy Birthday, Uncle Mommy!

Today would be Mom's 81st Birthday. I'm celebrating with a glass of milk and washing it down with a black & white cookie.

Happy Birthday, Uncle Mommy! I never had a boring day with Mom in Yorkville.

Chug, Chug, Chug...

...was all I needed to hear. I’d run from any point in the apartment and jump on. Mom’s washing machine was my rocking bronco. Old and cranky, but it still ran. Burping, coughing, and passing gas, its mechanical parts in constant resistance against one another. The machine would lift itself from its usual corner by the old sink in our tiny kitchen beginning its Ouija board dance of death across the linoleum floor. Sick of having to plug it back in when it pulled itself out of the wall socket; Mom finally gave in adding a long extension cord. This cord was my passport to ride the wide open plain from sink to wall, from wall to door across the rolling kitchen floor.

Only one rule was in play. I couldn’t wear my sneakers when driving. Early rides found me firmly planting my sneakered feet on the papered walls to maximize liftoff. This left indelible marks resistant to all Borax cleaning products. Our compromise, I wore socks. So did Mom. We each wore a pair of Dad’s thick hunting socks. Me to cleanly push off as the stage coach perilously neared the wall. I redirected my pony express out of the sage brush back onto the dirt road. Mom’s socks allowed her to slide across the floor in a fluid polishing motion till she saw her house proud smile reflecting off the burnished linoleum.

The kitchen radio played “Our Day Will Come and We’ll Have Everything” by Ruby and the Romantics, then Mom put Mario Lanza on Dad’s 1955 RCA Victrola record player. We’d sing on the top of our lungs locked in tune. The music, the bouncing machine and me, mom’s linoleum cleaning cha-cha, a chaotic orchestra playing for only us two, and Mario and we singing:

“Drink, Drink, Drink,

To eyes that are bright as stars when they’re shining on me.

Drink! Drink! Drink!
To lips that are red and sweet as the fruit on the tree!
Here's a hope that those bright eyes will shine

Lovingly, longingly soon into mine!
May those lips that are red and sweet,
Tonight with joy my own lips meet!
Drink! Drink! Drink! ”

We knew every word.

War of the Tomatoes

1953, right after my parents first wedding anniversary:

Up in the York Avenue apartment, my half Italian father who thought he was 100 percent Italian, accidentally repeated these words to my Aunt Alice within earshot of his Italian mother. "Patty's sauce is better than Mom's."

After watching her mother-in-law's huffing reaction to this announcement, my 100 percent Irish mother who thought she was Italian was pleased as punch.

This kicked off a 46 year "War of the Tomatoes." Patty Pryor and Ann Pryor Rode dug trenches ~ and it wasn't just tomatoes.

There's Plenty of Nuts Out There

Made friends with a squirrel today in Central Park. He told me rather than store his nuts for later this winter, he was going eat them all, today!

My parents left the city in 1977 for Massapequa Park and became homeowners for the first time. I come from a long line of renters. After Mom died, Dad typed out a story she had written and gave it to me. I also have the original Mom wrote in pen. I take it out now and then. It's a love story between a York Avenue girl and a suburban squirrel.

Shorty by Patricia Pryor ~ 1989 (no edits)

We have a fifty-foot Oak tree in our backyard. One of the branches has hollowed out. Shorty, Petie, Oscar, Boo and many other squirrels reside there. It is a wonder for me to see them every morning, frolicking and playing. Every year there are new babies, and they come out about 6AM and try to see how far they can wander from the big Oak tree.... They love it so.... Below this oak we have a woodshed and a fence. They sometimes go along this too, chasing each other. Falling off in their haste. It is like watching children at play. Whenever my Granddaughter is here, we feed them together. Nuts, apples, acorns and the rest of the goodies they so love. Sometimes they venture further and try to run up another tree which has a birdhouse, but the little birds protest very loudly and give them a merry chase. So back they go to their little home so high in the sky. On Thanksgiving, Alison put out some Crab apples and goodies. I see Shorty trying one, dropping it, picking it up, dropping it. Alison would so love to see what I see so early in the morning...Sorry Alison, but they did eat the crackers you left for them...Here’s Shorty again, so adorable. He must know I love him… Reminds me of Michael, so innocent and trusting. So eager to explore all independent, always on his own…Not afraid to come nearer to our window to find a nut or two. How he trusts what I put out for him...

One cold windy day he sat in the crook of the smaller tree and swayed in the wind, but still managed to hang on to finish his meal. I feel for him the way I felt for my children, when they were tots. Such innocence and purity.. Eager for every day’s adventures. I sometimes wonder what his little home looks like inside the big oak tree? How many other squirrels live in there too? They have to admire him. I do. Just think about how he wakes up in the morning,….. happy for another bright and sunny day. Planning the fun he will have exploring everywhere. Perhaps his friends Petie and Oscar would be more like him and trust a little more....The beautiful tree to live in , nice and warm. The food and water they find in the many yards like mine...Bad habits form so easy, but so can good ones. There is much to discover and enjoy. I especially like it when they chase each other up and down the tree and over the fences. Slipping and sliding, sometimes falling real hard on their little rumps, but up they go, to start all over again.

By the way did I forget to tell you what fun they have when they sometimes have to re-build their beds inside the tree? They gather leaves, paper and string, all really working hard together. Laughing and running all the way…Wow! Are they lucky to live so high up. Just think of all they can see from way up there. How great it would be to shrink and climb that tree and look inside. Wouldn’that be fun? To watch what goes on inside their home. Maybe I’ll just imagine it...They all have separate sleeping quarters, some neater than others. Shorty’s is the most interesting. He has lots of little goodies he plays with when it’s too cold to come out. A piece of shiny aluminum, he also uses for grooming purposes, empty shells for a little game he made up for all to play when they are totally homebound because of the cold...

Another nice sunny day.... Shorty has just come out to find some food. He is now in the middle tree eating his find. I have noticed that he doesn’t go in the crook of the branch unless it’s windy...Here he comes again, he just hid his nut by the little birdhouse. now he has taken a piece of cracker.I sometimes wonder does he know if it will rain later in the day?...he’s probably stocking up........

It snowed again last night, not more than 3 inches... I haven’t seen Shorty yet...he came out later in the day. He brought his buddies with him...The weather has changed again…45 degrees… I wonder if Shorty’s as puzzled by the way it changes so quickly...Today seems to be a beautiful day, I haven’t seen anyone yet, even though there’s plenty of crackers and nuts out there...