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 her, promising a life of happily-ever-afters.

And like any twenty-two-year-old girl who spends years dreaming of that magical moment, she believed him.

So after a whirlwind engagement lasting only four months, and just days after becoming a college grad, my mom became a gorgeous June bride in a lovely ceremony at the "Cathedral of the Southern Tier"-St. Mary's Roman Catholic Church in Olean. Everything about the ceremony apparently was as beautiful as the blushing bride, and it appeared as if the young lovers were on their way to their storybook life together. The wedding was followed by an elegant and festive reception with all the trimmings at the Castle, Olean's finest restaurant of the day. The fairytale celebration-complete with the custom bridal gown from Morrie Hmburger in New York and the champagne-flowing reception-was made possible for the most part by Peggy's overflowing bank account. (More on that to come.) Mom's money also funded the romantic honeymoon in Niagara Falls, during which she claims she spent most of her time crying. (Yeah, right, like I believe that!)

At the time of my parents' marriage, my dad still had another year of college to complete, but that didn't seem to matter to the young lovers. They moved into their first home, a small and simple upstairs apartment on Virginia Street in Olean with high hopes and big dreams, with the rent, of course, paid by my mother's seemingly bottomless bank account. By the time my dad began his senior year, his bride was already expecting their first child. And just days after my dad became a college grad the following May, his wife gave birth (not on a street curb, thank heavens!) to a beautiful baby girl. And thus began my parents' seemingly non-stop seventeen-year span of pregnancies, kids, and more kids, resulting in nine little Bednars-and a whole lot more than either of them could have ever envisioned at that time.

Heaven only knows why, when naming their kids, they got so carried away with the whole "M thing". It started innocently enough, I suppose, with the pretty name Michele for their delicate firstborn, followed by their first son Michael (born just fifteen months after Michele). Then along came Mark, and I imagine this is where the "M thing" really started to catch on. By the time their next child came along in 1958, Mitchell seemed just right. They should have stopped there-with the Ms and the kids-but they didn't. So along came Margaret (later to become the one and only Maggie), named after and born on the birthday of my Great Gramma Parmeter. When child number six, another son, arrived in July 1963, my mom's sister had recently named her newborn Matthew, so they considered the name Malacai (quite biblical, huh?). Thank God for his sake that the nurse who had by then helped deliver several Bednar kids (I'm sure she felt like part of the family by this point!) protested and suggested something equally unusual but definitely more charismatic: Merrick. So Merrick it was. The "M"-athon continued when baby number seven appeared less than two years after Merrick. The name Mollie seemed perfect for the petite and adorable little dolly.

After seven kids, most sane people would seriously question my parents' mental state (and seriously wonder how they ever found time to have sex!) because just one year and five days after Mollie's birth, child number eight-that would be me-entered the clan. Eight was enough long before the '70s TV show! Of course, I win the prize for the most bizarre "M" name, and to this day I'm still not sure how I ended up with Martial-unusual spelling and all-although my Mom told me she found it somewhere in a book of saints. I'm the least militant person you could ever meet, but I have to admit the name beats Mortimer or Malchezadek, about the only remaining unused male "M" names by the time I showed up. Oh, well, I've told myself that if I ever make in Hollywood, I'll never have to use a stage name.

Speaking of Hollywood, my desire to have my name in lights must have been nurtured at birth; after all, I was the fifteen thousandth baby to be born in Olean's St. Francis Hospital. Although unnamed when the Times Herald photographer came to take my picture with mother, father, and some hospital nun named Sr. Therese, I figure I used a good ten of my fifteen minutes of fame right then and there through the picture that promoted my "celebrity" birth throughout my hometown. Truth be known, I actually may have been the fifteen thousand and first baby born at the hospital. My mother thinks there was an unwed mother who was in labor at the same time and delivered before her. But in 1966, a Catholic hospital certainly didn't promote that! After reading about the big event in the paper, one of my mother's bridge club partners summed up my birth the best, I think.

"I see the Bednars just had their fifteen thousandth baby," she announced sarcastically.

As a result of my famed entry into the world, my parents received lots of free diapers, clothes, and toys from several Olean merchants. Ahh ... the sweet rewards of fame.

Just when it looked like the Bednar baby boom was finally over, along came baby number nine, Maura, four years my junior. Although my mother, now forty years old, was thrilled about her newest bundle of joy, born the ninth day of 1970, the older kids were less than enthusiastic at the time.

"I'd rather have a dog than another baby!" moaned the seventeen-year-old Michele, who had had more than her share of babysitting and diaper-changing in her short life (and who secretly and desperately yearned for a collie named, of all things, Lassie).

"Are we going to keep this baby ... forever?!" I, the till-then baby of the family, reportedly asked when the adorable baby made her first appearance at home. The answer, incidentally, was yes. And for so many reasons, we're all grateful for that.

Fortunately, all of us Bednar babies were born healthy and strong, despite the fact that my mother smoked her filtered Kools and downed her share of extra dry Manhattans at her bridge club get-togethers during her pregnancies. From Mark on, however, we all did require blood exchanges at birth due to my mother's Rh factor, which, I understand, was considered pretty serious at that time.

Anyway, you'd think that a couple with enough chemistry between them to create nine kids would have a picture-perfect marriage reserved solely for Disney ads. Not so in my parents case. In fact, you could argue that the only good that came from their twenty-some years of marriage were all the M and Ms they produced.

Even their early years of marriage, I'm told, were far from perfect. Of course, I wasn't there to observe those years, so all I know is what I've been told and what I've pieced together in some forty years of life. My parents opted to stay in Olean after my dad graduated from college. "There's never going to be a shortage of kids," the born salesman convinced my eager-to-please mother, who herself was well on her way to a baby boom of her own. So with his new bachelor's degree, and with aid from my mom's checkbook, my entrepreneurial father dove head-first into opening a children's store in uptown Olean. Not long into it, it went bust. I'm not sure if it was from lack of customers, or from lack of commitment on my dad's part. He apparently had a knack for that ... and not just in his business dealings.

To tell you the truth, I'm not exactly sure when my dad started cheating on my mom (and I'm not sure I really want to know). But long before I arrived on the scene, my mother knew he was seeing other women. It seems so bizarre to me in this day and age that she didn't just cut her losses and leave him when she first found out, but life was obviously very different then. She'd confront him, they'd fight and argue, but ultimately kiss, make up-and end up pregnant again. Sadly, it was a vicious circle that neither of them seemed to have the guts to break, so along came more kids, a good dozen more years of that routine, and God (and my dad) only knows how many women. As the years went by, my parents played the game of the happy family for a while, complete with social outings, bridge clubs, weekly Mass, and Sunday evening trips to the Tastee Freeze. But eventually the money became scarcer, the fights became fiercer, the affairs became more obvious, my mother became more afraid to let go, and my dad became more cold-hearted toward her.

Of course, I'm positive that my mother didn't always make life easy for my dad; even she'd have to admit that she can be demanding, opinionated, stubborn, and self-centered. Of course, she can also be charming, funny, and loving. But I am certain that she was faithful to her marriage, and I know for a fact that she put her children's needs and wants above her own.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Nine Ms and a Mother Like No Otherby Martial Bednar Copyright © 2009 by Martial Bednar. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.