Thursday, May 20, 2010
Mom and the girls
By Scott Beveridge,
Mom was driving along when she noticed the brute beating up his woman.
He was socking the lady in the head, carrying her over a shoulder and running down a long set of wooden stairs to the street in East Monongahela, Pa.
It was a cool evening in the mid-1960s. With the car windows rolled down, we could hear the woman screaming for help.
Without hesitation, my mother - June Hart Beveridge - standing 5 feet, 2 inches tall and about 35 years old, pulled over her car and jumped out to intervene.
"Put her down," she screamed to the stranger.
The guy obeyed her command. And then he started running toward us, arms free.
June, startled and flustered, jumped back in her clunker of a car and engaged its engine. Looking down at the dashboard, she announced to no surprise that we were cruising again on an empty tank of gasoline.
We sped off, with my brother, Kelly, younger than me by two years, staring out the rear-view mirror to see if that bastard would give chase. He was about 6 years old. We almost peed ourselves in fear that our car might break down or run out of gas before we would reach the three miles to our home in Webster and to protection. The moron left us alone. Mom hoped the interruption gave the victim time to get away.
This has become my favorite story about mom, who has made incredible bonds with the many women who came into her life. There were several times over the years when her female friends showed at our house with blackened eyes or bleeding noses after their husbands had beaten the crap out of them.
Mom comforted them with common-sense advise on how to get through the abuse, and also prevent it from happening again. They admired her, greatly.