Some women love athletes, others love actors, but only the truly discerning woman has her passions inflamed by a game show host. That was my mother. In the late ‘70’s, my Italian-American mom became obsessed with Bob Barker. She’d say, "Bob a Barker, dare's a guy I like a. He treats a da ladies wid a respect, he's a real a gendleman." Each morning at 11, the household paused as she watched "The Price is Right," with more passion than she exhibited for even a really good salami.

My mother’s love affair with show business began when she was young and beautiful and everyone said she resembled silent film actress, Pola Negri. She never mustered the nerve to pursue acting. Instead she worked behind the beer stained counter of her parents’ Western Pennsylvania tavern, dreaming of stardom. She eventually married, had a family and discovered that all she ever lacked was confidence.

Years passed and she saw there weren’t many roles for overweight Italian women. So Bob Barker became important to her. Maybe she felt “The Price is Right,” offered her a last grasp at diluted fame, or maybe she just thought Bob was cute. Whatever the reason, it didn’t sit well with my father.

She talked constantly about how she wanted to be on the show, which made people in our small town chuckle. They thought her big dreams were absurd. Martha from her card club even said, ”What makes you think you’re gonna win?” Her stinging words only strengthened Mom’s will and her finely honed revenge gene.

So my decision to move west came at the perfect time. My mother was inconsolable that Francy, her youngest, was leaving. She sobbed until I said, “But Ma, if I move to Los Angeles, you can finally see ‘The Price is Right!’” her tears stopped midstream, she turned to me beaming and said, “Really Frenzy, you ting I have a chenze?”

Such was the power of Bob Barker over my mother. My father maintained his dislike of all things Hollywood, but eight months after my departure, my parents made their first visit, which included a trip to “The Price is Right.”

At CBS Studios Mom was like a little kid. Grabbing my arm, she'd say, "Frenzy, you ting a dey call onna me?" Then looking up she'd say, "Jesus, pleece, eef a dey call onna me, tella me whatta to say. Frenzy, what eef I getta tongue a tied?" Then back to Jesus, "Jesus pleece, a you putta da words inna my mout...OKAY?"

My dad lumbered along, muttering, "What are you so excited for? It's just a stupid TV show."

We stood in line, name tags on, nervously waiting to be interviewed by the show's producer. My mother was interviewed first. If she’d been any more excited she would have experienced lift-off.

Producer: "Hello Mary, tell me about yourself"
Mom: "Well, a every day atta elevena clock, I go to da TV and a put onna Bob a Barker anna da "Price Iza Right" a. My husband calls itta da holy hour. I justa love a his a show. He’s a vevry niza man."

She flashed her biggest smile and was happier and peppier than I’d ever seen her. This was as close as she’d come to her dream of stardom. I was terrified they wouldn’t pick her.

The producer then interviewed my dad, then me, both dull as nasal spray compared to Mom. They seated us in the studio in one of the last rows in the back. The corners of my mother’s smile drooped and she murmurred, "I don'da a ting a dey gonna peek us iffa dey put us alla da way inna da back.”

Bob's announcer, Johnny Olson, breezed through the audience… flirting with the women, and kissed me. Mom thought this meant I was a contestant. "You're a youngga gal...a whadda do dey wandda wit an oldda baddle axe liga me? Dey gonna peek a you, honey,” she said smiling weakly.

The audience lights went down and Bob Barker strolled out in a smart, dark suit. The first four contestants were called and my mother wasn’t one of them. "Please let her make it," I prayed and began wondering what I’d have to promise God to swing a deal. I’d forgotten the heavy hitter was right beside me.

If you’re not familiar with the mysteries of Catholicism, there’s a prayer Catholics save for things like the World Series and childbirth, called a novena. You say the prayer for nine straight days and at the end, you miraculously get what you prayed for.

My mother, who never went a day without seven holy medals pinned to her bra, had made about nine billion novenas in her lifetime. Finally someone responded as Johnny Olson announced the next contestant and said, "Mary Tunno, come on down!

"Meeeeee! Dey peeked a me!, "she squealed as she jumped from her seat. She trotted down the aisle in her bright blue dress, waving her fists. She was radiant, ready to meet her idol.

"I'll be damned," my father mumbled "she got picked!"

In my head, I could hear everyone in our small town, including Martha, saying, “I’ll be damned, she got picked.

She took her place on contestant’s row and tearfully told Bob, “I been a wanding a to see you for a long a time a.” She then nervously lost the first two rounds, but guessed the price of luggage and moved onstage. I happily envisioned Martha’s plate of crow as Mom placed a loving kiss on Bob’s cheek.

She lost another round, but rolled the highest number in the showcase showdown and ended up one of two final contestants. I was amazed.

But when she made the closest bid and won the showcase, I heard my incredulous father say, “I can’t believe it, she said she’d win and she won! My overweight mom, with her second grade education, and Italian accent was the winner. That moment taught me everything about the power of a dream.

In the coming years my mother remained devoted to Bob Barker. She was convinced she’d won because Bob wanted her to, even if the prizes didn’t fit in her house. Each year at Christmas, she sent Bob gift packages from Hickory Farms in appreciation. One year she received no acknowledgement and called wondering why. She was told her gift must have been lost or stolen, but Bob thanked her anyway. A few days later two of her most prized possessions arrived; a signed letter from Bob Barker and an 8x10 glossy. The game-show host shared a picture frame with my brothers and together they nestled on a doily in my parents home until my mother passed away in 1992. I can only imagine that when sexual harassment allegations surfaced the following year, Mom would have been his most ardent defender.

Within days of her passing my father tore up Bob’s photo and tossed it in the trash. Ma always suspected he was jealous. But apparently death does not weaken a finely honed revenge gene because twenty-six years later, my father is stuck with two dining room sets, a bar in his living room, tarnished, gold plated flatware, luggage, carpeting and unused pewter plates.

It’s been 26 years since my mother’s TV debut, but each September, the month her episode aired, I view the grainy videotape and smile. I do it to honor her and all big dreamers.

Writing and Comments

Dear Fran,

I loved your essay and, based on the calls I received on Sunday, so did a lot of folks. Your mother was a wonderful lady and, obviously a lady of RARE good TASTE. May God bless HER.

Sincerely,
Bob Barker

Thanks for Memories of Mom

"Da Holy Hour" (by Fran Tunno, Metropolis, Oct 5) gave me great pleasure. How funny! Tunno’s Italian American mom was my Croatian American mom. Mine never made it to the big time on TV, but she loved Jerry Dunphy and Bob Barker. Keep the funny stories coming.

Martha McDaniel
Glendale

Dear Ms. Tunno,

Several years ago the LA TIMES MAGAZINE published your story, "Da Holy Hour": My Mom, Bob Barker and the Enduring Power of Dreams.

I was deeply moved by by the piece and saved a hard copy in my files. I happened to strike up a conversation with a woman today whose mother was born and raised in Venezuela. She came to this country not knowing a word of English. Nicki explained that her mother learned the language by watching Bob Barker on THE PRICE IS RIGHT, and when her mother came to visit her, she went to the show and actually got selected. Suffice to say, there were many similarities between the two stories and I told her I would try to find the article, which I did, and send it to her. Unfortunately, it’s really faded and wrinkled. I wondered if you might possibly have it online and if so, would you be willing to send it to me. I simply want to share this beautiful tale with someone who I think will appreciate it fully. Thank you in advance for your help. And thank you for sharing your mother with your readers.

Best regards,
Holly Lebed