The quietly noble life of a beloved bartender - the "glue" of the gay community - will be mourned and honored at the place he loved.
By TOM ZUCCO
Published June 14, 2003
[Times photos: Jamie Francis]
"He was the mother you always wanted," Lesley Burns, a patron at The Other Side, said of Henry D. "Mother" Phelps.
Becky Metsker, co-owner of The Other Side bar, is one of many friends of Henry D. "Mother" Phelps, who will gather today to honor the late bartender.
A truck belonging to Henry D. "Mother" Phelps, who died of a heart attack June 3, remains parked in front of The Other Side bar.
ST. PETERSBURG - Mother Phelps never made the news. Never got married, never got elected or appointed to anything, never shot a hole-in-one or rescued anybody from a burning building.
He worked as a nurse most of his life and lived alone. (Yes, Mother Phelps was a man.) He retired, opened a bar called Hank's Hideaway, gave it up, and was tending bar at The Other Side on Fourth Street N when he died of a heart attack June 3 at age 68.
That was his life.
But lives that seem uneventful often aren't. And so it was with Mother Phelps.
In truth, Henry D. "Mother" Phelps did rescue a lot of people. Dozens probably. That's how the portly man with the round face and the thick Boston accent got the nickname Mother. Or as he said, "Mutha."
"He was the first person I met when I moved here," said Lesley Burns, 38, who was sitting at The Other Side one afternoon this week. "And without his help . . . "
Her voice trailed off.
"This is going to sound strange, but he was the mother you always wanted."
Past the aluminum palm trees and under the string of red and green lights, Phelps worked the bar as if it were a Broadway stage. He wore bonnets on Easter and - of course - on Mother's Day. He quoted Sophie Tucker. His favorite karaoke song was Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polka Dot Bikini. A few weeks before he died, he showed up wearing a faux leopard hat, a gold tiger print muumuu and a high-voltage, shocking pink Cher wig.
Mother's eyesight was failing, so he had to hold bills close to his face in order to see the denomination. And he could never get the credit card machine to work.
But he found people places to live and jobs, delivered meals to those who couldn't leave their homes, and was a fixture in St. Petersburg's gay community.
He kept a jar on the bar and made patrons who used certain four-letter words contribute to it. Last year the jar yielded about $1,200. That was enough money to buy toys and clothing for 17 needy children at Christmas.
"He's done things for people who still don't know he did it," said Terry McIe, 35, a friend of Phelps who was also at the bar. "People would need something, and it would be there. Food. Money. An electric or phone bill that was overdue would be paid. Anytime anybody was down and out, he was there.
"He was the glue that helped hold the gay community together."
Phelps has a brother and two sisters who live out of the area, but his family was far bigger than that. It included almost everyone who knew him.
"He wasn't perfect," McIe said. "He loved to gossip. If you wanted something repeated, just drop it around Hank.
"But the bar, the gay community . . . you can already feel the difference with him gone."
Phelps had a partner who died in a car accident nearly 20 years ago. The name Jack was all anyone could remember.
"They were together 17 years," said Joan Eastman, a co-owner of The Other Side. "Jack was the love of his life, and after he died, Hank never had another serious relationship."
The fading white 1986 Ford Ranger pickup truck Phelps drove to work the day he died is parked where he left it in front of the bar. His sunglasses are still on the dashboard, a tiny American flag still in the truck bed. He wanted his customers to know when he was working, so he always parked the truck in full view.
Now the windshield is lined with bouquets and cards, and on the roof is a bottle of Bombay Sapphire Distilled London dry gin, Mother's favorite. The bottle holds a single white rose.
Mother Phelps didn't want a funeral service. Not even an obituary. Spend the money on something more worthwhile, he told his friends. But too many people couldn't let his passing go unnoticed. So the The Other Side is hosting a memorial for him at 7 p.m. today. Bar co-owner Becky Metsker said they're expecting hundreds of people. And next week, in a quiet ceremony, a few of his friends will scatter his ashes at North Shore Park.
The regulars at The Other Side say the bar is quieter now; the laughter a little subdued. And when people sit around the bar and start telling stories, the conversation invariably turns to Mother Phelps.
"He was asked to ride on a float at the gay pride parade because he was an icon in the gay community," Eastman said. "But he laughed and turned them down. He said he was too young to be an icon."
