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Mom to 22, and frat boys at that

House mom Mimi Howard keeps the shenanigans to a minimum at Kappa Sigma fraternity house at the University of Florida.

By LANE DeGREGORY
Published May 7, 2005

GAINESVILLE - "There was the food fight," Mom says. "Oh, my, yes, the food fight." That hot buttered roll came soaring across the dining room, smacked her square in the head.

Then there was the time they turned her house into a pirate ship: built a bow on the balcony, a crow's nest on the roof. "You should've seen the party we had!" she says.

She glides back and forth on her wide front porch swing outside Kappa Sigma fraternity, slipping through shadows, dipping into puddles of bright spring sun. She sits here most mornings, watching the door. Nick and Jason just left for the gym. Matt, Shawn and Thomas are picking up a pizza. James will be by soon.

It's quiet on this Thursday morning. No stereos blaring. No one screaming as they careen off the Slip 'N Slide. "They pulled out all the hoses last week, flooded this whole yard," Mom says, chuckling. "Oh, my, yes. They were running and sliding on their bellies, having a great time." But some boys missed the slide and shot into the bushes. Mom scrubbed their elbows, bandaged their knees. Really.

She has found boys passed out in her lawn chairs, fighting in her kitchen, sneaking girls upstairs. She confiscates their liquor, patches their shirts and their friendships, holds them while they sob over girls. "These boys want you to think they're all grown up. But they're not," she says. "Not yet."

***

Mimi "Mom" Howard has 96 boys, ages 18 to 23. Only 22 of them live at home. Her two-story brick house has a dozen bedrooms upstairs.

Mom sleeps downstairs, off the alcove where she sets out cereal. A wipeoff board adorns her always-open door. Mom's at church. Mom's at the grocery. Mom will be back by noon, she writes.

Sometimes, the boys scrawl messages to her. We (heart) you, Mom! And her favorite: Mom's hanging around with the wrong crowd!

She's the manager of the Kappa Sigma house at the University of Florida - one of the school's last true frat moms.

"Only six of our 22 frat houses still have moms," says Chris Bullins, director of the university's Office of Sorority and Fraternity Affairs. "Most houses are hiring house managers who are younger and have day jobs, or grad students."

But the guys at Kappa Sig don't want young - they love Mom. They were the ones who interviewed her, who hired her. They think she's in her 50s, about the age of their own moms. If they only knew. . . .

***

"Hi, Mom!" James Martin shouts, running up the circular driveway just after 11 a.m. James is the fraternity president. "How you feeling?" he asks, sinking beside her on the swing.

Mom just got back from the doctor. Her back is spasming again, even after the surgery. Her right foot aches beneath the brace. But she doesn't want to worry her boys. "Grand, just grand," she says, her soft cheeks folding into a smile.

With less than a week to go before graduation, the guys are getting ready to let loose.

"Gator Stomp tonight. You want to come?" James asks, teasing. He doesn't have to translate. Mom is well aware of her boys' end-of-semester routine: 10 bars, 10 drinks, two slices of pizza and a Coke.

"Oh my, you know I don't like that Gator Stomp thing," Mom says, fingering the thin gold cross at her throat. "Someone always gets hurt."

She already lost one of her boys this year: Chris Smalls died in a car accident in January. And she still grieves for her own son, Matthew. He's what brought her here.

***

"Oh, my. I don't remember this hanging like that last night," Mom says, peering up at the EXIT sign above the dining room door. The lighted sign is dangling above her head, twirling on a tangled rope of wires. Mom clicks it off. She makes a call to get it fixed.

She limps through the dining room, straightening metal folding chairs. She doesn't cook for the frat house, but she makes the menus. Pork chops and meatloaf, mashed potatoes with gravy. Every night, she eats with her boys at one of the long tables.

"She does everything for this house," James says. "Everything a real mom does."

For liability reasons, the boys have to have a house manager. But they don't have to include her in their lives. These guys taught Mom all about PlayStation, to twirl the knobs on foosball. They invite her to football games, to go line-dancing. Once a month, Brett brings a DVD to her apartment and flops on the floor by Mom's feet, to watch with her.

"Sometimes, they'll wake me up at 3 a.m. asking, "Where's the peanut butter?' But I don't mind. Really. I've learned to sleep through heavy metal bands and I never get up early anymore," she says. She doesn't fuss about noise.

But she won't tolerate liquor, girls staying overnight, or underage drinking.

"She'll ask you what's in your cup, then sniff it, to make sure," James says. "She won't let any of the younger guys have anything except soda."

"Of course they get mad at me sometimes," she says proudly. "I'm a mom."

And like any mom, she doesn't know everything that goes on.

***

Before Mom was Mom, she was Marion, then Mimi. She worked in the insurance business in West Virginia and raised three sons on her own after she got divorced. When her youngest, Matthew, got sick, she sold the agency and moved to Port Charlotte to care for him.

She wanted him to at least feel the sun.

"I lost Matthew to leukemia 10 years ago, when he was only 34," Mom says, slow tears streaking through her powder. "After that, I sort of ran away."

In the years after he died, Mom tried to kill the loneliness. She adopted a Siamese cat, met a man, spent weekends visiting her five grandchildren, hanging out with the "Red Hatters." But she needed more. "I was bored with all those white-haired old ladies," Mom says, patting her own frosty bangs. "All they talk about is their aches and doctors' appointments."

One day, a friend told her about a UF sorority that needed a house mom. Can you imagine, the friend asked. Imagine living with and dealing with and trying to discipline a bunch of college girls. Who would want to do that?

"Me," Mom said suddenly. "I would. Very much."

Two weeks later, she had sold her home and moved to Gainesville, where she crammed a quarter of her furniture into two tiny rooms at the Delta Phi Epsilon house. She stayed with the girls for six years.

But she wanted boys. She knew boys. Boys were easier.

When the house mom at Kappa Sig left two years ago, Mom moved into the three-room apartment on the fraternity's first floor. It's frustrating for her, and fortunate for the boys, that her bad back keeps her from climbing stairs - so she can't inspect their bedrooms. Their upstairs living room also is Mom-free.

***

"My boys come back here all the time to visit," Mom says, walking into her apartment. "I must get five, six hugs a day."

She sinks into a striped chair beside her sofa. Even here, in her sanctuary, she keeps her boys with her. On her TV and shelves, silver frames surround their smiles. The white rose Thomas gave her during the ROTC ceremony sits on her table. He said it was for his favorite woman in his life.

"This is home. I don't have any other. I'm here all summer, with at least a dozen of my boys," she says. The cat crawls into her lap. James leans over an end table, studying a photo. He's been in her apartment often, but he doesn't remember this picture of the blue-eyed baby.

"That's Olivia," Mom says, her voice choked with emotion. "My great-granddaughter. My first great. . . . I just got her."

So how old are you then, Mom, to be a great-grandmother? More than 50, which is what your boys guessed? "Oh my yes," she says, laughing. More than 60? "Oh my yes." More than 70? "Stop there," Mom says, holding up her hand like a crossing guard. "I'm 80," she says finally. "How many women my age do you know who can say they get to sleep with 22 boys every night?"

James laughs and rises to leave. His girlfriend and a bunch of the guys are waiting. "We're going to grab some lunch. Want to come with us, Mom?"

She gets up too, slowly, steadying herself against the arm chair. "Oh my no - thank you," she says, following him back through the frat house. She walks out the front door, shuffles across the porch. "You boys go along, have a good time!" She folds into her swing and starts rocking again, slowly, watching her boys' backs.

-- Lane DeGregory can be reached at 727 893-8825 or degregory@sptimes.com

[Last modified May 6, 2005, 13:19:02]