Why Mrs. Astor?

I hashed out the title with du Barry one afternoon at one of our toasty lunches. But the roots go very deep.

My mother was, and IS, a formidable, all-knowing, imperious, and lovable Rhode Island Bitch (her term). I was the oldest of five brothers by eight years (the obvious "mistake") and this gave me unparalleled proximity to my mother. About the age of ten, she began to refer to me as "Mrs. Astor". It was always, "Come on, Mrs. Astor, get in the car" (or "cahhh", as we pronounce it) or "Hey, Mrs. Astor, it's time for lunch". In the mornings she would call up the stairs, "Lady Astor, it's time to get up!". (The Mrs. Astor and Lady Astor, although related, were two very different women.)

Anyway, I assume any normal boy would have taken offense, (I have always believed that mothers sense "gayness" in their sons) but I embraced it. Of course, in Rhode Island and, particularly Newport, Mrs. Astor is a legend; we had all been to her imposing Beechwood. I immersed myself in books of her life and her society; I undoubtedly was the only one in my class who knew who Ward McAllister was and the only one who cared.

About the time of high school, my mother--ever the one to know what is right--stopped calling me Mrs. Astor, although my grandmother carried on that tradition until she died. I loved it, still do, and am finally able to do something about it.
With great love, I remain,
Mrs. Astor