dressed. I’ll be over in thirty minutes.”
Twenty-nine minutes later I’m standing on the porch, wondering why she locked the door when she knew I was coming. But I can’t
hold a grudge when I see her bright smile. The one I know so well that always communicates her joy at seeing me. It’s nice
to have someone in your life you know loves you unconditionally. Sure, I might get aggravated at my mom, but the fact remains
I couldn’t have made it through the past few years without her.
As I step inside the familiar house, the home where I grew up, a feeling of nostalgia sweeps over me. I want to beg my mom
not to leave, but I’ve come to accept the fact that she needs to do this for her own sake. Even if I personally think living
with Charley is going to drive her into early dementia.
“Do you want some coffee?” Mom asks.
“No. I just had some.” But I have no intention of telling her about my morning coffee date. “Let’s just dive right into the
attic.”
Being the brave young thing I am, I venture forth ahead of Mom. I duck and beat at cobwebs, feeling like Indiana Jones, minus
the bullwhip and sardonic grin. I breathe in the musty smell of forty years’ worth of memories. My memories. Charley’s. Mom’s.
Suddenly, I’m missing my dad. A gentle giant with a voice like Sinatra. In the corner sits his fishing gear, tackle boxes,
old rods and reels. I laugh and snatch up his pride and joy: a gray fishing hat, decorated around the rim with fishing lures
and hooks taken from the lips of the unfortunate “big ones” he caught in his lifetime. I plop the hat on my head and rummage
through the tackle box. “Remember when Dad used to take us camping?”
Mom gives a snort, and I’m not feeling the love.
“What’s that for?” I ask.
“I hated every second of those outings.”
My brow lifts with my utter shock. She might as well have said she never loved my dad. True, Mom never was one to complain,
but in my mental slide show, I don’t see anything that looks like misery. I have a feeling she’s overstating her case. “I
always thought you were having a great time like the rest of us.”
“It meant so much to your father to take us on these little excursions to the middle of nowhere. And you kids lived for the
summer campouts; I couldn’t very well disappoint you all.”
“I thought camping was fun. Still do. How come you didn’t like it, Mom?”
She shuddered. “Bugs. I hated the bugs.”
I roll my eyes. “Well, who doesn’t?” Okay, I’ve had this conversation once today.
“Don’t get smart with me.”
I grin. Mom so gets my sarcasm. No need for unflattering analogies.
“So, what do you want me to do with all this stuff?”
Mom shrugs. “I suppose we’ll have to throw it out.”
I gasp so hard I take in a lungful of dust and start to cough. Mom pounds me on the back, and I’m thinking this woman is
not
the frail old lady she pretends to be. She could probably take me in a street fight.
When I finally compose myself and convince Mom to stop beating me half to death, I look at her to see if dust has affected
her ability to focus. “You really want to throw out Daddy’s fishing gear?”
“Well, I can’t very well take it with me.”
“Charley might want it.”
Mom laughs and I see her point. “Your brother doesn’t know one end of a hook from the other. Do you suppose Rick might want
it?”
“Rick’s not my husband anymore, Mother. Remember?” I know I sound huffy. But when will she get it through her head that she
doesn’t need to be nice to him anymore, and as a matter of fact, I wish she’d be mean?
“Of course I remember. But your father always thought so highly of him. Well, until… you know.”
“Until he started having a lot more sex than I was?”
“Well, there’s no reason to be vulgar. You could have simply said he was stepping out on you with other women, which I know
very well that he was.” Even in the
Twenty-nine minutes later I’m standing on the porch, wondering why she locked the door when she knew I was coming. But I can’t
hold a grudge when I see her bright smile. The one I know so well that always communicates her joy at seeing me. It’s nice
to have someone in your life you know loves you unconditionally. Sure, I might get aggravated at my mom, but the fact remains
I couldn’t have made it through the past few years without her.
As I step inside the familiar house, the home where I grew up, a feeling of nostalgia sweeps over me. I want to beg my mom
not to leave, but I’ve come to accept the fact that she needs to do this for her own sake. Even if I personally think living
with Charley is going to drive her into early dementia.
“Do you want some coffee?” Mom asks.
“No. I just had some.” But I have no intention of telling her about my morning coffee date. “Let’s just dive right into the
attic.”
Being the brave young thing I am, I venture forth ahead of Mom. I duck and beat at cobwebs, feeling like Indiana Jones, minus
the bullwhip and sardonic grin. I breathe in the musty smell of forty years’ worth of memories. My memories. Charley’s. Mom’s.
Suddenly, I’m missing my dad. A gentle giant with a voice like Sinatra. In the corner sits his fishing gear, tackle boxes,
old rods and reels. I laugh and snatch up his pride and joy: a gray fishing hat, decorated around the rim with fishing lures
and hooks taken from the lips of the unfortunate “big ones” he caught in his lifetime. I plop the hat on my head and rummage
through the tackle box. “Remember when Dad used to take us camping?”
Mom gives a snort, and I’m not feeling the love.
“What’s that for?” I ask.
“I hated every second of those outings.”
My brow lifts with my utter shock. She might as well have said she never loved my dad. True, Mom never was one to complain,
but in my mental slide show, I don’t see anything that looks like misery. I have a feeling she’s overstating her case. “I
always thought you were having a great time like the rest of us.”
“It meant so much to your father to take us on these little excursions to the middle of nowhere. And you kids lived for the
summer campouts; I couldn’t very well disappoint you all.”
“I thought camping was fun. Still do. How come you didn’t like it, Mom?”
She shuddered. “Bugs. I hated the bugs.”
I roll my eyes. “Well, who doesn’t?” Okay, I’ve had this conversation once today.
“Don’t get smart with me.”
I grin. Mom so gets my sarcasm. No need for unflattering analogies.
“So, what do you want me to do with all this stuff?”
Mom shrugs. “I suppose we’ll have to throw it out.”
I gasp so hard I take in a lungful of dust and start to cough. Mom pounds me on the back, and I’m thinking this woman is
not
the frail old lady she pretends to be. She could probably take me in a street fight.
When I finally compose myself and convince Mom to stop beating me half to death, I look at her to see if dust has affected
her ability to focus. “You really want to throw out Daddy’s fishing gear?”
“Well, I can’t very well take it with me.”
“Charley might want it.”
Mom laughs and I see her point. “Your brother doesn’t know one end of a hook from the other. Do you suppose Rick might want
it?”
“Rick’s not my husband anymore, Mother. Remember?” I know I sound huffy. But when will she get it through her head that she
doesn’t need to be nice to him anymore, and as a matter of fact, I wish she’d be mean?
“Of course I remember. But your father always thought so highly of him. Well, until… you know.”
“Until he started having a lot more sex than I was?”
“Well, there’s no reason to be vulgar. You could have simply said he was stepping out on you with other women, which I know
very well that he was.” Even in the
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