It may seem silly and overdone to say it, but I believe that the person who has most affected my life has been my mom, Shirley. You can see her handiwork all over our home, even before you step in the door. The lawn is filled with carefully placed flowers and cared-for trees and grass. The wall just beside the front door is painted red in striking contrast to the white boards because of a failed Christmas project a few years back. Once you step inside there are the enthusiastically painted walls of bright blues, red, and splattered black, and all the crafts she's hung on them. The one I like the best is the barbed wire wreath, which is just the wire wrapped around a little fake bird's nest and eggs. Everyone that's seen it thinks that it is the coolest thing ever, but my dad always freaked out about it and worried it was some sort of sign of hidden aggression. I can't imagine how dull and boring the house might look if it weren't for her. She is like the screaming college student streaker racing through the Congress hall of our life.
Some people, when they first walk into the house, think it's more messy than anything else, but I prefer to call it "lived in." Her view on it is that if anyone else thinks they can keep a home in order while caring for a two year old demon and simultaneously doing work for a twenty-four hour towing business, they can go ahead and try. It might give her a few minutes off before they run away in terror. You see, she really does do her best, and when I come home from school or work it's usually where I see her--bustling around the place trying to clean up before my brother, "Cheeto," wakes up again. It's like being chased by a steam roller.
Today is a peaceful day because I was at a friend's house until late, which means Cheeto is already asleep. Mom is sitting at the kitchen counter, enveloped in smoke, as she often is when she's recovering from a stressful day. Cheeto must have really been a holy terror today. But she's feeling better now, because she's almost done with her cigarette and she's finishing off one last joke in the letter she's writing before she even acknowledges I'm here. As I wait for her to finish, I feel like I'm in some sort of strange sauna, a rough hissing noise like water being poured on the stones as she breathes out again and, finally done with her letter, looks at me and grins.
"Went garage saling with Aunt Nancy today," she starts, an unspoken invitation for me to sit down.
"Oh, yeah?" I ask, sitting on the creaky stool across from her.
She nods, still smiling, and takes a drink from her pop as I study her disheveled brown hair, now streaked with white, flutter around with her movement. She had cut it down to an inch last summer because it was too much hassle, and everyone laughed at her, but she laughed right back. Wouldn't you, if you knew you spent less than a tenth of the time doing your hair compared to everyone else? Recently she has been letting it grow through winter, so that her ears don't get old. She gets very frequent ear infections, you know. It's practicality at it's best. She was going to go baldie-style this year, but hasn't quite gotten around to it, so for now it just sits straight upright like a young child trying desperately to stay awake during a late night movie. She runs a hand over the tallest spikes and continues.
"Yeah. And we saw a bunch of fun stuff. But anyway, we were coming home across some railroad tracks and she goes--wait, have I told you about that? Why not to ask questions when someone tells you to put your mouth over your beer?"
She has, but I tell her no. She's in a talkative mood and I wouldn't dare disrupt that. Sometimes these moods are very far apart, and I have to keep every chance I get to be there for them. Besides, I love her stories, and the way she tells them. She'll ramble on for a while and throw in the most insignificant and yet hilarious detail that will make your sides ache with laughter.
Truthfully, it reminds me of fishing with my friends. Slowly you'd reel in the line, twitch a bit for presentation, until you're up and out of the water, and then quick as mall mongers to Brittany Spears you'd cast again. And then everyone would laugh because you realize your pole just snapped in half and landed in the water, but it's all okay because you're among friends, and you can't help but giggle a bit because it really is funny. It's kind of like that, only better.
As she talked, I remember the last time we went fishing...it was a great time, but later that night some of my friends were doing some...less innocent things. Let's just leave it at that. I remember I was b^tching to mom about it, and she listened to me like she always does, pulling out the whole story from me and waiting patiently for the final sigh of frustration being relieved. And it's not just that, because then she'll go on, usually to tell a story of how she got through the same circumstances, or maybe to ask questions to help you figure out your own solution. A modern day Socrates, I guess. I truly think she should have been a shrink or something, because she really is a natural.
Of course, it could just be because she knows me so well. All she needs to do is say, "remember that time...?" and the blank pretty much fills itself in.
Like what she said after we got done fishing and doing those other things. She had a story to tell me then, about her own times and parties with friends. She couldn't say she knew exactly how I felt, for she was more of a drinker and a rebel than I think I ever will be, but her tale was intended more to help me find humor in the situation anyway. And besides, all the best things she says are completely off the wall, anyway.
"Weeell..." she said slowly, digging through her wealth of knowledge to find just the right jewel. "...Did you hear Grandpa last time we were up there for Christmas?"
I shook my head, and she smiled.
"See, long, long ago, when the dinosaurs roamed the earth, me and my sister had a party one night when he was gone. Let's just say there was lots of beer, cigarettes, hard liquor, friends, and boys there, and I don't really remember much of it, 'cept for the lettuce that tasted pretty darn good after we ran out of everything else, and all sorts of stuff like that." She snickered and took the time to remind me to always keep lettuce in the fridge, and sighed. "So, anyway, it's Christmas Eve, and Dad looks over at me and says, 'say, snickerdoodles, you'd never believe what I found in the barn the other day, stuck into a stack of tires. A whole gunny sack full of beer bottles!' Now, I guess he was looking for me to feel guilty or something, but I know he wasn't ready for what I said. I go to him and say, 'well, Dad, I guess you'll have to go talk to your other daughter about responsibility, then!' and he goes, 'why's that?' And you know what I told him?"
I shook my head, the required response, and she giggled. "I said, 'well, because it was her responsibility to make sure someone got rid of those after the party!'"
I couldn't really say why, but her stories like that always helped. Like I said before, I've always thought she was the best at that sort of stuff. She said that she's always been like that, at least, ever since her parents got divorced. I guess it was one of those bloody-battle type things. She told me that it just made her always want to help other people get through things--to be the peacemaker in life. I'd say it goes further than peacemaker--she tries to solve all problems, no matter the who, the what, or the why. And she's wonderful at it. Even my friends have realized this, and there have been many times when I've come home to see my mom on the phone with them, sorting through all their most difficult of problems. Heck, for all I know, none of them even call for me anymore!
And as much as they need her help, it's often those very same people that I need her help dealing with. For example, one night there was a very big upset between me and one of my best friends, concerning some guy and all that good stuff. Anyway, my other friend was nearly convinced that we should completely abandon her, and, since it was already our senior year, never speak to her again. My mom, however, cautioned otherwise.
"I had a friend like that, once," she told me. "Fer, that was it. Jennifer. She was my best friend all through college. You know, we used to hang out all the time, completely inseparable. But...things happen, you know, and we lost touch. I haven't talked to her again since then--haven't the least bit of a notion about how to get a hold of her, either--but I still miss her. I still think about her and regret it, to this day." She got really quiet, then sighed and looked at me. "Please, don't do the same thing. The worst things in life are regrets, so don't start making them now." And that was all she said, but it was enough. I understood.
And it's always things like that. Then there was the day when I came home depressed because we were going to have to give a speech in a class, and I just knew that I'd never be able to do it. And, yes, you know I was using that whiny @$$ voice, as well. Oh man, you've got to know I hated speeches and getting up in front of the class, and I was thoroughly prepared to simply skip class that day just to avoid going through such a horrible experience. But that morning when I got up and made some lame, "Mom, I'm sick," line, she just looked at me and laughed.
"Nope, you're not," she said, firmly. "You're going."
"But why, Mom?" I cried, shocked. She was usually so good on that sort of thing. "I'm sick!" I protested.
"No, you're not, and you know it," she answered. "You just wanna get out of giving that stupid speech thing--I heard you talking it over with Cass!"
Silence. "So...?"
"So, I'm not going to let you do it." Before I could interrupt, she hurried on. "And let me tell you why. You know I didn't make it through college. Did you ever know why?"
I sighed. "Some reason that'll make sure I go to school today?"
"Precisely. See, I had a required communications class, and one of the things we had to do was to do this speech, or fail the class. And...I just couldn't do it. I could now, after I've forced myself to grow, but not then. So...that was it for me. All because of some stupid speech. But not you. I'm not going to let you, because you're going up there today and learning how to get over it."
"But, Mom!" I cursed, frustrated. "I just can't do it! I'm no good at it! I'll start stumbling and stuttering and not knowing what in the world I'm saying and...I'm just not good enough to do it." "Of course you are. You just don't know it, yet. You'll know it later on, though--you'll see what I see. You'll see. When you're old and gray like me you're going to look back on all the great things you've done, you're going to be amazed, and you know what you're going to say?"
I chuckled. "No, what in the world am I going to say?"
"You're going to look back and you're going to say, 'doink!' because that's about when you're going to realize that your old hag of a mother has been right all along, and that you have gone out and done all those wonderful things she always said you would. So nyah, nyah to you!"
We both grinned and laughed. No matter what she says, she can't let it get too serious, or too close to the truth. You've got to look behind her words for that, but she knows I understand. She knows I can catch the meaning behind "are ewe scared" or hair sprayed lungs, and it's enough.
But tonight has been fun, and full of remembrances of those things that we swore to ourselves we'd never let ourselves remember, and I laugh shortly as I look out the door behind her. It's ten o'clock and the world is dark, but I can still see her crafts out there, underneath the glow of the light pole. I see how much she has done and changed in my life and I want to say something to her, or thank her in some way, but I know I won't. It's just not how things go around here. So, instead, I simply stand and stretch, grabbing a can of Mountain Dew for her from the fridge, and say goodnight. I find a different way to say "I love you" as I walk upstairs to my room, and it echoes down the hall, chased at the heels by frolicking laughter.
"And mom...beware the flaming turds!"
She laughs, and knows exactly what I mean. It's something only she would understand.