To Destin, For Dad

My Dad is sick.

That’s never happened.

Just ask him, he’ll tell you.

Well, except for that one time. A seed got trapped in a crook in his colon. I met them in the emergency room…Dad swallowing a hospital bed while Mom looked on…from a distance…clutching her purse, under an expression that begged the question, “What now?”.

As long as I can remember, Dad has prided himself in the fact that he’s never had a headache. In some versions, a headache becomes the “common cold”. No matter. To hear him tell it, he’s had neither.

He’s confrontational and cantankerous and a few other “c” words that, when taken together, translate into “just plain hard to get along with”, and now he’s sick.

When he called, he blamed a hot dog…a foot-long Coney; admittedly, not the kind of thing an eighty-one-year-old man ought to eat. It had to be food-poisoning, he reasoned.

But he didn’t get better. He stayed sick. And common sense will tell you, a hot dog doesn’t have that kind of staying power. Not even a foot-long Coney. Food poisoning comes, tries to kill you and, if unsuccessful, leaves. Three day nausea is something else…something serious…some kind of sickness.

He tells me he’s better.

“But you’re still coming down, aren’t you? I’m still sick! I’m weak!” This, from the man who never had a headache…or the “common cold”…depending on the version.

And, I did come.

And, I brought a sister.

And, we did laundry, and dishes, and we made the bed.

And when Dad said, “You know what sounds good?”, I got my keys.

I visited fast food restaurants I never knew existed and ordered with specificity, because “they never put enough sausage” on the sausage and gravy biscuit.

On Saturday, it occurred to me I’d been “at the beach” for almost an entire day and never seen it…not really. I mean, I’d caught a glimpse between hurricane-proofed monoliths upon our return from the Potato Chips/Malted Milk Balls/Vanilla Ice Cream run, but that was it. I hadn’t really heard it. I hadn’t watched it, and I definitely hadn’t smelled it.

But, I fixed that.

After dinner, I got my chair…the one that still spills a little bit of Myrtle Beach every time I take it out…and I headed for the sand.

On the stairs, a couple stopped me.

“Excuse me! Are you going to have a hurricane here?”

I thought several things at once.

I thought , “They think I’m a local.”(This was kinda cool.)

I thought, “They’re just a young couple on their first night of vacation.”

I thought, “Bless their hearts.”

I shared wise weather anecdotes I’d collected during the preceding 24 hours, before moving to place my chair in a spot that would allow me the best use of Instagram. I know…that sounds silly…but I haven’t quite got the hang of it. I’d love to be able to edit more…

After taking several severely out-of-focus photos, I screwed my chair into place and sunk into it.

To my left, a meaty woman seemed unaware that most of her bottom had escaped her suit.

To my right, two boys flew kites.

The worried couple waded.

White caps rolled in bringing memories…of my mother in a two-piece…red with tiny flowers. And she… so brown…so confident.

And, my sisters, dripping castles.

And, my children, with my grandson.

Jennifer and Elijah, dripping castles just like we did.

And my father…and floats…plastic floats in pastel colors that rolled with the waves…rolled and rolled until…if you closed your eyes, sleep could come…

Getting Crazy

For the first time since my son died, I’ve been left alone for longer than it takes to visit the chiropractor or have a music lesson.

It was my choice. I could have tagged along but it costs so much to board the dogs, and then there are the chickens. With temperatures soaring above 100 degrees every day they need extra care. I’ve put ice in their waterer several times daily, fashioned a pool out of an over-sized plastic bowl, and managed to gather the eggs before they fried inside their shells.

I had all kinds of plans.

First and foremost, I thought to write. All that quiet stretched before me like a highway I could litter, uninterrupted, with words I wouldn’t forget while answering questions like, “Do you think I should get a Ford F150 or a Chevy truck? ” He’s 15, and that learner’s license burns a serious hole…

Malaise hit me on Friday afternoon, just before I left the office. I did what I always do, I ignored it. I bought dinner, I went shopping, and I baked four loaves of chocolate zucchini bread. I’d promised the boys they could take some on their trip. I’d also promised the kids next door they’d get a loaf out of the next batch. And, there’s that co-worker who greets me with hungrily expectant eyes every Monday morning.

Once the travelers were on their way, I was disappointed to walk inside the house and discover all the usual “stuff” needed doing. The kitchen was a wreck, the furniture needed polishing, and there was no way I wasn’t capitalizing on oven-like temperatures. I had laundry to do.

I’ve noticed this phenomenon before. For some reason, as soon as I’m left alone at home for any length of time, every imperfection is magnified a-thousand-fold; as though, suddenly it’s all mine, and I’m responsible, and if it’s needs fixing I need to fix it, before someone comes and sees it. I’m sure it all stems from the time when I was 22, and a new Mom, and my Mom came to visit; only I didn’t know she was coming. There’s only so much you can stuff under the couch cushions before its actual dimensions start to change…

By the time I finished housekeeping, it was 5 o’clock. The day was done and the chair, now that I had a chance to sit in it, was cozy.

This morning, malaise made another appearance. Only this time, I was alone. I didn’t have to ignore it. I could languish in it. I could baby it. I could sit and wonder why it came, and what it meant, and I could doze. So I did.

There was a point, during one of my treks to the henhouse, when I knew I could be crazy. Nuts, even. It was after I’d dumped the ice. The latch on the gate refused to slide back into place. The fact of my leopard-print pajamas became important somehow, as I wrestled with the handle; winning, at last. And, I knew it, absolutely. Were it not for all the reasons I have to be sane, I would most certainly be crazy.

It would be easy, really. I can tell, having considered it, that it’s just a slide, and not a very long one; not one of those really, really high ones that scorch the backs of your legs on your way down. It’s a short one, like the one attached to the swing set we had in the backyard when I was a kid. It got hot, too. But, it was so short, it didn’t matter.

And slides are easy. You just let go. You just stop trying. You slide.

My friend lost two sons. They died within a few years of each other. She’s never been the same since.

Now I know why.

From my new vantage point, white-knuckled at the top of the slide, I understand.

She let go.

Learner’s License

My 15-year old is learning to drive. Even as we walked into the DMV to get his learner’s license, I couldn’t imagine sitting in the passenger seat while he piloted my vehicle; my new vehicle, my favorite-car-in-the-whole-wide-world that, even after nine months, boasts bonafide “new car smell”. Just the thought of it made me all jumpy inside. So, I didn’t think of it.

I supplied Shane with a Georgia Driver’s Manual a couple of months before his 15^th birthday. He rifled the pages with his thumb, barely concealing his humor at the thought that he might actually READ the book. However, after pulling an all-nighter with his best friend who had tested several months before and therefore “knew what he was talking about”, Shane scored a 95 on the exam; a fact of which he apprised me even before flashing his paper license.

Though I hadn’t paid attention as we drove in, driving out I realized this particular branch of the DMV was situated at one end of an otherwise abandoned strip mall, meaning the only cars parked were the ones directly in front of the office. In the kind of fit of spontaneity I’m known for, I parked the car and motioned for Shane to change places with me. To his credit, and possibly because it’s not the first time his mother has had some kind of hare-brained notion that required his participation, he jumped out, ran around and slid underneath the wheel as though it were home.

I took the liberty of installing a few virtual stop signs along our route, just to give him practice, as we took several turns around the parking lot. Twice, a car piloted by a “real” driver took advantage of the landlord’s misfortune, by cutting across the painted lines on its way in or out. We both froze. Fortunately, Shane froze on the brake. I took this as a good sign.

We’ve been out several times since then. He’s still a little heavy on the gas when first starting out and corners are a bit tricky, but we did manage to traverse a rather scary intersection without incident on the way to the grocery and back. We took a drive with purpose. I think that’s a big step.

The guilt didn’t start until Monday.

It was a nagging thing. It kind of pulled at me, demanding attention. At stray times, throughout the day, Trey’s face swam into view along with an incident; a time when I felt inadequate, a situation I felt I’d mishandled. I managed to quash them usually. I ran the tape inside my head; the one that says “This is normal. Everyone does this. Don’t let it get you down.”. If I had a dime for every time I’ve heard THAT song…

But he kept coming. I remembered the time his father called him a “sissy”, the way he clutched at my leg through my skirt, and the feeling of desperation in knowing what a pitiful shield I made using only my hands. There were rides to school…rides necessitated by Trey’s bad behavior at the bus stop…that seemingly provided fertilizer for arguments he saved for just this opportunity. Eventually, I remembered he couldn’t argue if I didn’t participate. Sometimes, then, we talked.

There were visits with counselors, arguments with his step-dad, and a notebook filled with completed homework he’d never turned in.

These reels played alternately, randomly, for two days before I recognized the catalyst.

I didn’t teach Trey to drive.

The realization startled me at first. How could that be? Who could have taught him? How does such an important phase in a child’s life go unnoticed, unaccompanied by a parent…especially when there’s only one?

That afternoon, I received an email from a friend who always seems to know “when”. She reminded me she’d always listen, and I began writing. About halfway through, the missing pieces fell into place until the whole messy picture became clear and a new mantra began to play inside my head. “You were not a bad Mom. You were not a bad Mom. You were not a bad Mom.”

This afternoon, I received a note from Trey’s boss’s wife, Amy. Over the years, she’d grown very fond of him.

“The guys are here today working on Bo’s in ground trampoline. While they were eating lunch, Bo walked up to Mike and so sweetly asked, “Where’s Trey?” Out of the mouths of babes… YOU are NOT forgotten, our precious friend!!”

And, I’m reminded it’s not just me. This isn’t the first time that I’ve discovered, when I’m missing Trey more than usual, I’m not the only one. That knowledge doesn’t make me miss him any less. As a matter of fact, reading Amy’s note took me to a place I haven’t been in weeks. What it does do, though, is remind me he is loved, as am I.

Today, I am thankful for blessings who give you room to grow.

Daddy

Daddy was a large man whose crusty work-boots tracked red mud onto mother’s carpets.

He wore glasses…big ones…with thick black frames. And white t-shirts…

He played football in high school, but tennis courts paved his way to college.

When I was very young, he bowled.

By the time I graduated high school he had traded balls with holes for holes-in-one.

My mother called him “Johnny”, my Aunt calls him “Brother”, and my sisters and I call him “Daddy”. I was forty years old before I heard anyone else call him anything other than “Mister Howell”. Years later it still sounds strange, and just a little disrespectful, to hear anyone besides my mother call him “Johnny”.

Daddy liked to eat. As kids, he introduced us to souse meat and lox-n-bagels, but I drew the line at pickled pig’s feet. Time spent in Korea after Hiroshima expanded his pallet. If he was really, really good, Mom would scramble last night’s fried fish into his eggs.

These days he prefers his fish raw, but little else has changed. Daddy still loves to eat. He finds a way to fit three meals in between the hours of 8 am and 4 pm every day, arriving back at his condominium-by-the-sea before most vacationers have even considered making reservations.

Daddy said things…like, “Don’t ever forget who you are! You’re a Howell!” and “No one is better than you are!”. The manner in which he spoke discouraged questions while imparting pride.

He also said, “Your thighs are big-around as my waist!”, and “You need to leave that boy alone. He’s a queer!”, and “Blacks just naturally run faster than whites. It comes from being chased through the jungle by cheetahs.”

A few years ago, he read every book Carlos Castaneda ever wrote.

Last weekend he took great delight in expounding on his latest theory on consciousness. “Our brains are like radio receivers…”

As a kid, it wasn’t Christmas until Daddy came home. Every Christmas Eve, sometime after 6 and before 9, he stumbled across the threshold, over-sized shopping bags in tow. Mother’s mouth set into a sharp line, as her hands moved ever faster over the food she was preparing for tomorrow’s dinner.

“Put these things under the tree!”, he slurred. Professionally wrapped packages hiding expensive perfume, and too-red, too-small, lacy lingerie were tossed, haphazardly, under the tree. Daddy was home! We could open presents!

It’s still not Christmas until Daddy arrives…only Mom isn’t in the kitchen…and it’s the Sunday before Christmas…and my sister dresses her Dachshunds in elf costumes…and sometimes we watch football.

Sunday is Father’s Day.

Just as we have for the last five Father’s Days, we’ll meet at The Varsity. Daddy will order two all-the-way-dogs, rings, and a coke. At least three of us will vie for the honor of paying his bill. Odds are, my sister will do it. We’ll find four or five unoccupied tables and we’ll push them together. We’ll create our space, just as several other families have done before us. We’ll eat, we’ll talk, we’ll laugh. I’ll take pictures despite my sisters’ protestations. Daddy will open presents, and we’ll go home.

I’ll leave, hoping we can do it again, next year.

81

My Dad will be 81 today. He made his yearly trek up from the gulf coast to Atlanta yesterday, and you can write his departure date on your calendar in ink. He’ll leave the day after Father’s Day. His work here will be done. It’s a pretty sweet deal, really; a few hours driving nets him 8 days of pampering, multiple trips to his favorite restaurants, two parties in his honor, and many, many kisses.

He’s never been easy to buy for, mainly because he’s always had the means to buy for himself. My youngest sister buys him clothes. They’re always expensive. They’re always sporty, and they’re always the right size. This is because she has a hand in buying all his clothes. Since it’s his birthday, these clothes will be wrapped in tissue paper inside a box. If he likes them, he’ll say they’re “sharp”. Sometimes they’re even “really sharp”. And, if he likes them a lot, he’ll call someone’s attention to them as in, “Stacye! Look at this! Isn’t this sharp?”

My sister Laura gives him English Leather after shave. She always has. Ever since we were very young, and our parents took us to Rich’s downtown, to the floor where the ladies wearing lots of make-up and really high heels asked us how much money we had, and helped us pick out something to give Mom and Dad at Christmas. I don’t know where she gets it now. I can’t remember the last time I saw that familiar cedar rectangle on display inside a store. Maybe she gets it on the internet. You can buy anything on the internet…

My sister, Holly, and I are, depending on your particular brand of pop-psychology, the Free Spirits, the Rebels, the Scapegoats, and/or Rabble-Rousers in this family. You never know what we might present come gift time. Holly has gone the clothing route; a bold move, in my opinion, given her competition. For a couple of years, she gifted him with coffee. Dad prefers Starbucks, House Blend, please…ground, not bean.

Being the artsy-fartsy one of the bunch, I crafted calendars for Dad. Much to the chagrin of almost everyone present, I named myself “Family Photog”, and set about chronicling our events. Only the best of the bunch graced Dad’s wall. Best, of course, meant lots of things. It might mean cutest, or most comical, or heartwarming, or pretty, and sometimes it just meant the only shot I got in which my sister’s eyes weren’t closed, or my nephew’s mouth wasn’t open. I never knew how much he appreciated my efforts until I didn’t make them any more. He called me, during a time free of family emergency, just to express his disappointment. Of course, he had his calendar in a matter of days.

And he’ll get his calendar this year too…only it’ll be on Father’s Day, not on his birthday…just to change things up. I’m using old black-and-whites of my mother. I’m sure he’ll love it. In the meantime, I went to the Farmer’s Market and bought all the things he likes.

I bought “Sundried Tomatoes Pesto”. I’m sure the label was printed by the same woman manning the booth. She urged me, in her gorgeous Italian accent, to try the vegetable medley. I demurred, explaining the purchase was for my father. “He’ll be 81 tomorrow.” She smiled through her disappointment.

I bought a pint-sized almond pound cake from a teenager, who will never know it was the beautiful crevasse atop the loaf that sold me.

I bought smoky chipotle salsa from a woman more interested in her cellphone than selling salsa. There was either a child or man on the other end of that phone. I know. I’ve been there. I bought anyway. Still, she was disappointed I didn’t try the empanada.

The woman selling spiced pecans was a newbie. She hawked her wares from a cookie sheet while her son quoted prices in whispers. I bought a small, over-priced baggie-ful. Dad loves pecans.

The pièce de résistance appeared, where it always does; on the last row, in the last booth. “Heavenly Pastries” is owned by Tanya Jackson who almost certainly works for someone else most of the time. When she’s not, though, she creates perfection in the form of miniature glazed bundt cakes drizzled in chocolate. I bought the Red Velvet. She included a gingham gift bag with my purchase that I’ve decided to use as wrapping in place of the basket I’d pictured filling earlier.

My stopping excited her. She stood immediately. My choosing the cake excited her even more.

“It’s for my father.”

Her smile grew.

“He’s going to be 81 tomorrow. He doesn’t come to Farmer’s Markets so I’m buying all the things I think he’ll like.”.

She counted my change into my out-stretched hand.

“Tell him I said “Happy Birthday, okay?”

Boy Wearing Light-up Sneakers

He was tall…quite tall. And thin; the kind of thin that appeared to hide-behind rather than be covered-by the t-shirt that fell like a drape from his rack of shoulders. The shirt was nearly colorless. His pants were faded as well. Both had seen better days, probably on the back of an older brother or a cousin who would see him wearing clothes that used to decorate the floor of his bedroom, and never make the connection.

He stood behind his father who held his brother while talking to the waiter about a table. His eyes watched the floor, rising only occasionally to glance at his father’s face as though gauging his mood. He knew how to stay out of the way, but he also knew that what was out of the way now might not be out of the way in just a minute. He kept track. And, when his father’s free hand swung in his direction while motioning towards a larger table, he took two steps to his left.

That’s when I saw them…light-up sneakers…the kind I hadn’t seen since my boys wore them twenty-odd years ago. The shoes themselves were black and would, had the boy stood still, gone unnoticed. His steps though, set off a pattern of multi-colored lights that chased themselves around the circumference of his school-aged foot, sending shards of longing deep into my chest.

I will never again be the mother of a boy wearing light-up sneakers.

Birthday Boys

Looking back, I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have shared a pregnancy with than my friend, Dottie. She uses her grown-up name now. Everyone calls her Dot. But, I knew her when. I’ll always call her Dottie.

From the time we met, we shared lots of things. We shared stories and dreams and worries and fears. When Dottie had to pull (This would be the literal “pull”, not the figurative one.) her husband out of a local bar, I kept the baby. When my son dropped a crystal ashtray on his sister’s head, I called Dottie’s Dad for help. When Dottie’s mother held a Tupperware Party, she knew she could count on me to be there, and when the Datsun pick-up I’d paid $300.00 for wouldn’t start, Dottie gave me the keys to her Pontiac land-yacht.

I was pregnant with my third child. Dottie was carrying number four. We scheduled our prenatal appointments for the same time when we could. Rather than separate exam rooms, the clinic was comprised of one very wide corridor divided into curtained sections just big enough for the midwife, the exam table, and the stirrups. Were it not for those women wearing stethoscopes around their necks, one might have thought they had stumbled into the changing room at a maternity clothing store.

I was instructed to take off my “bottoms” and “hop up on the table” (This would be the figurative “hop”, not the literal one.) while the midwife called on Dottie who waited two curtains away. Resting my hands atop my mountainous abdomen, I tried not to eavesdrop until the words “no heartbeat”, at which point I stopped breathing in an effort to hear every word. My own heart raced as they scheduled the ultrasound that would reveal whether or not Dottie’s baby was alive. And when it came time for my exam, I both wished the midwife would hurry, and wondered how wrong it would be to ask questions. Dottie hadn’t asked many. It was as though she knew.

Her baby was fine, and mine was, too. They arrived just a month apart. Dottie’s son, Carey, was born in April, and my son, Josh, in May.

Three years later, I gave birth to a second son. He split the boy’s birthdays, arriving two weeks after Carey’s and two weeks before Josh’s. For the last twenty-nine years, April has been a time of celebration that began at Easter and ended , appropriately, with Mother’s Day.

Dottie lives in South Georgia now. She might say she could see Jekyll Island from her kitchen window, but that would be because she was trying to convince me to visit, not because she actually could see it. I’ve seen her just once in over ten years.

I did see Carey recently. He’s very tall and looks very much like his father. He celebrated his twenty-ninth birthday a couple of weeks ago, which means Trey’s birthday is this week…Saturday, to be exact.

Only Trey isn’t here to celebrate.

It hasn’t exactly sneaked up on me. It occurred to me in early March, just as it has for the last twenty-six years. It was just a few days after Trey’s memorial service. I hadn’t gone back to work yet. Josh was here and so was Jennifer. We talked about it. We planned it. Somewhere deep down I knew we had to.

And now I don’t want to. I don’t want to the way a toddler doesn’t want green beans. I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to scream while I cry and then I’ll stomp my feet and no matter what you say I won’t go. I won’t!

Because, he’s not here.

People say things like “He’s not gone. He’s always with you.”

No he’s not. He’s not here because I can’t hug him or smell him or hear him call me “Ma”. I never understood why he did that. No one else ever called me that, just him. He always called me “Ma”. And now no one ever will again.

Who will blow out the candles?

Taking Chances

I’m pruning azaleas when the storm blows in.

Thunder thunders.

Lightning strikes.

I stand my ground.

The worst HAS happened.

And besides,

I have family there.

Firsts

On Sunday, we’ll spend Easter together… without him. Exactly twenty days later, we’ll celebrate his twenty-sixth birthday…but he won’t be there. Mother’s Day will be different this year.

And so it begins…our year of “firsts”. Life moves on, marked by all the times we stop to celebrate. And we will celebrate. We might even celebrate exactly the way we have always celebrated. And it will still be different.

This Easter we’ll have ham. I don’t usually, but a church group gave me a gift certificate I never got around to using at the time. Jennifer has requested green bean casserole. Joshua looks forward to deviled eggs, and Shane loves strawberry salad. I always made macaroni and cheese for Trey. I cooked the onions right into the cheese sauce so that he never knew they were there. Trey had a thing about onions. This year I’m making bacon/maple scalloped potatoes. I’m sure I’ll make macaroni and cheese again…one day.

Now that it’s almost here, I wish I’d planned something different. I wish I’d invited more people who might have made more noise and filled more space. It’s going to be quieter. Trey loved to laugh…loudly…and it was contagious. Trey was big. He took up lots of space. Come to think of it, Trey took up more space than any number of guests could fill. The space he left cannot be filled and it can’t be covered up by a pretty throw or an extra piece of furniture. It’s a space we’ll have to get used to. We’ll have to move around it…always aware of it…never quite sure what to do with it.

Several times this week, I’ve thought about how much more fun Easter is when spent with children. That’s what we need! We need more children! The wonder and joy of children could fill that space! I’ll share this with my kids. If they start now, we could have one heck of an Easter egg hunt in just a couple of years!

And then the pain flows back in…unexpectedly…on a wish that goes against everything I ever taught my children about safe sex. Trey’s face…his baby face…fills my mind as my heart fills with regret that he left nothing behind.

What I wouldn’t give to see that face again.

Unchosen

You don’t get many choices at birth. Nobody asks what you want to be. Take birth order, for example. I was the first-born of four girls. Given what I now know, I might have chosen to be born last, but nobody asked me. You don’t get to choose gender either, or hair color, or shoe size. Siblings, it seems, are left to chance. If you happen to click, that’s great! If not, you’re stuck with them, like them or not.

One of the best…maybe even THE best thing about aging is that the older you get the more choices you have. By the time you become an adult, you get to choose most things. You choose a career. You choose your lifestyle. Heck, you can even choose your hair color! By the time you get to be my age you might have chosen several different hair colors!

No one ever chooses to be the mother of a dead child.

And yet, here I am. It’s as though life started, for me, all over again on February 26^th just before 11 pm. All the other choices I’ve made take a back seat to the one no one would make, ever. Decades of living life on my own terms ended with a single gunshot, because no matter what else happens from here on out, I am the mother of a dead child.

I can sell my house and buy that loft I’ve had my eye on…the one downtown, right in the middle of everything. And, I’ll still be the mother of a dead child.

I can quit my job in order to pursue a life-long dream. And, I’ll still be the mother of a dead child.

I can learn a foreign language, lose 20 pounds, and even dye my hair the only color I’ve never tried. Then I’ll be the raven-haired mother of a dead child.

At a time in my life when who I am should be up to me, it’s not. Because, nothing I am matters as much as what I’ve lost.