The Ex-Files: Rachel

Today we begin a new feature here on IYROOBTY, called The Ex-Files. In each of these posts, I will discuss a past relationship. This will, in turn, hopefully have a two-pronged effect on you, the reader. First, you will be entertained. And two, you will learn more about me, the man cowering behind the blog. But the best part of all is, none of these girls will be here to defend themselves. Giddy-up!

Close your eyes and journey back with me if you will… On second thought, you’ll probably need to keep your eyes open–unless you have one of those cool computers which read aloud to you.

It is the spring of 1990 and I am in the eleventh grade. I come into class one day, and Ms. Dandridge, the voluptuous American History teacher was there. And… uh…. oh yes. And Lucy, one of my classmates, approaches me with a proposition. And a photo.

It seems that one of her fair-skinned, dark-haired friends had noticed yours truly around town and had been inquiring as to my situation and taste in women. Or, just my situation. A date was arranged and for the next six months or so, I would be in the throes of a relationship with one Rachel.

Rachel was a year older than me. She went to a neighboring high school and invited me to her senior prom. I had no idea about proms or pictures or anything. Actually, I’ve been to three proms and in several weddings, and to this day I’m still not sure what the purpose of a cummerbun is. Or how to spell it. But I went. And I think I will always remember how she looked that night.

She had an odd face, I remember. I honestly didn’t recognize her on prom night. If she hadn’t walked out of her parents house, I would never have known that was her. She had her hair done a way I never saw it again. And she never looked more beautiful than she did that night.

There were several oddities about our relationship. For one, prom night was the only night we ever hung out at her house. I normally wouldn’t care, but at this time in my life, I wasn’t knee deep in cash.

This was the same girl I would only ask out every other weekend, because I’d skip lunch at school and save up my lunch money for two weeks to be able to pay for our dates. So hanging out at home would have been nice. Especially since they had a pool table.

Most of our dates would consist of a movie and/or going out to eat. Then parking in front of an abandoned country store and making out until the last possible minute. And racing time to beat her curfew home. I remember one night she unbuttoned her shirt while we were making out.

Another oddity, I suppose, is that she would drive the majority of the time on our dates. This probably had a lot to do with the fact that she had a 1989 Camaro, and I had a 1984 Ford Escort with louvers on the back window.

She seemed to have control of the relationship for the most part. Maybe because she was older. Maybe because she was the first girl I ever really dated. I mean, I’d been on dates before, had girlfriends, made out in the 8th grade hall with the assistant principal’s aide, but this… this was new.

We dated for six months, or seven, or eight. I don’t remember exactly. Roughly from early spring until sometime in the fall of 1990. Rachel was also the first girl I brought over to have dinner with my parents.

As we didn’t go out but once every two weeks, we spent lots of time on the phone. I remember her complaining several times that I never had anything to talk about. Although I’m sure I did, I suppose Nintendo and sports were not her favorite topics of conversation.

She complained so much, and I think maybe even threatened me, that I began making a list of things to talk about before I would call her each night. Pathetic, I know. But again, I was new at this relationship stuff.

So I would call her and just go down the list, one by one. I changed my oil this afternoon. Do you like that new song by Wilson Phillips? You won’t believe what happened in Physics today. Do you want to go out again a week from this coming Friday?

Songs that remind me of her include “It Must Have Been Love” by Roxette, “She Ain’t Worth It” by Glenn Medeiros and Bobby Brown, “So Alive” by Love and Rockets (I think), and “Here and Now” by Luther. Cheesy, yes. But at least I never made her a mix tape.

I don’t remember the how and why we stopped dating. Maybe I ran out of things to talk about. I think I heard she liked someone else. Maybe she thought I didn’t like her because I only asked her out every other week. I recall her mentioning it at least once, and I didn’t want to tell her it was because I couldn’t afford to.

I did tell her eventually, maybe after we stopped dating. I would describe her reaction upon hearing that as surprise with a tinge of guilt.

I asked a girl I worked with to the Homecoming game my senior year. We played Rachel’s school. She called me and told me she had seen me at the game. Then I remember her coming by my house at some point and giving me a ten page letter she had written, and wanting to get back together. But I was over it.

As with most of my relationships, I mainly remember the good about Rachel and me. I grew and learned a lot from dating her. I gained confidence. And I’ll always remember those nights parked under the stars. Steaming up the window. How good her lips tasted. And wishing time would stand still. Or at least slow down. But it never does.

When you’re seventeen, you think of time in minutes and hours. Not months and years. When you’re seventeen, parking is very good indeed.

“Sometimes I long for just one night of the way I felt back then. Ain’t that just like a dream, it always ends…”

From a second story window

When I sit down to write, I twist the rod to open the blinds so that I can see the world outside my second story window. And if it’s cool out, or if it’s nighttime, sometimes I open the window. I like to feel the air and hear the sounds.

Tonight, the air reminds me of a warm, ocean breeze. The warmth envelopes you, and there’s not the slightest hint of a chill. It makes me want to be there. At the edge of the Earth. Once you visit some place, once you experience something, you can always go there again in your mind. I close my eyes and remember.

I hear the steady whir of air conditioning units down below, intermittently starting and stopping. As I concentrate, I hear the almost constant sound of crickets chirping, which I hadn’t noticed until just now. And seemingly far off in the distance, I hear a bird singing. It’s such a beautiful song and part of me wants to do nothing else but go on listening to it all night. I wonder if birds sleep and if they do, why this one is awake.

I see two windows with lights on in the building directly behind and identical to mine. It’s now after midnight. There is an empty lot to the left of that building. In the day, it’s beautiful greenery. But now, it’s only blackness.

There are two large trees in the lot, at least one of which I surmise to be an oak. But all I can see of them now is the partial silhouette of one against the peachish glow of a streetlight. Sometimes I see weird “lot people” walking thru in the evenings. I’m not sure where they come from or where they’re going, and I’m a little scared.

Occasionally I see headlights and hear a car pass by on the main four-lane thru town, Highway 31, which is a couple of blocks away. It goes from Mobile to Michigan. I like to think about how far a single road can take you. And what is at the end. Yeah, the interstate is just five minutes further. But you see more on roads like this.

The road is freedom. Sometimes I want to get on it and just drive. For an hour. Or a day. Maybe find a hotel, spend the night, and drive back tomorrow. I wonder about all the places I would see. Little towns I would pass thru. Maybe I wouldn’t come back at all.

Those are some of the sights and sounds of my little corner of the world. And that’s just what I see when my eyes are open…

“By the time I make Albuquerque, she’ll be working. She’ll probably stop at lunch and give me a call. But she’ll just hear that phone keep on ringin’, off the wall…”

Friday Flashback: The Box

I hope you all have a safe Memorial Day weekend. If you get a chance, read Pia’s post, the last half of which deals with Memorial Day.

I added a couple of new links tonight. And over the past few weeks have added several. Welcome to my sidebar Sage, Jennifer, Cora, Ms. Sizzle, Lauren, and Carmen. Say hello to them if you have time.

Today’s flashback is an entry I wrote one night last year after a power outage. I don’t know why I picked it. It’s not an entry anyone ever mentions, but I like it. This was originally posted August 18, 2005.

There’s a box in the top of a closet. I usually don’t go near it. I know what’s inside. Cards and letters and photographs. Memories of us.

At first, I would open it up every few months, and sift through the memories. Perhaps I thought it was some sort of therapy. It would hurt. But at the same time, part of me wanted to go back, remember how things were. And then, after awhile, I could only get through one or two or three cards and it would become too painful. The last time I opened it was months ago. Until tonight.

The power went out here a little after 9:00. I lit a few candles. And after a few minutes, I decided to get the box out of the closet. I sat on my bed, opened it up, and by candlelight, began to read.

Valentine’s. Birthdays. Anniversaries. Thinking of you cards. Handwritten letters. So many beautiful thoughts. Phrases like “meet me halfway” and “I don’t want to lose you.” Sometimes I think that I just read right over them then, without really thinking about what she was saying. I almost know I did.

Reading all those words of love and forever, it is still hard to believe that I lost it. Maybe not hard to believe, but to accept. Even now. To look back on something and see so much promise, and know that it is gone. It’s not easy. Even now.

Some of the cards and letters are from times when we were having problems or had gotten into an argument. It’s hard to read those. To see the pleading in her words. Her apologizing to me. When I should have been the one apologizing to her. Too hard.

After five or six cards, a few pictures, and a letter or two, I can’t handle anymore. I close the box and return it to its place in the top of the closet. I notice one corner of the box has split. I think to myself that I will have to tape that up.

Why do I do this to myself? As I said earlier, I keep thinking maybe it is therapeutic. I don’t do it often. But maybe I shouldn’t look back at all. It opens old wounds and puts that most awful of empty feelings back in the pit of my stomach. And I am back to beating myself up for mistakes I have already paid for.

She and I made our peace. We even became good friends. She has forgiven me. I guess the hardest thing to do sometimes is to forgive yourself. I thought I had.

A few minutes later, the lights came back on. But sometimes it feels like I’m still in the dark.

“Remember me when you’re out walking. When the snow falls high outside your door. Late at night when you’re not sleeping, and the moonlights falls across your floor. When I can’t hurt you anymore…”

An ode to summer

Ever hear someone say, “Can you believe this weather?” Yes, I can. “Do you think this weather will last?” No, I don’t. This is Earth, where have you been? These are the same people who are always saying, “I can’t believe what time it is.” Why don’t they just go outside and watch the bank sign. Then they can stand there all day going, “Can you believe this weather? I can’t believe what time it is.” – J. Seinfeld

Welcome to Alabama. Home of two of the five American Idols. Soul Patrol!!! Whatever that means.

Summer is here. No, you didn’t sleep thru the solstice. And it’s still four days until Memorial Day. But I passed by a bank sign yesterday that said the temperature was 93. That’s proof enough for me.

I love summer. When asked what my favorite season is, I may give a different answer each time. Fall is nice. There’s nothing like that first day in the early fall when you first feel the change in the air. That first chill. But there’s also nothing like summer.

Summer is the beach. The wind, the waves, and the sand. It’s the pool, the river, and the lake. It’s holidays. Memorial Day, Labor Day, the 4th of July. It’s baseball. It’s being outdoors. It’s vacations. It’s cookouts. It’s remembering summers of the past.

It’s long days and warm nights. It’s cruising with the top down or the windows down. It’s freedom. It’s shorts and flip-flops and tan legs and sunglasses.

Summer is a smile.

It’s hot. It’s here. And I’m glad. Tonight we’re going to a minor league baseball game. And I’m wearing flip-flops.

“Temperature says 93 down at the Deposit and Guaranty. But that swimmin’ hole is nice and cold…”

Don’t leave me hangin’

I hate cliff hangers. And really, it’s not the cliff part so much that I dislike as it is the hanger part. I’m fine with cliffs. Really. Don’t mind cliff dwellers. Cliff jumping? Fine, if that’s your thing. Thought Cliff Clavin was hilarious. Loved Cliff Huxtable. So, as you can see, I have no problem at all with cliffs. But these hangers are gonna have to stop.

Why did no one tell me that 24 would have a cliff hanger? And how did I not already know this? Because shows that I watch always have resolution. Seinfeld never had a cliff hanger. Neither did The Three Stooges. Not that I saw it during its regular run. But I’m certain there was never an episode that ended where you wondered, “Will Moe and Curly make up?” “Is Larry’s nose broken?” Even with General Hospital, the most I ever have to wait to find out what happens is Friday to Monday.

It’s bad enough I’ve been following this show week-to-week for four months to see how it ends. And what do I find? It doesn’t end. So now I have to wait until January 2007 to see what happens to Jack Bauer on that ship to Shanghai.

Why? The show is good enough that I would watch next season without a cliff hanger. I’ll even say that I’d probably be less likely to watch a show the following season if it ends with a cliff hanger.

What’s the point of watching? I want resolution. That’s why I never liked to-be-continued’s. I don’t watch TV to be held over. I watch for happy endings.

If I want something that just carries over from day to day that I have no idea how it’s going to end, I have my life.

“Set me free, why don’t you babe. Get out my life, why don’t you babe. Cos you don’t really love me. You just keep me hangin’ on…”

59:59

I came. I ran. I’m sore.

Oh, and I finished. So that’s something. But there are no trophies or awards for for 152nd place. Although I did get a t-shirt and a glass mug. There are no acceptance speeches, either. So I will make my acceptance speech here, in writing, to you, loyal blog readers.

After all, it was you who inspired me to get out of bed Saturday morning and run. In a sense. I was lying in bed at 6:45 thinking that I really did not feel like running. I really had not trained to run a 10K. And I really would like to go back to sleep for a couple more hours. Then I remembered.

I had blogged about running. I had to do it. Everyone would be getting to work Monday morning expecting to read about my race. And so it was decided. I could not let my blog readers down.

And yet another use is discovered for this thing called a blog. Motivation. Accountability. Perhaps I should try this with all my personal goals. If you blog it, they will come you will do it.

The weather was warm and humid. 77 degrees at the start of the race. I felt really good for the first 2.5 miles or so. And OK up until about 4.5 miles. There was a water station there. And shortly after that, as the sun beat down and my legs threatened to go on strike, I remembered something I already knew. It’s all in your head.

Running becomes at least 90% mental at a certain point. From the 5-mile marker on, there was a constant battle going on in my mind. The lazy-Kevin-James-looking-Bone on my left shoulder kept reminding me how easy it would be to stop and walk. Or deposit my innards along the side of the road. But the fit-and-trim-body-of-a-taut-pre-teen-Swedish-boy-Bone on my right shoulder kept telling me to press on.

And so I did. It’s nice to win that mental battle. At one point in the last mile, I began singing in my head the old gospel hymn “The Last Mile of the Way.” And I may or may not have heard angels singing. I’m not sure if that helped. Or whether I thought it was referring more to the last mile of the race, or the last mile of my life.

There’s a sense of accomplishment in just finishing the race. I had loosely set four goals for myself. Finish. Don’t finish last. Run the whole way. And finish in under an hour. I did not know how realistic the latter was. Since I had not been training for a 10K, and had never run farther than 4.5 miles at one time. But I made it. By one second. Mission accomplished. Back to bed.

After liberally coating myself with generic Ben-gay (it’s sad when you don’t even have real Ben-gay), I took a short nap. The Equate ben-gay may cost twenty cents less. But it smells just as bad. And easily transfers from body to bed sheets. And lingers a bit. Even after one time thru the washing machine.

Went to see Poseidon Saturday night. Not something I was dying to see, but some friends were going and invited me. Had read poor reviews, but after seeing Richard Dreyfuss was in it, I was hopeful. But his role was all but pointless. What a waste of talent.

I wouldn’t recommend it. It felt rushed. There was very little character development. Three of the female characters were all very similar-looking so that whenever they’d show one, I had a hard time telling which one she was. And while most of the special effects were good, a couple were cartoonish. The best part of the movie, besides the gratuitous Emmy Rossum wet-shirt cleavage shots… was… uh… oh, right. Josh Lucas. He was excellent.

The title of this post has a sort of double meaning. Besides being my time in the 10K Saturday. Tonight is the season finale of 24. I can hardly wait.

“You may need me there to carry all your weight. But you’re no burden, I assure…”

Friday Flashback: Miss Nona

I am thinking about running my first ever 10K tomorrow. While 6.2 miles is not far for some of you, it would be farther than I’ve ever run. If you would like to sponsor a mile, let me know :-)

My week is almost up renting Pia’s blog. I have thoroughly enjoyed my stay on her sidebar. In honor of my first ever blog landlord (blandlord? blandlady doesn’t really work), I am reposting what she claims is her favorite post of mine. And actually, it almost goes along with her legacy post from Thursday.

This was originally posted January 15, 2006:

In the town where I was raised, a quiet two-lane road leads away from the town square on the west side. Within two blocks, what few businesses there are give way to houses. The asphalt is faded now so that its much nearer to white than its original black.

Small houses dot each side of the road all the way out to the four-lane. About the only exception is the local park, whose ball fields come to life in the springtime with t-ball, baseball, softball, and soccer games and practices.

Almost unnoticed now, if not forgotten, is an old abandoned white concrete building which sits on the left side of the road just before you reach the park entrance. For the first two-thirds of my life, that was Miss Nona’s store.

Miss Nona was a rather short older lady who, best I can remember, always had a tall bouffant-like hairdo, and almost always had a smile on her face. There were two gas pumps in front of the store, and as long as she was able, she’d come out and offer to pump your gas.

The inside featured an old-fashioned top-opening drink cooler. You’d slide the door open, reach down inside and pull out your favorite soft drink in a glass bottle. There was a bottle opener built into the side of the cooler.

Some of my earliest memories of the little country store are of running across the field after baseball practice and buying a Gatorade. Or before practice to buy some Big League Chew.

Miss Nona lived in a house right next to the store, and would open up for business before daylight. She ran the store all by herself the majority of the time. She was there open to close. For many years, she sold biscuits in the mornings. And around lunch, she would slice up stick bologna and hoop cheese and make sandwiches.

It seems like she was always busy doing something around the store. If there were no customers to tend to, she might be sweeping up, inside or out. Or stocking the shelves. I asked her for a job once when I turned 16, but she said she couldn’t afford to hire any help.

I recall my Dad telling me about the time some man tried to rob her. I don’t remember all of the details now. I remember it happened early one morning when no other customers were there. Short story shorter. She kept a shotgun under the counter. Fired a warning shot or two. And no one ever tried to rob the store again. I love that story.

Seems like my parents had always known Miss Nona. Although, looking back, I guess they only knew her from the store. More than once, during somewhat hard times, I remember Miss Nona would let my Dad buy bread, milk, and anything else we needed on credit. Just to get thru until payday, when he would pay her back.

Maybe because she knew my parents, I always felt safe when I was there. I liked to think she’d treat me like one of her own grandkids. Although she probably would’ve treated any young person that well.

As I got older, I’d stop by on my way to work for a snack. My usual was a honey bun and a little Coca-Cola. I remember one day not long after I started driving, I stopped by to get gas. I would never let her pump my gas. So when I was done, I went inside to pay, and came back out to discover that I had locked my keys in the car.

First time that had ever happened to me, and I was a bit distressed. She, undoubtedly, had seen this situation many times. Brought a straightened wire hanger out and had my door unlocked in seconds. I don’t remember if I ever thanked her for that. I hope I did.

Time gets thin. And as Miss Nona got older, she started closing the store a little earlier in the evenings. And then she stopped opening at all on Saturdays. And eventually, although I can’t remember when, she closed the store for good.

Miss Nona had always looked exactly the same to me, for all the years I had known her. Except for the one time that I saw her after the store closed. I had heard that she was having some health problems. And she looked twenty years older than I remembered her.

No one ever reopened the little country store. Someone put a fish market in the building for a short while. But even that’s been gone for years now. When the town grew, it did so on the east side. All the new fast food restaurants, and convenience stores, the Wal-Mart Supercenter, and other businesses, opened there. The west side of town has just kind of been forgotten.

Today, little stores like that one have become scarce. Big money and chain stores eventually put the little man, and woman, out of business. They call it progress. Feels more like we lost something to me.

Miss Nona is no longer here. Although I can’t remember when she passed. The memories of that little country store, like the highway that runs past it, fade a little more each day.

Most of us will never achieve widespread fame. If you consider that an achievement. But to be remembered fondly by those whose paths we crossed years after we are gone. To have touched someone’s life, even in a small way. That’s something.

I suppose there have been thousands of little country stores in the world. Thousands of Miss Nona’s.

But to me, there will only ever be one.

“Don’t you remember the fizz in a Pepper. Peanuts in a bottle, at 10, 2, and 4. A fried baloney sandwich, with mayo and tomato…”

Follow-Up: Wolfgang & Little Joe

Some of you may recall when I blogged a couple of weeks ago about Wolfgang, who was going thru a divorce and was staying with my friend Little Joe. When we last left our happy housemates, Wolfgang had been gone all day. And Little Joe was contemplating calling to check on him and see if he was staying the night. Well, evidently Wolfgang made it back OK. Because I called Little Joe tonight, and he’s still over there. Here’s a bit of our conversation:

“You still got your… uh… roomate?”
“Yep!”
“Still?”
“Yep.”
“Wow, that’s a long time.”
“Yep.”
“Is he paying you anything for rent or bills?”
“Not yet.”
“Wow. Well that sounds like a lotta fun.”
“Oh yeah.”
“Is he over there right now?”
“Yep. You wanna talk to him?”
“Nah. I was just calling to tell you about poker night. I’ll leave you alone so you guys can bond.”

I’m still not sure exactly how all this came about. Whether Wolfgang asked if he could stay or just sort of imposed. In my mind, I’ve postulated that Wolfgang showed up one night saying he and his wife were fighting and he needed a place to sleep. They signed divorce papers a few days later. And he’s still there. I do specifically remember hearing the phrase “until I find a place to live.”

He started staying there April 19th. That’s a month. That’s too long. I could tell by the tone of Little Joe’s voice that he wasn’t overjoyed with the situation. From his short answers, I gathered that Wolfgang must have been in the room.

I’d like to help or offer some advice, but what can I do? I don’t know what to tell him. And Wolfgang definitely isn’t staying here. Besides, I’m more of a Beethoven man.

Any suggestions?

“He had debts, for he drank. But all the women loved him. And each one shouted, come on and rock me, Amadeus…”

From Bone – Humor

I’m subletting Pia’s place for the week. So far, I kinda like it. It has all the amenities of the big city while still feeling warm and homey. It’s like the Stratford Inn relocated to Manhattan. Although I did catch a peek inside her medicine cabinet this morning. Yama hama! And before you ask, I didn’t open it. It was already slightly ajar. I just nudged it a little. This is my first experience with the rent-a-blog feature. Hopefully it will go much better than my rent-a-date fiasco back in ’97. It’s definitely cheaper.

Here’s a statistic for you: 90% of greeting cards are useless.

That’s according to the field research I did last Friday. How many different ways can you say “Wishing you a day filled with happiness and love?” Evidently, at least eighty-seven. If my local Hallmark is any indication. Who’s writing these cards? And how much are they getting paid? Whatever it is, it’s too much. They all say the same thing! I would like to apply for that job.

There are basically three kinds of cards (since I can no longer seem to find any stores that carry Ziggy). First are those generic say-the-same-thing cards I just mentioned. The majority of the cards in the store seem to be of this persuasion. That leaves only the ever-shrinking humor section. And the deep, two-page-long mushy cards.

I was reading one of the latter Friday. The first page seemed OK. I was thinking this might be the card I go with. But then on the second page was a line that said something about giving you the praise and honor you deserve.” To which I remarked louder than I intended, “Praise and honor? She’s not the Lord.”

Another part of the problem is that they are now having to make cards for every possible relationship and family situation. So instead of many from son, from daughter, and for wife cards to choose from, there are more categories now. Such as blended family, just-like-family, soon-to-be-family.

I even saw a placeholder that read “For Ex-Daughter-In-Law.” Had to think about that one for a moment. As a man, I will never be able experience the closeness a woman feels with her son’s ex-wife. What’s next? For Ex-Son-In-Law’s New Wife? For Tramp Son Slept With One Drunken Night? From One Of Your Baby’s Possible Daddies?

The need for all these tremendously cuts down on the number of cards in each section, including my favorite section, the From Son-dash-Humor category. Which has all but been eradicated. The few cards that are left often seem to be lacking on the humor side.

For example, I picked up one so-called “humorous” card. There was a picture of a puppy inside and his tail was raised from the rest of the card so that it would “wag” when you opened it. Written beneath the puppy were the words “Happy happy happy happy happy happy Mothers Day.” That’s funny? Really? To who, the dog? What makes it funny? The tail or the six happy’s? That’s about as funny as (choose your own analogy: a catheter/a Jimmy Kimmel monologue/CSPAN).

And as long as we’re on the subject, I cannot believe they’re still making the card that doesn’t open and has some stupid little message printed on the back. Even more than that I can’t believe I’m people are still falling for it. How long is Big Greeting Card gonna milk that one? Boy, I bet the guy who invented the card that was glued shut is rich.

In closing, I know we face many issues and questions in these most uncertain of times. Illegal aliens, polygamy cults, Deal Or No Deal, how in the world Elliot is still on Idol. But first and foremost, we must attend to the greeting card problem in this country. It’s urgent. Father’s Day is June 18th.

“Daylight licked me into shape. I must have been asleep for days. Moving lips to breathe her name, I opened up my eyes…”

Things I remember about her

I know her favorite TV shows. She won’t miss American Idol. Or Letterman. She likes Regis. And Nancy Grace. Her favorite candy bar is a Mounds. I know her favorite place to eat out. Her favorite singer? Willie Nelson. I’ve watched her many nights sit in the floor and cry when he was on TV.

Her favorite book is “A Farewell To Arms.” She loves turnip greens. She likes sports. Likes Brett Favre. Doesn’t care much about the NBA anymore. But she loved Michael Jordan. And Larry Bird. And Pete Rose. Loves Alabama football. I’ve seen her cry when they lose. More than once. Funny how much we have in common.

I remember when I started to preschool. I would cling to her waist for dear life. Crying. Begging her not to leave me there. Now I realize that she was crying, too. Probably a lot more than I was. As soon as she was out of sight.

I remember how she’d take my sister and me to see our grandmother. Seems like we’d go several times a week during the summer. Then it seemed like just a fun thing to do. Now I’m so thankful we visited so often.

I remember she’d always fix me soft potatoes and chicken noodle soup when I was sick. And I know it was only Campbell’s. But she must have done something to that soup. Because I always got better.

I remember how she used to push me to excel. If I so much as made a B on my report card, she wasn’t happy. At all. And I knew it.

I remember having frequent nightmares when I was a kid. And Mom would always be there when I woke up, with a wet washcloth in hand, telling me everything would be alright.

I remember any time I acted up in church, she would inconspicuously pinch the living daylights out of me. It worked.

I remember her always taking less so that we could have more.

I remember her giving. To anyone who asked. Loaning money to relatives. Sometimes never being paid back. Although she’d never bring it up to them. And would probably be mad if she knew I mentioned it here.

I remember her always making time to visit friends and relatives in the hospital. And sending flowers and visiting when someone passed away.

I remember how she’d yell at me when I pitched in little league baseball. At the top of her lungs. Pitch after pitch.

I’d almost forgotten about that until a couple of years ago when I was playing softball. And I was standing in left field and heard her yelling from the stands. It’s not quite the same when you’re thirty as it is when you’re seven.

I remember everytime I’ve seen her cry. She usually hides it well. But there have been a few times when she couldn’t hold back in front of me. There is no feeling in the world like seeing tears in your mother’s eyes.

I remember the day I moved out of my parents’ house. She stood in the driveway with tears pouring down her face. I didn’t really get it. But she did. Even though I was only moving a few blocks away. She knew that part of life was over. And things would never be the same again.

In that moment, she was saying goodbye to all the years. And maybe even remembering some of these very same moments that I have mentioned today. I never grasped the significance of that moment at the time.

As the years have flown by, and they do fly… Well, I understand it a lot more now.

Happy Mothers Day, Mom. And Happy Mothers Day to you, if you’re a mom.

“Sometimes I think the devil has got me by the sleeve. Oh, Mama, don’t forget to pray for me…”