My Mom and Such

(Mom talking to the pastor at church. Dad is on the left.)

At times I’m unsure if I miss MY mom, or the concept of having a mom. I can barely remember her personality traits. Instead, I remember what she liked to eat.

Peaches. Pecan Pie. Jamocha Almond Fudge Ice Cream. Liver and Onions. Taco Salad. Wendy’s Chili. Toast. Denver Omelets. Peanuts. Egg Salad. Left-over fried chicken. (cold) Sugar twists. These were her favorites. And after dinner she always drank instant coffee. This was long before Starbucks.

My mother liked to sew, hated to cook, loved to read, and insisted we attend church. Perhaps the most annoying part of our weekly Sunday ritual was that my father always parked in the furthest spot from the entrance. He rationalized this behavior saying he was leaving the closer spaces for the elderly. But in reality I think he enjoyed being the captain of the vehicle. I think he wanted to make this phony command post last as long as possible.

So after church, we’d use a coupon to eat foot-long sandwiches at Subway. Then my father would say, “Let’s go for a ride,” and my brother and I would whine, “No way! We’re not going to look at business parks!” Now my father, who was not a commercial real estate agent, loved driving. If we didn’t pipe up, we’d find ourselves trapped in the family van, circling the parking lot of some new corporate building while my father speculated about the company. "That explains a lot," remarked one of my friends years later when I shared this story.

As we got older, we pleaded to be dropped off at home before he went to look at business parks…, which of course was not what he wanted. My father wanted company, and he’d think of anything to provide this. If I hear one more time, “Who wants to come hold the flashlight?” I’ll scream. My father liked to fix the car in the driveway or in the garage, well after dark. When I asked why he couldn’t do this during daylight hours he’d mumble about his long work hours. Several times I tried to outsmart my father with Christmas gifts of flashlights that hung or clipped so he wouldn’t need me to “hold the flashlight.”  He insisted these lights never worked quite right and he needed one of us kids instead. 

I knew better. He was lonely. And I have been lonely. And this is how I miss my mom. I miss that she would have understood.