This Old...And Full...House

I’m not a ‘saver.’ One of those hoarders that keeps everything and collects the junk of everyone else. I definitely do more tossing than keeping. Perhaps that comes from my desire to live in a small house. You can’t keep a lot of junk in a small house. Well, you can keep a lot of junk but that makes for a cluttered and crowded living environment. When it comes to people, though, I think I might be a hoarder.

A couple of weeks ago Parker moved back home after a six-month stint of apartment dwelling. His roommate, Jesse, move in with us too. And now my little house has six adult-sized people living in it. Every bedroom has a resident and the basement doubles as a family room and Jesse’s bedroom.

My soul is happy.

I don’t think I’ll be one of those mothers whose purpose in life leaves when her children do but, I know that when they are all home and under one roof I am happiest and most content. They are all pretty independent; coming and going as their work schedules, school schedules, and social lives dictate. And, they bring in all manner of junk food that I would never buy. That makes Steve happy. I mean, it would be rude for him not to eat it with them, right?

The times when everyone is actually home, in the house, and interacting are very rare. But, when they occur, they are wonderfully fun. There is laughter and joking and a spirit of loving comaraderie. I didn’t give birth to Jesse but I might as well have. He fits in perfectly.

And so I savor.

I savor because I know that these young men, all in their early 20s, won’t live here for that long. And I know that Anna, right on their heels, won’t be far behind. It is right and good that they will launch into accomplishing their various goals and aspirations. I wouldn’t want them to be emotional cripples who can’t leave mama. Well, okay, I do want that a little. But that isn’t what I hope for them. I want to see them move on and thrive. When the time is right.

But, for today, the time is right for them all to be here, in my house, bringing their youthful joy and spirit, leaving piles of shoes at the front door, eating Oreos and chocolate milk, and coming and going on a 24-hour schedule. The bustle and commotion bring me joy.

Someday my house will be empty and quiet. Of course, by then I’ll have my dissertation finished and I won’t need a quiet and empty house! And Steve says that isn’t true anyway, that when the kids are gone I’ll just invite stray cats, dogs, and people to live with us. He might be right. But they won’t be my precious children.

For today, I savor the time I have with them. They are giving me a valuable gift not only of their presence but by teaching me to hold them tightly in my heart and loosely with my hands. To take each day as it comes and to cherish the time, right now, because it won’t always be this way. Life doesn’t slow down. It doesn’t stop. I won’t get these moments back. There are no ‘do-overs.’ There is only right now to drink it in and embrace it.

Let tomorrow bring what it will. Today, I embrace the joy.

Make Mine Red!

To say that my son, Charles, has an interest in automobiles is quite an understatement. Interest is a rather hollow word when applied to him. Obsession is such an intense and moody word. But, it is probably the better choice.

Even before he could talk he had memorized things about chassis and engines and fuel pumps that regular, ordinary adults knew little about. Admittedly, he doesn’t get his brilliance about cars from me. My knowledge pretty much ends at paint color.

When he turned 16, Charles was allowed to drive our cars. Much to his horror. Being people who value cars as simple transportation, we never buy new, rarely buy pretty and have been known on more than one occasion to accept automobiles from friends that would otherwise be hauled to the junk yard. The cars would be hauled to the junk yard. Not the friends.

Anyway, not wanting to continue being humiliated by driving the ancient family mini-van with the side trim stripped away due to a close encounter with a light pole, Charles saved money to buy his own vehicle.

The object of his desire was a 1993 Ford Bronco. I’m pretty sure there were some letters and numbers after the name but I can’t recall what they were.

I do know it was blue.

Charles and the Bronco had many wonderful adventures before numerous repairs, rising fuel prices, and a several mile commute to work caused him to decide to sell it a few years ago. He sold it to someone who wanted only the engine and transmission and then planned to junk it.

The day the sale transacted was one of the saddest in Charles’s young life. He bravely fought tears as he watched it drive away. His remorse over the sale increased but the deed was done and we assumed the Bronco had been made into pop cans. Or whatever they do with scrap metal.

Some time later Charles happened to be driving through a neighborhood when he turned a corner and…there it was…the Bronco…sitting in front of a house! Complete with a ticket for being parked and inoperable. The buyer had taken the parts he wanted but couldn’t bring himself to take it to the junk yard.

Shortly thereafter the Bronco returned to our house on a flatbed tow-truck. It is stored in our garage without the internal organs typically needed to sustain life. But Charles has a vision. His vision is to restore the Bronco to its original pristine condition.

When most people look in our garage, amid the clutter and miscellaneous refuse, they see a broken down, roughed up, lifeless hunk of metal. Otherwise known as a ‘junker.’ Charles sees far beyond the dents, scratches, blemishes, missing parts and rust spots.

Charles sees something beautiful.

It occurs to me that the Bronco in many ways represents humanity. People are often blemished and rough and at times emotionally lifeless. But, if we put in the effort, we can see past the rust and dents and see the beautiful. Sometimes it takes far more love than we are humanly able to give, to see through the damage. That is when prayer comes in handy. When I can’t find a way to love, I can pray for divine intervention to help me see past the broken side mirror and flaking paint. I guess God sees all of us as restored and freshly painted.

And when I start to see past the obvious and, instead, see possibility, I can be more tolerant and caring and truly kind to those whose lives intersect with mine. It doesn’t really matter if it is my immediate family, my crazy mother, a neighbor, or just a passerby, if I offer genuine love and caring rather than scorn and condemnation I’ve done something to improve life on this planet.

I’m not sure if we get to choose how others see us in our restored condition; if they choose to see us that way at all. But, if it is up to me, I’d like to think we are all bright, shiny...and RED.

For Lent I'm Giving Up My Mother

I really don’t think I was a difficult child. I don’t remember that I was. I recall being a compliant, timid, rather fearful child but I suspect that came from the unpredictable atmosphere of our home. I don’t remember getting into trouble very much. I mean there was the occasional fight with a friend. I stole an Oscar Meyer Weenie Mobile charm once. Okay, and I made a boy cry by saying mean things about his mother. I didn’t know his mother. But I could imagine.

Regardless, as compared with my peer group I don’t think I was really all that bad.

Somehow it seems like I’m being punished for being a bad child. What other explanation can there be for having to deal with my mother?

For weeks my mother has badgered me about taking her to the doctor. When I asked why she needed to go she didn’t have a definitive answer. She just thought she should. Now, I understand the value in an annual physical exam but since she had just been to the doctor four months ago, I wasn’t sure why she needed to go again.

She really, really likes going to the doctor. Why she really, really likes this, I am not sure. But she does. Except she doesn’t like going to the doctor here in Colorado as much as she liked going to the doctor in Michigan. When I asked why, she said the doctor in Michigan held her hand. Um, okay. Now if my doctor were to hold my hand I’d probably miss everything being said because I’d be thinking, “Why the hell are you holding my hand???!!” But, hey, we all have our quirks.

I am not really sure why illness is so important to my mother but I suspect it always has been. When we were growing up, no one in my family was allowed to get sick. Except my mother. No one was allowed to show emotion either but that is a different therapy session altogether. She was frequently in bed and ill, even if it wasn’t readily apparent what she had. We weren’t deemed sick unless we vomited or had a fever. Preferably both. Even then my mother was so inconvenienced by it that we considered just going to school with a bucket and a wet cloth.

Somehow being ill has served a purpose in her life. Recently she has been telling me that the doctor here doesn’t do blood work often enough. Without a reasonable cause I can’t imagine why anyone would need a blood draw more than once a year but my mother maintains that she needs her blood tested every two or three months. To look for what? She doesn’t know. She just thinks it should happen.

Nothing weird about that.

Anyway, after several conversations, phone calls, emails and unrelenting demands to see the doctor I agreed to take her. I called her to tell her what time I’d pick her up for her appointment and she told me she was sick. Eureka! A trip to the doctor when you are actually ill! To me it seemed like quite a boon!

When I arrived at her apartment, however, she informed me that she was too sick to go to the doctor. Yep, that is what she said. Too sick to go to the doctor.

And that was that.

I called the doctor’s office to inform them that I was cancelling my mother’s appointment because she was too sick to go to the doctor. We’d have to make another appointment. Let’s hope she isn’t too well next time. Fortunately the receptionist laughed with me, at the absurdity of the situation.

So, I’d like to just say, for the record, that I’m really very sorry to whateverhisnamewas for making him cry. I’m sure his mother wasn’t all those things I said she was. I think I got her confused with MY mother. And if he could just forgive me now I’d sure appreciate it.