Seventy East

Mom and Me      Mom, Bob, and Me

I’ve been missing my Mom something fierce lately. It always happens around holidays.

We talked on the phone for over an hour tonight. We laughed and cried… and she even cussed a little. My feelings had been hurt recently and unexpectedly, and Mama Bear had my back with a fierceness and a bit of profanity. She rarely cusses. “I want you to know how strongly I feel about this, though,” she said. And I did. I did.

In my sweet Mom’s honor, I’m posting a story I wrote about her earlier this year. It’s a story about going home… which always means Mom.

And as a sidebar, I wrote this while she was recovering from a nasty pneumonia and a hospital stay. She’s back to her feisty, fiery self again. Can’t keep her down, my Mom. Never could.

~~~~~

“Seventy East”

I first drove the terrain in a 1963 Ford Falcon. Then came the Escort, the Saturn, the wood-paneled RoadMaster, the Suburban, the Tahoe. The vehicles changed, the view evolved, but that same stretch of straight highway flanked by cornfields and weather-beaten billboards always brought me to the same place.

Home.

This time, I’d left my dear husband and four kids in Mississippi and driven ten hours straight to spend the weekend with my beloved mom. Her health was in decline, her spirit equally mired in shade, her once ever-present smile elusive. We were in need of each other’s company. My sister and brother-in-law would be there, too. My niece, her husband, my grand-niece, my nephew and his girlfriend. And our step-father, our mom’s devoted caregiver. We would gather and laugh and break bread and drink wine.

But first.

First, the steady and trustworthy wheels of my Tahoe had a side trip to make. So I drove into the heart of Greenfield, right back to my childhood.

I felt like a giant in the land of Lilliputians as I journeyed to St. Michael’s School. The houses I passed on Jefferson Street, the ones that once seemed so big and out of reach were now merely quaint cottages in my world of excess. I had grown used to homes too big to clean in one fell swoop, to yards that took hours to mow. In many ways, I had outgrown my childhood home, and in so many more, it was still an integral part of me, an irreplaceable, permanent piece of my existence.

Just down the road, beyond the three blocks I’d walked twice a day for eight years wearing my plaid Catholic school jumper, sat Weston Village Apartments. The field across the street, the one in which I’d built cardboard forts and smoked contraband cigarettes and sworn blood pacts with my friends, was now fenced off and crisscrossed with tiny tract homes. The frozen ground I’d traversed in my dirty white ice skates was now someone else’s private property.

But 317-B. There she was. Second floor apartment. There was the bedroom window my sister and I shared on the brick side, my mom’s bedroom window to the left on the vinyl side. Different curtains now, different residents, same feeling.

Around the corner was the basketball goal where I’d spent the better part of my after-school hours. When I wasn’t riding my bike to Hooks Drugs to pick up a pack of Merit Ultra Lights for my mom or a watermelon Jolly Rancher stick for myself, I was there, perfecting my free throws, challenging all the neighborhood boys to a high-stakes game of “Horse.” I’d take their money when I won, and I never looked back. Respect. You had to earn it on the court via a wicked quick jumper – especially when you were a freckle-faced girl with unruly auburn tresses and hand-me-down clothes.

The remembered smell of hot, sweaty summer days wafted through my vents even though it was a freezing, twenty-eight degree February evening. I drove past my old babysitter’s house, a “For Sale” sign lodged in the frozen earth. I toyed with the idea of buying that house, the one where we spent all our Christmas Eves, the one in which I stole a coveted Rosary. But it was a fleeting thought, a fruitless conversation with my own sentimentality. We lived in Mississippi now, not Greenfield. My childhood was not my children’s childhood.

I drove the back roads to my mom’s current house, took the route I would have traveled on my baby blue Schwinn to visit my best friend, Kerri, or to sneak a swim in my cousins’ backyard pool. There was the Dairy Queen, the outer reaches of Eli Lilly’s research land. Single-family homes now rose up from the fields that were once tall and fragrant with summer corn and heavy with mosquitoes. When I’d pedal home in the evening, racing against the impending dark with a bike light powered only by the motion of my legs, those same fields would glow with a hazy firefly light. The magical green-bellied bugs would dance and dart and occasionally splatter against my legs as I rode, driven by adolescent hunger, toward a heaping plate of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese mixed with Starkist tuna and a cold glass of 2% milk, Hostess Twinkies for dessert.

When I finally pulled into my mom’s driveway that late February evening, I sat for a moment and thought about my high school years in this home. I was almost grown by the time Mom remarried, was already thinking about the what-comes-next. This house, too, had been mine, but only briefly. My childhood rested on the other side of town, where the edges were a little rougher.

Inside her Bowman Acres home, my mom sat in her bed, water glass by her side, TV blaring, recovering slowly, slowly from her latest hospital stay. The pneumonia had worn her down, had claimed another little piece of what I once believed was an indomitable spirit. Now I saw her human frailty, her corporeal limits.

I climbed into the bed beside her and settled in for the weekend.

“What can I do for you?” I asked, kissing her pale, papery cheek.

“Nothing,” she said. “Nothing. I have everything I need.”

Then she reached out with her frail hand. Those hands that once fed me, protected me, brushed my hair, treated my skinned knees, wiped away my tears.

“I just need to touch you.”

It’s all we both needed, really. I gently rubbed her translucent skin, laid my head on her stooped shoulder, breathed her in. Above the bitter odor of the medicine bottles, of the stale air of a recovery bed, I smelled my mom. Her Dove soap, her lilac hand lotion, her shampoo. Still the same after more than four decades, still a comfort to my adult-sized heart.

The smell of home.

The feel of home.

Right there, always, in the familiar grasp of my mother’s beautifully wrinkled hands.

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About Katrina Anne Willis

Professional copywriter, author, friend, lover, dreamer, drinker of red wine.
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8 Responses to Seventy East

  1. Amy Kiefer says:

    You never fail to move me, bring a tear to my eye and mingle my own memories with your own. You are so very talented and so lucky to be able to put into words what resides in your heart—and mine too!

  2. Dawn Pier says:

    Katrina,
    This is so touching. And it is that very line, “I just need to touch you” that sent my heart swelling and my eyes misting. You are so very fortunate to have such an incredible woman for your mother. It explains a lot actually. Your kids are lucky too. 🙂

  3. It’s beautiful how much you adore your Mom. You are very fortunate to have her with you. ♥

  4. Janie Hodge says:

    You have described dear Sissy in a very special way. Love Aunt Janie

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