In Memory of

Mom,

Happy 70^th Birthday. (2003)

There are so many millions of little moments that you have shared with us.  You have taught us, protected us, nurtured us, fed us, bathed us, cleaned our house, cleaned all our laundry, ironed all our clothes, and helped us to grow to be ourselves.  Through thick and thin, you were always there.  You taught us to respect all things.  You showed us the value of learning something new every day.  You taught us to believe in ourselves. You taught us how to be polite.  I still like to open doors for ladies or give up my seat on an airplane shuttle.  It makes me feel better than it comforts them.  You always appear in my mind at that moment.

Just recently, I got out of my car and opened the other car door for an elderly lady picking up some things for good will.  Another lady, sitting in a wheel chair, said aloud, “They don’t make them like that anymore.”  The thousands of moments you shared with us flashed through my mind like a lightning bolt.  All I could think was, “They don’t make them like you anymore.”  On your 70^th birthday I sit here in awe, remembering just a few of them.

I remember reading books before we went to bed.  The image of the sandman always scared me a little, but you taught us there are really no such things as monsters and witches.  They were all make-believe.  I remember kneeling by the bed learning to say our prayers every night before we went to sleep.  And I remember the friendly tooth fairy showing up and leaving a quarter under the pillow in that room.  We always knew life was going to be all right.  Things would always turn out for the best.  I always felt I had a guardian angel watching over me my whole life.  I think I finally know who that guardian angel is.  It makes me feel bad how many moments and efforts we took for granted.

I remember you teaching us to brush our teeth.  We had to squirt the toothpaste onto the brush and not directly into our mouth from the tube.  That made sense, because we all had to share the same tube.  At 44 years old now, I resorted to my original more efficient technique of squirting it out of the tube directly into my mouth.  I don’t have to share the tube anymore.  I know you would not approve, but you can find some comfort in the fact that I do know better.

I remember Hanscom Field.  I remember little wired controlled red cars for Mike and I.  You always made Christmas the event of the year.  I remember playing in the snow, sledding on the hill, and finding warmth and comfort when returning inside with our toes completely frozen.  You were always there.  I remember you baking cup cakes and taking them around the neighborhood for May Day.  You always went out of your way to make other people’s lives a little easier.  There was always some hot chocolate ready for us when the days were cold.

I was always the most proud of my Mom when other kids told us their parents always used medicine that hurt.  They all dreaded the red stinging medicine.  Our Mom used Bactine.  We were the luckiest kids on the planet.  Our Mom believed nothing should hurt, not now, not ever.  I remember how other kids would tell us how lucky we are.  Unfortunately, we couldn’t tell you, you might start removing all the benefits.

Our Mom always ensured we only saw Disney movies.  To this day, the “Sound of Music” reminds me of you.  All of the songs just sound like you.  That is how you cared, what you wished for us, and what you wanted us to be.  Mary Poppins is the second in line.  The songs about “a few of my favorite things” and “put a little sugar on top” just make me think of you.

I remember walking around in our diapers in Clovis, New Mexico.  Even Mike was still wearing them, but only during the day. I remember sitting around the dining room table filled with a birthday cake, candles, and neighborhood friends.  I remember all of us with the measles, or maybe chicken pox.  Mike had them, Shari had them, I had them, and then you got them.  You just went through it all with us. I can’t remember you fixing all the meals, doing all the laundry, organizing all the activities.  Those things all just seemed to happen, and we took them for granted.

I remember both homes in Phoenix, Arizona.  The pool, Mike and the diving board, the little red wig, playing in the grass behind the fence, flying kites in the open field, Halloween, Christmas, going to school, taking tap dancing lessons and chickening out for the demonstration.  Everything was always all right.  Mike could play great baseball, I could just stay home and do my own thing.  You saw us each as different.  You encouraged us to find our own way. It was like the Constitution of the United States.  You weren’t even allowed to read our mail.  I never would have cared, but the principle was the lesson.  I think you maintained that standard all of our lives.  We were allowed to be trusted.

I remember getting in trouble for throwing a rock I didn’t throw.  You were the only one on the planet that actually believed me.  You taught us to always tell the truth.  We never got punished, if we told the truth.  As hard or as bad as it was, the lesson was to always tell the truth.  I find it pretty easy to just tell the truth even when you just want to curl up and hide.  It always feels right.  You made it all right.

I remember all the accidents.  Backing up into a hot grill with my leg, throwing a screwdriver right through the top of my foot after Mike introduced me to the new game of “Chicken.”  Breaking open my chin running at the pool in Nebraska, dropping a sewer lid on my eye in Virginia, getting in the car wreck driving down the George Washington Memorial Parkway, tearing my jacket after you warned me that I would ruin my brand new jacket if I wore it that night, Shari getting her head almost run over by the car, Shari in the hospital with you very worried about something that might make her very different, Shari getting glasses, going to the Doctor, getting shots.  Through all of it you were always there.  You are always there.

I don’t remember the nine times I cracked my head open in the exact same spot.  My only vague memory is the last time on a boat dock with the Polattys. I know you were there through each of those, because it is not an open wound now.  Surprisingly, when I fly on planes, I lean my head against that very hard knot on my head against the window.  For some reason, the pressure on that spot makes me feel comforted and fall asleep.  You must have sprinkled some magic dust in there when they were sewing me up nine different times.  Thanks for being there all the times I can’t remember.  Those nine events are just the symbol of hundreds that must have occurred.

I wet the bed until I was in fourth grade.  I sucked my thumb until I was in third grade. You never made me feel stupid, worthless, or strange for any of those terrible habits I could not break.  You always looked for a medical solution.  Peer pressure and medicine on my thumb finally broke the thumb sucking habit.  A miracle electrical device that set off a terrible alarm solved the bedwetting.  Psychology and medicine were the way.  Guilt, punishment, and blame, were never placed on me.  There was always a graceful and nurturing way to move us along through life.  If I imagine myself as a parent, I don’t believe I would have such wisdom.  You washed my entire bedding, every single day, until I was in fourth grade.  That would make me very angry.  You just kept on searching.  You found the answers and made me feel loved all along the way.

I remember seeing your dismay as you discovered that Shari decided to write her name all over the stairwell walls and carve it into the furniture.  It was nothing compared to Tim’s bedwetting problems, but you were concerned.  I don’t know what problems Mike was presenting at the time, but you had your hands full.

I remember all the real bad decisions. Fighting with Robert, bringing home the Bunsen Burner from school and flicking the fire onto the curtains in the bathroom, playing at the Potomac River right after a flood, hitch hiking to the border of South Carolina and Georgia and calling home to come and get us after being told about serial killers, teaching myself to like cigarettes to be cool, egging the house of the teacher for the grade we were moving up to, running away around the corner, playing in the sewers with Jim Henderson, toilet papering a few houses, sneaking out at night once or twice, sneaking into the liquor cabinet and mixing all the different kinds together, then adding Kool-Aid, drinking a complete canteen of it, vomiting all of it in school, and you coming to get me to bring me home.  Through all of the bad decisions, you let us know you were slightly disappointed, but still believed in us.  It was always like you knew we would do better. I don’t know how you handled the terrors of three teens.  My choices alone were more than I would want to handle as a parent.  You took the triple dose.

I remember you outlining the major lesson in my life.  Believing you and Dad would place me on restriction for nine weeks in the house if I didn’t get back into learning instead of drawing.  You knew I could be a good student, I just wasn’t applying myself. Life became real easy after realizing that life was just easier getting A’s and B’s and avoid feeling bad about myself.  You were always wishing only the best for me.  There were many great lessons, but that is one I am eternally grateful for.

I remember moving to Washington.  I remember the winter of 1966.  I remember staying on the base until our house was ready.  I remember building snowmen.  I remember you mastering the day of Christmas.  The floor was glittery, filled with riches, from the back window, all around the tree, flowing over the organ, across the floor, around the coffee table, and extending almost to the wooden stereo that Dad built.  We were so spoiled rotten.  I remember feeling bad when Dad and Mom each received one present.  I remember Skipper the bird. Dinner served every single night at 6:30 for as long as I can remember until we finally, stupidly, decided we just didn’t want to be home in time anymore.  Shari, Mike, and I would be home promptly at 6:30 now. You really enriched our lives.

Learning to put the knife blade facing you on the plate, almost avoiding eating everything we didn’t want on the plate every single time even with the threat of going to our room for the evening.  Watching you smile when all three of us swallowed those gruesome stewed tomatoes sitting on top of the German vegetable stew at the German Christmas with the neighbors.  To this day, I always feel bad if I leave any food on the plate.  It just makes me think of all those people who were not blessed like we were.

I remember you teaching me to iron.  Everyone thinks I am the best at ironing.  You showed me the real big secret.  You have to have the iron hot, you have to have water in the iron.  But the real big secret is to turn the board around and use the square end of the board.  Then you can iron each section of a shirt or pants in quarters real easy.  Even Beth wants me to iron her clothes.  I tell everyone the secret.  That narrow part of the board is a big obstacle.  It was only for inserting pant legs and unusual shapes.  When I travel to hotel rooms, they attach a metal iron holder to seat the iron on the square end of the board.  I cringe.  They ruined the ironing board.

You sewed all our buttons back on our clothing.  You completely corrected the most unmanageable repair. You cleaned one new towel for each shower, for each child, every single day.  Now that we have to do our own laundry, the same towel lasts for several weeks.  Oh, how we abused your good nature.

You always managed a miracle for a birthday.  I will never forget as long as I live, my twenty-first birthday.  All the people from all sides of my life arrived for the surprise.  My high school friends, my college friends, my magic friends, with ages ranging from young to old.  They were all there, every single one.  It was impossible.  I thought birthdays were kind of over.  I’ve always wished I could do that for someone else.  Then I think of all the work, the organization, the planning, the calling, the changes.  Some things only a Mom can do.  My Mom did it.

I remember being with you when we lost Granddad Miles.  I remember sitting at their table in the house they built themselves.  I remember Rocket.  I remember all the visits to Spearfish, South Dakota, trips to Nebraska, swimming pools with rock bottoms, dinosaur statues along the way, Mount Rushmore, the Devil’s Tower, the Black Hills, riding Rocket back to the barn through the town when he decided he had finished for the day.  I remember you getting me a cowboy hat like Granddad’s.  I also am grateful I could be with you when you placed Grandma next to Granddad.  Oh, how I wish I could have known them better now.

I remember you telling me to always wait at the door we came in if we ever got lost in a store.  It worked.  I think I only lost you once, and it worked.  I always try to plan ahead like that when I am with other people.  You taught me empathy.  I always try to imagine what it would feel like from their perspective.  You gave us balance.

I remember you taking all of us shopping for new clothes, learning to like broccoli, swimming lessons, swim meets, football games, baseball games, little league, discovering LeSueur peas, you teaching me to make pea salad.  The dinner parties, apple pie, pecan pie, meatloaf.  We are the only kids on the planet who love meatloaf.  All the other mothers didn’t know how to make it.  I think all of us love meatloaf.

You made sure we all learned how to type.  All your children know how to type.  I can’t imagine living with the “hunt and peck” technique because we didn’t take the month or two to learn how to type.  I thought it was kind of silly back then.  Why would I need to type, I would just have a secretary.  In my entire business career, I have never had a secretary.  Thank you Mom.

Easter, the Fourth of July, Memorial day, trying to get us to go to church.  Shari joined the path, but you really gave your very best effort to each of us.

We were all simply spoiled. You were just the greatest Mom on the planet. There are so many millions of moments.  This walk down memory lane just doesn’t end.  How do you put years of someone giving and giving and giving and giving, and then giving some more, down on a few pages of paper. These are the years that I look back and wish I could comfort you. We just didn’t realize how blessed, lucky, and graced, we really were.  You gave us grace.

I have written a poem about Mike.  I have written a poem about Dad.  Some day, I might even be able to write one about Shari.  Every time I try to imagine actually writing a poem about you, I feel crippled.  I feel like it would just be impossible.  It would have to be hundreds of pages.  You never gave us your second best effort.  A couple of pages would always feel like a second best effort.  This birthday note was supposed to be one page. The simple, repetitive, technique I use would jump out after getting to page ten.  How could I make all those thousands of moments of giving and sharing rhyme.  It would take me years.  It would be at least many months.  It would never be right.  I just wouldn’t ever be satisfied.  It just wouldn’t ever be able to capture you.  All I can think of is what that lady in the wheel chair just recently said to me, which she was really saying to you.  “They just don’t make them like that anymore.”  You are the very best Mom I could have ever had.

They say that each of us pick our parents from heaven.  I think I thought to myself.  That is a great gift.  I think I’ll make it easy on myself and pick a good one.

Thank you for the millions of special moments.  One of my favorite moments with you was just sitting on the beach in California, just listening to the ocean roll in, and both of us just being completely ourselves.  Thank you for allowing each of us to figure out and be ourselves.

With all my love,

Tim