Goodbye on Mothers Day

Mom worked a low-wage job as a leader of a nonprofit organization for girls. When she got home she tossed her jacket and purse on the table and walked past me without a word. She continued on to the refrigerator. Looked inside to bare shelves. In robotic movements. Withdrew something wrapped in foil and dropped it onto the countertop. The loud crash of a frying pan followed, which broke up the fight between my dad and me.

"What did you do, today?" Mom railed into me.

"I'm quitting that damn insane asylum they call a high school." I picked up a cheap classical guitar that belonged to my oldest sister #1 and started to play it. "I can't take the bullying anymore. I've had it. And my brother told me not to take their crap." My two younger sisters walked into the kitchen. They had heard the fighting too many times before.

My oldest sister #1 pointed to her guitar and said, "I can see how much it means to him, Mom. I want him to have it. I didn't go beyond Kumbaya."

"Thanks, Sis," I mumbled, taken aback by her generosity.

"Can I have a glass of water? I don't like milk," My youngest sister #2 asked Mom.

They held out their plates, and Mom filled them like they were in a charity soup line. They took the plates back to their room.

"I want to be an artist," I strummed a few chords.

"The hell you are!" Mom never listened to music and showed little appreciation for the Arts. I reckoned growing up on a scrappy farm where chicken eggs were used as money. To barter for a set of wooden dentures by the time she was 18 years old left no time for things deemed impractical. "You're going to reform school. There you'll do your homework and erase these crazy ideas from your head."

"Mom," I shouted back, exasperated, "I can't even get to my classes. Haven't you been listening?"

Dad served himself and stepped in, "If you weren't such a little fag they wouldn't pick on you!"

It was a hopeless argument.

"When you make your own bed you have to lie in it," Mom preached her favorite Great Depression-era slogan.

"I love you too, Mom," I put the guitar down.

Mom was a class-conscious woman. Even though we were a low-income family, she fought to maintain the image of being middle class. Conformity meant everything to her and I was the epitome of a nonconformist. As long as a person conformed to the status quo. Never questioned authority, and voted Republican, everything, according to her, would be okay. Even if it meant that her son would come home in a coffin from the Vietnam War. Or if an "authority" said I needed a brain transplant, she would not challenge authority.

Much like Dad, Mom had her own secret world, and I was one of her secrets. She had convinced herself that I was a misfit. No one was to know this, especially her relatives or coworkers. They weren't supposed to know that her marriage was a lie, either. She seemed to think that the mask she put on made an impression of normality. Both my parents were guilty of trying to be something they were not. They were afraid to admit to themselves. Their children. The world, that they were ordinary people with their own problems like everyone else.

My mom did all the domestic chores too, but I never saw her go for a walk or engage in any kind of healthy activity. Mother's Day for her was rocking in a chair. Smoked a pack of Pall Mall while gazing at a wall that held no family or marriage photos. By her early 40s. She had become a successful businesswoman. But in the home where life wasn't as easy as managing an annual candy sale for girl camps. She remained to herself.

"It's my job to put clothes on your back," she would snap.

It was a miracle how this petite woman worked her ass off to pay the rent. Put food on the table. And keep the household running. Her job was a sanctuary; a place respected, where she was the boss. With a disabled and womanizing husband. Two young girls. One delusional son and another son wanted by the military for being AWOL, my mom knuckled down.

Our home was an extension of the black and white conditions of the depression era farm where she grew up. You didn't ask questions, you followed orders, did your chores, or go hungry, if your teeth hurt suck ice. There was no time or room to be creative. The arts were for liberals, rich people, city folk, and homosexuals. And there I sat- the rotten little egg too big for his britches.

Mom lit up another cigarette and puffed it while her hands whipped up more potatoes.

"Your Aunt never would have let you become this disrespectful. It's too late now… you had your chance… now your brother is in trouble," she added more salt to her potatoes. "What am I to do with you?"

I knew she wanted to cry but the well was dry. Also, much like Dad, Mom hadn't always been this broken. For a time when I was little. I remember Christmas Day having meaning including delectable offerings from Mom's kitchen. Thanksgiving Day dinners were a wonderful feast to behold. The fudge on Easter Sunday was over the top yummy. Mom even used to sew my clothes by hand, using designs copied from the S&H Green Stamp store. She bought me ice skates and enrolled me into Boy Scouts. She would put 10 cents into my hand when I wanted a comic book. At one point, I had as many as 12 pet hamsters. Still, I felt Mom's love to be conditional. I can't remember when she ever hugged me… or anyone else. Touching her was off-limits, so we had no physical contact. Dad complained later, after they divorced, that she was cold.

"What am I to do with you?" she repeated- her anger ringing in my ears.

"I will do everyone a favor," I stood up, not sure what I had volunteered, "I will leave. Have no more of me. Write me off."

Like Stephen Sondheim. I left home when I was a teen and wandered through life's mean streets trying to be a self-made success story. It never happened. Over the next three decades, I stopped in to visit my mother.

The best part of the early '90s was reconnecting with my mom. When her job transferred from California to Kansas City, I was able to visit her often. I was able to see my sisters, too. They followed Mom from California and moved next door.

Mom, like dad, started to recognize the positive in me. I guess because I married and became a father, I wasn't all that much of a misfit?

Like my dad, I took time off to re-bond - to make up for the time we never had when I was growing up.

After my brother died, Mom had retired from her position as executive director of the Camp Fire Girls. I had the time, but not the money, to take her on a celebratory trip. This would be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for us to share, so my wife helped to finance it.

"Where would you like to go, Mom?" I asked.

"I don't know," she answered. "You're the traveler."

Mom never took vacations. When she had time off from her job she stayed at home. It all seemed like too much of a fuss to her - all that packing and moving around. When I visited her, she wanted help with errands and chores around the house. She was a practical, no-frills woman that had no interest in men or to remarry.

We'd travel together with my wife, and our daughter. As their tour guide. "I will steer west from Kansas City, and take us on the canyon circle tour. We'll visit Zion. Bryce. Grand Canyon. And Mesa Verde National Park. The ancient remains of the ancestral Pueblo cliff dwellers."

"Your grandfather Pappy liked that back trail country," Mom said. "When he retired, he used to go to places like that and ride a horse. As much as I would like to see that area, My body is not cut out for it anymore."

In my enthusiasm, I had plotted my own course, without considering her lack of stamina for hiking. Plus, since I married and had a five-year-old daughter. Mom thought she might end up being our nanny on the trip.

After Mom's third bout with cancer, she wore a colostomy to collect her body waste. She never told me when she was sick and never let it slow her down. Sometimes at the dinner table. We'd hear a loud gurgling sound, followed by a foul stench emanating from the bag. Like Mom, the family learned to ignore it.

"All right, so the trip out west would be nice, but it's too expensive," I reasoned. "How about we visit family at the cabin on the Lake of the Ozarks instead? That's only a three-hour drive, and the hotels are inexpensive."

"Okay, you make the arrangements," Mom agreed.

I wanted one-on-one time with Mom on the trip. I envisioned us sitting on my sister's dock in the shade. The gentle lapping of the waves, splashing catfish. Great blue herons, and the mossy green smell of deep-southern summer. It was a place and a time where my mom and I could reconnect.

Frank's family motel perched high on top of the reservoir cliff. Overlooking the marvel of the artificial Lake of the Ozarks. Nicknamed the Magic Dragon for its shape, and had 1,150 miles of shoreline. Legend has it that the catfish are so big at the bottom of the dam that they can swallow a person whole.

Frank had a large, pockmarked nose. He wore a t-shirt that had a slogan printed on the front: A rich man's war and a poor man's fight. On his desk was a miniature statue of Robert E. Lee, which Frank used as a paperweight. He spoke with a slight, southern drawl.

"Y'all lookin' to stay for a few days?" Frank asked, with a sleepy drawl.

"Yep, I reckon so," I said jaw heavy, like him.

"I have rooms 7 and 8 open," he said. Handing me the keys attached to a pair of plastic tear-dropped-shaped key holders, "You can pay me on the way out."

"That'll be fine," I nodded.

Frank came out from behind the counter and showed me the grounds. "Over there is the free ice machine, snacks, and soda machine," he told me, pointing at the vending machine. "It takes nickels, dimes, and quarters."

"That's great," I said with appreciation. "I'll exchange a few dollars now."

"We clean the rooms daily," he explained, "so turn the smiley clean me sign around on the doorknob when you step out."

"Will do, Frank… thanks," I acknowledged.

The rooms were the standard $40-per-night lodging. Thin white walls, TV with three channels. Clean bathroom, and a window. I had stayed in "that room" many times as a road warrior insurance salesman. I carried Mom's bags into her room. She seemed tired after the short trip.

"Are you okay?" I asked her. I knew mom was a suck-it-up type who wouldn't complain.

"I'll lie down for a while," she said.

"We're invited down for dinner, later," I told her. "I'll come back at 5 pm to make sure you'll be ready."

I returned to my wife and daughter, back in our room. My daughter was jumping on the "trampoline" bed.

"Is your mother okay?" My wife yawned. "She didn't say much all the way down here."

"Let's not worry about it… okay?" I reassured her, and brushed it off with, "She's having an off day?"

I picked up my jumping bean daughter in search of a playground and my wife remained behind to space out.

In the past year, Mom had been in and out of the doctor's office at least once a week. One morning, my sisters found her lying on her bed in a pool of yellow goop.

The doctor said, "In all the years of practice, I've only heard about one case like this. The theory is that due to overdose of radiation 25 years earlier. Her intestinal tract is coming apart like old, wet newspaper."

She drifted in and out of pain- often going days without eating anything, and living on sleeping pills. She declined a nursing home with the statement, "I don't want to die in one of those places."

Growing concerned over her condition. I sent flowers every month and called her every Sunday.

I pushed my daughter on a swing that overlooked the lake. The Magic Dragon roared on that summer's eve. Most of the 70,000 homes along the lake had a boat. Some of the boats were bigger than a house - creating huge waves. That sent Jet Skis flying off on bigger thrill rides.

During the Civil War, the culture and society of the Ozarks changed forever. Mills, courthouses, towns, and farms were destroyed. Crops were confiscated or burned, and entire communities were depopulated. Fathers, sons, and brothers murdered, taken prisoner, or disappeared. Not much was documented about the Missouri-versus-Arkansas campaign. I could feel it down inside my Yankee boots.

The sun hit the Ozark hills with its honey-like tone, making the air feel sticky. It was 5 pm, so I rounded up the troops for the cabin.

"Are you ready to go, Mom?" I asked, picking up her sweater.

Mom was sitting in a chair, outside her room, smoking a cigarette. "Lead the way," she said.

I drove down to my sister's cabin. A 20-foot high canopy of American smoke trees formed above us. Towering over an understory of mixed species. The dappled sunlight provided good camouflage, I thought.

During the Civil War. The roughest hill country proved suitable for guerrilla warfare. The narrow. Isolated stream valleys and mountain coves afforded secure areas of refuge. Bases for raids on targets of opportunity such as wagon trains and militia garrisons. Small, active bands of Confederate guerrillas required the presence of Union outposts. The efforts of countless Union patrols in the interior of the Ozarks. Civilian families hid beneath these trees. Waiting for peace, and waiting for Johnny to come marching home.

I pulled into my sister's yard and we all got out. My younger sister's husband - the Confederate gray coat of the family - greeted me with a beer.

"Hey, it's the Yankee Doodle," he laughed.

"It's so nice to see you again," my older sister said to me.

"You too," I said, giving her a big hug.

"Hello, everyone," Sister #2 said. "And, look at you. Almost, grown-up," she added, as she picked up my daughter. "Ugh, you're getting pretty heavy." She set my daughter back on her feet and turned to me.

"Hi, Sis," I said, hugging my little sister.

"How's your motel?" she asked.

"It's a bed," I shrugged.

"As you can see, my place is small, or I'd have you stay here," she offered. "Two rooms small, but we love the view and a place for the boat.

My wife slipped our daughter into her swimsuit and took her down to the dock to play. Sister #1 followed to watch. My brother-in-law went to work on prepping the boat for a sunset cruise, and sister #2 left to work the grill for supper. Mom and I sat on a rocker, as I had dreamed, looking out to the lake. The air was cool coming off the water. I wrapped her sweater around her shoulders.

"What do you want to do with your life now, Mom?" I asked her.

"I thought about moving back to Philipsburg," she answered.

"But if you do that, no one can visit you," I complained.

She stopped to think about that. It had not crossed her mind. She wanted someone to say they cared.

"That's true, I suppose," she gathered.

"So… what do you think of Dad getting remarried?" I asked.

"He always had a talent for finding a woman to take care of him," she scoffed.

"Yeah Mom, but you can't go on being angry forever," I consoled. "I made mistakes, and I wish there was a rewind button, so I could go back and undo all the stupid things."

Mom lit another cigarette and bounced her right leg off her left knee. She looked at that lake as if it had an answer for her.

"Mom, you smoke too much," I complained.

"What do you hope to gain by going to that book-writing?" Scoffing as usual.

"I don't know, Mom," I replied. "Write things down, I guess… tell what happened to us."

"Are you going to write about me?" she asked.

"Yes, Mom," I said. Putting my arm over her shoulder. "After son #1 died, I realized more than ever how fragile and ephemeral we are. We have to forgive and move on, or we'll spend eternity frozen on an island."

Uncle Confederacy pulled out life vests from a storage locker.

"The boat is ready to sail," he announced. "How about we all go for a spin around the lake?"

"I'm going to stay behind and fix dinner," sister #1 hollered.

"Come on Mom, this will be fun," I encouraged her because I could see she wanted to stay behind for no reason.

"I'll stay back and help," she moaned.

"Nah, she doesn't need any help," I said pulling her along.

The brother-in-law spared no expense on his toys. The white, 24-foot Campion Sunbridge cabin cruiser is in excellent condition. Farley put in a rebuilt 5.7 outdrive motor that could rocket across the water like a torpedo. Her design was well thought out, stylish, and comfortable. The boat featured a large forward berth. Full galley, enclosed head, and large mid-cabin that slept two.

"What do you call your ship, General Lee?" I asked, helping Mom aboard.

"The CSS Missouri," he replied, with a salute.

Attached to the long CB radio antennae was a Confederate battle flag. Featuring the Southern Cross.

We all settled into the boat. He put on his captain's hat, weighed the anchor, dropped the throttle, and took us out.

"Where do you want to go?" he shouted.

"Thataway," I hollered back, pointing east.

He rounded the bay. And cranked up the stereo playing his Lynyrd Skynyrd music cassette. To the southern anthem, "Free Bird," we sailed across the belly of the 130 feet deep Magic Dragon.

We looked like a floating cork against the reddish-brown face of the 100 foot high Ozark cliffs. The CSS Missouri was at half throttle. Already the waves splashed into our faces, and the wind shot our hair straight back. The bounces from the waves of other boats gave my stomach a sudden jerk. My daughter had her hands up in the air like it was a roller coaster ride. My wife and sis #1 were digging the scenery, and Mom was smiling.

"You want to drive?" He shouted at me.

As the helmsman, I took the quadrant and opened the throttle wide. The water tail off the motors spouted to a furious height of five feet. The bow pitched up. Watching for any floating debris, I switched on the deck lights and steered her steady. The Magic Dragon was a watery serpentine that only showed her wings, never a tail or teeth.

The Uncle passed out refreshments. The family became bonded sailors on an adventure. A unifying experience. That pulled us all together deeper and deeper into the folkloric moment. We passed many small cabins and luxury mansions along the shores. Down from Kansas City and up from St. Louis, the great mid-southern getaway. A hydroelectric power plant turned tourist explosion.

As I steered the boat down the spine of the dragon, I thought about my parents. I felt sad that my dad had not seen me or my siblings being born. Mom did it all on her own. No one held her hand through the pain of labor. And when we were babies, she was alone, as my dad came and went. My mom raised us the best she could, and she became the family breadwinner. I had walked out of her life with a broken guitar so long ago- the strings coated in blood, with so much left unsung. Now, at 78, Mom was in failing health, but in that golden sunset, she looked 20 years younger. The fresh lake water splashed across her face. Her wet grey hair was crazy in the wind, and her gaze of freedom lifted my spirits. Handing the helm back to the Captain, I sat next to Mom on the way back, holding her hand.

He pulled the CSS Missouri back to her mooring, and I jumped out with the rope, to tie her back up to the dock.

Sis #2 had the picnic table set, and we sat down to supper. "How was the boat ride, Mom?" she asked.

"Lovely scenery," Mom answered.

"Thanks, brother-in-law, Uncle, dude, that's a super nice boat you have," I saluted him.

As we ate the standard picnic fare of hot dogs. Hamburgers. Chips. Watermelon, and potato salad, we all made awkward attempts at normal conversation. We tried to pretend that the awkwardness didn't exist. But the gaps of time that separated us bordered on estrangement.

"Mr. Yankee Doodle, how about another beer?" He egged me on.

Mom had grown quiet, then her bag let out a whopper and we all laughed.

"Ha-ha-ha… a natural bug repellent," the Captain joked, giving Mom a wink.

We all laughed some more until Mom started shaking and turning green.

"Bathroom… I've got to go to the bathroom!" she gasped.

"Help me get Mom back to the car, she's losing it," I said, as I jumped up and grabbed her.

My vacation crew loaded up, and we peeled out for the motel. Mom rolled around in the backseat of the car, like a drunken sailor. When we got back to the motel, I carried her into her room.

I helped Mom remove her clothes, and then all hell broke loose. The colostomy bag broke, spewing feces all over Mr. Frank's floor and walls. The stench was so bad, that I gagged and held my breath while getting Mom into the shower. I tried to rinse her off, but her bowels kept flowing like a severed sewer line. I held my naked mom under the shower and yelled for help.

"I screamed, "Call 911…."

I carried my semiconscious mother to the bed. She looked bad. Her face had gone completely white. Her pulse was erratic. I'd had no emergency training, and started to panic. "Mom, please don't die on me here," I cried.

Two paramedics rushed into the room, carrying a stretcher.

"Pardon me, sir. I need to examine your mother," the woman paramedic said. She hooked up a machine to look at Mom's vital signs. After a minute of watching the machine beep and a line go up and down on a scope, she stopped.

"Break 1–9, base… this is chief paramedic Wilson, calling from Frank's motel. Do you read? Over…" she said into her CB.

"That's a 10–4, Wilson," replied a voice coming through her crackling CB, "What's the patient status?"

"We have an elderly woman, late '60s… early '70s, and she's having cardiac arrest…copy?"

"That's a 10–4 Wilson. Bring her straight into ICU…."

The paramedics were lifting Mom onto the stretcher when Frank entered the room. He stared in shock at Mom and his bathroom, like the entire Union Army was charging straight at him. The stench from the bathroom caused Frank to gag and cover his mouth.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Frank… I will clean it up," I told him.

"No, don't worry about it. Go and take care of your mom," he gagged.

Mom lay unconscious, connected to various wires and an IV. On the wall above her head, a large screen beeped, and a white, saw-toothed line moved up and down.

"Your mother has suffered a heart attack," a nurse told us. "She'll need to be here for a few days until she stabilized. Her colostomy needs surgery, too, and we're not equipped for that down here. When the doctor releases her, we will arrange for an ambulance to take her to the main hospital in Kansas City."

"Poor, Mom," Sis #2 breathed a heavy sigh.

Sis #1 sat down, and holding her head in her hands, she said, "I knew this day was coming."

"I understand this is hard on everyone. But, I'm the one who doesn't have a job to worry about. So, I'll take responsibility to handle whatever needs to be done," I offered. My sisters agreed.

Two failed surgeries later, Mom did not improve. My sisters voted to move her into a care facility near her home. I sat next to Mom as she lay on a bed she didn't make. My wife and daughter returned home.

"Why am I dying?" she asked me.

"Your parts plumbing broken, Mom," I explained as best as I could.

"Where are my car keys?" she mumbled.

The nurse told me later that when people in this situation ask for their car keys it means they want to go home. It means, she explained, that they are about to die.

"The room is full of strangers," Mom said, with a wide-eyed stare.

"Who do you see, Mom?" I asked.

"I don't know them, but I do see my dad and my mom," she replied in awe.

"They're all here, Mom. They want you to come and join them… and it's okay… your work here is done. You've been a good mom."

Mom let out a sigh and her eyes stopped moving, and they turned an icy black.

I started weeping and kissed her on the forehead.

I'd brought the old guitar that Sis #1 had given me, which was now revamped, sporting a new set of strings. I fumbled over the fretboard, hoping she might hear me.

I played the same songs I performed in public when I left home. "Mom," I spoke to her, "I first played these songs in a small café, back in Minneapolis, a long time ago." I strummed away, accompanied by an angel on harp. The spirit of a family filled my mother's room with clapping. Tiny cups, filled with light, tapped by silver spoons.

I put the guitar down and gathered the courage to close my mom's eyes for the last time.

"Merry Christmas," I whispered in her ear. "I'm sorry if I let you down or cause you any pain. Please forgive me, Mom. I always loved you. You will be missed and remembered." Placing the car keys in her hand, I added, "You can go home now, Mom."

The next day my father died.