She would have been 77 years old tomorrow. But life ain't fair. So I get a phone call one day saying my mother has a "mass" in her brain. I call my mother. She's all cheerful and says it's the size of a pea, and they're going to take it out, no problem. Even when she started having papers drawn up, asking me to sign different things, and insisting relentlessly on a family campout on Galveston Island, one of her favorite places in the world, I still refused to face it. When I got the call at work one summer day that she had died, I didn't know what to do. I hung up the phone, and stepped around the front of my desk to get something off the fax machine. The room spun a little bit, and I felt confused. Two or three days later, when I stepped into the little country church in the woods near Iola, Texas, for her memorial service, it suddenly became reality. The last time I saw my mother, she was basically in a coma, in a hospital bed, with her right hand clutching the side bed railing. Trying to hold on, it seemed to me. I never saw her after that day. It was a week or so later that my sister had her body cremated before I was able to make the 150-mile trip back down there, so it was like Mama was just gone. Poof! And when I walked inside that chapel, and saw the table filled with photographs and flowers, I was overwhelmed. My nephew was across the room, sobbing as someone sat with their arm around him, trying to console. I felt a wave of emotion rising quickly inside me, and I felt I was going to lose it. If I started crying, I'd never be able to stop. So I choked it down, pushed it back. No. I can't let it come. I can't handle it; can't control it. When it came my turn to stand up in front of the service and say a few words about my mother, it took several minutes before I could speak. I'd decided to read a little essay I'd written about her life, and the first words I had to say were her name. It was really hard to say. She truly went away too soon. But life ain't fair. So, in honor of my mother, I've decided that the anniversary of her birth is a good day to start my "30 days of positive project." I'm not entirely sure that I can accomplish the mission, and so if I dedicate the effort to her, maybe that will help. Also, writing about it may help me hold myself more accountable, as well. You see, I inherited a number of good traits from my parents, but there was some bad stuff, too. One of those things is pessimism and negativity. I want to be more positive, and feel happier inside. So I've created a 30-day plan to kick-start some new habits. From my brother, Bobby, I'm borrowing an affirmation and a prayer: "Today is going to be a great day," and "God, help me focus on a positive attitude." These things are said first thing in the morning, and throughout the day, as needed. I vow to not let any negative comment come out of my mouth, to turn negative thoughts into something positive, and to smile more. I don't walk around with a smile on my face. Feels unnatural. Next on the list is to exercise every day, whether that is going to the gym, going for a long walk after work, or playing golf. Then, I will write every day, play my guitar and practice my new saxophone, and meditate for 15-20 minutes. Thirty days is a long time to keep it all going, but it's also long enough to form a new habit. Wish me luck. Ciao, y 'all ...
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Today feels like Saturday. Normally at this time, I'd be at school, babysitting -- I mean, teaching -- my second class of the day. But today is a holiday, a glorious holiday. No school. And I'm sitting on the couch, a nice cup of coffee at hand, with birds chirping and a cool breeze drifting in through the back screen door. And it's Friday!
The end of the school year is fast approaching now. It's somewhere near the 30-day mark. Somewhere around 30 days left until summer vacation. Halle--friggin'--lujah. This has been an amazing year, and not in a good way. Actually, it hasn't been completely horrible, thanks mostly to the support of family, friends and co-workers, but I will definitely be glad when it's over. I remember two or three years ago, standing in the hallway on the last day of school, right after all the kids were gone, and actually feeling the stress drain from my body. For those who have never been inside a public school classroom for any extended period of time, it is nothing like Miss Landers' classroom on Leave It to Beaver. You know, with all the little kiddies neatly dressed, scrubbed, clean and smiling, sitting up straight in their little chairs, hands folded neatly on their desktops? "Good morning, Miss Landers!" they all say, in unison. No. Not even close. Public school today is ... let's see, how can I describe it. Public school is a zoo? Not really accurate. At the zoo, the animals are all mostly well-behaved. Everything is neat and orderly. Rules are enforced; procedures are followed. So we can't really call it a zoo. A circus? Maybe. But, again, the audience is pretty well-behaved at the circus. Let's see, how can I explain it to a civilian ... Here's an example. A fella who is earning his teaching credentials and works in the meantime as a substitute teacher told me about an incident in which a student cussed out a sub, who promptly sent the student to the office. Before class was over, that student returned, walked in and tossed a wadded-up hall pass at the substitute teacher, and said, "I told you they wouldn't (expletive-deleted) do anything." Then went and sat down. An extreme, perhaps, but not at all uncommon example of daily life in public school. When I was a kid, we didn't talk back to adults, certainly didn't cuss 'em out. Behind their backs, sure, but to their face? No way. It's not like that any more. I've never had a kid cuss me out. But, oh boy, they almost all talk back. There is no such thing as respect for authority in today's society. There's no line between kid and adult, no boundaries, no difference. No respect. No fear. And there is nothing wrong with a little healthy fear. Hell, that's why I pay my bills, pay my taxes, obey the speed limit (mostly). I'm afraid of what will happen if I don't. Kids don't have that fear any more. A student recently was reading a story that mentioned paddling in school. She asked me what that meant. I told her. "That's child abuse," she said. Right. Anyway, it's a wonderful day of freedom -- and did I mention it's only Friday? I'm doing an interview this afternoon for a feature story for a friend's local newspaper that is issuing its first edition next week. I'm planning to write something once a week about regular ol' folks who do interesting things, or who lead or have led interesting lives. I'm pretty jazzed about it. I loved my newspaper career, and I still love to write. Covering the news and chasing stories, I got kind of tired of all that, but writing is something that feeds the creative part of my soul. It's the way I express myself best. Speaking of which, my book, "Finding God in Texas," has been picked up by a publisher over in Florida, who is redesigning it and reissuing it in paperback and e-book. I've seen the new cover and it's fantastic. Things are moving right along, and it should be available before too much longer. An artist friend is working on illustrations for a children's book I wrote, and I'm trying to get the story of my trip to the Camino de Santiago finished and sent off for a publisher to consider. All pretty exciting stuff. I guess that's about it for now. Ciao, y'all ... Jim Kelly is on my mind again today.
I read another story on him this morning, this time via the Sports Illustrated website. It was a lot like the Rick Reilly piece for ESPN, talking about the recurrence of his jaw cancer, and the litany of painful and heartbreaking events that have occurred during his otherwise magical life. Let's face it, becoming a star quarterback in the NFL and being immortalized in the pro football Hall of Fame is a pretty magical life. I think it is, anyway. He achieved greatness. He reached the top. Now, he's apparently fighting for his life, and things don't really sound so good. There are touching photographs of Kelly in his hospital bed, with his daughter lying in bed next to him, her head resting on his shoulder and her arms wrapped around his. The emotion is palpable. You can feel it. And everything Kelly is quoted as saying about his situation is pretty darn positive. He is said to be in constant, extreme pain, but he doesn't complain. According to the stories, he told his wife at one time that he wasn't sure how much more physical pain he could take, but he also says he is "blessed," and he wouldn't change a thing in his life. He hasn't said, "Why me?" or any of that. He wouldn't change a thing. To me, that is the epitome of courage. Kelly was never one of my heroes when he played football. My team was the Houston Oilers. Earl Campbell, Dan Pastorini, Billy "White Shoes" Johnson, Bum Phillips. The Oilers are gone now, so I don't really have an NFL team any more, but that's another story. I remember well watching Kelly play pro ball, but he wasn't someone I rooted for. Until now. He has become one of my heroes as a human being. Because of his courage. Courage is something I admire very much. I wonder if I would have the same courage, faced with the same issues Kelly has faced in his life. I hope I never have to find out, but I wonder. Courage is something I went looking for when I went to Spain in 2011 to walk the Camino de Santiago, a 500-mile pilgrimage that stretches from one side of the country to the other. In the end, I did not find courage as I walked for four weeks across the countryside with nothing more than a backpack, but I did learn the meaning of courage, and I found out that I already had plenty of it. It turns out that courage is not the absence of fear. Instead, courage is being scared of something, but doing it anyway. I was scared to death to not only travel overseas for the first time -- by myself -- but then to walk across a foreign country. Strap on a backpack and walk across the damn country. But I did it anyway. In fact, that's a big reason I did it in the first place. To try and get over my "homebodiness." I've always had this fear of getting too far away from home, for some reason. I'm not sure where that comes from, but anytime I went anywhere, I'd want to turn around and come home. I could go to Dallas for the weekend, for heaven's sakes, and get homesick. But I went to Spain, and I walked across the country, not once but twice. And I learned that I already had courage. I was terrified, but I did it anyway. Courage. Of course, my little trips to Spain are nothing compared to the courage being showed by Jim Kelly. And that's why he is now one of my heroes. Ciao, y'all ... In an excellent story written by Rick Reilly for ESPN, Hall of Fame NFL quarterback Jim Kelly says he is "blessed" and "wouldn't change a thing," despite living for years with constant neck and back pain, the death of his eight-year-old son, and a recurrence of cancer that cost him his upper jaw bone and teeth. Instead of feeling sorry for himself or wondering "what if," Kelly, who led the Buffalo Bills to four consecutive unsuccessful trips to the Super Bowl, keeps busy as a motivational speaker and an advocate for fighting the disease that killed his son. I'd seen this story before, but read it again today as I scanned ESPN's website for late scores from yesterday's NCAA March Madness games. And it was the part about not changing a thing that really stood out this time. So often, people say things like, "If only I could go back and do it all over again. I'd sure do things different next time." I know I've said it many times. But not Kelly. Sure, he's rich and he's famous, and he's enjoyed a highly successful life. But look at what else he's gone through, and continues to go through. According to the story, he once had to have a cyst removed under his nostril without the benefit of Novocain. Losing a child, plates and screws in his back and neck, constant pain in his face, cancer that won't go away. And, yet, he wouldn't change a thing? Wow. That's an amazing statement, really. Think about that. Wouldn't change a thing. I've always said I wish I'd done this, wish I'd done that. Shoulda, coulda, woulda. Hell, nothing bad that's ever happened to me can compare to those things that have happened to Jim Kelly. The bad things that have happened have pretty much all been of my own doing. My own bad decisions. Nothing that has happened to Kelly has been his fault. It just happened. And he wouldn't go back and change a thing. That's a pretty outstanding attitude, I'd say. He must be a pretty outstanding person. That's what I've always wanted to be. An outstanding person. To stand out, somehow. Not just an ordinary, regular ol' person, but outstanding. I know some people I consider outstanding. And the most outstanding thing about these people is probably their unwavering, positive attitude. That positive attitude leads to everything else. And I do have a pretty outstanding life, if I really think about it. I'm doing OK, in spite of myself and my best efforts sometimes to screw it all up. Maybe if I start practicing more gratitude and stop thinking about how things coulda, shoulda, woulda, I will get to be outstanding, before it's all over. Ciao, y'all ... Cinnamon rolls on Sunday morning is a very good thing. A friend of mine in Tulsa, Okla., likes to describe his Sundays as "over easy," relaxing in his hammock or easy chair. Well, Johnny M., today is Cinnamon roll Sunday here in central Texas.
Freshly baked cinnamon rolls are hard to beat. Not the healthiest thing in the world to eat, but damn good stuff, especially with a glass of ice cold milk. I like to unwind mine and eat it piece by piece, a swallow of milk with each bite, until I get to that last soft, sweet piece in the middle. Goodness gracious ... Cinnamon rolls remind me of my mama, who was a really good cook and loved to bake. From her is where I inherited my sweet tooth, I'm sure. And, besides, cinnamon is being touted all over the place now for its health benefits! Along with cinnamon rolls, one thing I remember mama teaching me how to make is cherry pie, still one of my favorites. I don't know if this was before they had ready-made pie crust at the grocery store, but she always made her own pie crust, made cookies from scratch. I kind of remember cake mixes in a box back then, but I imagine she made cakes the old-fashioned way, too. I remember rolling out the dough on wax paper on the kitchen counter top, using one of those long wooden rolling pins and lots of flour to keep stuff from sticking. Then you'd lay the whole thing over the top of a glass pie pan and gently push it down and around, then trim the edges that hung over with a knife. Take a fork and make those little dents all the way around the sides. Scoop up the dough trimmings and roll 'em back into a ball, then flatten it out and cut long strips to lay across the top of the pie filling, this way and that way. But maybe the best part of the whole thing was after the pie was finished and in the oven. You take the rest of the leftover dough, roll it back out, cut it into strips, sprinkle them with cinnamon and sugar, roll 'em up and bake 'em for a few minutes until they're nice and brown. Oh, my, good stuff ... Sunday is my usual golf day with Gator and sometimes Bubba. Sometimes Jason and Pete join in, as well. But today the wind out there is blowing 25-30 mph, which usually makes for a pretty miserable time on the golf course, even if the sun is shining brightly. You can't get a cigar lit, for one thing. Or, just when you're ready to pull the trigger on your approach shot to the green, a gust whips your hat off your head and blasts it down the fairway behind you. Otherwise nice shots sail into unfavorable locations, sometimes very unfavorable. Usually majestic tee shots turn miserable. It can be really frustrating. We'll play another day. And it's the last day of spring break vacation. Up and at 'em again early in the morning. I rolled out of bed about 9:30 today. Tomorrow needs to be 4:30. Oh, boy, c'mon ... you can doooooo it! Last Friday, I went with about a dozen of my co-workers after school to have dinner and celebrate the start of spring break. I normally don't attend these kinds of events, but I'm trying to be less anti-social, so I went. And it was a lot of fun. I found out things that I had no idea went on at my school, and got to know some very cool people a little better.
So when I got a text the other day from one of the gang about having lunch on Thursday, I said, sure, count me in. See y'all at 11:30. This morning, I decided it might be a good idea to double-check things. So I messaged one of the suspects. "Are we still having lunch?" "Yes," this to-remain-unnamed person texted back. "I am already here. Where are you?" Um, I'm sitting on my couch. It's 10 minutes 'til 11 o'clock, and the lunch is supposed to be at 11:30. "Oh, she told me 11. I can't stay very long, lots to do, but I'll visit for a few minutes." Huh? Hmm. Supposed to be at 11:30. Or at 11? Well, only one person is apparently there at nearly 11. Is anybody else going to show up? I have no idea. Should I drive 20 miles to have lunch with myself? Tell you what. This sounds like a brewing cluster-you-know-what. It's an absolutely beautiful day outside. I think I'll just go play golf, instead. "Awwww, OK," is the only reply I get. This is where I'm gonna get into trouble, but I don't care. Let me have it. Make it good! There's a major difference between making plans with the fellas, and making plans with a bunch of women. If Gator or Bubba or Bob had made plans to meet at a certain place at 11:30 on a certain day, they'd be there. At 11:30. No need to confirm, or double-check. We'll be there at 11:30. OK. See you then. Take golf, for instance. I make a tee time for 9:30 on Sunday. Gator knows I'm makin' a tee time. I told him I would, and that's what I do. Then I either call Gator and let him know what time, or he calls me to find out. "What time we got?" "9:30." "OK, see you then." Simple. Do I call him Saturday to confirm his attendance on Sunday. No. Do I need to? No. Why? Because he said he'd be there. Does he get there on time? Yep. Like always. And the day was grand. A beautiful day on the golf course in Lampasas. Shot a decent score. Came home and mowed the back yard. Made the daughter a turkey and swiss on a bagel, with creamy tomato soup on the side. Saw her off to work. Finished my blog for the day. Laid on couch. Ciao, y'all ... A candle flickers over on top of the mantel in the living room. It's one of those candles that changes colors as it burns. Blue, then purple, turning to red, and then yellow and orange. The lights are low, and the sound of a soft, evening breeze rustling leaves outside drifts in occasionally through the open front door. The wall around the fireplace is painted red, and there's a framed Texas flag hanging high and proud. Next to that is a white wall with about 40 family photographs arranged eight-feet high and 10-feet wide. Girls, boys, brothers, sisters, moms, dads, grandmas and grandpas, friends.
It's a little after 6 now. Everything's quiet. My daughter took me this afternoon to retrieve my wife's car from the airport parking lot, then drove on to work. I'll be asleep by the time she gets home tonight. I'm on my own for a month, while my better half works an assignment out of town. It was hard to say goodbye last night. She's been home for a total of about 12 days so far this year. Today was a pretty good day, though, it really was. Clear, blue skies, short pants and T-shirt temperatures, and a not-so-beautiful golf course combined for a pretty darn good start to this year's Spring Break. The day actually began about 8 a.m. with me trying to apply on-line for renewal of my teaching certificate, a formality that rolls around every five years. It took a little nail-biting and phone-calling -- and a trip over to my school -- to get mission accomplished, but I finally got it done. Then it was over to the gym for my first workout in a couple of weeks (new spring resolution), and then back home to change clothes and grab my golf clubs. I decided to give our little local course a try, since I haven't played there in a long time. Well, the course has definitely seen better days, but I played pretty well in spite of the rock-hard, cow pasture fairways and ridiculously weed-infested greens (putting was damn near impossible, although I did sink a few). Still, a sunshiny day on the golf course -- any golf course -- is hard to complain about. One young fella playing a couple holes back was even nice enough to retrieve my trusty 9-iron for me, after I left it beside No. 8 green following a really nice little chip up and that sweet left-to-right, five-footer for par. I made myself a sort of to-do list for spring break this year, so as not to squander these five blessed days of relief from school. One thing on the list is to work out every day. Check. So far so good. One day in a row. Another is to play lots of golf. Check. So far so good. One day in a row. I also wanted to work on my website and my blog, and I am doing that. Check. So far so good. One day in a row. There are other important items like get the oil in the pickup changed, get a haircut and do some yard work, along with practicing my saxophone and working on my Camino book. I think all of those will get done. I'm developing a book based on my blogs from the Camino de Santiago, a 780-kilometer pilgrimage across Spain that I walked twice, in the summer of 2011 and again in 2013. Actually, I thought I had the book pretty much finished already, but after a few rejections from publishers last year, I finally chatted back and forth with a really nice lady publisher who told me that for her to be interested, my book needed a hook, a twist of some kind to "hook" the reader. She explained what might make it a more marketable story, and I understand what she meant. I've considered trying to turn it into some sort of novel based on the Camino, since there is no real-life hook, other than it being the most amazing, life-changing experience of my life. But I kinda like it the way it is, too, and I've got an idea on how to improve it. Then, I'll just self-publish again. I don't feel like going through the hassle and time of submissions, trying to find a publisher who loves your work and wants to send you a nice check. Well, maybe just a few more times. If you're interested, my Camino blog is at www.golfnman13.blog.com Ciao, y 'all ... She sat quietly by herself at the rectangular dining room table, in the middle on one side, facing large bay windows that look out on a lush, green backyard. She was hunched over a small bowl of roast beef and potatoes, not eating, just sitting, surprisingly tiny and frail, a full head of thinning, straight, white hair combed straight back. I walked around and stood in front of her. Touched her gently on the shoulder.
"Hi, Nita," I said, softly. She looked up and it was as if a light suddenly flashed inside her. She sat up straight and stared up at me, a look of wonder on her face as she grabbed my right hand. I bent down and hugged her and kissed her on the forehead. She smiled and stood up, leading me by the hand into the living room. About a month ago, she fell and broke a hip, but she was moving quickly, and without a hitch. She headed toward what apparently was her favorite chair and plopped down on the soft, leather-covered seat. I had no choice but to follow along and sit next to her, on the end of the couch, since my hand was still firmly clamped in hers. We sat that way for a half-hour or so, with her holding my hand, gently squeezing and unsqueezing, stroking it over and over with her thumb, not talking much, just sitting. An NFL playoff game was on TV across the room. My dad was on the other side of the couch, with my youngest daughter in the middle. Stepmom bringing plates of strawberry shortcake, tall glasses of ice water, napkins. There was conversation about this and that. Nita clutching my hand the whole time, rubbing and squeezing. She was mostly quiet, but now and then she'd throw something out there. During an interview of the San Francisco 49ers' heavily-tattooed quarterback, Colin Kaepernick, she turned and asked me, "How many tattoos do you have?" I told her two, and she smiled and nodded. She mentioned her beloved Howard a couple of times, and dropped her head and scrunched up her face as the pain of his recent death welled up inside and threatened to wash over. Just as quickly, she regained her composure and continued to sit quietly. At one point, she let go of my hand and stood up, walking across the room without saying anything to anybody, touching the top of the round coffee table as she passed it to steady herself, and returned a minute later carrying what turned out to be a 2014 calendar someone made for her, with photographs of Howard on every page. She plopped back down in her chair, and pulled the plastic-covered calendar out of the box it came in, dropped the box on the floor, yanked off the plastic covering, dropped that on the floor, and handed me the calendar. She watched me admire it -- which I truly did. I savored each and every picture. My uncle Howard as a young boy. Him in his WWII military uniform (he was a crew chief on some sort of bomber, as I recall). Howard with his beautiful Ford Edsel. He also had an Indian motorcycle, I think it was. There were pictures of Aunt Nita in her younger days, posing in short-shorts -- wow, Nita! And there was a photo of the two of them, standing just outside their front porch, surrounded by a front yard full of small American flags. It was Howard's 90th birthday, and neighbor-friends had planted 90 flags in the lawn, as a surprise. Howard and Nita were together for more than 60 years, and he died in December at age 95. Howard was a gentle man who had a massive toy collection, and loved to entertain us kids with an amazing Donald Duck imitation. Nita is lost right now without him, and probably always will be. Their love story is an amazing one. For decades, they spent all their time together but remained unmarried, because my grandmother -- Nita's mother -- said she would never live with one of her married children. Nita was the only unmarried child, and Maa-maw could not live on her own, so Nita and Howard waited until after her death to make things official, even though all our lives it was always Nita and Howard, Howard and Nita. They never had children. We visited quite a bit when I was a kid. When we went over to their tiny house in the West University neighborhood in central Houston, we got to eat hamburgers from Whataburger, and enchiladas from Monterrey House. It was a real treat, because our family normally never ate out. Howard and Nita were huge Dallas Cowboys fans, and I'll always remember watching the 1967 NFL Championship game in their living room, when the Cowboys played the Green Bay Packers in "The Ice Bowl," so-called due to the game-time termperature of -15 degrees in Green Bay. We always went over there for Christmas, too, and the old man always brought his movie camera to record history. This was back in the day, remember, and the camera included a powerful light-bar mounted on top that could have been used to land jet airplanes. Most of the movies showed people squinting, shielding their eyes from the overpowering glare and waving at the camera. I don't remember exactly the last time I saw Nita, or Howard, before this past Saturday. It must have been several years ago, at least. It could have been 50 years ago, the way she looked at me when I walked into my dad's house and touched her on the shoulder. It was a reaction I did not expect. Not at all. It's hard to describe. And then when she wouldn't let go of my hand. And the way she looked at me. My family was never openly affectionate when I was growing up. Neither my mother's side nor my father's side. Parents or grandparents. And our home was not a very affectionate or physically loving place. Not a place full of hugs and kisses, tears and laughter, all that stuff. Not much emotion, either way. We didn't talk about things. Good things or bad things. Didn't express feelings. Talk about problems, solutions. And that was normal for us. That's how we were raised. I've never had a family member react to seeing me the way my Aunt Nita reacted. And I'm not sure how to describe the way it made me feel. Hell, I never sat and held my own mother's hand for 30 minutes. Actually, it was pretty nice ... Feeling pretty good about Christmas this year. It's all a state of mind, after all. Sure, the holidays are different now. Kids and other family members are spread out all over the state and the country. No more big get-togethers at Mama's house. No Santa magic in a little child's eyes. But it's still Christmas. And I can count lots and lots of blessings.
My oldest daughter is happy and healthy and safe in North Carolina. My youngest daughter is on her way over to spend Christmas with us. I talked to my dad on the phone yesterday and even though he doesn't come right out and say it -- you kind of have to read between the lines -- I know after all these years that he is genuinely proud of me. One of my stepsons is in Ohio with his wife and two boys, and he told me the other day that he admires me and that he'd like to start calling me, Dad. Another stepson is working halfway across the world. So many people are suffering today, with health issues, heavy hearts. A few weeks ago, my 95-year-old uncle died and my aunt is lost without him. A classmate from high school just died. Another recently lost her husband. Another has an appointment pending with an oncologist for his young daughter. I forget to count my blessings, and to be grateful for such things as good health, for me and my loved ones. That's all that matters, really. I'm grateful for a good woman who loves me, and knows how to fix plumbing! Healthy and happy children. A good job (with lots of holidays). A nice, warm, quiet little house with no noisy neighbors and tall trees all around. Wonderful friends, both here and abroad, who encourage and inspire me. Money in my pocket. A neurotic little dog who is not a yapper. So it feels good today on Christmas. The fact that things have changed is not sad. Things always change. Good memories are a good thing. Merry Christmas, y'all .... Christmas in two days. I haven't been too crazy about Christmas for awhile -- probably since my mother died. That was way back in 2000. I think maybe I stopped being a kid then. Hell, I was 43 years old, but mama just had this way of making you feel good and loved and happy. Everything kind of changed when she died.
Holidays with mama around were a lot of fun. She always made it fun. Her house was always decorated, inside and out, lots of presents under the tree, and she was always cooking. Grandma was there, and my brother and sister. My sister's kids. My kids. Way back when, even Paw Paw was there. When mama died, though, the family detonated. She was kind of the glue that held everything together, and now it's fallen completely apart. My brother and sister and I don't speak, and probably never will again. My dad is still around, but we don't see each other very often. The holidays are just not the same. My oldest daughter, Stacy, lives a thousand miles away in North Carolina. One stepson lives in Ohio, and the other in Bosnia, so no grandkids around to light up the room. We don't even bother to decorate our house, even though there's an attic full of Christmas stuff. Maybe we should. Make the house a little merrier. Do what mama used to do. I don't know. This year, we do have some exciting plans, though. My youngest daughter, Katy, is coming over to spend Christmas day. She lives nearby with her mother, and we're going to exchange gifts and cook a nice dinner and rent some movies or something. Then on Friday, Katie and I will drive down to Houston to visit my childhood friends, Bobby and Joe, and their wives. We'll have dinner Friday, play golf on Saturday at a beautiful course in The Woodlands, and then have dinner Saturday night. And maybe next year, we'll drag down all those decorations from the attic and make some damn Christmas cookies. Hand 'em out to the neighbors or something. Mama always made Christmas cookies. That was so much fun, decorating 'em with the icing that you squeezed out of the little parchment thing, or whatever, and putting the red hots and sprinkles and stuff on 'em. We'd roll out the dough and use food coloring and all kinds of different cookie cutters to make Santa-shaped cookies and reindeer, Christmas trees, candy canes, stars. Man, that was a lot of fun. If mama were here, that's what she'd be doing. |