As I sit working on the computer, my cell phone trills a familiar little be-bop tune beside me. Looking down I see that my mother is calling again, it's no surprise. Let me explain, I love my mother. She is and has been my very best friend since the day that I moved out of the house at eighteen, before that she was just my mother and it was hard to be friends with the local law enforcement, so to speak. Usually I talk with my mom a few times a week, calls when she is driving to or from work at a private college in Tennessee. We laugh and joke about how she has to drive slower so that her people (cell phone coverage) can catch up with her as she goes around the bend near the T&J store a few miles away from her house. Usually we talk about what she is doing today with her nursing students, how warm it is down there, or which of my kids are sick, grounded, or performing in various plays or concerts.
Lately however we have had a new topic of discussion, and subsequently the increase in calls. My mother had gotten a phone call from a nursing recruiter, telling her of a position particularly suited to her skills that had come available. While that might be exciting in its own right, the catch comes in that the job is in Portland, Maine - some 22 hours driving time from her current location. When she initially called me she told me to sit down because she had some news. Idiotically I immediately ask if she is pregnant, after all news of such importance as to warrent sitting down before hearing it can only be impending marriage or pregnancy, and I figured I would go for the bigger shock of the two just in case. She laughed and I relaxed a bit, and she told me about the job opening. Ultimately the position is wrought with circumstances and considerations that can make your head spin if you think about it for too long - having to move, selling the house, buying a new house, taking a management position again - but also being closer to family and grandchildren, moving back to Maine that has seasons and snow, returning to the coast where her sweetie Tom has worked his whole life, being able to attend grandchildren's concerts and plays, gathering for holiday dinners and celebrations. For every pro there is a con, and then for every con there is a pro, round and round it goes.
While my mother is my best friend, I flatter myself thinking that I perhaps am her best friend also, and in times of trouble, strife, or heavy decision making, you call your best friend for advice - thus the phone calls. But this also puts me in a particularly delicate position. I love my mother and I want her to move back to Maine even more than I want a Sonic to suddenly appear across the street from my house. As a daughter I want to do the happy dance around the living room and sing "Nana's moving to Ma-ine", but as a friend I don't know thats what I should say. If it were me, I would want my friend to give me their objective opinion on what they think would be the best thing for me to do, but it's much harder to be a good friend to your mother who is your best friend. I want to be selfish, I want talk about the Christmas dinners we could have and the weekend trips for shopping, but I don't know if that is the best thing for her to do. I remember many times when I have spoken about the kids or going out to lunch with the girls when she would go silent and I could feel the silent tears gathering in the corner of her eye from so far away. It makes my heart break to think that I have upset her, and try to gloss over the uncomfortable moments with depreciating comments about rotten children or potential food poisoning.
Rembering this, during that first call I was able to keep a detached calm and ask about the pay, moving expenses, and talk about how hard it would be to sell her house in Tennessee in the current housing market. I didn't do the happy dance and sing. I asked about her contract at the college and the student loan forgiveness she receives for teaching there. I wasn't planning those shopping trips and weekend visits. I was gentle and subtle, even and considering of the pros and cons of the situation. When we hung up, I just sat staring blankly at the television. Hubby came into the living room and saw my face, he asked me what was wrong. I was confused, nothing was wrong, right? I was happy that my mom might be potentially moving back to Maine, wasn't I? I was suddenly struck with the problem, talking to my mom I had been the perfect friend, but a terrible daughter. What if she was calling me to see my reaction? If I wasn't all that excited about it, then perhaps she wouldn't put much consideration to taking the position. Now tears were rolling down my face, as I realized my mistake. I called her back.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Monday, March 28, 2011
Week 7 - Take #2
Middle school halls are typically crowded with milling students between classes, with one group or another wandering through the masses. Each group is defined by, and defines its members by status and popularity. One group, the popular boys - all athletic, funny, handsome, and quick witted - commanded the young girls' attention. Tommy Mason was part of that elite group. He had the typical wavy blond hair with shaggy bangs, sky blue eyes, and a wide smile that glinted in the sun (it actually did, braces weren't clear back then). He was the starting pitcher and co-captain for the baseball team. As with most young men his age, he created an air of superiority when among the girls his age, and all but ignored them until he was sure she liked him first - he had the pick of the girls for any dance.
The bruise that appeared around one of Tommy's blue eyes near Christmas0time, drew significant attention in school. All the young girls rallied that he had protected his younger sister from some jerk who was mouthing off. The jocks all supposed that it must have been someone from out of town, an opposing team most likely, it couldn't have been someone from our school. It eventually turned into a story of some poor sop could only have gotten in a lucky punch before getting the stuffing knocked out of him, and justly so. Tommy never said, just smiled at the jokes and pulled menacing faces at anyone who asked him directly.
Tommy didn't play basketball his eighth grade year, as he had in sixth and seventh grades. The starting line would miss his fast breaks up the lane due to the broken wrist he had gotten. He said his bike had lost a wheel while going down the long hill of his driveway, and he had landed on his arm when he fell. You couldn't see the white of his cast for all of the get well wishes and signatures from his classmates. A few daring girls even left lipstick kisses. As the anticipation of spring and the baseball season reached it's peak early in April, Tommy Mason could be found hanging out with other veteran players talking about tryouts and new prospects.
One weekend sirens were heard all through town, piercing the silence of a sunny day. Ambulances and police cars ripped down Main Street, turning to head toward the outskirts of town. Monday morning a special assembly was called and it was announced that Tommy Mason had had an accident and was killed over the weekend.
The real story, as it came out later that week, was that Tommy Mason had committed suicide. The thirteen year old boy, still wearing fresh bruises from another encounter with his drunken father, had taken a shotgun to the closet and shot himself. He was pronounced dead upon arrival by the authorities. The town was rocked with the news of the tragedy.
August 31, 1987 - In one small Maine town, the school year began with 63 eighth grade students, but ended with only 62.
Eight children out of a million commited suicide in the late 1980's. It was, and still is, the third highest cause of death for children under 18 years old.
The bruise that appeared around one of Tommy's blue eyes near Christmas0time, drew significant attention in school. All the young girls rallied that he had protected his younger sister from some jerk who was mouthing off. The jocks all supposed that it must have been someone from out of town, an opposing team most likely, it couldn't have been someone from our school. It eventually turned into a story of some poor sop could only have gotten in a lucky punch before getting the stuffing knocked out of him, and justly so. Tommy never said, just smiled at the jokes and pulled menacing faces at anyone who asked him directly.
Tommy didn't play basketball his eighth grade year, as he had in sixth and seventh grades. The starting line would miss his fast breaks up the lane due to the broken wrist he had gotten. He said his bike had lost a wheel while going down the long hill of his driveway, and he had landed on his arm when he fell. You couldn't see the white of his cast for all of the get well wishes and signatures from his classmates. A few daring girls even left lipstick kisses. As the anticipation of spring and the baseball season reached it's peak early in April, Tommy Mason could be found hanging out with other veteran players talking about tryouts and new prospects.
One weekend sirens were heard all through town, piercing the silence of a sunny day. Ambulances and police cars ripped down Main Street, turning to head toward the outskirts of town. Monday morning a special assembly was called and it was announced that Tommy Mason had had an accident and was killed over the weekend.
The real story, as it came out later that week, was that Tommy Mason had committed suicide. The thirteen year old boy, still wearing fresh bruises from another encounter with his drunken father, had taken a shotgun to the closet and shot himself. He was pronounced dead upon arrival by the authorities. The town was rocked with the news of the tragedy.
August 31, 1987 - In one small Maine town, the school year began with 63 eighth grade students, but ended with only 62.
Eight children out of a million commited suicide in the late 1980's. It was, and still is, the third highest cause of death for children under 18 years old.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Week 7 - Profile
**I was unable to contact the subject of this profile for permission to use their names, so have changed the names for privacy's sake**
The halls of the middle school were crowded with milling students between classes, but parted to either side as the group of boys sauntered through. The popular boys - all athletic, funny, handsome, and quick witted - commanded attention. Tommy Mason was part of that elite group. Wavy blond hair with shaggy bangs, sky blue eyes, and a wide smile that glinted in the sun (it actually did, braces weren't clear back then) were all the qualities that he needed to fit in. He was the pitcher for the baseball team, so was able to clown around with the other jocks after school in the locker room. As with most young men his age, he ignored the girls until he was good and ready - he had the pick of the girls for any dance.
The bruise that appeared around one of Tommy's blue eyes, drew significant attention in school. All the young girls rallied that he had protected his younger sister from some jerk who was mouthing off. The jocks all supposed that it must have been someone from out of town, an opposing team most likely, it couldn't have been someone from our school. It eventually turned into a story of some poor sop could only have gotten in a lucky punch before getting the stuffing knocked out of him, and justly so. Tommy never said, just smiled at the jokes and pulled menacing faces at anyone who asked him directly.
Tommy didn't play basketball his eighth grade year, as he had in sixth and seventh grades. The starting line would miss his fast breaks up the lane due to the broken wrist he had gotten. His bike had lost a wheel while going down the long hill of his driveway, and he had landed on his arm when he fell. You couldn't see the white of his cast with all of the get well wishes and signatures from his classmates. A few daring girls even left lipstick kisses.
The anticipation of spring and the baseball season reached it's peak early in April. Tommy could be found hanging out with the other pervious players talking about tryouts and the new prospects. One weekend sirens were heard all through town, piercing the silence of a sunny day. Ambulances and police cars ripped down Main street, turning to head toward the outskirts of town.
Monday morning a special assembly was called and it was announced that Tommy Mason had had an accident and was killed over the weekend. The real story, as it came out later that week, was that Tommy Mason had committed suicide. The thirteen year old boy, still wearing fresh bruises from another encounter with his drunken father, had taken a shotgun to the closet and shot himself. He was pronounced dead upon arrival by the authorities.
The town was rocked with the news of the tragedy. A nice town like this would never expect such a terrible thing to happen, but it did. Popular and likable boys like Tommy would never feel so hopeless as to take his own life, but he did. Sadness such as this should never live in the hearts of children, but it does, even today.
The halls of the middle school were crowded with milling students between classes, but parted to either side as the group of boys sauntered through. The popular boys - all athletic, funny, handsome, and quick witted - commanded attention. Tommy Mason was part of that elite group. Wavy blond hair with shaggy bangs, sky blue eyes, and a wide smile that glinted in the sun (it actually did, braces weren't clear back then) were all the qualities that he needed to fit in. He was the pitcher for the baseball team, so was able to clown around with the other jocks after school in the locker room. As with most young men his age, he ignored the girls until he was good and ready - he had the pick of the girls for any dance.
The bruise that appeared around one of Tommy's blue eyes, drew significant attention in school. All the young girls rallied that he had protected his younger sister from some jerk who was mouthing off. The jocks all supposed that it must have been someone from out of town, an opposing team most likely, it couldn't have been someone from our school. It eventually turned into a story of some poor sop could only have gotten in a lucky punch before getting the stuffing knocked out of him, and justly so. Tommy never said, just smiled at the jokes and pulled menacing faces at anyone who asked him directly.
Tommy didn't play basketball his eighth grade year, as he had in sixth and seventh grades. The starting line would miss his fast breaks up the lane due to the broken wrist he had gotten. His bike had lost a wheel while going down the long hill of his driveway, and he had landed on his arm when he fell. You couldn't see the white of his cast with all of the get well wishes and signatures from his classmates. A few daring girls even left lipstick kisses.
The anticipation of spring and the baseball season reached it's peak early in April. Tommy could be found hanging out with the other pervious players talking about tryouts and the new prospects. One weekend sirens were heard all through town, piercing the silence of a sunny day. Ambulances and police cars ripped down Main street, turning to head toward the outskirts of town.
Monday morning a special assembly was called and it was announced that Tommy Mason had had an accident and was killed over the weekend. The real story, as it came out later that week, was that Tommy Mason had committed suicide. The thirteen year old boy, still wearing fresh bruises from another encounter with his drunken father, had taken a shotgun to the closet and shot himself. He was pronounced dead upon arrival by the authorities.
The town was rocked with the news of the tragedy. A nice town like this would never expect such a terrible thing to happen, but it did. Popular and likable boys like Tommy would never feel so hopeless as to take his own life, but he did. Sadness such as this should never live in the hearts of children, but it does, even today.
Friday, March 11, 2011
Theme 6 - Autobiographical Slice - Who I am
I was born in Kansas City, quite a distance from the little coastal town of Maine that I call my hometown. My mother loves to tell the story of how she used to make all of her own maternity clothes, and would make little outfits for me at the same time. My mother and father married after having met and dated in high school. I have seen the pictures of them all dressed up for the prom, with the long pastel gown and the frilly tuxedo shirt. There are also photos of them feeding each other cake, surrounded by friends and family at their wedding so long ago. My father had enlisted in the Marines after high school and ended up being shipped out to Vietnam shortly after. My mother discovered she was pregnant with me just about the same time. She was 19 years old, a newly married military wife, and a soon-to-be mother. I always remember the story she told about how I was born at shift change and how all of the nurses crowded around me in the nursery to take a peek before going home.
I don't remember my mother and father splitting up, as I got older there was a lot of he-said, she-said. It's all summed up in the fact that my father came home from Vietnam with a ready-made family that he didn't quite know how to deal with. My mother moved in with my grandfather, her dad, while she went to LPN school. I spent many afternoons toddling around the back yard while he weeded and pruned the strawberry bushes along the fence and his beloved peach tree in the center. Some of my earliest memories are of my grandfather's house, and of spending time with him. As I grew older and went to preschool and later to kindergarten, it was always still within the general area where my grandfather seemed to be the center.
My mother remarried as I turned eight. Her new husband worked in the same hospital but was originally from the northeast. Suddenly my world was changing. My mother was going to have a new baby, a little brother for me. I had a new dad who talked funny and had a big moustache, and we were moving to New England where there was snow and an ocean. I remember that when we moved to Bangor, Maine the kids all teased me because I talked funny. It was so amazing when the snow was too deep for me to walk through it. I wonder what my life would have been like if I had not moved from the Midwest. Would I be using "y'all" and "purdy"? Would I appreciate a lovely spring day the same way if it wasn't following a brutally cold and snowy winter? I wonder if I would have met my husband if we hadn't lived in the same small town here in Maine, or if I would have had my four wonderful children? I wonder how my life would be different, and what would be the same. It makes me wonder sometime, what little things in my life have made me who I am?
I don't remember my mother and father splitting up, as I got older there was a lot of he-said, she-said. It's all summed up in the fact that my father came home from Vietnam with a ready-made family that he didn't quite know how to deal with. My mother moved in with my grandfather, her dad, while she went to LPN school. I spent many afternoons toddling around the back yard while he weeded and pruned the strawberry bushes along the fence and his beloved peach tree in the center. Some of my earliest memories are of my grandfather's house, and of spending time with him. As I grew older and went to preschool and later to kindergarten, it was always still within the general area where my grandfather seemed to be the center.
My mother remarried as I turned eight. Her new husband worked in the same hospital but was originally from the northeast. Suddenly my world was changing. My mother was going to have a new baby, a little brother for me. I had a new dad who talked funny and had a big moustache, and we were moving to New England where there was snow and an ocean. I remember that when we moved to Bangor, Maine the kids all teased me because I talked funny. It was so amazing when the snow was too deep for me to walk through it. I wonder what my life would have been like if I had not moved from the Midwest. Would I be using "y'all" and "purdy"? Would I appreciate a lovely spring day the same way if it wasn't following a brutally cold and snowy winter? I wonder if I would have met my husband if we hadn't lived in the same small town here in Maine, or if I would have had my four wonderful children? I wonder how my life would be different, and what would be the same. It makes me wonder sometime, what little things in my life have made me who I am?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)