It’s hard sometimes to explain why we mark certain anniversaries, year after year. Especially to people who happened not to be there, and happened not to be us.
20 years ago today, we lost my mother. A strange thing to observe, I suppose. On or around this date, I pay a visit to the cemetery and make sure that her headstone isn’t damaged (or those of any of the other relatives nearby), dust it off as best I can, spend a few quiet moments to contemplate, and then leave. A bit odd, I suppose, but it’s not like I dwell on it year-round in preparation for a few minutes out of that one day.
It’s been in the back of my mind for the past few weeks, though, I’ll admit, largely because of my own impending parenthood. A bit of sadness that my child will never know one of his grandmothers. The thought that my mom, who would new be approaching retirement age, would be a grandmother. The thought that I’ll be approaching retirement age when my own child graduates high school – assuming, of course, that fate doesn’t check me out early.
I was 14 when my mother died of cancer. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that smoking did her in – sooner or later, everybody quits smoking. It’s just up to you whether or not that coincides with when you quit breathing. She couldn’t quite kick the habit, and the damage was already done. Sometimes, in the years immediately after her death, it seemed like the whole family consisted of people who couldn’t wait to get away from each other, and more than once the thought occurred that she was the glue that held it all together.
Or perhaps that’s giving a little too much credit. Without going into details and without getting “emo” about it, she had as many flaws as the next person, including a volcanic temper that I also recognize in myself, and try to fight down whenever I feel it rising to the surface. In that state, she was fully capable of saying things that would leave you reeling even after your ears stopped ringing from the sound of it being said – she could get worked up into a fury that left her incapable of censoring herself before saying something truly hurtful.
But that wasn’t an everyday thing. She did things for me that have been very much at the forefront of my mind lately, things that I’d like to do for my own child when the time comes. Knowing that I was scared to death of bad weather and the warnings that came with them, she called the local weather service office out of the blue and convinced them to let us visit and look at how they did what they did. She did this with no connections at all to anyone there. I can still get a bit worried by bad weather, but at least now I understand the process enough not to be scared stiff – both the atmospheric process and the procedures that are used by the people who issue the warnings. She aided my understanding, but I also know now that she was encouraging interests and possible careers.
When faced with my burgeoning interest in video games, something that could’ve become a very isolated activity, she decided to make them a family event – or at least a mother-and-son event. And she wasn’t a participant from the sidelines, either. It’s taken me years to get even close to her level on Ms. Pac-Man, and I’ve all but retired my Odyssey2 Baseball cartridge, because even if ever do find someone who wants to play a game with me, it just won’t be the same. Part of the reason that Fantasy remains my favorite arcade game, aside from the fact that I have still never challenged it, is simply because of the memories that I associated with it – I was badly sunburned during a family fishing trip, so I wound up spending most of my time in the little game room at the resort, and she stayed with me, partly because she wasn’t thrilled with fishing all day, and partly because she wanted to see what happened at the end of the game’s story and kept on throwing dollars into the change machine until I reached it.
My father pointed out to me this weekend that it’s ironic that I’m on a path to becoming a stay-at-home dad, because that’s exactly what my mom did after I was born. I had forgotten the little room in the basement that served as her home office; in later years I really only knew it as a storage room and The Place To Go If A Tornado’s Really Coming. Remembering my mother’s life – as well as the events that led to her death – have become a road map for me, showing what to do and what not to do.
After she was gone, everything changed, including me. I know with great certainty that I’ve made choices with my life – not finishing college, for example – that would’ve driven her crazy, assuming of course that she wouldn’t have stepped in to prevent them from happening at all. I was suddenly minus one parent at a fairly vulnerable age, and there were other things going on within the family that most people would assume were leading me toward disaster. I won’t spend a lot of time dwelling on that, partially out of respect for those still living, but in much the same way that my mother rebelled against more than a few commonly held ideas, I picked my own path and steered completely clear of things I regarded as bad habits. To a certain degree, that automatically made me a bit of a loner, since I was staying right away from activities that had “peer pressure” written all over them, and I’m still a bit socially awkward as a result. But I found friends within those choices, many of whom I’m still close to today, and carved out my own path.
So on this day, of all days, I find myself feeling a little bit guilty. By leaving my life when she did, my mother once again set a chain of events into motion in my life, which made me who I am today. And the strange thing is, however underfunded, overweight and unambitious as I might seem, I’m actually very happy with who I am. I really wish I could have been this content when I was 12, or 14, or 18, or 25. I look back at old pictures of myself on family outings, and I see my own scowling, sullen face staring back at me. I was already getting rebellious and sulky, and wanted nothing to do with my family. I really want sometimes to go back in time and give the kid that I was a good slap, and a warning that some things should be relished while they’re there, within reach. I didn’t have a bad life at that age, and it wasn’t until everything changed that I experienced a life that was truly worth complaining about. So, in some ways, 20 years ago today, I started to become who I am today.
That’s why, on or around this date, every year since I’ve moved back to Arkansas, I go and tend to one of the few shreds of physical evidence that proves that Alison Green once walked this earth. I know that there’s nothing left of her on that spot except the headstone. I know that. But it’s a small gesture of respect. However, it’s one that will, in coming years, be replaced by a different gesture: trying to raise a child, using what I learned from her (and avoiding some things I learned from her as well), and bring someone into the world who’s smarter and just better than I could ever be myself. Somehow, I think she’d approve – and someday, I’ll tell that child all about the grandmother they never got to meet.… Read more
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