The Truth

My sister has been in this writing class for her masters where she has to write about things of her life. I came to visit and she sat me at the computer to read this piece and asked me if I thought Mom would like this for Mother's Day. Tears streamed down my face as I read this - she is really so talented. So I asked her to send it to me, so I could be proud, of both her and my mother.

The Truth
“Let me hold the camera, you always chop off our heads,” my husband said as he grabbed our digital camera to shoot a hand held shot. “An actual picture with you smiling, priceless,” I retorted with a smile and peck on the cheek. One insignificant moment captured in a simple photograph brings to mind one of my most memorable family trips to Lake Harwell, South Carolina.

The entire family, which doesn’t add to many, grew that weekend since my sister, Kristy, and I invited more to join us, her brother-in-law, Jay and his girlfriend, Angie, and my friend, Bess, from Minnesota. Our arrivals to my parent’s lake condo are clouded with jabbering about the rain storm, a highway alligator, and safe flights.

Bess and I were helping mom in the kitchen, chatting about the warm, relaxing day and Bess’ plans to bake apple pie tomorrow, when I heard Sam, my sister’s husband, slurring questions to my dad about his childhood, old girlfriends, and road trips. Their conversation was typical of our family trips, which usually happened around margaritas, laughter, and dominoes. Soon enough, though, Sam turned his attention to my mother, who was happy on wine. No longer were we scattered about the condo, but gathered together at the table, like kids waiting for a second helping of dessert.

As my mom casually answered his questions, she glanced at my father behind me. As he nodded his head, like a sign of approval, she told about the first time on her own, a vague story that I had once been curious to hear. My mom’s voice got more serious, a bit emotional, when she told us about refusing to move her senior year of high school. In her stern smile and distant eyes, I could see the vivid memory of her decision to live with a close friend, finish up her high school career alone, as her parents moved east without her.

My mom didn’t want to share the next memory, but we pressed on convincingly. She started to tear up when she told of a telephone conversation with her father at 17, when he disclosed his divorce. Her tears told of her heart ache, but she seemed disconnected from this memory, as if it was still too painful to remember. She shook her head of the memory, when Kristy, Sam, and I ask about the years before she settled in Colorado, a place we used to call home. She continued about her travels across the country to Idaho, North Carolina, Florida, California, Colorado, New Mexico, maybe more.

I was engulfed in her story, picturing her with long black hair smoothed by the mountain air, skin darkening in the sun, dirt worn on her skin like perfume, carrying her possessions in a single backpack, wishing to be in her presence then. Small tears slowly streamed down my face, uncertain of why, from learning more about her, understanding more. I finally accepted her frugalness that annoyed my as a teenager. I accepted her lack of expensive things that made her different from all the other popular moms. I had accepted her, all of her.

My visions get jolted out of focus when my sister butted into her retelling with a question about the “true” story of how my parents met. We knew the version that parents tell their kids, satisfying their question without details or drama. The words flowed from her heart as if she was thrown into the past.

"I was living in the mountains of Colorado with a friend and travel companion, a man who loved me for many years, Ruben. Veering from Idaho, landing in the Colorado mountains, we settled in a quiet, hidden cabin with no water or electricity, foraging for berries."

She mentioned the owners of the scattered cabins. First, the owners threatened to shoot them for being on their property, and then thanked them for taking such good care of their cabins. She hinted at experimenting with things, but she moved on quickly with a smile.

"It was my turn to go into the city to get a job, so I began work as a waitress at Leo’s Place, where your dad was already a bartender. I was taking the bus to and from work, staying with friends in the city to save money, and spending more time in the city than with Ruben. One night, Ruben’s fist hit the door, a hard, purposeful knock. My friend took charge at the door telling Ruben that I was upstairs, so he waited outside. I arrived in disarray, surprised and nervous. Ruben made the decision for me to leave, to go back to our retreat in the mountains."

My mom, staring into my dad’s eyes, told of her realization that she wanted to be with my dad, her true soul mate, how she had to climb over Ruben to the driver’s side door since her door was jammed shut. She knew she had to get out of that car. I wondered if this is when she fell in love with my dad.

Tears and memories flood my mother’s face as she tells of so many things I never thought to ask about, her mountain friends, her many jobs, my dad’s accidental proposal, moving away from “her” mountains. I’m amazed at this woman before me, transforming from my mother into an amazing person, a hard working, determined, simple woman. I understand her now, more than I ever could have hoped, all thanks to my brother-in-law’s curiosity and a random, insignificant photograph.

Bb
June 8, 2009, revised June 14, 2009