A little over fifteen maybe twenty years ago I would get off
work every morning and drive an hour to see my Mom. She was going through a
rough patch as most of us do and I worried almost every moment I wasn’t with
her. When I arrived at her home, I’d coax, finagle and literally drag her out
of bed, make her take a shower and get dressed while I cooked some breakfast.
Afterwards, she’d do the dishes, I’d take out the trash, mow and trim the lawn
and then sit and talk to her until I was almost too exhausted to drive home. I
normally did this alone.
However; on
some occasions my wife would join me. This was usually on a Saturday or Sunday.
Which is when this story takes place. On a Saturday.
We arrived
at my Mom’s house around nine in the morning. By the time we got her up and
ready for the world it was almost ten. After breakfast and polite conversation
my mother asked if I’d burn her compost pile since she was selling the house and
she didn’t think the new owners would like to look out the windows and see a
four foot tall, eight food diameter pile of compost that was overgrown with
weeds. I agreed.
She then
told me to get some gasoline out of the garage to start the fire. I went to the
garage and located three separate cans of gasoline. One was a five gallon and
two were of the three gallon size. I picked up the lightest of the three gallon
cans and made my way out to the edge of the property line. I walked around the
pile eying it for any good places to start the fire and realized I might need
to loosen up the decomposing mess. So I went back to the garage, got a shovel
and went back to the pile and dug a few holes, made a few trenches and began to
pour gas into all the turned over decay.
It wasn’t
long before I ran out of gas. So I put the shovel and empty can back in the
garage to give it time to soak into the mound. When I returned I noticed my mom
and wife looking at me through the window of the breakfast nook. I then heard a
plane flying above the house. I looked up. It was a single engine Cessna. I
waved to the plane, pulled out my lighter and ignited the pile. Which is about
the time I realized how much gas I had poured onto this particular pile of
trash. Over two gallons.
When the
first flames started, the fire began to slowly burn, then as if by some satanic
force of nature, I felt the air around me start to rush towards the pile. I
turned my back to the pile and not two steps later I was engulfed in flames and
no oxygen to fuel my lungs. I started laughing even as I felt the hair on my
head and face begin to singe. I ran. I ran as fast as I could to get out of the
inferno I had started. My laughter was lost in the unearthly sound of high
powered accelerant fueled by the cool air of the day and the dried and rotting
food, trash and biodegradables that had been used to build it.
By the time
I got clear, my faded jean jacket smoking almost as much as the pile itself I
fell on the ground holding my sides in an attempt to stop myself from the fit
of laughter that had overtaken me. In the sky above me, the Cessna was no doing
circles around the bonfire of garbage, its engine silent in the wake of the
roaring flames not thirty feet from me.
Which is
about the time I heard my mother screaming “You’re an ASSHOLE. My God, you are
such and ASSHOLE.” And on the tail end of her repeated tirade, I heard my wife’s
laughter followed by her saying “Well, he is your son.”
I sat up,
the heat from the fire was almost unbearable so I made my way back into the
house with the unending screams of my mother filling my ears “You are such an
asshole.”
This revelation
did nothing but bring an even larger smile to my face and make me feel as if I
had accomplished something. I didn’t know what I had accomplished but I knew it
was something important.
As a matter
of fact, it wasn’t until about four years ago that the events of that day and
the results of my actions led me to an epiphany of sorts. You see, it’s true,
my Mom was in a very bad place. She was clinically depressed, taking all sorts
of medication and had no drive or desire to do anything. But on that day, the
day of me being called and confirmed an asshole, there was a change in her.
She sold
her house, moved into an apartment and started her life over. We saw each other
every day for over a year. It was a great year. We talked, went to movies, hung
out and drank coffee together and bonded in a way that made us both realize
neither one of us is perfect and we don’t expect anything from each other but a
good relationship.
When she
left to move North, my heart broke and I knew we would never have the closeness
we had shared for that brief period in our lives. Although I am grateful for
those days and nights of talking or just watching a football game on
television.
She has
come a long way in those years. She is happier than I have ever seen her in her
life. She has a loving husband and friends who honestly care about her and
share common hobbies and interests. In other words, she has done a complete 180
degree turn from the woman she was to become the woman she is intended to be. I’m
proud of her. I’m proud call her mom and I’m even more proud that I’m able to
tell her dirty jokes, make inappropriate comments and just be myself around
her. Even if it is when we are talking on the phone with half a continent
between us.
I’m sure I
still frustrate her with my brash comments and my sometimes crude behavior,
just as much as I’m stunned by her sometimes over-appropriate and polite
demeanor. However, we have a relationship not many mother and sons have. For
that I’m grateful and honored. Also, I can’t help but think to myself “You are
an asshole and you did some good, no matter how small it was, you did it.”
Which I believe makes our bond much stronger. After all, I have to say at least
I didn’t set fire to a river bank.
I love you
Mom.
Have a
great week.
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