No School Bus for Me

The first year and a half of my schooling was traumatic... for everybody.  Initially, in Kindergarten, it was separation anxiety.  But by 1st grade, I was resigned to my fate and good ol' active imagination anxiety set in.

I refused to ride the bus.  First of all, I had to ride a different bus than my older siblings and who's to say that bus driver would really just take me to school?  He could be a member of that Patty Hearst cult for all we knew.  And the return trip?  "It's easy, sweetie.  Just get in line and your teacher will make sure no one abducts you and you get on the bus."
"Which bus?  They all look the same."
"The number 5 bus."
"I don't know my numbers yet."  That was a lie and we both knew it, but I won out, and Mom taxied me to & from school.

However, there were other perils to consider.  You see, I knew my Mother.  I was her constant shadow for five years.  I can not tell you how many times we'd go out to run errands and have to back track to get her checkbook.  If she couldn't be counted on to remember the very source of our sustenance--well, sooner or later, she was bound to forget me.

She would forget me and I would have to spend the night in that big building, as long as a football field, way out in the sticks, in the pitch black, all by myself.  Unless, of course, the Manson Family happened to stop by.

I was a nervous wreck.  I started chewing on my hair; my mother cut it so that it would no longer reach my mouth.  (In hindsight, my family isn't big on addressing the root of a problem...)  Without that crutch, I began to cry.  Every day after lunch, we'd be walking back to class and about the time we'd pass the bathroom, an image of Alice Cooper and all his Billion Dollar Babies would pop into my head and I would start sobbing.

Poor Miss Hipshire, my 1st grade teacher.  Young, fresh out of college, dealing with this tangled mess while trying to make sure everybody else knew their alphabet.  I liked Mrs. Hipshire and by the middle of the year, I could tell my daily hysteria was wearing her thin.  So I decided to stop.

It was a conscious decision.  All day long, while everybody else was figuring out 2 + 2 or Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs, I was doing an inner zen yoga chant of "I will not cry.  She will not forget me.  I will not cry.  She will not forget me."  And somehow, miraculously, I made it through the day.  It appeared to be a high point in Mrs Hipshire's career when the final bell rang that afternoon.

And on that beautiful day, that perfect day in which I conquered my fear, my Mother forgot me.

You know what they do when your Mother forgets to pick you up?
They call her.

I was standing outside with Mrs. Hipshire when the Big Green Chrysler Bomb pulled up.  I wriggled into the passenger seat.
"You forgot me."
"I was sewing curtains and lost track of time."
"Oh."
And like so many things in our family, it was never to be spoken of again.  I never worried one more minute about it and it never happened again, because after that, I started riding the bus.

A Remembrance of My Mama

As a child, I was madly in love with her. Something about her enchanted me. She held this calm gracefulness so foreign to the nervous energy of a five year old. Her tired worn hands had known true work but felt tender when they brushed my hair. Her eyes were distant but kind when she looked at me. There was a stoic set to her jaw and she rarely spoke but when she did, I listened because I knew her words were carefully chosen and important. She never laughed, and I longed to make her smile, fix that thing I sensed was broken inside her, return that thing that was missing.

In my attempts, I planted myself firmly under her feet. She would gently remove me and plop me at the edge of the coffee table with paper and crayons.

"Draw me a picture" she'd say and run off to make the beds. Within 30 seconds, I'd be back-paper in hand.

"What is it?"

"It's our house."

"Where's the front porch?" 30 seconds later, I'd be back again.

"Where's the hedges-the tree-the flowers?"

I'm sure she kept sending me away so she could just make the damn beds in peace, but she was teaching me things. Composition, color, detail and even a bit of patience. Out of the those exercises grew a love of art.

"I'M going to Kingergarden!" I taunted my siblings. "I get to draw and paint ALL DAY!" They hadn't seemed impressed. I was enthusiastic when I returned-they had easels and real paints and paint brushes! Then someone said the word "tomorrow" and I began to comprehend that 'Kingergarden' wasn't a one time experience. Thus began an 18 month struggle to pry me from the steering wheel every morning, sometimes literally dragging me into the classroom-all the while me screaming "Please don't leave me Mama! Please don't leave me."

She did all those things that Mamas do. She cooked; she cleaned; she hummed to herself. She smelled of coffee & cigarettes. She planted marigolds in the Spring. I hate marigolds, but whenever I'm in a nursery, I pick up a flat and inhale, just so I can smell her again. She sang Johnny Mathis songs when we decorated the Christmas tree-even now when "Winter Wonderland" plays, it's her voice I hear.

She was terribly unsentimental, but after she died, I found a folded piece of paper in the bottom of her dresser drawer. On the outside, she had written "age 6". I opened it. It was Holly Hobbie-drawn by my hand. She had kept it. A remembrance of her baby; now a remembrance of my Mother.

"I'm nothing like you," I said to her once-watching her get ready for work-studying her as I often did in my teen-aged years, still trying to understand things no child can understand, still firmly planted under her feet. "You didn't know me when I was young," she replied. She hadn't meant it as a compliment, but I take it as one.

A few years ago, my cousin Doug dropped by the house. I was sitting in my usual spot, at the kitchen table, cradling a cup of coffee, cigarette smoldering in the ashtray. He had a strange look on his face. "Is something wrong?"

"It's like I just went back in time 20 years" he said.

I felt the tears well up & I smiled. Maybe I'm more like her than I thought.

But one thing is for certain, as I look up at the paint stained glass filled with paint brushes on my window sill, I know now she will never leave me.