THE LAKE

I remember coming here during my preteen and teenage years. I enjoyed going but it always seemed like so much work to be around my grandparents, my grandmother, specifically. She was a cold German woman who grew up on a farm and all you did was work. Even as a kid of the 1970s and 1980s, I didn't understand all of the things I was being told to do. Now, I get it. All of these years later, to be here among the water, the brisk autumn breeze and a tale of tears and regrets was like coming home.

As I pushed the key into the old rusty lock of the wooden long painted over door, I was excited for my mother to see it again. The door stuck, so I threw my weight into it and we found ourselves deep in the musty smell of the cabin. This was not fancy living, mind you, like many of the new houses in the area, but there is so much history even before my grandparents bought it in the 1950s. Watching my mother walk through the door took me back to those summers as a kid. She took a self-guided tour walking from room to room, nodding and trying to remember where the furniture came from. I always thought she never liked the place and I never understood why. As an adult, the place gave me a sense of peace and family. Now all of these years later, I came to the realization that she really did love it.

We talked for a few minutes and she looked around the cabin as we put our things away. Beth wanted to say hello to the lake as we all did. That's just something you do. Venturing down the stone steps to the dock, we made our way onto the rickety aging redwood dock. I remember my grandfather helped to build the original dock, though now it was joined by many boat docks and ramps. Busy. 

My mother and I saw on the white bolted down bench taking in the breeze and the water, looking as far as we could doing one thing we spent many years not doing: talking. Beth sat on the dock with her legs swinging over joining in the conversation at times, but mainly just a guarded silence. My mother and I began talking and delving into old history as Beth excused herself and made her way back to the cabin to get snacks in order. It's a thing! 

To say that my mother and I sat and talked seems so inadequate. The best sentence she ever said was "I do have regrets, so many regrets. If I had it to do all over again, I would ask more questions and not believe what my mother told me about you." Somehow, my life was caught between a battle between my mother and grandmother. I don't know how that happens. I believe for what ever reason, my grandmother took things out on my mother and made her childhood horrible and her adult life even. I understand her need to distance herself from that. Understand, not agree. I am not sure I've ever felt closer to my mother.

So now that there's been the gift of time and reflection, I feel good. There's a sense of peace and accomplishment. I've been a believer of reasons for sorrow, strife and hurdles. I remember times when my family just wasn't there and I didn't feel comfortable in asking for a little compassion, guidance or just a supportive heart. I knew I never wanted my daughter to feel that and I hope that my granddaughter never feels that emptiness. That being said, a hard road leaves you with a choice. Whichever one you choose, there are consequences. I understand myself to be a fixer and I can't live with myself if I don't try. So I tried.

And here I am.

     

 

THE WEEKEND

It seemed like just another Friday, but as the leaves swirled around doing their dance at my feet, I knew it was a day unlike any I had experienced in the past 26 years. I don't know if my mother knew what it meant to me. Oh I know others don't understand what it's like to have your own mother slam the door in their face for what seems like forever. Why can't people just get along?

My mother, now 70 years old, was taking a 3 hour bus trip to visit me and realize a "dream" of hers: to visit her parents' cabin in Clear Lake, Iowa. I don't know if the dream was being there with me, but I hope so. My grandparents bought it somewhere around the 1950s and it's a quaint little cottage that my family rents out during the spring and summer and closes in the late fall. My spouse Beth and I go there for a relaxing weekend for fishing and whatnot. It's just over an hour away from our home in Waterloo, Iowa. My mother had mentioned this to me last year while we were having lunch in Davenport and it shocked me. I was cautiously optimistic, though I knew I had reason not to be.

The weather was so beautiful that day; a bright blue sky and the air was crisp but not too cool as I arrived at the bus station. I didn't wait inside, however, as I wanted to be alone in my car. The minutes ticked by so loud. I had to admit, part of me wondered if she wouldn't be there to step off that bus. If she wasn't, I didn't want to even look at my conscience. In an instant, I watched the red bus roll in like the fall breeze that whipped through my hair as I got out of my car. This was a moment I'd waited for since 2008, when my mother and I began corresponding and meeting for lunches. She was actually coming to see me.

I watched the people exit the bus one by one with a bit of worry in my heart, but then I saw her smiling face when our eyes met. She quickly gave me a hug and since she was carrying her luggage, a bright blue bag, we walked to my car. As we drove to my house, I could barely believe it was real. Once arriving at my house, she got out and looked around the yard(we have 3/4 of an acre) and talked outside for a few minutes. I seemed oblivious to much else but the moment. As I gave her the tour of my house, I couldn't have been prouder...proud that I have a house to show and proud that I believed I had made something of myself. In my early years of being disowned by this woman, I wanted to have some kind of revenge; that kind of "A HA! Take that, you crazy woman!" moment. Now that this was happening, I didn't feel that way at all. I was prouder, still, that I persevered in the face of situations thrown my way. Someone I expected to be there for me had chosen not to. I made my own way in any way possible and that wasn't because of her. It was because of me.

So my mother fawned over my house, telling me how wonderful it was as she settled in her room. I got out snacks and we talked and talked, something I had only ever wished for. I had made a lasagna for supper and when Beth, my spouse came home, we ate and talked and talked and ate. There is a real love that comes out in food, there is no denying it. Anyone who knows me, knows I love to cook and plan entire meals. So much so that it's difficult for me to understand anyone who doesn't. We three spent the rest of the evening talking and talking. Beth went to bed early, but my mother and I continued talking until late. I really had to pinch myself into believing my mother at long last was sitting in my living room. The woman who sat in front of me, though, didn't seem to be the woman I grew up with. This woman was polite, too polite, as if she were somewhere new and didn't want to put anyone out. This was somewhere new for her, somewhere I am sure she didn't expect to be.


Next: THE LAKE

WRITING and THE WAY OF THE PEN

Some people might ask why a writer writes. Many people do it and do it well. I still am not sure I am one of those people, but I love it so much, I keep trying. When I was young, I wrote weird silly poems, but never thought of writing a novel. Then when I was in college, I took a stab at it. It's hard. Damn hard. But to answer why is just simple. It gives me goose bumps. When I talk about the stories I've written, the hair stands up on my arm. There is little else that has had that effect on me. The first time someone read my work, it made me so nervous. To put yourself out there is to stand there naked in front of the world. Scary scary. What I find so interesting is that there will never EVER be a shortage of stories. Since I've become part of an author/writing community, I am amazed by people and their knowledge of everything. I am learning everyday and whenever I write, I take another step on this journey. Writing leads to peace.