Cops Kids and Preachers Kids...

Mom, you were valiant in every arena of your life! You made it look easy, being a single mom while running our household and holding down a full time job that demanded so much of you. Heavy is the heart that wears the badge. When dad left, you went into law enforcement to support your two children and purchase a house on your own; in the 1970‘s, when “Women flying solo” was a cross you bore like a Scarlett Letter; but you somehow made it into a fashion statement.

You were a great mom, and I can't imagine the hardship of leaving your babies to create a good life for us.

This is why I never told you so many things. It was absolutely necessary that I was that perfect child you thought I was. The good girl. The one you introduced to all your friends and colleagues and they trusted me with their children.

Don’t get me wrong, I was always good with their children, I would never have done anything overtly to disappoint you or make your life harder. And I really was a good kid with a good heart.

But...

When you weren’t looking, mom. I let my hair down.

Remember when you finally relented and let me go to a concert with my friends? It was early 1980's by then. The Scorpions. Just before Christmas. You let me go, but only if I checked in with you in person after the concert. You were working a night shift at the police department. I was so excited to be going that I had my hair permed that day!

There were four of us crammed into Jamie’s 1968 VW bug after the show and our ears were still ringing. We were already giddy when Bill reached into his coat pocket and produced the pipe. Although I had imbibed before the concert, it was time for me to morph back into my studious good girl role before showing up at the police department. But then Zena passed me that little gold pipe and the pungent scent of “Maui Wowie” wafted up and filled the car with as much smoke as there was raucous laughter.

By the time we arrived back in our hometown, I noticed all of the lights had taken on a new form. Christmas lights, street lights, taillights. They were bright and wispy and very, very funny.

Jamie braked hard in front of the police station. She was the oldest and most sensible of the bunch and she adored you. She turned and looked at me sternly. “Compose yourself.” She said “We’re going in.” Armed with breath mints and doused in deodorant spray, we left the car.

I still remember feeling that this was a serious penance for being allowed to go to a concert. The lengthy over-lit, shiny tunnel-like hallway leading to the police department seemed ominous. When we approached the window, there you were, smiling and running right over to unlock the door and let us all in. I had been hoping we could just wave at you through the glass and leave.

“Maintain.” I kept repeating in my head over and over, while being drawn to the lights in the ceiling panels. And that little counter-top Christmas tree...

“How was the concert, kids?”

We mostly just nodded. But then Bill saw the Christmas cookies. And the fudge.

“Oh goodness, you kids help yourselves. We must have had twenty plates of goodies brought in by people all over town. They are so kind this time of year.”

I don’t know exactly what happened after that except that all of us found the aforementioned goodies and I temporarily forgot about the lights.

You came over to inspect my new perm and ran your fingers across my curls, saying “You must all be starving. Did you eat earlier?” Bill looked alarmed, with multicolored sprinkles in his beard. Jamie scraped fudge out of her teeth with her fingernail and stared at you as though preparing to answer the question. It was Zena, holding a half eaten strawberry jelly roll, who saved the moment. “You know my aunt makes these. But hers are lemon or something. When we were little....” and she trailed off into some nostalgic story until the phone rang and we piled up onto the door with handfuls of penuche and strudel until you buzzed us out.

I was buzzed out for the rest of the night, actually.

Then there was that time you decided to leave town for a few days with a friend just to get away from it all. So you left me in charge of the house and pets. Which really wasn’t too much to ask of me, except that while you were away, so was your “good girl” daughter.

That was the night I broke out the fake ID I had been saving for a special occasion and I went bar hopping before I was even 18. But my ID said I was 22. I wasn’t planning to drink, just socialize. Unfortunately, that particular day corresponded with my birth date on my fake ID and so there were a lot of free drinks. Jamie was with me and one of the last things I remember is her saying “Cops kids and preachers kids. They’re the worst.” I recall being offended just before barfing on her new white tennis shoes, but the rest is gone from memory; except the part where you came home the night before you were supposed to and I had a few friends over, which was verboten while you were out of town. So when I heard your car pull in, I reminded them all that you were a cop and they had to play “freeze” until you left again. Which is how three different people ended up in closets and under my bed, urinating in jars for the remainder of the weekend.

Sorry about that, mom. What you didn’t know didn’t hurt you but it sure tortured the rest of us.

Yes I know you told me to stay away from Bill and his motorcycle. You said he would ruin my life and make wretched my destiny. You even put the down-payment on my car so that I would not need to get rides to work with Bill. I get it, mom. There were a lot of motorcycle accidents in your line of work. But things happen when we are young and life is fresh and the wind in your hair feels like the breath of God. So, every chance I had, I was on that motorcycle. And of course, the only connection between that motorcycle and me ending up in the hospital is when I gave birth to your first grandson.

That one time you thought I was at the college, talking to a career advisor for the day, I was really at the beach. I still feel guilty about that, although I had a magnificent time at the beach.

“How was your day?” You asked brightly that evening.

“Very good, actually. How was yours?”

“Just the usual day at work. Did you get any ideas today about what you might want to do with your future?”

“Yes honestly. I’d like to write stories.”

“Okay. What kind of stories?”

“I’m not sure. Newspapers maybe?”

“Wonderful! I’ll talk to Norm Phillips. He owns the Daily Press. Are you thinking of a degree in journalism?”

“Yes? Maybe. Would you like that?”

“Would it make you happy?”

“I’d never considered it, but I do like to write.”

“Well then, going to the college today was a worthwhile endeavor.”

Knowing you, mother. Loving you. Following your example, and only coloring outside the lines when you weren’t looking; so as not to tarnish your world with my misdeeds, those were worthwhile endeavors.

You left me way too soon. But in the end, and in spite of myself, I turned out alright. It was you who taught me to bear the heavy crosses of life with grace. To dress up the Scarlett Letter if one were ever assigned to me. And to pretend not to notice if your teenager shows up stoned after a concert.

I love you Mom,

Always and longer.