Wednesday, November 17, 2004
Love rain down on me, on me, down on me
Today I had the whole day off. And I decided to visit my mother.
It came to me that I missed my parents a lot when I was camping at Anja's last weekend. See, my family has been going camping for Thanksgiving just about every year since I was a sophomore in high school.
Back then, my sister Renee and I never wanted to go. We would have rather spent the time off from school with our friends. We were too cool for camping, or so we thought.
But I've grown to enjoy it so much the last few years. The cold air. The fire. The food. Getting to use a Mag Lite. And how time just seems to stop out there, and how when you pack up your car to leave you know you won't have to think about work or school or anything at all ... for a little while.
In memory of last Thanksgiving, when my dad showed up with a bottle of Hot Damn to pass around the late night fire, making my mother so entertainingly giggly, I bought a bottle for my camping trip. And like my mother, actually ended up passing out earlier than anyone else ...
It was nice to see her today. And I could tell how surprised and happy she was that I came by for no reason.
We talked for a long time. I asked her to tell me the story of how she met my father. He was gone on a hunting trip tonight, and actually should be getting home anytime now; he's coming home early because of the weather.
But she and I sat and I watched her eyes light up as she smiled and told the story, remembering the little details. She even remembered what she was wearing. The only thing fuzzy about it was whether she wore black or white socks.
It's funny how people always remember those things. The littlest ones. How your mind just stores it up as if it were so devastingly and amazingly important. Meanwhile, your brain can reject so many other things, like what you had for breakfast in the morning.
I like hearing stories like that. I didn't want to tell my mother's here. It crossed my mind, but it's hers. Maybe through reading this you'll remember one of yours. Maybe while I'm writing this I'll think about mine.
Today I had the whole day off. And I decided to visit my mother.
It came to me that I missed my parents a lot when I was camping at Anja's last weekend. See, my family has been going camping for Thanksgiving just about every year since I was a sophomore in high school.
Back then, my sister Renee and I never wanted to go. We would have rather spent the time off from school with our friends. We were too cool for camping, or so we thought.
But I've grown to enjoy it so much the last few years. The cold air. The fire. The food. Getting to use a Mag Lite. And how time just seems to stop out there, and how when you pack up your car to leave you know you won't have to think about work or school or anything at all ... for a little while.
In memory of last Thanksgiving, when my dad showed up with a bottle of Hot Damn to pass around the late night fire, making my mother so entertainingly giggly, I bought a bottle for my camping trip. And like my mother, actually ended up passing out earlier than anyone else ...
It was nice to see her today. And I could tell how surprised and happy she was that I came by for no reason.
We talked for a long time. I asked her to tell me the story of how she met my father. He was gone on a hunting trip tonight, and actually should be getting home anytime now; he's coming home early because of the weather.
But she and I sat and I watched her eyes light up as she smiled and told the story, remembering the little details. She even remembered what she was wearing. The only thing fuzzy about it was whether she wore black or white socks.
It's funny how people always remember those things. The littlest ones. How your mind just stores it up as if it were so devastingly and amazingly important. Meanwhile, your brain can reject so many other things, like what you had for breakfast in the morning.
I like hearing stories like that. I didn't want to tell my mother's here. It crossed my mind, but it's hers. Maybe through reading this you'll remember one of yours. Maybe while I'm writing this I'll think about mine.
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