HUMOR ESSAY – It’s funny “half” the things you miss about the people you love after they die —

 

Giant Blueberry Muffin

Giant Blueberry Muffin

I pulled a bag of blueberries from the freezer to make some muffins. Due to favorable growing conditions and some savvy harvesting, from time to time I can relive a bit of the past season, until next summer’s crop. The cooler air and barren trees are bitter reminders that people, too, come and go like seasons in our lives. My mother and I planted a relationship seed of our own one spring that did not survive another season. As crazy as she made me, I’d give all the blueberry crops in the world, to share a muffin with my mother.

***

The spring before she died, my mother and I spent three glorious days as travel companions to beautiful Sedona and the awe-inspiring Grand Canyon National Park. And it took eighteen months of primal scream therapy to reconcile my sanity from a trip that included sleep deprivation, several apologies, one foreign relations nightmare and a mutant blueberry muffin.

To say my mother traveled as well as a constipated three-year-old is an insult to toddlers everywhere.

“How long do we stand here watching that thing go around and around until our bags show up? I’m tired. Where’s the bathroom? Look at the car rental line. We only have three days.”

She kept the conversation lively.

“We’re going to split everything,” my mom said. “The food, travel, the hotel.”

She had a simple plan. We’d charge all expenses to my credit card. Later my dad would reimburse my full credit card bill, and I was to give my mother back half. They don’t teach enough of these creative money strategies in school. And still my parents stayed married for fifty years.

From Phoenix airport and for the two hour drive up the mountains to Sedona, the car window stayed down while she chain smoked and criticized the shape of the clouds. The unseasonable chill made my skin prickle, a nice respite from my mother’s sermon on hot flash cycles and drooping vaginas. She promised the plague of menopause would turn me into someone she would admit to not knowing.

Midway on the drive I pulled into a Verde Valley rest stop. In 24 hours no more than a one-ounce bag of peanuts had passed my lips. Whereas my mother survived on coffee and Snickers, I required food with a shorter shelf life. When my tuna on toast arrived, she cut it in half. The splitting began.

That night in the motel room she grabbed a smoke and opened the slider to the balcony which overlooked the picturesque highway traffic. She insisted the fresh air at high altitudes was better for our lungs. I piled all four bathroom towels on my shivering body. She pulled off half.

Somewhere in my dreams I heard a whisper: “It’s hot in here. I’m turning on the fan.”

At one a.m. chattering teeth woke me. Mine. My mother hovered over me still whispering. The whirling noise from the overhead fan disturbed her sleep. Or perhaps it was the caravan of eighteen-wheelers carrying mothers deserted by well-intentioned daughters.

At three a.m. the fire alarm went off.

My mother cracked open the door and her eyes darted in a REM sleep pattern I envied. In her most diplomatic Boston tone she said: “What the hell are you people doing? Practicing a God damn Chinese fire drill?”

I nudged her away as 24 tour buses full of Oriental tourists descended on the motel. Men and women scurried up and down hallways in short quick steps. They dragged oversized luggage and slammed doors with choreographed precision. Several nodded politely as they passed by and spoke loudly in a language we did not understand. But I’m sure they were telling each other how silly it was that an American mother and daughter thought traveling to Arizona together was a good idea.

The next day, on the way to the South Rim of the Grand Canyon, we stopped for breakfast. I ordered a hearty plate of pancakes, bacon and eggs to fuel the day hike trip planned for myself. My mother had coffee, a cigarette and a bag of Skittles. She ordered a plate to split my breakfast.

The prick from my fork on my mother’s hand didn’t elicit a flinch.

“Listen, lady,” I said. “You’re going to make out in this deal financially. Get some food.” Instead, she wolfed down half of my pancakes and pocketed half the bacon on the way out to our next adventure.

Which was a hot air balloon ride. This was on my mother’s bucket list and all was well until the pilot fired up the burner.  Just say, it was easier to rip a leg off a raw chicken than to get one of hers in the basket. I apologized to the captain who refunded my money and offered a few extra bucks if I could stop her from scaring the children waiting in line. “Don’t do it,” she said. “They can’t even steer the thing. You’re gonna fall from the sky and die. Is that what you want?” Her punctuation to me was a well-known Italian hand gesture.

Except for the frequent click of a cigarette lighter, we drove for two hours to the Grand Canyon in silence. At one point I cleared my throat and she barked back, “We’re not talking right now.”

At the Visitor’s Center we sat together on a bench in reflective silence and admired the spectacular wonder before our eyes.  It lasted two whole minutes.

“It looks fake,” she said. “How long are we going to stay?”

Despite security barricades, I seriously contemplated sneaking underneath to hurl myself over the edge. Twice. Instead I handed her a bag filled with cold drinks, a sandwich she could split with a park ranger or donkey for all I cared, a pack of cigarettes, three candy bars and a trashy novel. She’d be good for a month.

Approaching the path down the Bright Angel Trail, I turned back and caught her smile, until she saw me. She lit a cigarette and buried her head in fictional affairs of the heart.

The next morning, while we waited for our flight to depart, I bought us coffee and me a muffin. My mother tallied up the credit card slips and bitched over our seat assignments.

“The airlines made a mistake,” I said. “So they gave you a first class seat. Just enjoy it.”

“What about you? You’ll be in the back of the plane all alone.”

“I think I can live without you for a few hours.” I said this as I unwrapped and buttered a blueberry muffin which frankly belonged in the bakery hall of fame. The size of an eight-inch layer cake, I had giggled when the server cut the thing in half.

No reaction. My mother’s demeanor remained stoic as she slid our three day tab across the table.

“I’ll get your father to write you a check. We should plan another trip.”

I brushed her words away. My focus was on the gargantuan baked good sitting like a mountain between us. It took two hands to place half in front of her. The irony of the moment hung out there. Our eyes locked. I waited.

She fiddled for a cigarette. “That butter is going to kill you.”

I pointed to the butt between her manicured fingers. “Really? And those aren’t?”

She held her cool eyes on me for a long time. Her voice softened a tad. “I have offered to share everything with you this whole trip and you wanted everything all for yourself.”

“Oh, yes, arrest me for eating a whole sandwich, all by myself.”

“You’re not funny,” my mother said. “Someday I’ll be gone and you won’t be able to share anything with me.”

I waited for the other shoe to drop, the one she always dropped. My mother kept her soft side in a secret compartment. It came out on rare occasions, like fine china, and this moment didn’t seem too special.  She had a flare for the dramatic sometimes, and I thought it might be one of those times. Still, I took her lead and caved, and let my sarcasm fade.

“Mom, I would like to split this blueberry muffin with you.”

Her eyes sparkled. She nodded and managed the first full smile I’d seen in three days.  Then she grabbed her first class ticket and stood up. “Fuck you,” she said and faded into the crowd.

***

The oven timer went off and the coffee was ready. I cut and buttered the muffin, and then pushed half aside. In the spring, a new crop of blueberries will bud and bloom. I’m hoping there will be lots to share.

4 Thoughts on “Better Than an Obituary

  1. Gina :-) on 10/24/2013 at 10:19 AM said:

    OMG!! Too funny! I can see my mother and I in that story except she didn’t smoke later on in life!! She would bring a plastic bag when we went out to eat and take the sugars, salt and peppers (if they were packaged) and the chips, and bread and butter and anything else that was not nailed down!! lol
    My father on the other hand would send his meal back at least 3 times until I am sure the kitchen spit in it!! lol

  2. Electra Alessio on 10/24/2013 at 3:41 PM said:

    Steph:

    I loved this article… I laughed out loud several times, and yet still felt like crying, too.
    This is one if your best.

    • Exactly how I felt writing this. Many people of our generation have experienced a push me/pull me relationship with a parent. It’s their lasting legacy, or curse!

  3. Pingback: 10 Things Never to Do Again - BE F.A.T. (Be F-g Awesome Today)

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