Wagon Memories

Gratitude is when a memory is stored

in the heart and not in the mind. 

~ Lionel Hampton

-------------------------------------------------

If you are going on an endless pursuit for mom of the year, you'd better cruise in style.  That's exactly what my mother did!  There's certainly nothing more stylish than a wood paneled station wagon, like the one my parents bought in the 70's.  I can still, to this day, remember when we picked up that car and the many family vacations we took in it.  Oh the memories.  Today, Madison came home from summer camp with news that brought back another memory of that station wagon and my mother. 

In a proud parent moment, I told Madison how she looks like such a grown up girl today.  Really, she does!  In an instant, she told me that another child at camp called her fat today.  While wanting to cry with her, I thought of my mother.  This particular memory goes back to 4th grade.  My parents decided that since school was only a few blocks away, I could walk to and from school every day.  I wore a key around my neck on a string that I was told to never let anyone knew I wore.  I was a latch key kid. 

We weren't too far into the school year when two boys began following me home.  They were 6th graders and much bigger than I.  It started just with following me.  They soon began saying things to me.  Then, they pushed me and said things that scared me.  I clearly remember like it was yesterday that I would be so relieved when I got home.  I'd run to the back and let myself into the kitchen door, slide onto the floor, barricade the door and cry.  I was scared to death. 

When it got to be too much to handle, I would stop at the house of the woman who once was my daycare provider.  I always had an excuse for being there and she was nice enough to let me stay and play for a while.  Long enough for the boys to be long gone and I continued walking home.  However, I wasn't welcome every day.  Then it would start all over again.  Finally, the fear got to be so bad I would beg for someone to pick me up or for my old daycare provider to allow me to come every day. 

That's when I had no choice but to "spill the beans."  I finally told my mother what was going on and my mom rarely gets to what I would call furious, but she was clearly there.  I vaguely remember some pointers on how to handle them.  I'm sure they were things like, "Don't look at them," or "Don't talk to them."  It didn't work.  I began to think these boys would someday hurt me and there I would lie on the concrete, in the alleyway everyone always told me someone was killed in, by the retirement home, with no one to help me. 

I'm fairly sure this became too much for my mother to handle.  Thinking of how I felt today when Madison told me that this boy called her chubbie and then fat, I know exactly how my mother felt.  Immediately, I wanted to hunt him down with my big old Yukon and give him my best mean mommy stare to the point he might even wet his pants.  I'm sure she felt some guilt too because she was a working mom.  She just couldn't be there to pick me up from school, as I can't be there to shield Madison from these mean words.  

I'll remember that day forever.  Someday I might even tell Madison about it.  I'm willing to bet no one in my family knows this happened, not even my dad.  But when this memory comes to mind, I love my mother just a little bit more than I already do.  We were driving down South Jackson Street and were turning by the old Casey's.  Then I saw him.  Across the street, by the big houses with the perfectly square-shaped bushes.  I shouted before I could stop myself.  

"Mom, that's him."

We were at a stop sign.  I remember the barrage of questions.  

"Are you sure?  That's one of the boys who has been following you?  That's him?"

Of course I was sure.  He'd tormented me for weeks.  

My mother then did something I never saw her do again.  She tore around the corner at the stop sign, crossed in front of the another car and sped into a driveway so hard with our station wagon I was sure something had fallen off.  She pulled so close to that boy I thought she was going to hit him.  He was on her side of the car and she rolled down her window.  That's when the yelling began.  

I'll never remember exactly what she said, but I remember a very distinct look of fear coming across his face.  She didn't let him speak, she just sat there in our old station wagon, very close to him, and yelled in a way I'd never heard her yell.  She then promptly sped back out of the driveway and we never spoke of it again.  Seriously, never. 

The one boy my mother did not nearly run over with our car tried to follow me home, but he was quickly told by the other to stop.  I then walked home in peace for weeks without any issue, until my dad came home one day and said he'd been promoted.  We were moving.  

I have to say, as Madison cried and told me about the mean things this boy said to her, I envisioned myself cornering him in my vehicle, yelling from my rolled down car window, stopping the torment forever.  But, I can't wrap her in a bubble and protect her from any unkind words.  What I will teach her is to make good choices, unlike those children who are teasing her.  I will equip her with enough self confidence to know these things people say to her will not tear her down as a person.  After all, it didn't do that to me. 

And if that doesn't work, there's always my Yukon.