Then there was a goat in my bed

One afternoon, in the fall of my senior year of high school, I trudged in after a long day of chemistry and trigonometry. I flung my backpack on the couch and headed for my bedroom to mope like all 17-year-old girls do. In spite of years of experiences, I was stunned when I opened my bedroom door and was met with a “baaaa-aaaa.” 

There was a goat on my bed. It wasn’t a very big goat, but it was a goat looking at me with my nightshirt dangling from his mouth.

I closed the bedroom door and stood for a minute. Shaking my head, I walked back through the living room and picked up my backpack. As I grasped the front doorknob, I turned to my mother who had just walked into the room and said, “Should I try this again, or is there something you want to tell me?”

“Oh. You mean the goat?” she replied as if this were a perfectly sane conversation.

“So, there really is a goat on my bed? He’s eating my pajamas. … You put a goat in my bedroom to eat my pajamas?” I blinked.

“Well, it’s like this… “ she started and I knew it was going to be good. “I was vacuuming and there was a knock at the door. When I opened the door, the goat was standing there and he walked right in. So, I put him in your bedroom.” And she smiled and began dusting the coffee table.

When I regained my ability to speak, I asked, “What do I do with the goat, Mom?”

“Whatever you like, but he seemed pretty intent on staying.”

"I'm not sleeping with the goat, Mom."

In the following days, we tried to figure out who owned the goat. The neighbors had a small farm outside of town, so when we couldn't figure it out, they took the goat to their farm.

I think about these stories and I wonder why I am half as normal as I am.

Do birds have eyes?

I sat at the kitchen table swinging my legs and watching her. She perched on one foot with the other propped against her leg just below the knee. I could hear the chop of the knife and smell the onions, but all I could see was her back.

Crossing the room and standing beside her, I tried to balance myself in her flamingo stance but almost toppled. She never glanced my way. My face barely cleared the counter so I tiptoed to watch her cut the onion. The knife moved effortlessly always stopping within a hair’s breadth of her hands. I craned my neck to watch her face, but she was finished with the task and moved on.

This is like so many memories of her. I remember her actions. I remember her words. I don’t remember looking her in the face. She was beside me. She was in front of me. She was behind me. I think I was thirty before we ever talked face to face.

More than ten years after she closed her eyes the last time, I cherish those few memories that include those eyes— the crow’s feet of smiles, the shadow of worry, the glimmer of pride.

I try to look people in the eye—especially my children and my grandchildren. I want them to remember my soul, not just my actions or words.

Memorial Day and Mom

My mom is buried in the National Cemetery in Leavenworth, Kansas. I've only been to her grave a few times so while we were in town over Memorial Day weekend, I went to visit her again. 

I certainly wasn't prepared for the flood of emotions, not at visiting my mother's grave but at visiting a National Cemetery over Memorial Day. Amidst the sea of flags and headstones I felt an overwhelming awareness of the sacrifices made for my freedom. 

Mom didn't serve in the military but for 18 years of her marriage, she shared her husband with the whole country.

Thank you, Mom, and thank you to all the men and women who gave of their lives to maintain our freedom.

"God grants liberty only to those who love it, and are always ready to guard and defend it."

— Daniel Webster

Mother's Day

Mother's Day is a very hard holiday for me. When I was a kid, it was an obligatory acknowledgment of a very strained relationship. I'd hand Mom a card and stand there fidgitty while she read the card with her own discomfort. We'd sorta hug and both offer a relieved sigh that THAT was over for another year.

As the relationship healed, Mother's Day became a laughing time. We'd talk about the hilarious dysfunctional antics of my childhood and laugh until our sides hurt. Then quiet reflection would settle over our moods and we were thankful for time and change.

You never have as much time as you want though. My time with Mom was way too short. Shortly after she died, I was cleaning out her stuff and I found the last Mother's Day card I had given her. She saved it. It was in her night stand drawer on top of some other stuff. It was obvious that it had been read many times. I was so glad I had told her I loved her. So glad.

This is the tribute I posted last year: Tribute to Mom

Take time to write a card. You'll be glad you did.