Tuesday, May 1, 2018

Tommy Boy



         Atop the laundry list of moronic, hilarious, and dangerous misadventures I have flung myself (headfirst & hell no to half measures) into for all these past 30 years, this one will surely leave a memory. Shall we?
        Somehow, on a busy suburban Chicago road, all hell broke loose in my navy blue Honda. I felt my car, quickly, losing all power. I white-knuckled the steering wheel, wide-eyed with worry, at every blessed light my dashboard blinking in mocking melodic measures. Instantly, I could feel my stomach fall to the bottom of my butt. Didn't leave a stain though! I guided the car safely into a stranger’s driveway. Folks, that’s not even the peculiar part. My only thought was you must be out of gas, mo. I knew there was something I forgot to do. Never has this happened before in all my years of doing all the dumb things. And well, I might add. A first time for everything, right?
        After getting my few, dim wits about me, I summoned the courage to knock on the front door. Silently promised myself I wasn’t going to stutter or stammer. Good luck, Charlie Brown. After 3 nervous knuckle taps, Bill Murray’s doppelganger stood in front of me. A punt dog was anxiously pawing at my legs for affection & attention.  Immediately, my eyes darted to the top of the bench piano that was covered, from stem to stern, with cards all saying,” Father.” Carefully arranged in between each picture, were professional pictures of dad & spawn. My butterflies headed South. The need for Depends and Peppermint oil, to soothe my bubble guts, was no more.
         He greeted me with a warm smile. His kind eyes assured me my fate would not be spelled out on a 2hr special 20/20 episode. You know, the one that isn’t cut out for 60 minutes? They need every bit of 120 minutes to fully explain the unspeakable horrors that unfolded on that especially fateful Thursday evening. My mother would be heartbroken to hear of the brutal details that befell her gorgeous, brown-eyed, small town, City girl, from a little cotton town time forgot. Alas, such misery was not my fate. Not today, Satan!
        Before he could say, “Hello!”  My gums were flapping at Usain Bolt speed.  He caught the whole long-winded earful of how I’d never had this problem. I wasn’t a bum leaving a car in his driveway. The plan was to head to filling station on foot, about a mile up the road. Come back, fill her up.  Anyone who knows me is probably laughing their whole butts off right now. Stephanie, Stephanie, Stephanie.
This story was not only told like Irish-Mexican windtalker I am. It came complete with large, grandiose gestures. Me using both my hands. Some American Sign language to get my point across.  May or may not have been some “Interpretive dance” peppered in for good measure. Clarity, not brevity.  I’m sure he is certain I’m one of God’s special children. I are one. Jesus loves me. Being crazy is hard. Count me with the dreamers.
 He nodded. I was assured a gas can could be scrounged up to save the day. If I would let him confer with the Mrs. He would rather drive me to the local filling station.  His bumper sticker parroted his political alignments. Couldn’t care less. Didn’t even read the worthless stickers.  A wheelchair and 4-legged walker in the back of his Malibu assured me I could make a clean getaway.  Away we were to the Mobil down the road.
Naturally, he asked why I didn’t call my dad to come rescue me. I wish. Sometimes, the vacant left ring finger, I pray is destined for an ice rink and matching bands feels heavy & empty.  I struggle with it, greatly. It gives me away. I squeaked out my dad is dead. My chest tightened. No gestures. No tears. He gone. The cold hard truth sucks. We said goodbye to my old man January the year before. It’s amazing how the memories still take my breath away.  His eyes softened. Before you can say Kroger Fuel points, I was safely back in his driveway. My car now ready to see the open road safely back home. Nary a puncture wound. Look ma, I didn’t get chopped up into little pieces and sprinkled amongst the bushes. 
        We said goodbye. A solid handshake, 2 gallons of Unleaded, and a big sigh of relief. As I was pulling out of the driveway, a placard stopped me dead in my tracks. It read, “Tommy’s Garden 1994-2014” Gail Caldwell said, “I know now that we never get over great losses; we absorb them, and they carve us into different, often kinder, creatures.”



I was drowning in my own river of tears for a litany of reasons. 15ish months ago, my Irish-Mexican family, wore blue, dad’s favorite color, as those nearest & dearest lined up on a Thursday to hold onto us as we let him go. The old familiar stories of dad had us all in fits of belly laughter & agonizing sobs. I couldn’t help but stare at the casket in bewilderment, from time to time. A stranger would greet me with a hug. After the hug came a story of how dad went out of his way for someone. As it were, the same thing happened at his dad’s viewing. Stories I pull joy and strength from when I hate everything. Days when I just want to lie beside him in the dirt. Cash em in. When I buckle under the weight of losing my protector in this world. His love for his fellow man is the music he gave me. He was a music man. I heart it every day. There is nothing louder than the song of my father.
I have no children of my own. There is no way for me to understand the depth of a love for a child. It’s beyond my mind to ever know the gravity of the loss for a love that was born of your own flesh and blood. After I stopped sobbing & snotting, I said two prayers. One for Tommy’s family. The other was for his dad. It was a prayer of Thanksgiving. It was a plea from an unspeakably tender place deep from the deepest recesses of my spirit. May my heart not be hardened by my losses, great or small. Banish any & all bitterness for what slipped right through my fingers. 
How wonderful for Tommy’s dad & the Michael McCormick’s of this old world. For the ones who help a friend move, or a slow-witted girl in need of kindness. We honor the dead by taking care of the living. I’ll lead by their example. When the news is hard to stomach, I’ll cling to the hope I have. Maybe someday when a stranger knocks on my door, I’ll pass it along. “The measure of a man is one who lends a hand. It’s what my father said.” – Vince Gill

Matthew 25:35-40 New International Version (NIV)

35 For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, 36 I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.’
37 “Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? 38 When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? 39 When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’


40 “The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’

1 comment:

Mandy said...

Love this. Love you.