My Dad read me this article out of the local newspaper back home. It got to me so much that I had to find it on line and add it to my blog. It's from a gal who went to the same school as I did and who is going through the same thing we went through last year with my mom. It really hit home. It is a good column.
"Last week was a nostalgic one for me. Everywhere I turned there were reminders of a past that is gone, never to return . . . My mom always had an uncanny knack for showing up on Fridays during Lent, just before I bit into a big juicy hamburger. There is nothing like a “you are going to burn in Hell if you eat that” look from my mom to spoil your appetite for meat. But this year Ash Wednesday came and went without that irritating phone call from her, “Shelly, what are you giving up for Lent?”“Um let me think . . . Oh yeah, I’m giving up maternal guilt trips this year, Mom. So as much as it pains me, I can’t talk to you until after Easter. Remember to offer it up. Bye!” Click.I won’t be getting any more calls like that from my mom. The part of her brain that remembers that kind of stuff is being attacked by an “old people disease” called dementia. But my mom isn’t old, damn it! She’s my mom. And I want things back, the way they used to be.I drove to Esmond last week to talk to the new owners of the locker plant. I rounded the curve on the highway, went over a little hill and passed Pat Wolfe’s farm. I could see the school and the church off in the distance. And I wondered how many times I’d ridden the school bus on that road. No matter how much time passes between visits, I still know it like the back of my hand.From a distance nothing has changed in Esmond. But I couldn’t help but notice the huge snow drifts piled up where the buses used to park in front of the school. There are no footprints in the snow. The playground, where brutal games of tackle tag were once played, silently waits for someone to call, “Last two.” I want to hear Mrs. Olson threaten to make us wear “the dress” when we come in from recess soaking wet, covered in mud. I want to get caught by Mrs. Leibhan stealing candy from Mrs. Wolfe’s treat jar. And I want one more bear hug from Mrs. Fix. I want things the way they used to be . . . but will never be again.Saturday I turned on the computer and read that Paul Harvey had died. What?! I wanted to cry. If they made a soundtrack of my life his voice would be in the background saying, “And now you know the rest of the story.” He’s one of those voices I remember being there throughout my life. He was supposed to live forever. I wasn’t sure they’d know who I was talking about when I told my kids, “Guess what? Paul Harvey died.”Brennan said, “What?! No way! He can’t die. What is Ralph going to listen to in the morning when he picks us up for school? Who is going to say, ‘Good day’ and tell us all about ocular nutrition?”They then launched into their best Paul Harvey imitations. It turns out that voice was as much a part of their daily lives as it was mine. That made me realize my kids are living and recording their own nostalgic childhood memories right now and storing it away for future reference. I can only hope that the annoying things I do and say now will make perfect sense to them some day. And my parents’ memories of raising kids are a lot like the reality I’m living today. We are all on the same journey, just at different points on the road. It’s fun to take trips down memory lane as long as I don’t linger too long. When I live in the past I forget about the present and the future gets all screwed up. I have to appreciate life as it is right now because today’s precious moments are tomorrow’s “good old days.”--taken from Benson County Press.
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