Happy Birthday, Mom
I wrote and published my first short story in the fall of 2022. I was in a great deal of pain at the moment, and writing really helped. I continued writing through the fall and winter. It was cathartic and an exercise that helped me work through some really tough times. I also enjoyed it because when I published them, people seemed to relate to my stories. Even if it was someone I had never met, people could relate to the general feelings of heartache, desperation, and the reflection of working through those moments and becoming stronger on the other side.
Once spring arrived, I stopped feeling sad. The weight of grief had mostly been lifted off my shoulders, and I began to feel happy again. And with that, I also stopped writing. I no longer had the need (or the time) to write about the painful moments in my life, mostly because I wasn’t really having any, and I became completely invested in living in the moment, soaking in each day as it came. I also had no previous experience writing about happy things. When I first began writing, I wrote and published eight stories and 22,305 words over the course of five months. And they were all kind of sad. Now that I no longer had this layer of sadness over me, I didn’t know how to write about it. I felt that part of what made my stories good was the deep, raw emotion that they held. At the same time, it also occurred to me: I have written multiple stories about my dad, but none about my mom. Well, that makes sense because my dad is the one that died. But my mom is still here and she loves my stories. And for over a year now, I have been mulling over this idea I heard about on a podcast called “gracenotes,” (i.e., a living eulogy). The idea is that while it’s so nice to hear all these great things about someone at their funeral, wouldn’t it be so much better to tell them these things while they’re still around? That way, they can actually appreciate your words and understand just how much they mean to you. Oftentimes, people leave this world without knowing just how loved they are, and I think that’s really sad. So I thought, I should write a story for my mom — not because she’s dying (disclaimer: she’s not), but because she’s alive and I’d like to be nice to her. So, for my mom’s birthday this year, I’m sharing a story dedicated to her and the impact she’s had on my life thus far.
My mom was born on September 3, 1962 and raised in the small town of Estill, SC. The youngest of four, she grew up in a rural, one-stoplight town. I’m pretty sure she didn’t know what Chinese food was and had never tried a bagel until she went off to college. (She told me the funny story about how she thought it was so weird for people to put cream cheese on bagels —back home, cream cheese was reserved for pound cake.) Once she graduated from Furman University, she began her life’s calling as a teacher. From what I heard, her first job in Blackville, SC was terrifying enough to make any teacher call it quits. But like I said, teaching was her life’s calling so she left Blackville and headed to Beaufort, SC. She lived in my grandparents’ camper on our property at Lands End (before the house existed that we all now know and cherish). She had to take showers in the outhouse and there was an encounter with a frog one morning that put her over the edge. So, after six weeks, she moved into town. She was working at a small elementary school called Mossy Oaks, a place she would then call home for the remainder of her 32-year teaching career. She met my dad, a local Beaufortonian, while he was living across the river in Hilton Head. They got married shortly after that.
I came along first, and my brother four and a half years later. She remained at Mossy Oaks, carrying out her life’s calling, while she began to merge it with another true calling — being our mom. Growing up, she was the epitome of what all mothers should be. She built us up and made sure we knew we could be anything in this world we wanted to be. She never talked down to us, but instead talked to us like we were little mini adults who were capable of carrying on a conversation. I was a very shy little girl, and I think she used to worry about me because of this, but because she never pushed me to come out of my shell until I was ready. I was allowed to quietly observe the world as I grew up, and to put a stamp on how I wanted to carry myself once I decided to step out from under her wing. I was allowed my own thoughts, my own ideas, and my own personality, which translated to my fierce independence today. She is proud to have raised independent thinkers, and for this, I cannot thank her enough.
I was obsessed with the sport of gymnastics growing up, and with it came many trips for competitions around and outside of South Carolina. I traveled a lot for my young age, and she always came with me. She was so proud of me, even when I absolutely sucked but somehow still “won” a 17th place ribbon, which for some reason was black. (What a strange color ribbon to give a little girl, but I guess they ran out of colors when they got all the way down to 17th… My dad sure did get a kick out of that one when we came home.) We traveled to competitions in North Carolina, Georgia, Tennessee, Florida, and even once to New Orleans when I was ten. I didn’t know until years later that she was absolutely horrified that we had walked down Bourbon Street during Mardi Gras. I was oblivious to my surroundings, but sure did enjoy putting those beads around my neck!
I have the fondest memories of our road trips to Florida. My mom would always put together “vacation bags” for Tucker and me. They were filled with what I now realize were tactics to keep us from screaming, “Are we there yet?!”, but it was always such a treat to open up our bags filled with little surprises of coloring books, beach supplies, and candy.
Once I was in high school, my social life began to blossom, and I made some really strong, lifelong friendships. All my friends loved my mom, and she loved them, too. We would have innocent little Christmas parties where we made gingerbread houses and goofed off in the extra room above the garage. My mom would prepare little gifts for them: an ornament or a scarf with their initials on it, and she would take such pleasure in giving these small gifts to my friends. She just loved that we were around. She loved my friends as much as I did, and as long as they were nice to me, they remained in good standing with her, too. She didn’t judge anyone for anything, unless, of course, they were mean to me. And then she stood her ground and stuck up for me like any good mother would do.
When I went off to college and started needing to furnish an apartment, we discovered the magic of consignment shops. To this day, we absolutely love consignment shops, and not just for furniture — there are clothes, shoes, and accessories, too! We would always make a game of selling our old stuff and letting the money rack up in our accounts, just to spend it all right there at the same spot, buying whatever treasures we happened to find next time around. That was one activity that my dad never complained was too expensive. He just laughed at us for wearing other people’s old clothes, and we loved it! And to this day, we still do. We’ve hit consignment shops all over Beaufort, Bluffton, Greenville, Easley, Asheville, and more. We just love it.
Aside from these coming-of-age moments and childhood memories, there are quite a few traits and hobbies that, in my eyes, really define my mom. For example, she’s always had a love for running, and I remember her religiously running around the block after work while she had dinner in the oven. It’s a habit that my brother and I have both since picked up, and it was something I really enjoyed doing with her as my gymnastics career came to a close and I needed to find some other physical activity to do. She and I would run around our neighborhood cul-de-sacs, and while I eventually became faster than her, I would reach out and give her a high-five as I passed her on my way back, onto the next cul-de-sac. We would repeat it over and over again until we finished the whole neighborhood, which ironically enough, was 3.1 miles. We could then run a 5K! She had run a few in the past, and we started signing up for some to run together. Since she was over 50 at this point, there weren’t usually a lot of people in her age group, and sometimes she would win prizes.
Mom taught me to be a lover of the outdoors both through running, and through other activities like grilling and doing yard work. I grew up on an acre of land and whenever she cut the grass in the evenings, I would go outside and swing on my swingset, enjoying the breeze on my face and the smell of the freshly cut grass. Whenever I hear the sound of a riding mower or smell the scent of gasoline mixed with burning wood, it takes me back to those fond childhood memories.
She loves to grill and is an excellent Southern cook. She enjoys venturing out and trying new recipes, too. I tease her now because as she’s gotten older, I say she’s gotten pickier (or I’ve gotten more adventurous). When she was first introduced to avocado, she really hated it. It’s grown on her, but sadly, I’m not sure raw sushi or ceviche ever will…
As far as defining traits go, Mom has always had a special place in her heart for people in need. As a teacher, she saw a lot of kids through the years suffering through all sorts of things: neglect, abuse, hunger. When she arrived at Mossy Oaks, it was a small, friendly neighborhood school with lots of diversity. But by the time she left, the demographics had shifted, and the more involved families had either left the area or abandoned their neighborhood school for some of the shiny charter schools that began popping up around town. This resulted in a lot less diversity and a lot more poverty. Towards the end of her career, she always kept snacks in her classroom, and children who needed them could freely take them as needed. If they didn’t, it was likely they wouldn’t get an afternoon snack and maybe not even a healthy dinner at home, either. She participated in programs like BackPack Buddies and Operation Christmas Child. Kids came in that smelled like urine; she never shamed them like some of the other teachers, but instead would help them find a change of clothes, food, and sometimes even walked them home after school. Despite the extra love and care, many of these children ended up going down the wrong path as they grew up, and we’ve heard of some of her former students ending up in jail or passing away at a young age. Nonetheless, there were many more that have succeeded, and whenever I’m in town and meet someone new, they’ll ask me my last name and tell me just how much they loved having my mom as a teacher.
Her kindness didn’t stop with kids, either. Mom has a particular affinity for the hungry and the homeless, collecting canned goods every holiday season, and giving homeless men on the side of the street a few bucks. Since I’ve lived in many cities and know what these people most often do with that money, I generally shy away from giving. But whenever she rolls down her window to give someone money and I tell her she shouldn’t, she always says, “Whatever it is they’re going through, they wouldn’t be standing on the side of the road begging for money if they didn’t have to. That’s a hard life.” I shut up, agree, and the next time I’m alone in the car with some cash on hand, I’ll roll down my window and do the same.
A former waitress, she is also very empathetic to those in the service industry. Recently, she’s gotten in the habit of stopping the waitress at the end of our meal to smile and say, “You did a great job.” The first few times, I cringed and walked away as fast as I could. I was sure that the waitstaff would roll their eyes at this comment, either thinking it was demeaning or that my mom was crazy. But the more she did it, the more I realized that every single person she said it to always reacted with a surprised and gracious smile on their face. They actually really appreciated it, and I was baffled. I don’t know if I’ll go as far as to repeat this to waiters I personally encounter, but I have been taught how important it is to respect restaurant workers.
While I can be much more generous and forgiving with strangers than I am with people who are close to me, my mom doesn’t share this flaw. She is generally much nicer than me, and she is equally — if not more — generous with the ones she loves. She finds little treasures that she thinks I would like, and if I haven’t seen her in a while, she’ll mail a care package. Or when I do come home, she always puts a vase of fresh flowers by my bed. She likes to celebrate Valentine’s Day, Easter, and Halloween. She gives thoughtful handwritten notes and tiny packages wrapped in patterned tissue paper and ribbons. I have received so many little gifts like this that I started my own little gift-wrapping collection of tissue paper and ribbons, so I might pass on these sweet gestures to somebody else (or just back to her). I now have quite the collection of all the holiday-themed ribbons and paper you could ever imagine. I ask her not to overdo it and have selfishly gotten annoyed at times. But she just finds such joy in giving gifts to other people, and I have grown to really appreciate these gestures.
Another great thing about my mom is that I can always ask her for help. I’ve always been very independent because she taught me to be. But I’ve also had some very weak moments in my life, and I remember one time long ago, sitting alone on a park bench in Santiago. I was on the phone with her, desperate: “Just tell me what to do,” I said. “I don’t know what to do and I need you to tell me. Just apply for the program for me and I’ll go. Just make me do it. I can’t do anything by myself, you just make the decision and I’ll go.” While she supported me emotionally, she declined to make any life decisions for me. Smart woman, because she certainly wasn’t about to back herself into a corner and have me eventually regretting a decision she made for me! She instead made me reflect on my choices alone, weigh the options, and decide. I ended up making a decision that was right for me at the time, and while it would have been so much easier to have someone else do the hard stuff for me, that’s not who she raised me to be. I decided to go there on my own, and just because I was homesick, she would not be the one to end it for me. I would have to make that decision on my own, and she made me realize I was capable of doing that.
My dad died last year, and my mom is now living alone for the very first time since all those years ago at Lands End (which was just six weeks, and if you don’t count the outhouse frogs…). My mom, my brother, and I have all processed our grief very differently, and while I like to think I was a huge support leading up to the day he died, I have to say I haven’t been much help since it happened. I tied up some minimal loose ends and kind of just left her to it. I had my own life to get back to, and it was really difficult being in the house without him there. It didn’t occur to me until a few months later that she was having to wake up every day in that same house, surrounded by all of his things — the clothes that smelled like him, the food that only he ate and that would otherwise just sit there to rot, and all of his life’s possessions — and she had no other choice, no other place to go. I could go there for a couple of days and cry into my pillow, and that was fine because shortly after that I could leave again. I could go back to my life and think of him every now and then, moving onwards and upwards, knowing that that’s what he’d want me to do. He’d want that for her too, but she doesn’t get it as easy as me. She’s been in the thick of the logistics of a spouse’s death: the insurance, the social security, the finances, the car title, the house title, and the list goes on and on and on… Many of these things she is learning for the first time, and I am very proud of her for how far she’s come over these past nine months. I’m also excited to see where she goes from here.
On my end, I have gone through multiple life-altering moments in the past 18 months. Many of them were very dark, some were really good, and one was something I can only describe as the brightest and most serendipitous day of my life. I am thankful every day for what I’ve been through and where it’s gotten me today. But I would be completely remiss if I did not acknowledge the one person in my life who has been by my side since day one. She’s never stopped loving me, cheering me on, or finding sheer joy through my successes and happiness, even when she hasn’t had anything left to give. My mom has given me so much, and while I could just keep returning her holiday gift wrap in return-to-sender packaging, she deserves much more. She is the ultimate cheerleader, and I can guarantee you I would not be where I am today without her unwavering love, loyalty, and devotion. Thank you, Mom, and happy birthday.
