I am writing a letter that I meant to write a long time ago. But I was too filled up with resentments, fears and grief. Today I am ready to walk through the threshold and get my life back.

Mom

Remember what you know
When I approach the threshold of change
Remember what you know
For I was there at least once before
Remember the paralyzing and agonizing feelings of despair
The incessant thoughts that plagued your mind with illusions of control
The threshold of change just steps away
Became a long endless journey of Miss- Steps, side-steps and back-steps
Each step met with resistance
That led to the path of least resistance
That brought on more resistance
Until filled with desperation just seconds from annihilation
I cried out first to our Dog
Then to our God
Please help me!
Just for a millimeter of second my mind emptied
The body went limp
And I was miraculously lifted to the altar
Instantaneously I knew I was here before
Looking outward at the Sea of change
Overcome by electrifying current of infinity
I promised myself the next time I
Approach the threshold of change I will remember what I know
Then I will

Write

Today I am not that boy filled with resentments, fear and grief. I will look back at things as they were as a more mature adult asking himself, “How could I have made things better?”

Mom, from everything I heard or saw, you lived a normal Catholic life growing up in the 1940s and 50s, a middle child, the third of four kids. Grandma Woods was a stay-at-home mom who loved to sew.

Grandfather Floyd Wood was a hard worker with several jobs. I know you asked me to talk to him about his work history, but I didn’t. I do know he was a softball umpire.

You had an older brother you to looked up to. Uncle Denny was a small business owner and self-proclaimed Republican. I would tell him, “I am sorry, but your capitalistic system works only for a few. We need a system that works for all of us.”

I know you were close to your older sister, Lorraine, who married an Archie Bunker-like racist. On those Christmas Days we spent at their home, I wish I had told him, “You are not funny. Please stop spreading your racial hate.” You also had a younger brother, Tommy.

Mom, looking through your old high school yearbooks and your scrapbook of old newspaper clippings of your school football and basketball teams, I can see that you had a lot of friends and you had a great and fun time.

I never heard you say how you met Dad. I know his parents, the Thompsons, lived next door. Dad was eight years older than you . He was honorably discharged from the Navy in 1946 after serving one year in World War II. I know he spent time traveling the rails and living with the bums.

He talked about how he was approached by millionaire Howard Hughes in a Los Vegas casino. Dad was a Beat [do you mean Beatnik? I don’t know what a Beat is] by nature with no great aspirations to reach great monetary success like your brother Denny. He had a free-flowing spirit that mixed his interests as an entrepreneur, artist, and lover of the outdoors. Physical exercise and spiritual curiosity were important to him.

He was not a typical boy that lived next door. He was different. Because of that I don’t think he was readily approved by your family. After all, he was not Catholic, he was Protestant. You must have known that by marrying him you would always remain in the shadows of your family. Yet in 1955, at 20 years of age, you married him.

You yourself were a rebel of sorts who wanted to live a life that was full of adventure. I heard from your siblings that as a kid you were a tomboy who wanted to be part of the action, not afraid to bump heads with the boys. You must have felt at home with the odd collection of Dad’s friends, which included Denny Butler, Dad’s partner in his rubbish business he named the Butler Rubbish Service.

He painted a picture of a butler on the side of the Rubbish truck. He designed and built a hydraulic front-end loader that worked differently from the ones on the other garbage trucks that were loaded from the back. He made you part of the business. He made you the bookkeeper and put you through business school.

Your life was not destined to be boring! As a good Catholic you started a family. Three boys, Andy, Mark, and Paul, each one year apart. A girl, Lisa, would come 5 years after Paul was born. I remember Aunt Jo, married to Dad’s brother, Reino, who lived next door in the other half of our double bungalow, scolding you to stop being a good Catholic and take birth control pills. Mom, you were not the typical stay-at-home mother as your mother was.

My elementary school, Harrison, was looking for community members to work in the school as teacher’s aides. I know you progressed through the ranks and were well regarded and soon became a social worker aide. You were friends with the principal, the teachers and the other aides. When there was a school function, you often had my dad draw pictures to help illustrate a sale or event for the school.

I know you appreciated and loved Dad.

Mom, I know you were seeing changes in Dad, too. You must have felt the weight of the world on you. You alone were responsible for saving the man you loved. But things got worse and Dad, in the midst of his illness, cold-cocked a man. That brought us to that moment I will never forget.

A plainclothes policeman came to pick up my dad. The man who Dad hit agreed not to press charges if Dad got help. My dad was going to the Veterans (VA) Hospital in St. Cloud, Minnesota. Mom, you asked us kids to come say goodbye to our dad. I felt like I had lost my friend and mentor forever.

Mom, looking back today I realize you have felt much like I did. You lost the man you fell in love with and had a family nevawer fodayrget I came home from school for supper myTheill mother was there to greet me opening the porch door. You had on the dress you wore when you wanted to dress up.

I just remember feeling like something bad was going to happen to you. I knew you and my sister Lisa were going downtown shopping. But you had to come home because of pain.

I remember, mom, as always you made us dinner. I was silent when you promised my brother Andy that you would see a doctor in the morning. I just sat there and was sad. You asked me what was wrong, but I wasn’t able to tell you of the bad omen I was feeling.

We woke in the morning and my sister was yelling, “Mom, wake up!” We called 911, but the fireman’s look was all I needed to know, mom, that you didn’t make it.

Mom, I am sorry I wasn’t there for you at the times when you needed me. I wish I could go back. I would give you a hug and tell you what a great mom you were. Mom, you carried burdens you shouldn’t have had to carry. I thank you for all your love and attention even when it was misguided. Mom, I know you always tried to be the best wife and mother you could be.

Mom, I love you.




The end