Sunday, June 14, 2009

Listening to a Memory

My mom drove a Ford Van circa 1834. It was more rust than blue and Dad's mad mechanical skills were the only thing that kept it's heart beating. Inside were the rows of vinyl bench seats, steel underfoot, and steel overhead. There was no carpeting and nothing was soft. With four (and often more) children and nothing to absorb sound, it was a loud ride. (Now, parenthetically, as a mother with my own fleet full of pods, I wonder how my mother did not go crazy with all the racket.)

There were several tactics she employed such as singing, whistling in unison and playing the Silent Game, but my favorite was if we arrived at a destination while it was raining. Mom turned off the engine and quickly hushed the hubbub brewing behind her. We would sit as still as our little bodies would allow to listen to the rain hitting the metal roof, unmuffled by a ceiling pad. She encouraged us to close our eyes in order to focus our attention on the sound.
Quiet.
Quiet with the rain sometimes tapping, sometimes pounding just inches above us, hypnotized.

Tonight, as I pulled into the driveway from a hectic grocery shopping excursion, it began to rain. I turned off the engine and hushed the hubbub. We sat as still as possible and while the children listened to the rain,
I thought of my happy childhood
facilitated by my patient and goodly mother.

1 comment:

  1. Here's to wonderful mothers! I'm so glad that I am blessed to know yours.

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