It’s that time. It’s that time after a full, good, good weekend, replete with happy people marrying each other, me getting several month’s negativity out of my system with a friend who positively thrives on allowing others to spill their ugliest thoughts, spending six hours holed up in a vehicle with a friend who finds every miscellaneous tidbit I have heartwarming, or deeply sad, or hilariously funny. It involved reconnecting with old friends, reassuring me that old friendships die hard or not at all, and in this case, not at all.
The weekend reminded me of all the stories inside me.
Every night at Jess’s place, I’d pick up a book and read while she showered. The book I picked up was by Parker Palmer, The Courage to Teach. It spoke of all the fear and defensiveness and seemingly forced deceitfulness many teachers have, me being one.
Speaking with Jess about friendships and not-so-friendlyships reminded me of the lifelong struggle we all have to understand those around us, to communicate truly, to forgive, and to see good in every person. This story encompasses all of life.
But on the way home, Mari Jean and I came to that rambling phase that all good road trips beget. Of course I spoke of my family, for my family is a never-ending source of stories. I wanted to tell her about my mom, for my mom intrigues me.
On the surface, my mom appears to be a sweet, scatter-brained motherly type. Oddly enough, deep-down, she is that. But she’s so much more. I will forever be trying to understand her.
But enough with the flawed attempts to explain my thoughts.
My mom has an obsession with pants. Yes, as in the literal pants that the men in my family wear. My brothers’ pants have been a crucial way in which she mothers. My mom takes great pride in dressing her sons (and husband) in clean, pressed, mended pants.
For instance, when the ripped and frayed jeans phase had just swept through Holmes County, Conrad bought a pair, which he immediately threw in the wash to get the new smell out and replace it with Mom’s homely Amway soap scent. She washed it, and upon folding it, realized how disturbingly worn the pants were. That same afternoon, she mended all the frayed holes by the pockets and created a nice, neat line at the hem, where before threads dragged on the floor. She pronounced them as good as new, which they were.
Conrad’s dismay at Mom’s “mending” job was understandable. Now, my family loves to remind Conrad of how much our whole family appreciates his fashion forays.
The event that stands out in my memory, however, took place a long time ago, and truly illustrates how important my brothers’ lower garments are in the family. One Christmas Day, all of my mom’s family had gathered at a church to celebrate. My mom’s family is large, with eight children, all who have between 3 and 8 children. Usually, at these gatherings, we bond by playing cutthroat games of Take One, Clue, and other equally violent games.
But this time, my youngest uncle Mark wished to have a gentler, more traditional way of re-connecting, and he asked all his siblings to share something with the group about what their family had been doing for the last year. Asking my mom to prepare to say something in a group like that is futile, for as long as I’ve known her, her thoughts have never cooperated long enough for her to plan more than thirty seconds in advance. I could see the conflicting emotions play across her face as she frantically searched her memory for anything resembling normal to say to the group. I grew increasingly nervous as she listened to her siblings describe family trips to the West Coast in an RV, or note their children’s graduations, marriages, or other life-time achievements.
I couldn’t imagine what she would say, but I sensed it wouldn’t be what all her siblings were saying, because we hadn’t gone on a family trip, or graduated, or married, or divorced, or dated, or anything. And sure enough, when it was her turn to say something, it was like a dam had been built up, and the first words to pop out of her mouth were the dammed up truth.
“WELL,” the words burst out, “IF WE COULD JUST KEEP THE BOYS IN PANTS then our family would be doing pretty good!”
My mom was, of course, referring to the struggle created in a household where boys smear grease on their pants at work, tear pants at work or in sports as frequently as every week, where boys outgrow pants in about two months, or shun my mom’s choices for them as too washed out, not washed out enough, too obvious stitching, or too Amish.
Of course, I knew all this as I sat there, shrinking deeper and deeper into my perfected teenage slouch. But the awkward pause that followed, and even more awkward suppressed titters and then outright laughter at my mom’s honest outburst made me resent mom’s concern for her family. I didn’t get over my embarrassment for a long time.
I had forgotten it until one evening two weeks ago when we met at another family gathering, this one much smaller, because it was my dad’s family, consisting of three sisters. All the “adults” and I were crammed into my grandma’s tiny kitchen, and a nice conversation about jobs was floating around in quiet, pleasant tones.
My aunt Wilma spoke of her need to launch a new group at her church, New Pointe. Cathy told me how she has to finish things at work, and complained about her slow boss. Ruth pointed out that she would be done soon at Mt. Hope Auction and would begin working for my dad again. My mom earnestly ate her food, giving her full attention to it.
Apparently her mind hadn’t been entirely focused on the food. As soon as she finished her slice of pizza, her strident voice cut through the quiet conversation.
“DID I TELL YOU HOW I FOUND CONRAD’s PANTS LAST WEEK?”
Mom’s introductory sentences are always exclamations. And she never bothers about having her question answered. As soon as she started it, I knew the story was going to be much like the one she had shared many years before. I felt that familiar dread come over me. She dived right in.
“We looked and looked and looked for Conrad’s pants last week! We looked through every closet in the house twice, when I finally sat down to pray. I just prayed, ‘God, you have to show us where to look for these pants!’ And when we looked in Wayne’s closet, they were right there!”
I looked around the room. The aunts, stopped in their little conversations by my mom’s loud voice, looked at each other and smiled. I smiled, too.
But this time, I chimed in, explaining.
“They were Conrad’s work pants. He needed them to go to work that evening.” The smiles became understanding as well as amused, and very soon, the conversation shifted back to what it had been.
This time, I sat back and reflected on the conversation instead of taking part in it. I wondered why my mom brings up pants in conversation so much. But even before I asked myself the question, I think I knew.
My mom is my mom. She’s a mother. That’s that. She cares about pants because she loves her boys. Pants take up thoughts in her mind because they are related to the thing dearest her heart, her family.
Of course.
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