When I lost my mom, it was Earth shattering. I was 12, and she was the only thing I really knew. I’m sure my life will know other great losses, but for now, she is the only love I’ve lost.
I don’t know if losing her quickly was a blessing. Some people have told me that we were lucky she didn’t suffer for a long time from illness. But I beg to differ. I think she suffered so greatly and profoundly in her last moments of life that we can not even imagine the pain. And there is so much about that that burdens me. That I never told her goodbye. That I let her leave mad that night. That we were even there at all.
My mom would be alive right now if it weren’t for me. And that’s a very heavy burden to carry. Not enough years can go by to numb that. She pulled over on the side of the road on the way to her death and said to me, “Stephanie, we don’t really have the money for this vacation. Let’s turn around. Let’s go home and spend time together. We could go see a movie instead. We can have fun at home.” And I threw a fit, and I guilted her, and she got back on the road. The road ended a few days later for her. And I live with that. She pulled over on the side of the road and asked me if we could turn around!
I know, I know. I was a kid. Kids are selfish and bratty and YOU CAN’T BLAME YOURSELF, Steph. But I do.
There were 3 other kids, Helen and James’ kids, that were involved in this great loss. They lost their mom too. I grew up with them. I lost contact with them after the murder trials. Their father was found innocent, somehow, and they went to finish their childhoods with him.
I recently found one of the kids, Darrell, on Facebook. I sent him a friend request. He was 7 when our moms died together, so I figured he probably didn’t remember me. And he barely did, but friended me anyways. And we’ve had friendly conversations on Facebook. I am grateful for that. I’m not sure why. None of it matters anymore. But I guess I am finding some forgiveness for James Gibbs through this little connection to his son. Helen’s son…
I really don’t have any good memories of James. And in my heart of hearts of hearts, I know he killed my mother and his wife. I know. I don’t need to prove it to anyone. There is no shadow of a doubt. I just know. Not because I need someone to blame. I just know. I knew that man for a lot of years and saw things the other kids were protected from (in my life before mom died and in the courtrooms after her loss)
I was going through some of Darrell’s photos on Facebook. I stumbled across some pictures of James… playing with his grandchildren… living life. I felt bitter. All of these years I imagined a cancer growing inside him, loneliness, a sad shell of a man living with his secret. I never imagined him laughing at family gatherings, dancing with his granddaughter, looking healthy and happy. There’s no cancer in these pictures. No sorrow. No loneliness. No regret. He looks well. And that makes my stomach curl, just a little bit.
The DNA, the witnesses, the evidence… it all added up to a perfect conviction. But he slipped through the cracks. And a copycat killer followed in his footsteps and committed the very same crime, in the very same way, in the very same spot because it was just. that. ironic. that he walked free. He danced free…
He should be rotting in a jail cell. Better yet, he shouldn’t be here at all. Living a lie. Dancing with an admiring granddaughter who will never know the secrets of that night.
You believe in karma? Well don’t. Karma is a cynical, sick joke that helps people like me feel better about being a victim.
Finally, in general I am alright about my mothers loss. It was unfortunate. I will always miss her. But I’m living a beautiful life. Today was just a reminder of something I keep tucked away safely. And it just made me a little bit sad. I just needed to get it off my chest…
It’s weird. Sometimes I have these little flashbacks of childhood. I’m sure everyone does. And I love it! I hope that my babies will have those and remember us fondly for helping to give those memories to them. Most of my memories are of both my mom and grandmother, which is understandable. They were together a lot. They were two peas in a pod that mixed like oil and water…
The other day I had a Ginger Ale with Cheezits while sitting on the deck in the warm sun. I obviously hadn’t had those two flavors together in a very long time because the taste suddenly took me somewhere else, to another time. I closed my eyes and let myself remember sitting by the backyard pool with my grandma and mom at a family friend’s house. There was a bar attached to the pool that had a well stocked pantry and little fridge. The grown-ups drank margs and gin and tonics while I grubbed out on Ginger Ale and Cheezits. Fifteen minutes and another sunscreen lathering before I could get back in the pool– that was always the hard part. I could just smell my mom’s tanning oil- coconuts. She never, ever burned. I could hear some random 80’s music on the outdoor speakers. Surely it had to be mom’s Phil Collins tape playing. The sun was soooo nice, if you closed your eyes for a second, when you opened them everything would be dark and hard to see. Where’s my pink strawberry shortcake sunglasses? Ever stubbed your toe on the concrete with bare feet? Ouch! I always loved having to go pee because the air conditioning was sooooo cold inside. Back in the pool with my barbies and a float– yippeee! Hmmm. Love those memories.
Mom and Nana were always bar hopping. Not nasty bars or anything. It might be hard to tell from these dated old pictures, but these women were Hot to Trot! They had lots of friends and Nana always loved to show us off when we were in town. We regulared Chi-Chis Restaurant on McPherson Church Rd in Fayetteville. Yummm! They had this little snack buffet with this amazing queso, bean dip, tortilla chips… There were always a bunch of grown-ups with mom and nana. Mom and Nan both liked to drink the same thing: frozen margs (not on ice, not with salt which is how I like mine as an adult). The grown ups would keep giving me quarters so that I’d go away and quit inhibiting their dirty joke telling. I would play PacMan for hours, stuffing myself sick with queso and chips and Shirley Temple sodas… I loved it!
Then there’s the beach memories. Those were amazing. Those are my favorite ones. Mom spent the entire summer on the beach. She was so so dark. I was so freckle faced and pale skinned. But back then, the best SPF was like an 8! So I was always burned up by the end of the day. You know how that burn feels right before it really surfaces? When the salt water and sand are stuck to the irritated redness? Your skin feels so tight it could get up and walk around all by itself like over starched jeans. Yikes! I loved the beach though. I could hardly get mom to play in the water with me, but when she did she would take me far, far out. She taught me to duck under the waves when a big one would come, rather than letting it hit me. She could always find sandbars out in the middle of no where, I don’t know how she knew where they were. But we’d collect sand dollars with our toes. Sometimes I’d scoot my toes across the bottom trying to find a sand dollar and instead I’d swipe up against a nasty grouchy crab who would clamp my toe. After a full day, when the sun was starting to settle, mom would holler at me to help her pack up. We’d load into the hot car with sticky skin and wet hair. YUCK! I loved the beach but I dreaded the ride home– those were always the best showers of my life, the one’s I’d take after a day on the beach! But mom always rewarded me for toughing it out and not whining on the way home. She’d stop at the quick stop and buy me a bag of boiled peanuts or a coconut ice pop. We’d get home and get cleaned up. Then mom would clean the shells and sand dollars we’d found that day. What an amazing place to grow up, I’ll tell ya. The beach is just so magical…
I’m so grateful for those women who loved me and gave me such beautiful memories…
If you have a blog, how about sharing a few stories/pictures of your childhood. What it tasted like, what it smelled like, what is fond to you now that maybe wasn’t back then (like sand in your crotch at the beach, or crab pinches on your toes)? If you do post something, come back and let me know!
I wish my mom was still around. I think about that when things get trying. You know, mommas just figure things out, they are problem solvers, when you’re weak they are mighty. And I’m not so sure any of us outgrow wanting that. If momma isn’t strong enough physically, she probably makes up for it in wisdom or comfort. Mommas are just awesome.
My mom would still be working if she were alive. Maybe she wouldn’t need to work financially, but she would be because it was fulfilling for her. But I bet she would have taken a week off of work and flew here to help us out. Jeremy wouldn’t have minded either because she wouldn’t have been the kind of inlaw that you dread visits from. She was fun loving and silly and liked people to like her. She was also unbelievably nurturing and intuitive. I bet she would have cooked one of her chicken brocolli casseroles and taken the kids shopping for new shoes. She would have poured me baths and brought me a water bottle for my back. She would have popped a beer for Jeremy and herself when he got home. They would have probably spent a lot of time making fun of my quirks and bad habits, and they would gang up against me and make me laugh angrily with them because, man, they both had me pegged. When it was time for her to go, I probably would have cried, because I always hated missing her.
This past year was one of healing for me. When we went to Florida last September, my Aunt, who I hadn’t seen or spoken to since soon after mom died, drove down from Georgia to see me. We spent a few days catching up and forgiving. I had carried around so much hurt and anamosity for a very long time and it was so freeing to let that go, I can’t tell you. I never understood (or wanted to understand) why she had done the crushing things she did until I sat down with her, woman to woman, and listened. And I couldn’t help but feel this heaviness lift as I saw her with different eyes. I’m so grateful to have her back in my world again. Someone extra to love my children, someone extra to care and to care about. Not to mention, she reminds me so much of my mom.
So with all this healing I’ve seen in two years, some with my dad, a lot with my grandmother, loads with my sister, and tons with my aunt– I started trying to encourage Jeremy to start heading that direction with his family as well. I mean, I’ve never discouraged him from trying to find forgiveness and peace with his family. But I wanted it more for him after experiencing how freeing it was for me.
I think there’s a lot to it, and his wounds are much fresher than mine. Some of his burden comes from the fact that he’s tired of feeling a tug to keep peace between them (namely his mom) and me. But I’ve told him, so many times, that there’s no need to pick sides anymore. I used to want to be a part of his family, partly because I didn’t have one of my own. And when I was not accepted, over and over, Jeremy took it to heart too. Why wouldn’t he? Everyone wants to be loved and accepted for their entirety, including the choices they make and the loves they choose. But the difference between now and then is that I don’t want to be accepted anymore, I’m just fine with being liked or not being liked, and there is absolutely no reason to keep trying to have something that just ain’t happening. So, now that we’ve established that: GO! Go and have a seperate relationship with them there and then come back home to me and we’ll keep having this goodness here. You can have both! You don’t have to choose! Goodness knows, I don’t wish for anyone to be motherless, brotherless, or childless or whatever because of stubborness and ego and selfishness– I wasted a lot of time on that. I have absolutely no intention of ever trying to be a part of his family with him again. Not because they are awful people, no, but because we just never made it work and the hurt that comes from trying and failing brings too much rejection for me. I don’t do well with that. I’ve outgrown needing to fit in, especially where I never will. And I’ve quit trying to figure out why because sometimes those things just have no rhyme or reason. They just are.
Anyhow. I guess this post comes from reflecting on mothers–that we never outgrow needing them and the comforts they give. How short life is. How healing forgiveness is. How awesomely awesome it would be for either Jeremy or me to have a mother, in trying times like this especially. Since I can’t will my momma back (trust, I’ve tried), maybe healing with those that she brought into my life is the only way to touch her again. When I miss her, I’ll pick up the phone and call Candace, or Aunt Elizabeth, or Nana, or my Dad. And I will keep sending goodness and positivity to Jeremy over his healing with his momma and family.
Gosh. I sure would like some chicken broccoli casserole right now… Here’s my momma’s recipe, for anyone wondering what my childhood memories tasted like…
Susan’s Yummy Chicken Broc Casserole
INGREDIENTS
- 1 pound chopped fresh broccoli
- 1 1/2 cups cubed, cooked chicken meat
- 1 (10.75 ounce) can condensed cream of broccoli soup
- 1/3 cup milk
- 1/2 cup shredded Cheddar cheese
- 1 tablespoon butter, melted
- 2 tablespoons dried bread crumbs
DIRECTIONS
- Preheat oven to 450 degrees F (230 degrees C).
- Place the broccoli in a saucepan with enough water to cover. Bring to a boil, and cook 5 minutes, or until tender. Drain.
- Place the cooked broccoli in a 9 inch pie plate. Top with the chicken. In a bowl, mix the soup and milk, and pour over the chicken. Sprinkle with Cheddar cheese. Mix the melted butter with the bread crumbs, and sprinkle over the cheese.
- Bake in the preheated oven for 15 minutes, or until bubbly and lightly brown.
Everything on the Stepherz home front is wonderful. I’m still pregnant– yayyy! 9 weeks and counting… Cramping, no nausea, but still chugging along. I’m as prepared as a person can make themselves for either outcome…
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This year has been an interesting one. I’ve really gotten to know myself more, and I’m thankful for that. I know that I’ve been blessed because Jeremy is a good provider for us, and that allows me the priveledge of being at home with my children and having the extra time to get to know them and myself.
I’ve tried things this year. I’ve tested myself. For instance, I didn’t even know what all the buttons on my old sewing machine did a year ago. I couldn’t even change the tension on my thread without royally screwing something up. I didn’t know how to stitch by hand. I could barely sew a button on. This year I cut off my satellite television, bought a fancy sewing machine, and taught myself to sew. I sewed quilts, adorable clothes, and even made felt fruit and vegetables!
I’ve killed every plant I’ve ever owned until this year. The only plant that grew in my home is the Pothos Ivy and that is because it is indestructible and loves water torture. But this year I decided I wanted a green thumb. And I did it. I mean, I’m not trying to brag, please don’t get me wrong. But, dangit. I’ve greened my own thumb! (try not to pay too much attention to the sweet peas in the front that are trying to test my green thumb. insobordinate suckers.)
It’s funny because a few years ago I couldn’t tell you what I was good at. I didn’t have a hobby. And it’s not like I’m talented or special. That’s not what I mean to put out there. What I’m proud of is that I quit making excuses to try new things or to challenge myself. I just made it happen. Anyone could do it, sure. I did it. I don’t have to envy people who are crafty, or who have time to craft. I’m kinda crafty myself and thanks to this SAHM blessing, I have the time to do it. Even better, I LOVE making things for people. I don’t mind if I never sell another quilt or painting or rose– I just love doing it.
Jeremy pointed out last night how far I’ve come in a few years in the cooking department. When we met (mind you, I was 20), my idea of being ambitious in the kitchen was mac-n-cheese with tuna stirred in, a can of peas, and some butter bread. But now I can cook it up like it ain’t no ones business! I bake, I marinade, I create. I have kitchen equipment and tools! I wear an apron! I MADE the fargin’ apron!
The lettuce and the zuchinni are from my garden! And the steak might not look deelish, but it was a-m-a-z-i-n-g!
And I guess this all comes from reminiscing on my childhood a bit the other day. My mom was a Chef Bouyardee Mom. She was a McDonald’s Drive-through Mom. She never made me eat anything green. Cinnamon Pop-Tarts were not just part of my nutritious breakfast, but usually all of it. And sometimes all of lunch and dinner too. No kidding. She was a modern woman who learned from a modern woman. My grandmother never created with her own two hands what she could buy in an Art Gallery or Designer Clothing Boutique or fancy restaurant. And there’s nothing at all wrong with a modern woman, or with a woman who doesn’t desire making things. I’m just glad that despite that no one ever taught me to cook or sew or to be creative, I did it anyways. That’s kind of neat, I think.
Anyways, I guess I can’t take full credit for the amazing garden. I’ve got a little green thumbed garden gnome named Noah who helps out. He uses this Miracle Gro magic potion that makes my zucchini grow an inch a day! I’ve got zucchini bread coming out of my ears, y’all!
I’m just thankful. I’m blessed. And I’m happy. I’m so glad I quit that desk job and came home.
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