That woman in the middle is my mom, Gaylyn May. She may look like she’s 45, but she’s actually in her low 60s. The rest are my brothers and the youngest is Leslie, our only sister. Mom was born in Oakland, CA, while her dad was stationed on a Naval Base there. She spent most of her youth in Baton Rouge, LA, where she married at age 19, and had her first boy at 20. Three years later they moved to Astoria, OR, and had me. I’m the dork in the banana yellow shirt. I come from a heritage of simplicity. With five kids, a dad that was a welder, and a stay-at-home mom, I never realized until later in life that we were poor. My jeans I got from my older brother. They had the hard patches on the knees that didn’t allow you to bend very much while trying to play football at recess. Sometimes we went out to eat at O’Farrell’s after church on Sunday. My Grandma bought my school clothes and subsidized my lifestyle by paying me a dollar an hour to mow her lawn, stack wood, or perform menial chores around her home. I bought my first pair of Nikes with my own money in the 4th grade. We packed our own lunches and were forced to watch Hee Haw and Austin City Limits due to my dad’s infatuation with country music. The rules were pretty simple: do your homework before you can play, be home in time for dinner, and look out for one another. Especially Leslie—because she’s “the girl”. So we did. Mom ruled the house with grace, mercy, and tough love that could include her jerking you off the ground by the back of your hair in the grocery store if you were dicking around or not minding her. Talking back would get you popped in the kisser. Dad spanked us. Especially Tony and I. Today they call that child abuse; back then they just called it discipline. Mom prayed with us every night and told us about Jesus. We kissed her every day before we left the house, and immediately upon returning home after school. We still do. She hugged us, held our hands, and told us that we were special, talented, and that we would do great things. She went without material pleasure so we could go skating at Tiffany’s and see movies at Sea Tac Mall. She toted us around to baseball, basketball, and soccer practices, and never missed a game. She taught us how to play cards, entertain ourselves, and not rely on others for our own happiness. She made us mow the lawn, vacuum, and make our beds first thing when we woke up. Behavior at school was a priority, and at church an even higher one. She modeled unconditional love and acceptance as a lifestyle and was never too busy to talk and listen. As I got older, I started thinking I was cool. Sometimes she embarrassed me by being in her housecoat doing the checkbook on the kitchen table with her hair in curlers when I got home from school with my friends. She drove a pea green station wagon Vista Cruiser with brown wooden panels and dented hub caps. We fought over who got to sit in the far back third seat facing the rear. I remember lamenting to her that I didn’t have the cool clothes and toys that the other kids had. She said we couldn’t afford them. I didn’t understand. My basketball shoes were canvas. My baseball mitt was old and worn. She said it didn’t matter: I was still the best player on the court or field. She was right. In fact, she was right about everything. I look back and thank God that I was raised by her. I look back at all the life lessons she instilled in me and how my character is a reflection of the sum total of the way I was brought up. I thank God every day for having a mom like her. I gave my daughter Olivia, her middle name. I picked a woman 16 years ago that emulated her talents, thoughtfulness, and love. I look forward to time with her, for spending the holidays at her home, and for watching my twins and allowing them to glean the very life lessons from her that I did. She’s an amazing mom, wife, and woman. And there is nothing sweeter to my ears than hearing her say: “…I’m so proud of you , Corey Layne.” Thanks, mom. I love you.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Ode to Mom
That woman in the middle is my mom, Gaylyn May. She may look like she’s 45, but she’s actually in her low 60s. The rest are my brothers and the youngest is Leslie, our only sister. Mom was born in Oakland, CA, while her dad was stationed on a Naval Base there. She spent most of her youth in Baton Rouge, LA, where she married at age 19, and had her first boy at 20. Three years later they moved to Astoria, OR, and had me. I’m the dork in the banana yellow shirt. I come from a heritage of simplicity. With five kids, a dad that was a welder, and a stay-at-home mom, I never realized until later in life that we were poor. My jeans I got from my older brother. They had the hard patches on the knees that didn’t allow you to bend very much while trying to play football at recess. Sometimes we went out to eat at O’Farrell’s after church on Sunday. My Grandma bought my school clothes and subsidized my lifestyle by paying me a dollar an hour to mow her lawn, stack wood, or perform menial chores around her home. I bought my first pair of Nikes with my own money in the 4th grade. We packed our own lunches and were forced to watch Hee Haw and Austin City Limits due to my dad’s infatuation with country music. The rules were pretty simple: do your homework before you can play, be home in time for dinner, and look out for one another. Especially Leslie—because she’s “the girl”. So we did. Mom ruled the house with grace, mercy, and tough love that could include her jerking you off the ground by the back of your hair in the grocery store if you were dicking around or not minding her. Talking back would get you popped in the kisser. Dad spanked us. Especially Tony and I. Today they call that child abuse; back then they just called it discipline. Mom prayed with us every night and told us about Jesus. We kissed her every day before we left the house, and immediately upon returning home after school. We still do. She hugged us, held our hands, and told us that we were special, talented, and that we would do great things. She went without material pleasure so we could go skating at Tiffany’s and see movies at Sea Tac Mall. She toted us around to baseball, basketball, and soccer practices, and never missed a game. She taught us how to play cards, entertain ourselves, and not rely on others for our own happiness. She made us mow the lawn, vacuum, and make our beds first thing when we woke up. Behavior at school was a priority, and at church an even higher one. She modeled unconditional love and acceptance as a lifestyle and was never too busy to talk and listen. As I got older, I started thinking I was cool. Sometimes she embarrassed me by being in her housecoat doing the checkbook on the kitchen table with her hair in curlers when I got home from school with my friends. She drove a pea green station wagon Vista Cruiser with brown wooden panels and dented hub caps. We fought over who got to sit in the far back third seat facing the rear. I remember lamenting to her that I didn’t have the cool clothes and toys that the other kids had. She said we couldn’t afford them. I didn’t understand. My basketball shoes were canvas. My baseball mitt was old and worn. She said it didn’t matter: I was still the best player on the court or field. She was right. In fact, she was right about everything. I look back and thank God that I was raised by her. I look back at all the life lessons she instilled in me and how my character is a reflection of the sum total of the way I was brought up. I thank God every day for having a mom like her. I gave my daughter Olivia, her middle name. I picked a woman 16 years ago that emulated her talents, thoughtfulness, and love. I look forward to time with her, for spending the holidays at her home, and for watching my twins and allowing them to glean the very life lessons from her that I did. She’s an amazing mom, wife, and woman. And there is nothing sweeter to my ears than hearing her say: “…I’m so proud of you , Corey Layne.” Thanks, mom. I love you.
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