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.

Thanks, Linda...

Kathy died last month at age 59. She took her last breath in the spare bedroom of my father's home in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, the room that I stay in when I visit my dad and his beautiful wife, Linda. Kathy was Linda's little sister. And over the past four years, Linda had been a hospice caregiver to her as the ovarian cancer continued to rob her of life as she knew it. But I must digress in the story. My parents divorced after 31 years of marriage, and shortly thereafter, my dad moved back to his hometown, his roots, and his family south of the Mason Dixon line. To be honest, I was bitter at him for doing that...both leaving my mother and geographically removing himself from my life. I felt like he was choosing that over me (and my three brothers and sister)--over watching me grow into a man, seeing my marriage, my first home purchase, my fraternal twins being born, starting my own small business. I was deeply hurt. I swept the pain beneath the carpet, as so many men do, and continued life with little to no communication with him for a few years, honestly thinking that the next time I see my father may be at his funeral. They say time heals all wounds, and one day, after running the 6.1 mile loop around my Bonney Lake neighborhood, I sat in my hot tub and dialed him up trying not to get the phone wet. I remembered the Apostle Paul's words: "...in as much as it depends on you, be at peace with all men." He wasn't just a man? He was my dad! And maybe it depended on me! We talked about the Mariners and how they sucked. The Sonics trading Shawn Kemp (this was years ago!), and how the Seahawks were rebuilding. You know, the superficial surface stuff. But over time, I made a habit of it: I ran early on Saturday mornings, stripped naked, jumped in my hot tub, dialed up the BlackBerry, and called Big Al. But this story isn't about me and my father wound. It's about Linda. About six years ago my dad remarried. I didn't know what to feel. I was skeptical. So my brother Tony and I headed down to New Orleans (pre-Katrina) to sample the Paganism of Bourbon Street for a night (2001) and head north to Baton Rouge and meet Linda. All of the preconceived notions of comparing her to my mother, to wondering who would marry my dad, to contemplating the concept of a "Step Mom" were absolutely foreign to me. Needless to say, I fell in love with her immediately. Not only is she an attractive lady, but her servant's heart, congeniality, and humble confidence more than impressed me. After a few days I felt as if I'd know her my lifetime. She is a wonderful woman, with a huge heart, and a passion for her faith in Jesus Christ and her walk with God (and did I mention she's kinda hot too?). I was floored. Tony and I flew home and marveled. Dad had scored. "How did he pull that off?" we asked. Two years ago I brought Gina and the twins down to meet her and hang with their Grandpa Al, whom they know about from the bedtime stories, pictures, and his visits to the Northwest since his move over a decade ago. They fell in love with Linda too. We fished, boated, ate, and stayed up late laughing and talking, and sharing our lives. Shortly after Kathy was diagnosed, Linda quit her job and made periodic visits to her home, to the doctors, and began caring for her as her health failed. Kathy was a non-Believer and Linda modeled Christ to her through her service, dedication, and unconditional love and acceptance. As she took the morphine for her pain, Linda read the Bible to her, prayed with her, and told her about the next life and the heaven that awaits. A few months before her death, Kathy accepted Christ, and she was baptized in the hospital bathtub inside her shared room. When the doctors gave her only weeks to live, Linda took her into their home where she knew would be her final days. Along with my dad, they cared for her, read to her, and met her needs. When Kathy took her last breath, there was a peace, a grace, and a subtle smile toward the world that she was now entering. Dad and Linda sat over her earthly body, prayed some more, and Linda kissed her little sister for the final time. The medical professionals in assistance were touched and moved by the pleasant release of a dying family member into the arms of a loving Savior that she now resides. While Linda's heart will always ache for her little sister, she is comforted by the reality that she will see her again. Our prayers, letters, and words hopefully helped during her time of grief and loss. I hung up the phone after leaving her a message shortly after Kathy's death, and thanked God for her place in my life, as an inspiration, wonderful companion to my father, and Godly woman that sees others above herself. I still miss my dad. Last summer when my water heater went out, I attempted to install another. Because my mechanical ability absolutely sucks, I threw a crescent wrench across the garage in anger and frustration. "Where is my dad that is supposed to be here helping me with this shit?" I thought! Then I was calmed. In Baton Rouge, with Linda, a God-fearing woman whom he loves, sharing their lives, happy and content in the world that they've created. And I thanked God for that. Then I called a good friend with cooler wrenches and a knack for water heaters. All is well.....thanks, Linda.