November 9, 2017 – “Eat your crusts!”

        At church last night, I meet a gal that has been through cancer and is looking much better.   She no longer has the scarf covering her head as she now has almost a two-inch long growth of white hair and it is becoming on her.

        She asked, “I heard. How are you doing?”

        As I sat beside her, I pressed a smile and said softly, “I’m okay.”

        Her snappy come back was, “What’s the point of complaining about it, no one will listen.”

        It made me smile.  Her typical New York attitude lightened the mood.                          

        Just then, another church member, a retired nurse, came up behind the woman and started to fluff her new hair.  I listened as they chatted.

        “It is coming in curly.”   The surviving cancer patient said.

        Before I knew what was coming out of my mouth I said,

        “When I was a kid my Mom used to tell me ‘Eat your crusts or you won’t get curly hair.’ ”

        I continued, “The bratty kid I was then I’d always say, ‘I don’t want curly hair.'  I used to eat just the center out of the toast where the butter was and leave the rest.”

        Half a dozen women’s eyes were on me at that moment and there was apprehension on their faces watching how I was going to handle this sudden memory of my Mom.

        “It is coming in curly – you must be eating your crusts.”  I said.  

        “You were never a bratty kid,” the survivor replied.

        “Oh, yes I was . . .”  I trailed off. Looking around at the faces with the apprehension – what, were they expecting me to crumble and fall on the floor and wail and gnash my teeth and cry my guts out?   Everyone, why the look?  Aren’t I allowed my memories, uncensored?

* * * * *

        That was last night – it is now morning and I remembered what Mom said to me the day after I flew home for Dad’s funeral back in 2010.  Mom and I were finally alone as we were driving back from the finalization of his funeral arrangements.

        “He is everywhere.”  Mom said brightly.  She had reached out and was fingered something of Dad’s in the console tray between us in the car as I drove.  I knew what she meant.  Mom didn’t drive then, we were using Dad’s car.

        When we got back to the house, I hesitated before I sat in ‘his chair’, but then I settled in and enjoyed it knowing he had always sat there.

        Now, just looking around my computer desk, my Mom is visibly here with me as she always has been and always will be.  There is the overly ornate letter opener and magnifying glass I’d sent to her one Christmas with a little note. “Mom, if they don’t suit you, please send them back to me – don’t give them away.”

        They came back to me the next February with a little note saying, “You must have gotten these at that fancy jewelry store you took me to once.”

        I may have lived hundreds of miles away from Mom, but we were always together – we knew each other. She knew where I shopped as I had taken her around and introduced her to all the shopkeepers I trade with when she visited.

Mom did have curly hair – not the frizz type – but the plump curl type.  Over the years, she had love affairs and hate affairs with multiple hairdressers.  Some knew how to cut her hair and let the natural wavy curls be the focal point and then others wacked them off giving her desperate uncontrollable wisps.

My hair has just enough bounce and body without the misplaced curls or cowlicks. When I want curls, I use the hot rollers.

“Hey Mom, if I start eating my crusts do you think I’ll get curly hair now?”