Reaching The Shore With Mom

Was just thinking back to a time in my life when I reached the shore, so to speak.

Mom led me there.

It was the year i was in summer school- sometimes bad things happen and you respond (either in anger, or sadness, maybe a combination of both) but sometimes things totally blindside you, and you accept your bullet in silence. One would think this was a noble thing, but I'm seeing it as more of a "deer-in-the-headlights' thing". The year I had to do summer school was the year my brother died, sort of a culmination of things. I guess psycologically I shouldn't draw a connection between the two events, but tell that to a 10 year old.

I think that what made summer school so cringingly unacceptable was the very idea of it. For me it was a confirmation of sorts; 'you, sir, are a loser. you are not one who thrives in his environment, you endure it. Others will pass, they will have their day in the sun. you won't get recess until you catch up. you are a loser. face it now, accept it. your mama didn't make you one, your papa didn't make you one, but make no mistake about it.'

It was the summer of decorating my folder with superheroes I clipped out of the newspaper. It was the summer, the hot, dry sunny summer of sweet catalpas and their sticky, fermenting mess-puddles. It was the summer of blueberry muffins from Davidson's, of Super Pretzles and Van McCoy's 'The Hustle'.

It was also the summer I found $10 in my textbook. Being the guy I was (too scared not to own up to it) I promptly turned it in to the teacher. About a week later the principal of the school presented it to me in front of the class, which included (i think) gang members. Upon leaving the school that day, one of them swung a broomstick over his head, coming down just before my feet, for no particular reason. He said nothing, he did not rob me, he did not swing again. I guess I just needed the hell scared out of me that day.

i could tell you about the wad of Charleston Chew I had to jettison because the bell rang or about the '67 Firebird my sister was driving when she dropped me off for class one day. I could relate how the roofers dropped tennis balls down to us once. But I'd rather mention the shore.

We lived close to the lakeshore then. Had we been about 50 years earlier we would have had to been rich to do so. Nevertheless, due to the presence of criminal-types we didn't often go to the beach. My mom and my brother often accompanied me to summer school on those hot mornings. I remember one day my mom saying we had a little time and we should walk a little further.

We ended up at the beach. Right to the shore. We stood looking out over the water toward the rising sun. I'd never been to the beach at sunrise before. It was beautiful. I don't remember we ever discussed it, either then or ever after.

There are times in one's life where they find themselves facing a particular form of hell. It's hell of an internal sort and no one can really help, or go there with you, or get you out. So you go. You go by yourself and you go when you're 10 and you have no choice, when you need to go, but you need even more to be convinced of your value in this world. You go when you're scared and you're sick and your brother is about to die.

But sometimes you go to the shore, too. You go where it's beautiful and it makes sense. You go with someone you love and who loves you and although you can't really help each other's hell, you go together and for a moment at least, it's fine.