A Trip Home

I am on a trip. I am going to see my momma! I visit with her often at the lake house in Cross, S.C. This stunning two acre sanctuary lies hidden in the belly of a forest of Lobblolly Pines. The driveway is so inconspicuous that, even I, have driven right past it. There is not much to distinguish it, except a couple of pine timbers camouflaged by the weed grass. Every year, the earth slowly wins its war on the driveway. Visitors are rare, so it is becoming difficult to identify the tracks in the dirt because momma doesn’t leave the lake-house anymore, at least not in her car. It is a four mile drive from the main road to the lake-house. It would be two miles as the crow flies, yet this driveway runs off on a four mile drunken-like hike through the trees.

She will be excited to see me, and I have exciting news for her! I will tell her that I made it to a place in my life that I can afford to go back to school. I can already see momma’s face starting to glow and those brown eyes dilating with wisdom. I can only imagine what praise or admonishment she will have for me this time, because I always get both from her. She will probably tell me about miracles. When I was a boy she would say,“Little Ron, you wouldn’t know a miracle if you saw one.” Quickly I would tell her, “Yes I would momma, cause I’d be rich.” She would just shake her head and say, “No you wouldn’t because you don’t recognize that you already are a miracle.”. My mother believed that all human beings are miracles. I did not understand then, but that has since changed. The memories of the lake house provide the foundation of my character. They formed me as a child, and they still continue to define who I am becoming. I am a product of my memories.

On my trip, I think of a time my mother decided she was going to take me and my sister to the swimming hole. Going swimming was a weekend ritual. What was unusual was the fact that my dad was not going, because he did not feel well. Momma had never piloted the boat that far. The boat could be a quick way across the lake; however, my mom was not going fast. She putted us across the lake like an old man on a Sunday drive. However, my momma’s boat piloting skills translated into a forced observation of the environment. At the time, she was just slow and did not know how to handle a boat. I travel this memory and I give little thought to the childlike anticipation, but rather, the role my mother was playing in teaching me. Slow down, there is joy in the “now”. A ten minute boat ride stretched into an hour long chug-a-lug at the hand of my mother.