The Driveway. My Catharsis with a Mother I Hardly Knew.
In her later years, she was like a cat, he said — sometimes affectionate, sometimes aloof, distant, and even reclusive. His allegorical opening was remarkably accurate, especially considering that the minister did not know our mother at all and had only met my brothers and me the day before.
If I felt befriended when he so accurately portrayed her, then I felt betrayed when he asked, unexpectedly, if there was anyone who would care to stand and say a few words about their relationship with Ruth Murdoch; words that might help us gain a better understanding of this woman.
What purpose could this serve, I thought? Here I was, frozen by the guilt of having the woman who raised me die a stranger. Wasn’t this painful enough? Then suddenly, a boyhood memory popped into my mind, a childhood incident all but forgotten, transforming this anxious moment into the opportunity to share my grief.
I rose and turned to face a room filled with fresh flowers and not-so-fresh aunts and uncles, aging golf and bridge partners, neighbors as old as the neighborhood itself. In some, I saw memories of musty brick Tudors, Kool-Aid stands, and red wagons from my youth. In still others, I recognized my mother’s frown and my father’s thick eyebrows. Vaguely familiar persons, with WWII names like Mildred and Ig and Jane and Walter, shifted in folding chairs.
I was afraid to speak; and afraid to be silent. I hesitated, searching for words to assure them I didn’t want it to end this way. Then I heard my voice creak under the weight of my emotions, like the stairs leading from the basement where I had retrieved this long-lost memory I was about to share. I started and stopped, then started again, fighting back the tears I thought best kept inside.
“Communication was never a strong suit for mom and me,” I began, “for reasons that don’t seem too important now.
“We lived on Lawndale Court, which as many of you know, is a street lined with big, towering elms; at least one or two in front of every house. They were beautiful trees. The only trouble was they blocked your view of oncoming traffic, and you had to be very cautious when backing out onto the street. If there were two of you in the car, one drove while the other kept a lookout for cars coming down the hill.”
I cleared my throat, glancing up into the searching eyes of the equally anxious audience, then resumed my boyhood story.
“One day mom and I were backing down the driveway in her two-tone green Chevrolet when I finally mustered up the courage to ask her something that had been bothering me for quite some time.
“‘Mom,’ I asked, ‘how come dad never laughs?’
“She looked at me and cackled the way she always did. I was glad to hear she wasn’t mad at me for asking; I was also a bit hurt that she was taking my concerns so lightly.
“‘Oh, he does, honey,’ she said. ‘He just has a different sense of humor, that’s all.’
“We continued backing down the drive when she turned to me and asked, in a gesture that the subject was not closed, ‘Is it OK?’
“I was happy to hear her concern. Yes, my dad’s sense of humor was a serious issue. Something must be bothering him, maybe something bad happened we don’t know about.
“So I thought about it, for what seemed a long time but of course was only a few seconds because our driveway is not that long. Mom obviously valued my opinion; perhaps we could address the issue at that evening’s dinner table. But then the idea of bringing my complaint to my father’s attention, elevating the entire subject into a lengthy conversation between the mashed potatoes and green beans, was far too intimidating. I simply conceded, ‘Yes, it’s OK.’
“Well, my answer barely left my lips when I heard screeching tires. I looked over the edge of my window to see that the biggest, blackest, chrome-bumpered sedan had stopped within inches of my door. Smoke from its smoldering tires clouded the morning light that filtered down through those towering elms.
“My mother lurched her green Chevy back onto the cement strips of what we called a driveway, slamming the gear selector into park. With the car still rocking, she glared at me and scowled, ‘I thought you said IT WAS OK!’”
To my relief, the audience chuckled at my catharsis. As I sat down, unsettled yet relieved, I realized why the minister had given us the opportunity to speak. After the service, when we were all trying to lighten the load of the day with finger sandwiches and iced tea, my favorite aunt approached me. “For a minute there, I didn’t know where you were headed with that wonderful story,” she said with a wink.
I sensed from her reassuring smile, and those of the aunts and uncles I hardly knew, that my driveway story was a common thread between me and them and the woman we just buried.
