Memories on the Interstate
Just FYI, this page may contain affiliate links. Meaning, if you shop through my links, I may make a small commission at no added cost to you. Please know that if you do shop through any of my links, I am extremely grateful as it supports the blog (and buys dog treats for Jackie, Lola, and Lady). Mother’s Day means celebrating the women in our lives that raised us, loved us, and made us the people we are today. And that means spending the day doing whatever makes them happy. This year, that meant joining my grandmother for church on Sunday morning. I’m not a regular church-goer. Working in the hospitality industry usually means I’m at work, feeding and pouring mimosas for the people who did attend church (or those that are just hungover from Saturday night). Paired with the lack of holiday celebrations I get to attend in my hometown, this meant attending a service at my Grandma’s church for the first time in over seven years. The last time I sat in one of those church pews? My Granddaddy’s funeral. It didn’t occur to me before-hand that it would affect me so many years after, but it did. It brought back memories of that day and the days before it. Later, while I was traveling the long stretch of interstate back to the mountains, I thought more about those memories. And I cried over the regrets. I never actually got the chance to say goodbye. I was away at college at the time. And though I knew he was really sick, and though everyone said that we needed to be ready for that day to come, I didn’t let myself believe it was possible. Death was for other people, not Granddaddy. Not the man who could fix anything. So, I never said goodbye, because I didn’t think the day would come when I would wish that I had. In 5th grade, I read the book Cheaper by the Dozen. It was a good book, but I remember thinking that the stories I had grown up listening to Granddaddy tell were so much better. So, I decided that one day I would grow up and write a book of my own about my family. In college, I figured it would be easiest to use my digital voice recorder to document Granddaddy telling his stories. But I kept forgetting and putting it off. I told myself I would remember to pack my recorder on the next trip. And then it was too late for next time. My biggest regret, however, I only realized on that long drive home. I found myself drifting back into all the memories I have and thinking of all the things I miss. And then I found myself thinking of how my baby brother and my nephew and my new niece and my little cousins and the kids I’ll have one day won’t have those memories. What I think I miss the most was listening to my Granddaddy sing. I miss sitting in the living room while he played the piano or the banjo and sang us “A Bicycle Built for Two”, or “Jesus Loves the Little Children” (with his own modification to the words), or “Uncle Noah’s Ark”. That’s the one I always really loved, because Granddaddy always made the animal noises when he sang it to us. I even remember him singing it at a church talent show once. And I wish I had tapes or videos of him singing those songs to us. They’re all still there in my mind, every note, and I wish I could share them with the next generation. So, here’s my thought for the day… …take those pictures even if you think you look bad… …keep that birthday or Christmas or Easter card even though Mom sends one every year… …make that phone call even though life is hectic and you don’t have the time… …listen to that story that you’ve already heard a hundred times before… …make memories. Because one day those memories are all you have.
