Mother's Day

Mother's Day
         It was Mother's Day, 1979. I had been living in Seattle and had just quit a job as the manager of a busy restaurant and bar on Lake Union. Watching my little savings disappear and relying on my credit cards was making me nervous. I lived in a small crackerbox rental out by the Locks and I was burned out, professionally wasted and needed a new direction. I needed to hide for a while, get some soul time, recharge the batteries. I thought that maybe a week or two on the  Oregon coast exploring would bring me back to center so off I went on the Big Honda. Chrome and polished aluminum, fiberglass faring, sleeping bag on the back, battery powered tape player with Dylan, precursor to the Walkman, in the wing of the faring. It was a big bike, powerful enough, and fast. It felt good to have it underneath me. God, what glorious freedom to fly through the big forests and along the Oregon coast, wind in your hair, stinging your eyes, clear and cold, singing to the tape player as loud as you want. Salt air, the chill of mist in the morning. Something about the way the bike is configured, maybe the throttle that vibrates, or the geometry of the seat and handlebars always made my right arm go to sleep after a couple of hours which was okay because it gave me reason to stop from time to time to smell the local flora and watch the Pacific pound the rocky coastline. And always a good excuse for a cup of coffee, as if I needed one.
         I had been out several days hopscotching from campground to campground. I had spent the night in a small camping area a few miles north of Newport, had arisen at dawn, made coffee and then packed up my tent and stowed my gear. It was a raw cold kind of a morning. Thick fingers of fog were creeping up the canyons and washes from the beach and curling about the massive tree trunks that darkened the campsite. Had I not been working hard at getting up and going it would have chilled me through my coat. Sea Lions called through the mist from the giant rocky crags that rose up out of the ocean like broken teeth that guarded the beach. I don't think it was six thirty when I kicked over the Honda and listened to her four cylinders warming up to life. I was hungry, it was a good kind of hunger, and I decided that my version of pan bread, bacon and coffee was just not going to do it. A warm booth in some quiet cafe’ somewhere was what I needed. I had been down this stretch of coastline before and knew that there wasn't much in the way of diner's or eateries for more than thirty miles north or south. I nosed the bike out onto Pacific Coast Highway and headed for the first road inland in search of a couple of eggs over easy and some well cooked but not too greasy potatoes.
         I don't remember now which road I took and I am not sure that I could find it again if I had to, but what ever the route was it wound through forests of giant Redwood and Madrone and towering Douglas fir. Now and again there was a heavy sprinkle of rain which hammered like bird shot against the windshield and rattled my helmet. I rounded a sharp curve that elbowed north and which bordered a creek  running through a particularly thick stand of trees. Nestled into the crotch of the elbow was a small diner, a shack made out of the materials indigenous to the neighborhood; big timbers and cedar shake. There was a small black chimney pipe which rose out of stone at one end and a small curl of blue smoke rising into the boughs above. The sign on the front read, "EZ Café". I swung the bike in. It was just after seven and the sprinkles had turned into a soft and regular rain.
         The café was small, six booths along the front wall below the windows that looked out on the road, six tables spread out over a plywood floor and a counter with a half dozen bar stools. It was a backwash that doubled as a lunch stop for  the loggers and truckers that worked that part of the Cascades. The tables were covered with lime green Formica and the chairs and stools were upholstered with blood red vinyl. There was an Olympia Beer clock against one wall and the antlers from about a dozen bucks circumscribing the ceiling. On the whole, the café was clean, a bit Spartan, but had a good food smell to it that didn't seem to match the decor. It occurred to me that in this little café the spirit of free enterprise was at constant war with poverty. The battles and their outcomes were seasonal, long from over and might not ever produce a clear victor.
         When I walked in the door I found a woman in her late forties or maybe early fifties sitting at the counter reading a day old newspaper and smoking cigarettes. She wore denims rolled at the cuff, a permanent press blue work shirt that would never fade or wrinkle and an apron with a National Rifle Association badge ironed onto the pocket. Her name was Grace and she was the owner. I would be her only customer that Sunday morning.
         "Sit where ya want, hon. Coffee? Just made it."
         "Read my mind, with cream, please."
         She rose and busied herself behind the counter.
         I took a seat. On the back wall between the coffee machine and a display case filled with waxy pieces of partially consumed pies was a photograph in frame under glass. It was of Grace flanked by two men. One, a tall powerfully built man in a fatigue jacket with a black Fu Manchu mustache and the other a frail looking young man, a boy really, of about twelve in a matching fatigue jacket. They looked enough alike to be father and son which, as it turned out, they were. Both had their arms around Grace and she was smiling. I speculated that Grace must be the boy’s mother. I have never been one to remember dates, birthdays, holidays, almost to a fault. But it was then that it occurred to me that it was Mother's Day and she was working in the Café instead of lying in bed with a tray of croissants in front of her and fresh flowers. Maybe her men were not home for some reason, I thought, may be out on a work gang in the forest. Maybe fire fighters. Could be any number of things. I little distant voice told me to mind my own business. I, of course, didn’t listen.
         As she set a mug of coffee in front of me, "Thanks. Say, its Mother's Day. Shouldn't you be sleeping in and the men working here this morning?" I inquired with as much tact as broken glass in a blender.
         "Yeah, I suppose so, you know, you're right," she replied with a tired resignation in her voice that broke my heart. She took a deep breath. "Oh, hell, I don't know what kind of mother I am, anyway." Her voice broke a little and she looked down at the cigarette in her hand as if there was an iron weight around her neck making her avoid eye contact. I noticed that her hand shook a little.
         "Is that your son?" I asked pointing to the picture.
         "That's Little Pete," nodding her head, a twinkle rising in her eye.
         "He's quite a good looking kid."
         She paused for an awkward moment. "Yes he was," was all she could say. I saw the tears starting to well in her eyes. In that one single gesture I felt her pain and no small mountain of guilt; felt the years of putting the needs of her husband and son and even her customers before her own. I saw in her the loneliness of being trapped in the forest away from friends with never quite enough to go around, watching her figure and her youth slip away quietly into the darker waters of financial need and long hours behind the counter as waitress, mother, sister, and sometimes therapist to the working men. I didn't know if her son was dead or if something might have happened to him. It sure seemed that she blamed herself for something and I was curious as to what it was.
         Before the morning was over I would learn that from her life in the coastal mountains she had learned not to need much. She would tell herself that she didn't need to be fussed over because she was in a real sense a frontier woman. The NRA patch on her apron was worn with more pride than appeasement. She was accustomed to hard work and the thanklessness of raising children. She had learned that lesson rather clearly. But as my words sank in I watched her face change from exhausted to hurt to angry. You could read her as if there was an electronic reader board on her forehead. You could see her thinking that a small gesture of thanks every now and again would be alright, would feel good. Maybe more than alright. Maybe she deserved better. It was about that time that I started wishing I had listened to the little voice and kept my mouth shut. She handed me a plastic covered menu and put a stainless creamer in front of me.
         "The potatoes are good. Lotta folks tell me they're the best they ever et," she said perfunctorily. She turned away and appeared to be straightening the little cereal boxes on the back counter. I sipped my coffee and then I noticed her shoulders. Like her hands, they were shaking and I realized that she was crying and embarrassed to be seen with her guard down, afraid of her own vulnerability. In the midst of feeling guilty at the thought that I might be the cause of her pain, I did something that I have never done before; I walked around the counter and took her ever so gently in my arms and held her quietly. She was alarmed for maybe a split second and then I could feel her let go and she just sobbed quietly on my shoulder. We stood that way for maybe no more than a minute or two and which for me seemed like a long time. I imagined that grizzly bear of a husband in the photograph walking in for his morning coffee and me ending up a trophy on the café wall.
         I led Grace to a table by the counter and sat her down and held her hand for just a moment. As she recovered she became embarrassed and withdrew her hand.
         "I'm sorry," she said still not looking up and wiping her eyes on a paper napkin and then fumbling for another cigarette.
         "I'm sorry too," I said looking sheepish and feeling stupid. Then without thinking again, I walked behind the counter back to the grill and put on an apron that was hanging from a nail by the ice machine. I quickly rummaged through the refrigerator to see what she had on hand. After a quick examination I found the things I needed. First, I poured her a fresh cup of coffee and lit her cigarette for her. She just sat smoking in amazement, not knowing how to react or what to do.
         "What are you doing? Listen honey, I appreciate that but really you don't have to..."
         "Shhhh," I said softly, "I think you're due."
         I put some butter in a tin on the grill to clarify. Then I separated three egg yolks into a small stainless steel bowl. She didn't seem to have any fresh lemons but I found a bottle of Real-Lemon Juice in the 'fridge and I added a teaspoon to the egg yolks. I put a small pot of water on the stove top to boil. There was a wire whip hanging from the steel exhaust hood above and I took it down and beat the yolks while the water got hot and the butter separated. I whipped furiously occasionally setting the bowl over the boiling water to warm. When the egg yolks starting thickening I added, little by little, the clarified butter whipping all the time. Eventually, I had a golden yellow creamy Hollandaise Sauce. I tasted for salt, added a half teaspoon and then just a splash of hot sauce. I turned down the hot water to a rolling simmer, added a quarter cup of red wine vinegar and a tablespoon of salt to the pot. I covered the bowl of sauce to keep it warm snitching a finger full for taste. It was a good batch. Just the right balance of richness/butter and lemon juice. liked that. It was a small victory.
         I searched the under-counter refrigerator and found slabs of breakfast ham which I threw on the grill. The rest was simple. Into the toaster went a pair of English muffins. Into the hot water and vinegar went two eggs to poach. I found some oranges and hand squeezed her a glass of fresh juice which I packed in a bowl of ice. Fifteen minutes later, I served Grace Eggs Benedict, with her own potatoes. She was right about her potato recipe. Couldn’t remember having better. When I set the plate down in front of her, again, there was a tear in her eye. I refilled her coffee and my own, set a plate of potatoes on the table for me and looked her straight in the eye.
         "Grace," I said looking stern as if I was going to scold her, "Happy Mother's Day!" She just looked down at her plate and said thanks as if she was embarrassed which she probably was. We ate in silence for awhile. She asked what the sauce was, and when I replied she said she liked the Hollandaise Sauce but had never had it before. Eventually, she began to relax a little and as she did she started to talk about her life and her family. She told me about how she met Big Pete, her husband, in Grants Pass when her folks moved there just after she graduated from high school. How she and Pete had dated and married and moved to Coos Bay where Pete took a job with Georgia Pacific moving logs down river to their big paper mill. During her recitations she would alternately smile and frown at the memories as they came pouring out.
         “Little Pete was born in the fall of '65,” she told me, “when the timber industry was strong and jobs were plentiful and gasoline was only 23 cents a gallon.”
         "Hell, you could buy a pack of Marlboros for 20 cents then," she said lost in thought. "Those first few years were good ones, the best ones, and Little Pete was the apple of his father's eye, mine too. Business was good, times were good. I remember Big Pete had bought a new Ford pick-up and paid cash for it! Can you imagine that? We were saving money towards a down payment and a mortgage on his pay alone.” I watched her eat the eggs and the ham but left the muffins alone.
         “Before Little Pete was born I had a good job as an office manager for a painting contractor but Pete and I decided after I got pregnant that our boy oughta have a full time mother so I quit and didn't look back. Boy, the future looked pretty good then." A sad smile.
         I sipped and listened. The coffee wasn't all that good, although, I admit, I’m pretty picky.  I’ve often philosophized about the quality of coffee. It is the mainstay of the working man and it should be as good, if not better than football.
         "Then it just seemed like everything starting marching towards the shitter. When Little Pete was about seven he got this infection. That's what we've come to call it. Came home from kindergarten saying that he didn't feel good. I thought he might have one of those childhood colds that the kids seem to pick up just about every day. But I didn't think much of it." Grace looked down and bit her lip to keep from crying again. "I gave him some Tylenol and told him to go to bed. But he said he wanted to play outside and I was dumb enough to let him do it. Oh, shit, if I had just made him go to bed..." Grace started to shake and then she collected herself.
         "That night he got worse and I thought the best thing was to take him to the emergency room in Coos Bay. But Big Pete was always telling me that I worried mountains up out of mole hills. I shouldn't have listened to 'im. I should've called the doctor right then and there but I didn't. I thought I did all the things I was supposed to do. He didn't get better. I read Dr. Spock and gave him lots of fluids. The next morning he was worse. Big Pete told me that it was a just a cold. I wrapped him in a blanket and put him down on the sofa in front of the TV. That afternoon he stopped talking and I took him to the doctor straightaway. Dr. Morris poked and prodded him a bit and told me keep up the Tylenol and watch him. Then I brought him home and put him to bed. When he still didn't get better and his temperature started going up even higher I took him to another doctor and then finally to a hospital when his temperature hit a hundred and six. Hell, they didn't know crap what was wrong with 'em. Still don't. We put him on antibiotics. He was delirious for a couple of days and he broke out with red spots on his chest and his head swole up a little. I sat up with him for four days putting cold compresses on him and prayin' out loud to God not to let him die. I thought he was going to. Then finally the fever broke."
         I refilled our cups again and Grace's hand shook as she sipped hers. I considered the strength this woman must have.
         "It was pretty bad. Little Pete just lay there and whimpered. Every now and again he'd say stuff but none of it made any sense. I remember asking God what I done that was so bad. I thought I was being punished. For four days I held his little hand and went crazy 'cause I didn't know what to do and I couldn't seem to do anything to help him."
         I just nodded and handed Grace a paper napkin for the tears that had started down her cheeks again.
         "When Little Pete finally came around he was never the same. It was like he was a knife and somehow the fever had just come along and dulled him. There was once a light in his eyes that isn't there anymore. He ain't never been the same. He was so full of energy and he was so smart and he just seemed slower after that. He's still a sweet little boy 'though he's not so little anymore. He just likes to watch a lot of TV and he gets colds a lot now too. He looks like he's lost a lotta weight but really he's just not growin' the way he used to and he doesn't like goin' outdoors much anymore. He's lost interest in sports and now he has nightmares."
         "I'm sorry," was all I could say. I listened for another half hour as she described how Little Pete couldn't seem to fend for himself and how she felt she needed to guard him from the world. How he'd rather stay with her even in the cafe than be outdoors with his friends. She described the sad estrangement that seemed to be a growing cancer between Little Pete and his father. How it seemed that Big Pete was gradually losing heart because his son didn't want to go camping and hunting and fishing anymore. She talked of how hard she worked to make Little Pete understand how much his father loved him and how hard she tried to show Big Pete how much his son needed him. That tiredness which I'd sensed earlier returned. After awhile, her conversation drifted back to the economy.
         I sat and tried to be the best listener that I could. I got the feeling that this woman didn’t get much of chance to talk about herself and for this morning it was going to be “her” time.
         "It was the spring of '74 when them arab bastards caused everything to go to hell. Goddamn OPEC. Remember them gas lines? Went up to $1.50 a gallon and you couldn't buy a job with cash if you had it. All of the big mills were layin' off and a lot of the little mills were closing their doors outright. I had friends of the family who lost their businesses that had been going three generations." She lit a cigarette and pushed her plate back. "'Course, you could figure it, Big Pete got laid off. Then we had some pretty lean times after that for the next couple a years. I worked on the farms in the Spring and Summer doing anything that would pay money and Big Pete took jobs with tree planters and sometimes clear cutters setting choke when he could get it. I took in clothing, baby sat, anything to make ends meet. It wasn't easy but somehow we managed to get by and keep our savings, our stake money and the Ford. We had to get out of Coos Bay 'cuz there was nothing there for work and there was no where to go but down."
         A timber hauler loaded with great Douglas fir trunks shifting down through the gears rumbled past the cafe. The rain got heavier and I glanced out the window at the puddles collecting on the vinyl seats of the Big Honda.
         "Pete got pretty depressed and started drinking. He got cold sometimes but never mean. He's a good man. He never broke my heart by I think I broke his. Stuck by us. Ain't perfect but a good man. His uncle Tony owns all the land around here. One day Tony calls us up and says he'll lease us this land on the highway, cheap. Says he'll help get us financing to start up something. He's family so it wasn't like charity. Besides, we sure didn't have anything better so up we came. That's how this cafe got here." She stubbed out another cigarette. "It hasn't been easy though. Our customers, by and large are stretched as tight as we are. Little Pete needs special education and I take him into Salem twice a week for his classes. And he's sickly and just takes a lot of need and I've got so little to give him. Big Pete works in a small family mill three days a week and we split up the time in the cafe. After that there just ain't much time or money left over."
         Grace was chain smoking now and looking down again. "You said you thought you broke his heart, what happened?"
         "He's never said this to me and I'll bet if you asked him he would deny it quick and straight, but sometimes you can read someone, read what they're thinking and what's in their heart without them ever sayin' nothing. Know what I mean?" I nodded. "I think Big Pete blames me for what happened to Little Pete. I think he figures that raising a little child is women's work and I didn't do it right. I think he's angry at me for not takin' better care of Little Pete." I looked at Grace and started to protest her innocence and the guilt she was carrying but she kept on. "After the sickness, it wasn't just Little Pete that was changed. Things, you know, uh...things between me and his father haven't been really the same either." I could tell Grace was on the verge of tears again. I felt honored that she would trust me, a stranger, with all this, and a little scared for her too. Looking back now I realize that it was because I was a stranger and that she doubted she’d ever see me again that allowed her to open up. "Oh, God, how I miss how it was. I could've done better for Little Pete.  Wish I could go back and do that part again."
         "Hey, easy," I said at the next wave of tears and I touched her forearm. It was nearly as big as mine.
         "We've never taken vacations like most others," she continued. "Before Pete got sick we used to go fishing up the Rogue and Little Pete loved to go tubing on the river with his daddy. But not anymore. I can't even get him to go swimming now. I could've gotten him to the hospital sooner. Maybe they could've kept his temperature down or maybe figured out what it was that was making him sick."
         The phone by the cash register rang and Grace got up to answer it. I took this as a cue to clear away her breakfast dishes. She hadn't finished her potatoes. Looking at them made me realize that I was still hungry which was the reason I had come into the cafe in the first place. I don't know where it came from but I have always had a thing about wasting food. It is hard for me to throw food away, even some one else's. So I did the only logical thing I could; added some hot potatoes to Grace's residual, added a jolt of hot sauce and sat down again to eat and eavesdropping on Grace's phone call.
         "Sorry, Larry... no he's not here...I know...Yes, I know it's Mother's day...No, you're right, he oughta be here...Well, he works hard too...No, I don't think he thinks it's women's work...and he doesn't think so either...yeah, well the times are a changin'...No, he's still on the wagon, Larry...No, well, I'm glad you think so...Alright, I'll give him the message when I see him...yeah...’by." She hung up with a roll of her eyes.
         Grace returned to the table, sat down and took a long drag off her cigarette. "Wrong number," she said.
         "So I heard," I replied, lost in the potatoes. "You didn't lie about these, ya know, great recipe," gesturing towards her plate in front of me. I glanced at my watch. It was getting later than I wanted it to be. Grace sensed the shift in my attention.
         She looked up and directly into my eyes. "I didn't mean to be such a mess," she said. "I want to thank you for, uh...well, I, uh..."
         "Grace," I said interrupting, "Can I be blunt?"
         "Well, yeah sure."
         "I've been listening to you for over an hour and this is what I think. Ya know, you've been beatin' yourself up pretty good. I don't like it and I'll tell ya why. When you were pregnant with your boy who was it that bore the pain? You. Who was it that worried whether you were eatin' the right things? You. Who was it that felt crummy in the August heat? You. Who loved that little boy enough to bring him into the world?" I could see Grace trying to retreat back into herself as if she were trying to make herself smaller.
         "When Petey was born who was it that stayed up half the night when he was hungry or fitful? Who was it that changed his diapers and wiped his nose and kept him from getting rashes and made him eat when he needed to? Who was it that kept him clothed and worried about whether he would be warm enough or too cold? Who taught him to count? Who kissed his little fingers and toes? Who taught him to catch? Who taught him not to stick his fingers in light sockets and not to play with matches? You did, Grace?" She started to look up at me.
         "Grace, who prayed for him? Who worried about whether he was happy or sad? Who read to him at night? Who went to his school to meet with his teachers and to make sure that he was learning the things he needed to? You! That's who. Now, maybe things could have been different if you had taken him to the hospital a day sooner. Or maybe not. It might not have made a whole lot of difference. Or maybe the whole show isn't over yet. Maybe Little Pete's light has yet to shine. Maybe he is destined for greater things which no one can realize by looking at him in the present slice of time. Who knows? But I know this, Grace. I know that you love him in the best way that a mother can love her son. I know that all you've ever wanted for him is the best and that you've given him the best, and done the best for him given what you had. I know that much, Grace. I know that it makes you not a good mother but a great one for there are so many children in this world who will never know that love and they will be stunted in their hearts and lives for lack of it." Grace was looking at me again and tears were falling down her cheeks.
         "Grace, you belong to that very special group of spirits who watch over us all; who sacrifice their own feelings and needs and wants to make sure that the rest of us grow up straight and tall. You deserve a thank you. Jesus, Grace, you deserve a standing ovation.” With that, I stood up and gently applauded and sat back down. “You deserve so much more than you will ever receive. But ya know, sometimes I think that it is the thanklessness of it all that makes it so noble." Grace was smiling now.
         It was time for me to go. I gathered the dishes, stood from the table and as I rose so did she. "Grace, thanks for being such a good mom. Happy Mother's day." She smiled this radiant smile back at me as if she had discovered some great secret or found some long lost toy.
         She looked at me with that vulnerable smile and she said, "Thank you, thank you very much." And then I left. The rain had stopped and I took a rag out of the faring and wiped off the seat,  swung my leg over the big Honda and she fired right up. As I pulled back out onto the roadway I realized that she had never asked my name. I kinda felt like the lone ranger and that was okay. Hi ho silver and away I went, through the big trees and the mist winding my way back down to the coast, back to the giant Pacific crashing along the Oregon coastline and eventually back to the rhythm of living in a city that somehow got so much more complicated than it ever needed to.