There are memories of my mother that I
will always carry. Mostly little things, but one or two extended
sequences that have stuck with me. This is my favorite.
We used to own a small house in
Waldport, Oregon. Most of any given year, we rented it out, but
there were always a couple of weeks or a month when we could use it
ourselves. Since my sister and I were still in school, and Mom was
working on the same schedule, the three of us would go and spend time
there in the Summer. Dad would come along as he could, vacation
schedules permitting.
The house was about a hundred yards,
give or take, from the Alsea bay, which led out to the ocean. A nice
little beach with a sometimes breathtaking view of the bridge. I
especially like watching it in the fog.
One somewhat cloudy day, Mom and I went
walking on the beach, following the sweep out towards the bridge and
past it to the ocean beach. I don't remember what we spoke of, but
it was one of our great conversations, rambling all over, touching on
many subjects. Us and the birds and pretty much nobody else.
Waldport is up on a cliff overlooking
that bay and the ocean. We walked beneath it, heading out along the
sand for a mile or more. We were maybe half a mile from the closest
steps back up into town when it started sprinkling. A rather
pleasant end to the walk, we agreed, a nice, gentle little bit of
rain to prod us back into town.
Gentle it did not remain.
By the time we got to the stairs,
running, by then, it was beyond a downpour. The drops were coming
down hard enough to sting, and it was almost like walking through a
wall of water. Seeing was difficult, and we were both completely
soaked within a minute or two.
And laughing the whole way.
We struggled to the top of the steps,
blinking rainwater out of our eyes constantly, and stood gasping just
a bit under a very large tree that was planted at the top of the
cliff. Mom looked down and noticed something at my knees, pointed
and started laughing again.
The rain had been coming down so hard
that it turned the minute residue of laundry detergent in our jeans
sudsy again. This delighted both of us, and we must have laughed
about it for four or five minutes straight. Long enough for the rain
to slack off and let us walk wetly back into town and home.
Till the day she died, we could say
“sudsy knees” to each other and draw a smile. It still draws one
from me. When I am at my last, I think that is the memory I will
seek out.
Goodbye once again, Mom. I love you
still, sudsy knees and all.
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