Lo-Fidelity: In my womb

Lately, it occurred to me: This Sunday will be the first Mother’s Day without my mom. We regrettably didn’t spend much meaningful time together the past few years leading up to her death, but still, there’s a gaping, ethereal void where she once was. This Mother’s Day, I’ll be focusing my energies and appreciation on all the other “Moms” here who have indelibly enriched and fortified my life. This weekend, I’m deeming Aspen the high-altitude “Town of Motherly Love.”

They say you’re not fully grown-up until you lose both your parents. Sometimes, ironically, I feel like the older I get, the less I have figured out. Theoretically, shouldn’t life be easier as you ripen, with the all knowledge you’ve banked? I often get the sense the more I know, the less I understand, like I’m up Conundrum Creek without a paddle. I can almost hear my mom now, offhandedly blurting-out some bitingly sarcastic response disguised as wisdom.

This week, I rode my bike out to the Northstar Nature Preserve looking for answers. Inspired by perhaps my favorite introspective Beach Boys’ song “In my Room,” I sat quietly and searched but mostly came up with nothing. A pair of Canada Geese honked their disapproval of my meager presence. I tried listening to the river, but all I heard was the forking roar of leaf blowers and construction. I told my secrets to a patch of vibrant blue bells, but the only reply was their ringing in my ears.

I slogged up to my mom and dad’s grave and gazed at the headstone. The grape hyacinth and daffodils I planted in October were in full bloom. I recalled last fall and the morbid, physical sensation of burying her with a shovel, like a low-budget, wannabe undertaker. I took some tracing paper and did a rubbing of the tombstone for the etching of her name and dates, then wondered, am I inadvertently auditioning for the job of cemetery groundskeeper?

I recalled the time in fourth grade my mom took me to Ozzie’s Shoes (where James Perse is now) on Friday after school and bought me a new pair of brown leather hiking boots with red laces and the little yellow Vibram logo on the soles. I pranced out of there like a proud little dandy, thinking I was hot stuff. I repaid her by going straight to Carl’s Pharmacy and stealing a Three Musketeers bar.

Just as I was passing through the threshold of freedom, a hand grabbed me by the backpack and nearly yanked me off my feet, like a dog who’s reached the business end of its leash. The hand was firmly attached to the arm of none other than the mighty namesake “Carl” himself. He dragged me into an interrogation room behind the pharmacy and made me wait while he called the Aspen Police. My mom came, picked me up, and locked me in my room with no dinner. I had to write, “I will not steal.” One-hundred times.

The biggest punishment was not being able to go to hockey practice the next Saturday morning. I was right wing on the “Gophers,” our team sponsored by Aspen Cleaners. Hod Nicholson, whose dad owned the company, was our goalie. In my defense, I haven’t stolen from Carl’s since, but the night is young. They still for some reason always ask me to show my receipt.

My poor mom. The things I put her through. I feel terrible about how I behaved sometimes, embarrassed even, but she still loved me. I remember making her breakfast-in-bed one Mother’s Day — blackened bacon, scrambled eggs burnt beyond recognition, with flour and water pancakes that could chip a tooth or derail a train. Her gleeful reaction was Oscar-worthy.

She used to buy school clothes for me from Bullock’s department store on Galena Street and have the outfits all laid-out on the bed for me to try on when I came home from the Yellow Brick lower elementary. I recognized a checkered shirt the other day from my second grade class picture. Carol Hall was our teacher, and a smattering of my classmates is still around today. Oftentimes when I returned home from school, there would be a maple bar from the Mesa Store Bakery or raspberry and apricot thumbprint cookies from Little Cliff’s waiting on the counter for me.

My mom ran a very tight household ship. She threw legendary parties and paid biblical bills. Host- and parent-wise, I’m trying my best to emulate her in her cavernous absence. Better getting in touch with your motherly feminine side late than never, I guess.

My bedridden mom was the last feeble, milky bit of Elmer’s glue that barely held our family together. When she died, the bottom fell out. The adult kids pecked away at each other like petulant turkey vultures, dividing up meat.

Sometimes, moms can control their kids with an iron fist, even from beyond the grave. Other times, mothers are paralyzed in the moment, entirely powerless. Have you ever watched a mom break up a fight? That’s an awesome show of pro-wrestler-esque force that exemplifies the mighty feminine power mom’s wield.

In a fleeting moment of maternal retrospect, I had a blunt conversation with my offspring at the dinner table the other night that caught them off-guard.

“When I die …” I said before closing my eyes, leaning my head back, skipping a beat, and then pounding the table with closed fists for dramatic fatherly-effect, “THERE WILL BE NO FIGHTING!”

Happy Mother’s Day to every mom, stepmom, single-mom, and soon-to-be mom in Aspen and beyond! Thanks for creating us and the all good you do. Know you are loved and appreciated.

Contact Lorenzo via suityourself@sopris.net.