volunteer lyfe #2

One of the joys of volunteering is, it’s never the same experience twice.

I arrived early for my final festival shift, hustling to get out of the rain before the sandy track turned muddy. My driver wore a fresh white track suit, sparkly sunglasses, chic boots and a crisp hat. She had drinks and snacks close at hand (my misophonia brain quailed) and as we joined the queue, proceeded to give me a PhD-level class in people management.

Direct report #1 was me. When I said hi to an acquaintance and offered to stow their bag, she scolded me (never touch their things). After I took pity on a rain-drenched trio and asked if they were headed to a stage, she scolded me again (that’s not our job).

We chauffeured little kids and brass bands, tipsy hangers-on, a handsome bass player late for the stage and a host of beautifully-costumed singers and performers. I saw her deftly manage thirsty men, bossy folks, and head off inappropriateness with a comment or a smile. In between we developed a running commentary on life, men, travel, jobs and the festival. By the end of my shift, she was gently ribbing me, grabbing my elbow. Don’t leave me, both of us cracking up.

In the end, we said affectionate goodbyes, and as I signed out, the supervisor handed me extra snacks, dished about online shopping and their Barbie obsession, even gave me a hug. And I made peace with a frenemy from the spring.

It’s interesting how you go somewhere for one thing (volunteering! free music!) and end up with new and mended relationships, a cool t-shirt, and hope for next year.

Mother’s Day is a toughie.

 

Mom has been gone for twenty years and I still feel her absence so deeply, still think of her almost every day, trying to remember her voice, seeing her in my reflection in the mirror more and more, the lines parenthesizing my lips and my turkey wattle neck, the need to stuff my cankles into ankle socks with sneakers and confide in grocery store clerks.

It’s complicated though because she wasn’t very kind to me for the first quarter century of my life. She was a fundamentalist pastor’s wife and godliness and obedience were of utmost importance in our household. Her hand and her touch brought pain much more often than tenderness. Then a fluke brain aneurysm wiped away her meanness and cleared her memory banks. We were gifted a little over a decade with a mother whose emotions ran close to the surface, who cried easily and laughed and smiled a lot and forgot she’d ever been cruel.

I wish sometimes we’d had more time with the good Mom, had longer to laugh and cry together and settle into a relationship that felt easier and more normal.

But we didn’t.

Life is cruel too, and I laugh and cry now with my sisters, or sometimes just alone.