THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1996, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, September 1, 1996 TAG: 9608290063
SECTION: REAL LIFE PAGE: K4 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: BY WENDY GROSSMAN, STAFF WRITER
LENGTH: 69 lines
BY MID-MAY, Mom had written my name on my goggles, picture frames, T-shirts, sweaters, jeans and laundry basket.
I'm her baby. I never went away to camp. And now I was going to Duke.
Starting a week after high school graduation, Mom stood in my doorway every day asking, ``Don't you think you should start packing, sweetie?''
No.
She piled my clothes up onto my brother's bed. And all the little things she thought I might like. A crock pot. A coffee heater. A popcorn maker.
I kept vetoing stuff.
But then, I got sick.
I had tonsillitis three times in the month before I left for college. I couldn't get out of bed. And I couldn't go shopping.
So Mom went. She bought cases of apple juice and Clearly Canadian. Filled baggies with rice and chicken soup mix. Poured Country Time mix into a plastic container and wrote out directions in permanent marker. Pour water into the pitcher I gave you. Add two scoops and then shake it up.
I relapsed with tonsillitis two days before move-in. With Dad lugging the heavy stuff, Mom trotted back and forth in 90 degrees with my stuff on her airport dolly.
She got me a checking account. A phone. And in an hour she piled up all my cases of juice neatly in my closet, hung up my clothes and made the bed.
I didn't find anything until I moved out a year later.
When Mom and Dad left, I walked them through the dark woods to the car. She pressed a wad of money into my palm and cried.
Me, too.
The thing is, I've been on both sides of moving in and out. I remember how exciting it was when my older brothers came home. I remember spending all day baking, making sure the meringue browned just right on the pie for him.
Dave always called when he was an hour away from home. That way I'd make sure the brownies were timed so that I was just opening the oven as his car pulled into the drive. Then I'd run out and be caught up in his arms.
Always wishing he would stay longer.
When Joel left for college there were no more M&M's in the house. But they always came back when he did. We never knew for sure when Joel was coming in. We'd wait all evening. Mom and I would cook and cook and cook.
And wait.
He'd barge through the door heading straight to the kitchen table. As he tore apart the roast beef, the cordless phone by his plate would ring. He'd mutter something to his friends and in 10 minutes he'd be gone. Gone until we made him French toast the next morning.
As Joel rode off toward college in his brown station wagon, Mom stood at the bottom of the driveway watching the turn signal. Then she'd turn into dad's arms and cry.
For weeks they'd set an extra place at the dinner table.
So I knew Mom would have a problem letting go of me.
When I went home for fall break freshman year, Mom wouldn't let me leave the house. I wanted to see Becky Jo. I wanted to see Mary. ``Have them come over here,'' Mom told me. ``It's so good to hear laughter coming from your room.''
When I got back to school Carrie said her mom wouldn't let her leave the house, either. ``She wouldn't even let me take the trash out,'' Carrie grumbled. When Joel left to go back to Duke, Dad stood in the driveway with Mom and told her ``He's going to his home now. That's his home. Not here.''
I think that's the hardest thing for parents. When we call school ``home'' and we want to go back. We want to be with our friends. We want our own life.
Dad wrote me a letter during my senior year. He said that when I left he went into the back corner of the garage. Buried his face into a towel. And cried.
I missed him, too. by CNB