forty-five minutes of warrior poses. On my way home, I congratulate myself. That’s the ticket, all right. It’s my chance to talk to John Robberson without risking Toby in the process. If he’s got something to say to my kid, or even through my kid, he can say it to me. Through Vaughn Redford.
Later, in my garden, I start to ruminate on the possibilities of having a real link between this world and the spirit world . . . and, well, I can’t help thinking of my mom.
What I’d give to connect with her, to see if she’s watching Toby grow up from beyond. I wonder if she’d appear to me. If I go to see Vaughn Redford, it stands to reason that the most likely person to show up for me would be my mom. I can feel my heart swell with longing. I can’t believe how much I would like to have seen the look on her face when she met Toby. She would be so proud of him.
I have to bring Toby, of course. Otherwise, John Robberson might not show up.
I stand up and brush the soil from my knees. I stuff the weeds into the garbage bag and spin the bag until the top twists shut. I have no idea how I’m going to break this one to Eric.
We’re due for our monthly visit to Pa this weekend. On the way there, I mention Vaughn Redford, but Eric just snorts and we don’t talk for the rest of the drive. He doesn’t want to hear about it.
On this visit, Toby is learning to play checkers with Pa. Every time we come, Pa has a goal for Toby. Once, it was showing him how to use a screwdriver. He’d sat outside with Toby for hours, with an assortment of screwdrivers (“This here’s a Phillips”) and a couple of two-by-fours. By the end of the weekend and prior to his third birthday, Toby knew how to use a screwdriver. Pa has no appreciation that Toby might be more likely to poke his eye out than use it correctly. I actually love this about Pa.
But this weekend it’s checkers, and Toby’s developmental limitations are showing up. Eric rescues Pa from his grandson’s short attention span and propensity to make free jumping kings out of his checkers without regard to the rules.
It’s cooling off a bit right before the sunset, and Eric decides he’ll take Toby to the mall to run off some steam in the air conditioning. This frees me up to talk to Pa alone about the Vaughn Redford opportunity.
I’ve been thinking about everyone’s “most likely person to appear.” I figure the more people who show up with the same desire, the better the odds. So if I want my mom to show up, I need to bring who she wants to see, which means I need Pa.
He’s thinking about getting new reading glasses. “I’m not getting old, mind you. My eyes are just more experienced now.”
I say, “That’s what life is all about, isn’t it? Experiences?”
How lame. I sound like I’m inserting one of those intentionally chipper segues that morning news anchors use. He looks at me sideways before he answers.
“Well, baby girl, you can’t avoid ’em, that’s for sure. But I don’t have to lay down in front of a tractor to know that it’s most likely gonna smash my skull flat. There’s some experiences I guess I don’t need to sign up for.”
This isn’t going to be easy. All day, I’ve been making random statements about life and asking him for advice. He doesn’t seem to be suspicious, but soon I’m going to have to say it. Not the part about John Robberson. That would be a deal buster. So I focus on Mom. How do you tell your dad you’ve bought him a ticket to go see a medium and you’re actually very excited about it because you hope, for his sake, that your dead mother will speak to him from the “other side”? So I blurt it out, exactly like that.
About the time I say “other side,” he says, “Whoa there, baby girl.”
I smile as innocently as I can.
“Want to start all over with that?”
So I say it in slow motion, laying the groundwork, first talking about Vaughn Redford and the TV show. I even bought him a book in large
Later, in my garden, I start to ruminate on the possibilities of having a real link between this world and the spirit world . . . and, well, I can’t help thinking of my mom.
What I’d give to connect with her, to see if she’s watching Toby grow up from beyond. I wonder if she’d appear to me. If I go to see Vaughn Redford, it stands to reason that the most likely person to show up for me would be my mom. I can feel my heart swell with longing. I can’t believe how much I would like to have seen the look on her face when she met Toby. She would be so proud of him.
I have to bring Toby, of course. Otherwise, John Robberson might not show up.
I stand up and brush the soil from my knees. I stuff the weeds into the garbage bag and spin the bag until the top twists shut. I have no idea how I’m going to break this one to Eric.
We’re due for our monthly visit to Pa this weekend. On the way there, I mention Vaughn Redford, but Eric just snorts and we don’t talk for the rest of the drive. He doesn’t want to hear about it.
On this visit, Toby is learning to play checkers with Pa. Every time we come, Pa has a goal for Toby. Once, it was showing him how to use a screwdriver. He’d sat outside with Toby for hours, with an assortment of screwdrivers (“This here’s a Phillips”) and a couple of two-by-fours. By the end of the weekend and prior to his third birthday, Toby knew how to use a screwdriver. Pa has no appreciation that Toby might be more likely to poke his eye out than use it correctly. I actually love this about Pa.
But this weekend it’s checkers, and Toby’s developmental limitations are showing up. Eric rescues Pa from his grandson’s short attention span and propensity to make free jumping kings out of his checkers without regard to the rules.
It’s cooling off a bit right before the sunset, and Eric decides he’ll take Toby to the mall to run off some steam in the air conditioning. This frees me up to talk to Pa alone about the Vaughn Redford opportunity.
I’ve been thinking about everyone’s “most likely person to appear.” I figure the more people who show up with the same desire, the better the odds. So if I want my mom to show up, I need to bring who she wants to see, which means I need Pa.
He’s thinking about getting new reading glasses. “I’m not getting old, mind you. My eyes are just more experienced now.”
I say, “That’s what life is all about, isn’t it? Experiences?”
How lame. I sound like I’m inserting one of those intentionally chipper segues that morning news anchors use. He looks at me sideways before he answers.
“Well, baby girl, you can’t avoid ’em, that’s for sure. But I don’t have to lay down in front of a tractor to know that it’s most likely gonna smash my skull flat. There’s some experiences I guess I don’t need to sign up for.”
This isn’t going to be easy. All day, I’ve been making random statements about life and asking him for advice. He doesn’t seem to be suspicious, but soon I’m going to have to say it. Not the part about John Robberson. That would be a deal buster. So I focus on Mom. How do you tell your dad you’ve bought him a ticket to go see a medium and you’re actually very excited about it because you hope, for his sake, that your dead mother will speak to him from the “other side”? So I blurt it out, exactly like that.
About the time I say “other side,” he says, “Whoa there, baby girl.”
I smile as innocently as I can.
“Want to start all over with that?”
So I say it in slow motion, laying the groundwork, first talking about Vaughn Redford and the TV show. I even bought him a book in large
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