“Scientific studies say that the past is always better than the present,” I mused aloud to Julie and Alexis.
These were my mother’s college co-conspirators. I hadn’t seen them since the funeral.
“Well yes,” Julie agreed. “Time has a way of filtering out the ordinary.”
We had met up, from across the country, at the Mediterranean Grill in Helena. My kids, John and Alexandria, were scootching around on the floor, adding their own soundtrack of “Scooby Doo.”
“Bertha,” Julie began, her eyes dancing with a mischievous glint. “Ah, that cow’s head! Remember that, Alexis?” She looked at me. “Your mother and the two of us liberated her from the Forester’s building at UM.”
“You mean theft?” I asked, laughing. “Like Mission Impossible?”
“Well,” Alexis chimed in, “we preferred to call it a bovine relocation program. All for charity of course, wouldn’t have had it any other way.”
“Or how about when we commandeered that bus? They weren’t using it anyway,” Julie interjected.
“Stole?” I echoed, my curiosity piqued.
“Liberated,” Alexis corrected, a twinkle in her eye. “Everyone played a part. Your mother, bless her soul, was the eyes. And all she needed was this walkie-talkie and a pair of binoculars.”
“Jesus.”
“Ah, college,” Julie said, staring off.
They continued to regale me with tales of daring exploits, swerving from reckless adventure to thoughtful soliloquy. From hot-wiring buses to philosophical musings on the loss of originality in today’s society, they painted a picture of a world where actions spoke louder than Facebook likes.
“And the triumphant return of the bus?” Julie mused. “Ah, they hailed us like the second coming of Jesus. The radio wouldn’t stop talking about us, a party was thrown in our honor at that frat house, remember Alexis?”
“I do,” she said.
“Huh,” I said. “So how did you both meet my mom?”
“Hitch hiking, wasn’t it?” Alexis quipped.
“No,” Julie rebutted, “That’s how you guys met.” She turned to me. “Your mother was always the free spirit with her thumbs. Until The Hook, of course.”
“The Hook?” I laughed.
“Yes,” Alexis quipped. “In the golden age of the 60s, ‘The Hook’ was a specter that haunted the American highways, an apparition that whispered in the ears of young, adventurous souls. He was the first embodiment, of sorts, of the monsters who lurk in the shadows. Back then, as you know, you could do what you want. Hitchhiking was no big deal. Because there were no monsters being shoved at us like on social media.”
“That’s actually how we came to be friends,” Julie admitted. “Not the hitchhiking part. Your mother decided it would be a hoot to hang a hook on my dorm room door knob. Scared the living daylights out of me!”
Chapter 2
Somewhere in here, dessert came. And I broke the rules because it’s not everyday you get to eat cheesecake covered in caramel.
Alexis leaned in, her eyes twinkling with mischief, “My daughter knew I was meeting you today. She had a good laugh about how ‘wild’ you used to be.”
“Wild?” I protested, feigning offense.
John, my little ruffian of a son, was running amok in the background, his laughter crazy and maniacal.
I remembered a conversation I had with my Dad earlier in the day at the Broadwater health club. I was curious about who I was as a kid. So I asked him: “Dad, since you know my kids so well, who was I more like? Was I an Alexandria or a John?”
My father’s voice broke through my musings, “Oh, you were a John, through and through.”
An unexpected sting of disappointment rushed through me. I had always considered myself more refined, more like Alexandria. John was sort of a caveman. A barbarian.
“Really, Dad? I was like John?” I questioned, hoping for a different response.
He confirmed with a resolute, “Yep. You spoke like Alexandria, but you were all John in action.”
Silently, I contemplated his assessment, with a thousand year gaze.
I snapped back to the present moment. Back to the restaurant.
Julie was revealing yet another piece of my mother’s mosaic – her fervent Catholicism.
“Your mom never skipped a confession,” she shared. “In all the years that I knew her. She was always quoting the Bible, too.”
Her revelation, as well, felt like a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit. The mother I knew, the one who endorsed my eccentricities, contrasted with the image of the devout Catholic she was painted to be. The mother I knew was … well, beyond agnostic. She seemed to feel that aetheist was a better term, because agnostic? Well, that was giving them too much.
Julie’s words forced me to revisit my past. The horror movies I indulged in, the Stephen King novels I devoured, you know, the kid stuff that fascinated me back then even in the 5th grade. And then the girls in high school – I could see this all as a subconscious defiance of my mother’s religious beliefs.
As I dived deeper into these reminiscences, Julie’s words painted the scene of my mother’s passing.
“Did you know it was a full moon on the night she passed?” she asked me.
“I didn’t,” I said.
“Yes,” she said. “And now whenever there is a full moon, I look up at it, and talk to her.”
“It’s true, she does,” Alexis said.
The three of us looked up at the full moon.
The concept of being more like John was starting to grow on me. Maybe I did carry a bit of that wildness in me. The tales of my mother’s adventurous past were turning out to be more than just stories. They were revelations of the untamed spirit that had been passed down through the generations.
I looked down at John. And now it’s in him.
John Michaels, a Missoula native and author, has been captivating readers with his writing for years. A graduate of Brown University’s esteemed creative writing program, Michaels has spent the majority of his career crafting stories that resonate with his readers and capture the essence of the human experience. Despite the demands of raising children, Michaels has continued to pursue his passions, finding solace in the bustling downtown Missoula scene. There, he spends his free time honing his craft, whether it be working on short stories, playing music, or dedicating himself to his work at Sunflower Counseling, MT.