The Chamois
There it was tucked neatly behind the milk and the orange
juice. A plastic tube containing the most important item a young man could
possibly own. A damp piece of split lambskin made expressly to stroke a
deserving vehicle to a streak-free dry. Wrung out and preserved in plastic wrap
and so gently placed in its protective tube stashed on the refrigerator so it
didn’t spoil, dry out or suffer the indignity of the wash cycle and its harsh
chemicals.
And here it was in my hands. In the quiet of the house that
once rang with banter.
“Ma, please don’t take this out of the fridge or it’ll go
bad. I spent a lot of money on it.” “I won’t touch it.”
“Can I wash the truck now?”
“Of course.”
“Where is the carnauba wax I bought?”
“It’s probably in the garage on the shelf.”
“Thanks.”
That first itch of a teenaged boy to explore the roads all
alone behind the wheel of his very own vehicle is worse than Chicken Pox and
poison ivy mixed in a fiberglass bucket and dumped over him. He can’t scratch
that itch enough and must learn to live with it.
And so it goes in every American household. It was the
sacred rite of passage to real responsibility.
But, this responsibility came from the heart. The truck, an
older model Chevy S-10 pickup truck was a gift. An inheritance from his beloved
grandfather that reminded us every day of one man’s love and generosity and a
grandson’s love and admiration to the man who gave him the best gift of all –
freedom.
With his grandparent’s lakefront home a memory, he held
precious memories of laughter. His grandmother moved closer to us and he
showered affection on her. He took her out to dinner in the Keys and she kept a
souvenir postcard on her refrigerator until the house was sold.
The first real living, breathing machine in the driveway.
The young man’s ticket to the future and out of a place nicknamed “Deadstead.”
The ride to college in a faraway state with a bed filled with childhood
memories of rocking chairs, footlockers, guitars and amplifiers. Tons of clothes,
sheets, towels and money earned filled it to the brim.
Off to a foreign landscape filled with deciduous trees,
snow, mountains and adventures. He picked up a motorcycle along the way and
kept it tucked safely in front of his truck in the parking lot of the apartment
he shared with three other young men on the verge of adulthood.
And every trip back home the chamois was waiting on the top
shelf of the refrigerator. The truck sat waiting patiently in the familiar
driveway for a loving warm-weather bath to remove the salt and slushy dirt
residue from mountain roads.
Then every parent’s nightmare jarred his stepfather and me
awake. In a barely audible voice between sobs tinged with anger and disbelief
he screamed that there was an accident. I could hear the wail of his truck
alarm in the background.
“Are you alright, Son?”
“Yes. But, Grandpa’s truck!”
“What happened?”
“Some idiot came racing down the road, lost control and
wound up in the parking lot! He totaled Grandpa’s truck AND my motorcycle!”
“As long as you’re not hurt…”
And my heart began beating again. He learned a quick lesson
on being grown up. Insurance claims, shopping for a new vehicle, fixing a
motorcycle and saying goodbye to the precious memory of Grandpa’s truck. Things
changed rapidly for the young man. College, work, friends, love.
Still the chamois stood vigil in its airtight container at a
constant cool temperature. Waiting.
The trips home were lively. Spring break was an adventure
with friends who had never seen palm trees and two oceans. The familiarity of
family and friends and food were comforting in a strange way. And, the obvious
signs of aging parents and grandparents still among the living were somewhat
unnerving.
Holidays became festive with the introduction of a new member…a
wife. We shared the traditional foods he was raised on and it was wonderful.
These times became more meaningful because of the distance and time between
visits. Our family had lost so many since he was born. The circle of life
continued without a great-grandmother and a grandfather, but the promise of new
family made our hearts soar.
Still trips to college graduations and a wedding followed
that summer and we all rejoiced.
The happiness one becomes so comfortable with changes on a
dime. His stepfather had never regained his health following Hurricane Andrew
and he underwent another quadruple bypass. He was in full congestive heart
failure when the young man made a summer trip to visit. In the months that
followed, health and laughter returned until a tinge of autumn filled the
tropical air. A short trip to the hospital soon escalated to a transfer to ICU
where my beloved husband died with me by his side.
Oh the phone calls. My Mother was there for me and helped me
through the numbness of a loss so sudden.
The young man and his wife came down for the funeral and
were great comfort for a wife and mother who were about to lose so much more.
But, the chamois kept vigil – a silent sentinel to days gone by.
Three months later, the young man lost his uncle – his
father’s brother. He had been there for boats, fishing, motorcycle rides and
everything he shared with his dad. Luckily we all stayed close while he was
growing up.
My Mother and I drove up for the funeral and were reunited
with my child’s other family. I remember the sadness in my ex mother-in-law’s
face. I had seen it before in my mother’s face when she lost a child. There is
no greater pain than losing a child. It is not natural. Children are supposed
to outlive parents.
So much transpired in the following two weeks with the
culmination of a grandmother’s angry words, “The next time you see me, I’ll be
in a box!” I chided her for the remark that she repeated to my sister. Just let
it roll. Mom’s favorite saying was, after all “This, too, shall pass.”
But, it didn’t. Her call came at 1:00 am. “I need help.
Something is wrong.”
“I’ll call 911 is that OK?”
“Yes. I’ll unlock the door.”
“I’m on my way.”
I pulled up at the same time as the EMT truck. The door was
open, the dog was waiting and Mom was curled up in my Dad’s favorite
chair…unresponsive.
I watched them lay her on the floor and try to bring her
back to consciousness. I called my sister at 2:00 am. I needed someone. I had
no one else. She died three days later on my Dad’s birthday. Her funeral was
the day before Easter.
We lost everyone on or about Thanksgiving, Christmas, New
Year’s and January birthdays. This was new. I called her grandson when his
grandmother passed and pleaded with him to come down. I know the airline was
starting to disbelieve all his emergency flights, but so were we.
The chamois stood in the refrigerator, although it had been
long forgotten on by now. The boy never came home to use it.
My sister and I tried to put together an Easter supper, but
the Grandson and his wife had other plans and quickly left.
One more rapid-fire death touched us as our beloved neighbor
– my son’s second (or third) father suddenly died. He came down for this
passing, too. And later that year his stepmother lost her battle with cancer. Now
the family ties were almost completely severed.
He revisited his home once more when the house was for sale
and his childhood belongings needed to be boxed and transported to his home.
And so I stood in an empty house. The echoes of my breathing
only intensified the memories in each corner. Echoes of laughter and tears of
pets and people long gone reverberate from silent walls. And I went to the
refrigerator and removed the last item: a chamois in a plastic container bought
so many years ago.
I left the keys on the counter, tossed the chamois in the
trash and carried it out to the curb with the hollow sound of the garage door closing
behind me. I found it painfully amusing – almost funny how a piece of split lamb’s
skin could witness the passage of time and the end of grand dreams. Nothing
turns out the way it should.
Now I hear occasionally from the man I call my son. Most
often when he is driving somewhere, hardly ever when he is home. I can’t
remember the last time I opened a Christmas card like the funny ones he’d send
for a chuckle. Sometimes growing up is harder on parents than children.
I wonder if he remembers the chamois. I wonder is he thinks
of us when he sits down to supper with his new family. And, I really wonder
when he outgrew his own family and the shattered dreams he left behind.
©DD Corbitt
