The Nest
#4 The Nest
When I was around four years old, my grandfather, Captain Bill, started his own production company and hired my dad, who finally got out of the bar business, abandoned his college education, and moved us into a small house in the suburbs where my mom could quit her secretary job and stay home with me full-time. This change proved mostly positive because, in addition to the bigger backyard, which meant more space for playing sports, my dad always brought back souvenirs from the cities where he did his "shows." But during the weekends when he was gone, I spent many a night crying while staring at the picture of us on his mousepad, and despite my mom's best efforts to keep me happy and distracted with movies and games, she just wasn't the same pitcher or goalie, and I longed for my dad's return...
That said, I have nothing but good memories from this time spent with my mother, the epitome of which was our Friday routine, which still lives on today. Back then, on the way Home from pre-school, we'd take the scenic route with the windows down, stop at the bank for a lollipop microphone, and sing at the top of our lungs with "John Deere Green" and Tom T. Hall en route to Chimney Springs, where we'd speed down the huge roller-coaster hill--past the big, brick house where my mom grew up--and park at the wooden playground where she played when she was little. After a quick run thru the obstacle course, with my mom counting out loud, I'd then lead the way across the bridge, looking for "Sneaky Snakes" in the mud, and race around the lake to our bench under the weeping willow. There, my mom would pull out the bread-bag that, for all I knew, she always kept in her purse, and after I'd flung the first heel, whole--like a frisbee--into the water, she'd say, "Remember, Cod--the smaller, the better: to make it last longer." My mom's camera would shutter incessantly, then, as the resident flock of Canadian geese came honking, flapping, and splashing in from the other side of the lake, and when trying to feed them by hand earned me hisses from the black-billed bullies, I turned to pelting them with crackers instead and saved the good stuff--like stale bagels--for the sweet, little mallards waiting patiently to the side. Then, with one last hurl as far as I could throw--for the shy turtles poking their heads up in the distance--the bag was empty, the fun was over, and my mom and I finished our lap around the lake, ending back at the playground, where the photo-shoot continued as the sun dipped behind the trees. From Chimney Springs, we'd stop at Blockbuster and each pick out a movie and box of candy, and then we'd race Home by 8 o'clock--just in time for Rugrats--and while I watched my favorite show, my mom cooked my favorite dinner: barbecue baked chicken with mashed potatoes, green beans, and a big glass of milk. After eating, we'd watch my Ninja Turtles or Power Ranger movie, which I liked to enjoy from a standing position, kicking and punching along with the action, and then for my mom's movie after--always a Disney Classic or Scooby-Doo--I turned off the lights, wrapped myself like a mummy in all of my great-grandmother's blankets, and climbed onto the love-seat with my mom, who laid on her side with her legs curled beside her. From there--in the crook of my mom's legs, which I remember calling "The Nest"--I sang along with "The Bear Necessities," laughed with Timon and Pumba, wished I had Aladdin's magic carpet, and tried not to cry with The Fox and The Hound. If the movie was a bit too "girly," though (like Bambi or Sleeping Beauty), I woke up in my mom's arms as she was carrying me up to bed, and the next morning she'd make cinnamon rolls and tell me how the movie ended...
Today, the routine is about the same (switch Blockbuster for Netflix and Rugrats for Modern Family), and although I have long-since left The Nest, I still remember--and feel--the warmth. Looking back, these moments were my first experience with Unconditional Love, and if it hadn't been for my mother, I would not be the man that I am today.
When I was around four years old, my grandfather, Captain Bill, started his own production company and hired my dad, who finally got out of the bar business, abandoned his college education, and moved us into a small house in the suburbs where my mom could quit her secretary job and stay home with me full-time. This change proved mostly positive because, in addition to the bigger backyard, which meant more space for playing sports, my dad always brought back souvenirs from the cities where he did his "shows." But during the weekends when he was gone, I spent many a night crying while staring at the picture of us on his mousepad, and despite my mom's best efforts to keep me happy and distracted with movies and games, she just wasn't the same pitcher or goalie, and I longed for my dad's return...
That said, I have nothing but good memories from this time spent with my mother, the epitome of which was our Friday routine, which still lives on today. Back then, on the way Home from pre-school, we'd take the scenic route with the windows down, stop at the bank for a lollipop microphone, and sing at the top of our lungs with "John Deere Green" and Tom T. Hall en route to Chimney Springs, where we'd speed down the huge roller-coaster hill--past the big, brick house where my mom grew up--and park at the wooden playground where she played when she was little. After a quick run thru the obstacle course, with my mom counting out loud, I'd then lead the way across the bridge, looking for "Sneaky Snakes" in the mud, and race around the lake to our bench under the weeping willow. There, my mom would pull out the bread-bag that, for all I knew, she always kept in her purse, and after I'd flung the first heel, whole--like a frisbee--into the water, she'd say, "Remember, Cod--the smaller, the better: to make it last longer." My mom's camera would shutter incessantly, then, as the resident flock of Canadian geese came honking, flapping, and splashing in from the other side of the lake, and when trying to feed them by hand earned me hisses from the black-billed bullies, I turned to pelting them with crackers instead and saved the good stuff--like stale bagels--for the sweet, little mallards waiting patiently to the side. Then, with one last hurl as far as I could throw--for the shy turtles poking their heads up in the distance--the bag was empty, the fun was over, and my mom and I finished our lap around the lake, ending back at the playground, where the photo-shoot continued as the sun dipped behind the trees. From Chimney Springs, we'd stop at Blockbuster and each pick out a movie and box of candy, and then we'd race Home by 8 o'clock--just in time for Rugrats--and while I watched my favorite show, my mom cooked my favorite dinner: barbecue baked chicken with mashed potatoes, green beans, and a big glass of milk. After eating, we'd watch my Ninja Turtles or Power Ranger movie, which I liked to enjoy from a standing position, kicking and punching along with the action, and then for my mom's movie after--always a Disney Classic or Scooby-Doo--I turned off the lights, wrapped myself like a mummy in all of my great-grandmother's blankets, and climbed onto the love-seat with my mom, who laid on her side with her legs curled beside her. From there--in the crook of my mom's legs, which I remember calling "The Nest"--I sang along with "The Bear Necessities," laughed with Timon and Pumba, wished I had Aladdin's magic carpet, and tried not to cry with The Fox and The Hound. If the movie was a bit too "girly," though (like Bambi or Sleeping Beauty), I woke up in my mom's arms as she was carrying me up to bed, and the next morning she'd make cinnamon rolls and tell me how the movie ended...
Today, the routine is about the same (switch Blockbuster for Netflix and Rugrats for Modern Family), and although I have long-since left The Nest, I still remember--and feel--the warmth. Looking back, these moments were my first experience with Unconditional Love, and if it hadn't been for my mother, I would not be the man that I am today.
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