Author: Sharron Burnett

Back when I was still a working gal if it was Friday it meant ending the school day earlier than the rest of the week. Instead of hanging around until after five everyone was gone no later than four, including me. I joined my colleagues in a race from the parking lot and jumped onto the Beltway with glee, heading in the direction of my mother’s home because Friday meant our time together. 

It was a long ride from southwest Houston where I worked to southeast Houston near Almeda Mall. I always felt a bit of anticipation as I drove over the high bridge that connects the Beltway with Interstate 45 heading north. Because of my mother’s illness I never knew exactly what her frame of mind would be but I faithfully went to see her week after week. If all was well I knew that the two of us would have a wonderful evening together.

Friday evenings with family had always been a kind of tradition for me. As a child my mother took us to see our grandmother Ulrich every Friday night. We would meet up there with all of my aunts and uncles and cousins and have a rollicking time. We children would play games mostly outside while our parents gathered around a table for a poker game or just sat together talking in voices so loud that I always felt sure that people miles away would hear them. Those were literally the very best times of my childhood and somehow spending Friday evenings with my mother when I became an adult felt much the same way. 

My husband Mike never minded that I was galavanting with Mama each Friday because he was always exhausted after his long week at work. He liked having a quiet evening at home to recharge his batteries, so my date with my mom became a rock solid tradition that was always an adventure. 

My mother enjoyed getting out of her house for a few hours. Sometimes when I drove up she would already be sitting outside on a little bench that my brother had given her for Mother’s day one year. She would be dressed up in her finest clothing and a huge smile would appear on her face. Those clues told me that she was feeling well and that we would surely have a glorious time.

She always wanted to eat first and the better she felt, the more extravagant her choice of restaurant would be. Of course she was a woman of simple tastes so she rarely wanted to travel too far from her home or to spend an exorbitant amount of money for the food. Her absolute favorite eatery was Cracker Barrel in League City where she tried everything on the menu over time. Eating there also meant spending an hour or so wandering through the country store section where she almost always found a gift to set aside for someone’s birthday or other special occasion. 

We might eat at a Mexican restaurant or feast at an Italian bistro depending on her cravings. Sometimes she only wanted to head for the Piccadilly Cafeteria just down the street from where she lived. She always thought that we should have dessert and she would magnanimously insist that she be allowed to pay for those sweet treats. An ice cream cone or a slice of pie caused her to beam with childlike delight.

After we had filled our bellies I allowed my mother to decide where we would go next. Sometimes she wanted to visit a nearby mall or take a tour of Walmart. Other times she just wanted to get her weekly grocery shopping done. On very rare occasions she asked to go see a movie or take a drive along the seawall in Galveston. Regardless of what she chose I understood that it would take hours to sate her enthusiasm. It would often be nearing midnight before I said my goodbyes to her and headed home. 

My mother was generally filled with optimism. If she was anxious or on the verge of tears I knew that she was heading for a cycle of depression and mania caused by her bipolar disorder. On those occasions being with her was painful and required great patience on my part, which I did not always display as much as I should have. I felt like I was with a stranger when she was sick. It hurt my heart to see her in a state of confusion and to know that others feared her strange behavior. Those were the times when she was disheveled and her eyes darted back and forth like those of someone caged. She would check her food to see if it had been tainted by someone intent on making her sick. She would argue with waiters and clerks in the stores. Nonetheless I knew that getting her out of the oppressive loneliness and darkness of her house was a first step toward becoming well again. It also gave me an opportunity to determine if she was in need of emergency care from her psychiatrist. 

Sometimes I was so exhausted after a long work week that I did not want to spend my Friday evening with my mother but I always forced myself to go see her anyway. The majority of time I found my fun, happy and loving mother and I would quietly chide myself for hesitating to join her. Even when she was struggling with her bipolar symptoms I knew that it was incredibly important to be with her and so week after week, year after year Friday evenings belonged to my mama. 

After my mother died I felt lost when Friday rolled around. I missed those good times that we had shared. I found myself thinking of the pearls of wisdom that she had given me in our many conversations. I realized how much I had even cherished the evenings when she was depressed and in need of my consoling or when she was manic and there was no telling what she might say or do. I longed for all of her and the lessons about life and love that she modeled for me on our little adventures together. 

My mother never had wealth in her life. She was not a woman of substance. We inherited almost nothing from her in terms of worldly riches. What she gave me was an example of how to enjoy and appreciate the ordinary in times both good and bad. She was a treasure and whenever Friday rolls around I find myself remembering how important it is to grasp each moment and enjoy it. 

I recall taking a silly quiz that one of my friends brought to school when I was in high school. Each question involved making a choice between this or that. I had to indicate whether I preferred the beach or the mountains, warm weather or cold. Ironically I tended to choose all of the answers that described a place totally unlike my hometown which is as flat as any place might be and hot for most of the year. I suppose that I have always thought that it would be lovely to be in a place that gets cool enough in the fall to create magnificent colors and cold enough in the winter to make use of my coats and sweaters which usually become outdated before I have worn them out.

When I was in England not long ago I had to wear a light jacket in May, a wonder to me because back home I would have been wearing sleeveless tops and shorts. One of my journeys on that trip took me well north of London to visit York where we slept at night with the windows open and had no need for air conditioning. In our explorations we journeyed to the coast and explored a little village that lies on the North Sea. It was windy and blustery there as I looked into the vast expanse of the water and imagined Danes landing in their boats in medieval times. I could envision fishermen plying their trade on the often perilous waters. 

The winds from the sea made my light weight coat seem useless but I loved the feel of the frigid air blowing on my face. I felt history in the sting on my cheeks even as I shivered from being unaccustomed to such weather. Luckily help was just up the hill from the water’s edge where a little shop offered beautiful handmade wool sweaters made by local wool weavers. 

I was enthralled by the organic colors and the intricate pattern of the garments. The owner of the shop explained that they were made just like the sweaters worn by the seamen from the town who once launched their boats from the same coves that I had just explored. I learned that every fishing town had its own weave for the garments that the men wore on their journeys on the sea. Because the waters were often rough shipwrecks were commonplace and the sweaters identified the bodies of those who died. 

I purchased one of the beautiful sweaters in a cranberry colored hue. I put it on immediately and felt warm even as the day wore into evening and the temperature continued to drop. I sat at the top of a hill munching on fish and chips and imagining that I could hear the voices of the villagers of long ago. I suspected that in spite of the beauty of the place life had been difficult there. I wondered how many times some poor soul had worn a sweater like mine only to end up drowned in the unforgiving waters during a storm. 

My sweater instantly became one of my favorite items of clothing but when I returned home from my trip I had to store it away because the days and even the nights would be hot for many months. I waited patiently for a day cold enough to warrant donning my sweater and many many weeks passed. Not even December brought the kind of temperatures I needed. It was January before I awoke to almost freezing temperatures that promised to be appropriate for my North Sea gear. 

I wisely wore a thin t-shirt under the sweater in case it became too warm for the heavy woolen clothing. I made it to about noon before realizing that the mercury was inching up and the sun was bearing down a bit too much to remain comfortable. I had to remove my beautiful sweater and store it away until the next frigid day, which has yet to come. 

There was a time when I wore coats and sweaters from late November to the end of February even here in my mostly warm part of the world. The changing climate has slowly eradicated the need for winter gear where I live. Coats and sweaters and boots and gloves last forever because we have to wear them so rarely. I suppose I will be lucky to don my sweater more than half a dozen times in the next ten years. Perhaps I will just need to travel to the north or return to England to find an excuse for bringing it out of storage.

In late September of this year I visited Rocky Mountain National Park. I brought my sweater hoping that I would need it in the high mountains. Even there it was unseasonably warm. The cranberry colored garment never left my suitcase. Somehow it served as a warning to me that our climate is changing in disturbing ways, a thought that was confirmed only a few weeks later when many of the places I had just visited were ablaze with wildfires. 

We humans are continually challenged by nature whether we battle storms on the sea or the ravages of a virus. We study our problems and find ways to either overcome them or adapt to them. We are clever in that way. My sweater reminds me that we are linked together in a long chain that reaches way back into history. We stumble and fight and fall but somehow we always manage to use our wits to press forward. We adapt and progress never losing sight of where we have been. It may take a bit to get there but I believe that ultimately we will be fine and one day I will wear my sweater again.

I will be the first to admit that I have a fear of fire. I suppose that it came about from a time when I could not have been more than about four years old. One morning we heard the sounds of a fire truck and an ambulance racing down our street while we were eating breakfast. My mother took my baby brother out of his crib and grabbed my hand as she rushed outside to see what was happening. A crowd had gathered in front of a house halfway down the block. Nobody said a word as they stood staring at the flames and smoke coming from the roof of the abode. It was obvious even to a small child like me that the house would be a total loss, but the fire fighters fought the blaze until it was under control. Then they performed the grim task of checking to see if anyone had been inside. We all knew that an old man lived alone there and some of the neighbors began whispering that they hoped he had been gone when the fire started. 

After a few minutes a fireman motioned to the drivers of the ambulance who wheeled a gurney over the rubble and through what had once been the front door. When they returned outside there was a form underneath a sheet. People looked at one another and began to cry because they understood that the man had died. My mother attempted to gently explain to me what was taking place and I remember feeling a sense of terror at the very thought of ever having something like that happen to me or anyone that I knew, but I said nothing. I simply internalized my horror.

Since that time I’ve made a point of regularly checking my smoke detectors and keeping fire blankets and fire extinguishers at the ready. I held drills with my children so that they would know what to do if a fire ever broke out inside our home. I even purchased a ladder for the second story of my home that I keep under a table next to the guest bedroom. It attaches to the window sill so that if the stairway is blocked there will be a way out into the safety of the front yard.

When I was still a teenager an older cousin of mine was smoking a cigarette in his bed after a particularly long and tiring day of work. Sadly he fell asleep as he lay relaxing with that burning ember between his fingers. As it fell from his grip it set his mattress on fire. We do not know whether or not he woke up to realize what was happening, only that he died. 

My daughter was so well versed in emergency procedures that she was ready when a fire broke out in her Chicago apartment building. She heard the alarms and saw the smoke gathering in the hallway. She awakened her husband and the two of them quickly pounded on the doors of the other residents. They escaped with only their dog and stood in their pajamas and bare feet as they watched the flames consuming their worldly goods. They were later credited with being heroes for alerting the others who might have otherwise slept through the frightening event. The experience has vividly stayed in their memories for close to eighteen years. Things do not mean a great deal to them anymore. They profoundly value life over possessions.

A few years later my aunt was decorating for Christmas when a fire broke out at her home. She and my uncle grabbed a few family treasures before it became apparent that it was unsafe to be inside the house. They stood in the front yard that should have been decked out in holiday finery watching a lifetime of memories burn to the ground. It was heartbreaking for everyone who knew them because they were rapidly approaching their nineties and it seemed cruel for something so horrid to happen to them. 

I was recently asked what I would rescue if my house caught on fire. While I have many treasures that I would hate to lose, my automatic response was that I would grab my husband and get out as quickly as possible. I cannot even imagine risking either of our lives for some object. While there are heirlooms in our rooms that are priceless in our minds, none of them would be of any importance if either of us were to be severely injured or lose our lives. We have fire insurance to replace the house and any necessities for living that we might need. Our important papers are backed up in the Cloud. 

I thought about my aversion to fire during this past summer and fall. So many people lost their homes with everything inside due to wildfires in the west. I felt such great sorrow for them and hoped each day that none of them had lost loved ones. I thought of the firefighters who worked under such dangerous conditions and the risks they took to stop the spread of the flames. I was as mesmerized by the accounts and the images of what was happening as I had been as that four year old child. 

I suppose that what I value most when there is a fire or a storm or even a deadly virus is life. This year of 2020 has reminded me again and again what my treasures really are, and none of them are things. That little old man taught me long ago how horrible it is when even one person dies in such a terrible way. I did not really know him but I suppose that I have mourned his passing many times when I have thought of him. I wish to this very day that somehow he had been pulled from that fire before it was too late. Every person is irreplaceable. For now our focus should be on keeping as many as possible safe.

There are those of us who are rarely late and those who have reputations for being late. We know who they are and adjust our own schedules to accommodate them. One of the funniest examples of this happened when a former student invited me and another teacher to her college graduation. Knowing that such events are sometimes very crowded I arrived about twenty minutes early hoping to nab a good seat. I walked in to find an empty auditorium save for the other teacher who sighed with relief when he saw me. We began to wonder if somehow we had come on the wrong date but a quick look at the invitation assured us that we were in the right place at the right time. We were befuddled but decided to wait to see if anyone else came.

Indeed people slowly trickled inside and at exactly an hour after the time noted on our invitations the graduation began. When we met with our former student after the event we mentioned our confusion and she laughed, explaining that people in her family were always late. Her mother had listed the time on the invitation an hour early so that they would be present when the ceremony began. This revelation provided us all with a good laugh.

My father-in-law is a stickler for being on time. We often joke that we might set our watches and clocks by his arrival to any planned event. He not only comes at the assigned time, but within seconds of indicated moment. We sometimes wonder if he is waiting around the corner watching the the hands of his watch tell him when to make his appearance. His punctuality is so assured that we begin discussions of sending out the troops to search for him if he is even a minute late.  

One of my dearest friends was always so late that I knew that I need not rush to prepare for her appearance. When she gave me a time to expect her I instead understood that it would be more like “something thirty’ than an exact moment. Very little in her life was ruled by a clock and in some ways I actually enjoyed the serendipity of her personality. Like my father-in-law I have tended to be a slave to the clock. Sometimes it was nice to simply linger a bit longer with her rather than rushing to the next event.

People use all kinds of excuses for being late, but where I live in Houston, Texas there is only one that is universally believed. The traffic here is so bad and so fickle that even with the best laid plans it is probable that something will cause the cars to stack up at a standstill. It may be someone with a flat tire or a stalled engine that wreaks havoc. A wreck or a lost load from an eighteen wheeler can bring movement to a standstill. Dealing with gridlock is a way of life that everyone here understands. Nobody doubts that traffic is a valid excuse for tardiness whether it is day or night. It is the one assertion that is never questioned. 

I am not a morning person by nature. I don’t mind rising from my slumber even before the sun has appeared on the horizon but I disdain having to rush around to leave my home. During my working years I hated the long drives in the dark when my brain was still foggy. Most of the time when I was late I could honestly blame it on the traffic but now and again it was because I had pushed the snooze button on my alarm a few too many times. I always dreamed of creating a society in which it would be acceptable for some people to arrive later in the morning than the seven o’clock that most schools and businesses favor. I envied an aunt who did shift work from noon to eight in the evening. It seemed like a very happy way of living. 

Covid-19 has slowed things down. So many people are still working from home. Children continue to learn remotely in many cases. I begin my own lessons at nine in the morning and it’s nice to have time to enjoy a leisurely breakfast before I begin. By the time I walk up the stairs to my make-shift classroom I am wide awake and filled with energy. It feels so much better than those years when I inched my way to work in an hour of traffic. I can be on time without the stress.

My friend who was always late died a few years back. I was bereft as I sat waiting for her funeral to begin. As the clock ticked past the designated time we learned that there had been a delay in getting her casket to the church. I felt a smile overcoming the hurt in my heart. Somehow it was like a wink from her telling us all that everything was going to be alright. Maybe we all need to enjoy life a bit more like she did and not worry so much about always being on time.