I didn’t want to go. I never wanted to go. I ended up going every time anyway. This is what a good son does, isn’t it?
Jerry Davich
Nearly every week for several months, I drove with my mother from our homes to a local casino. And each week I dreaded it.
Along with hundreds (possibly thousands?) of other casino “members,” we’d loiter in the lobby hoping our lottery-type ticket got picked to win a new car, vacation getaway, cash jackpot or whatever.
“This could be our lucky day,” chimed my ever-hopeful mother on the way there.
“Yeah, it could be,” I’d mutter, wondering what I could do more productively with her.
I would pick up my mother at her home, typically on a weekend night, and we’d cruise down to the flashing, sparkling casino near the lake. We’d talk about all sorts of subjects along the way, and then I’d drop her off at the front entrance while I parked my car.
People are also reading…
“Who’s here for Elvis?!” a middle-aged woman yelled out during the coming attractions for the new documentary “EPiC: Elvis Presley in Concert.”
Inside, we’d wander around with all the other hopefuls waiting for our names to be called out loud. “And the winner is!!! ... ” the enthusiastic announcer would boom into the microphone.
But they never called our names, not once. Not even to win a complimentary watered-downed drink or stupid T-shirt, even though we entered hundreds of entries collectively. So along with all the other hopeful losers, the two of us would limp back to the car while playfully cursing the name of the winner that night.
During our drive back home we’d continue our conversation, whether it was about national politics, new TV shows or quantum physics (one of my late mother’s favorite subjects).
We also would talk about other colorful subjects, including my mother’s married days to my father (he died nearly 40 years ago), her upbringing as a teenage mom, and what it was like to raise three young kids in the turbulent 1960s.
She would tell me what I was like as a child -- a wayward, awkward and backward boy who didn’t aspire to be anything much, but an adult. Of course my mother didn’t use the words “wayward, awkward and backward,” but that’s how I remember things.
No, my mother instead prattled on about my hidden highlights, not my obvious shortcomings. But then again, that’s what good mothers do, isn’t it?
Chuck Keene stood in his garage quietly watching me attempt to install a new mailbox in front of my home. My toolbox consisted of frustration, ineptitude and stupidity.
Come to think of it, my mother had always been my number one fan, my constant confidant and my proudest cheerleader. And she was always in my corner no matter who the opponent or what the circumstance. That's not an easy task, I’ve learned as now a parent of four adult children.
Not once do I remember her abandoning this tough-to-emulate stance as a parent. She was always there for me, encouraging, praising and supporting me. Until her last words, literally.
I thought of these insights about her while driving back and forth to that casino on those rather uneventful, and definitely unprofitable, weekend evenings.
I’d jot them down in my notebook, or on a napkin, or in my daily planner, promising myself to someday write a column about it. About her. About her love, devotion and nurturing ways. I still have those notes.
It may have taken me a few decades to realize this, but it turns out I am a jackpot winner after all. The jackpot all along was her.
