Where You Hang Your Hat, Page 2

the ditch. Phil wondered what kind of “tall tale” the user had created about that adventure, how he had wiggled his way into some woman’s affection; what “silver-tongue” of a devil threw that out the window as he drove back from his encounter. Maybe the guy didn’t even know that his throw landed the condom hanging from the small branch like that; if he did, he might exclaim “Couldn’t do’er again if I threw it a hunnert times”. And if he planned it? THAT’S the guy you want on your horseshoe team. Phil shook his head, and continued.

  About a fourth of a mile up to the right was a clearing with a group of horses of various color and type, and all 13 horses noticed him as he came closer, watching him with emotionless eyes. The closest Phil had ever experienced a wild animal was seeing a coyote in the woods once, it slunk off after eying him for a second or two. And there was the multitude of deer over the years, but they never came close to him, most gunshotting away as soon as they caught his scent or saw him approach. So he kept his distance from the barbed wire fence that kept them from wandering, not knowing how to handle them if they approached anyway, but still respecting their beauty.

  He had a dog growing up, a black and tan cocker spaniel by the name of Lucy, named after the fiery character from the Peanuts cartoon. As he was an only child, he seemed to bond with the dog almost instantly when his mother lowered her down to the floor many years ago, and she became an almost sister to him. Many good times were had between the two. The dog would follow Phil around the house, wanted to be in the same room with him, whatever he was doing. He had many fond memories of Lucy, and grieved when she had to be put to sleep 2 years ago, as she suffered from horrible seizures in the end. He missed that dog, and was of a mind to get another dog when the time was right, just not right now.

  As he rounded the first s-curve in the road, he saw a sign saying “Canned peas and beans, knock on front door LOUD!”, written with black sharpie marker on a crooked piece of brown cardboard paper, attached to a wood stake that had been pounded into the ground. He smiled at the sign, as it reminded him of his mother’s meticulous work in her own garden. When he was younger and he couldn’t find her anywhere in the house, he would glance out the back door window and see her on hands and knees, weeding with a slow and steadiness, the same patience and commitment in everything that she did. Though it was not one of his favorite things (he preferred to watch his Saturday morning cartoons, Johnny Quest being his favorite), sometimes he would put on his old clothes and go back there, just to spend some time with her, the feeling that they both were accomplishing the same goal, whether it be weeding or watering or picking blackberries, both their hands red and scratched by the time they finished. This was reason enough for him to skip something that he loved to help someone that he loved more in her vigilant works in her garden.

  Mom was pretty simple in the long run, she wasn’t extravagant in her tastes, I can only remember one time when she ate in a fancy restaurant, and that was because I bought a gift certificate for the both of us to eat at Andante, which had been a fancy restaurant in the heart of downtown Petoskey years ago, and that was because she was celebrating her 50th birthday. He remembered how she whispered to him how they had TWO forks, one for the salad, and one for the main entrée. Phil had to admit, the whole meal was a bit overwhelming, as he was not used to eating so elegantly. She talked about that meal a few times over the years with fondness, and every time she did, there was a small feeling of satisfaction that Phil felt; he just wished that he had the money to take her there for a second meal. If he felt then what he felt now, he would have taken her there 10,000 times. Life is like that, you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone, thank you Cinderella.

  The image of his mother laid out in her casket flashed into his mind, and he thought the same thing that he usually did: I hate the fact that I chose an open-casket funeral. I would have preferred to remember her as she was in life, instead of seeing her heavily dusted face, drained of all the life and happiness she was known for. Last week he had pulled a good number of his mother’s photo albums out of the cabinet in the basement; his mother had them all labeled by date on the front of each, and they were stacked in that regard. As he examined the pictures, some as though they were taken yesterday, some dog-eared curled and sepia-hued with age, what really impressed him was the fact that there were very few BAD pictures of his mother. When he looked at his mother’s smile, or even when she had a simple, thoughtful look on her face, it made him wonder what was running through her mind at that time: was she worried about her garden, or the always-looming laundry, or paying the multitude of bills? He wanted to think that her life with Philip was enough to make her truly happy, and she never pined for any other man.

  She certainly wasn’t without suitors, that much was true. She was pretty, anyone would tell you that; yet she also had a quiet independence to her that Phil only realized later in life. It was as though she was saying ” You can’t accomplish anything that I can’t accomplish in life, can’t complete a task that is above me,” to anyone she met, in church or day-to-day. True, she was not as physical as a man, couldn’t chop firewood or drywall a room; during Philip’s early years that was a task that was solely done by Mr. Smith, their next door neighbor. After such an activity was completed, Mother would make up a gift basket, filled with canned vegetables and sometimes apples from the 2 stoic trees that stood back behind the pole building, sometimes a gift certificate to the local hardware store from which both Mr. Smith and Mrs. Smith would use, even though Mr. Smith did all the physical work. And when Mother asked him, he would always show up to help, perhaps understanding how the lack of a man to do these things could be a burden to her and Phil.

  She had gone out on two dates with Bill Bilson from church, and when she got home, Phil would ask her how things went, partly to make sure that she was happy, and partly to make sure she was treated well. She said that she had a good time, enjoyed his company, but in the end nothing came of their dates and Phil caught his mother longingly looking at one of his father’s old pictures the next day. He felt now, as he did then, that she had lost the only mate that she would ever love, and Phil once heard her tell a friend on the phone that it would almost feel like cheating on the memory of her now-passed husband by inviting someone else in his place.

  So her life was filled with taking care of her son, teaching him right from wrong, how to do simple domestic tasks as folding laundry properly, cooking the pecan pie that got rave reviews at the church potlucks. And he never complained about spending time with his mother when he could be out exploring, or watching a theatre movie, this was the bond that they would share. Even now his heart ached as that bond was gone, and the memories and stories would unravel as string from a spindle, as time wore on.

  As Phil crossed the corner of Beckon road and N. State road, he looked west upon a huge house that stood off in the woods, long winding driveway leading up to it. This was the house that his mother had offhandedly once said, “There is my dream house”, one day as they drove to the Sturgeon Bay beach at age 14. Every time after that, she would say the same line whenever they drove by it, and would give her son a sly wink when doing so. He would laugh, both knowing that they had neither the budget nor the free time for upkeep for a house so big, but it was always nice to dream; when a person stops dreaming, they have lost an important part of their existence, a line his mother used quite frequently during Philip’s life. As he studied the big house from the road now, he felt pangs of hate toward the house and its inhabitants, whoever they were. For this was something that Phil could never give his mother, and he would forever regret it; not being able to fulfill her dreams on his hand-to-mouth jobs and side work, not being able to give her a life where she would never worry about money again.

  Up a distance from the intersection of Beckon road, Phil spied a dead deer carcass in the ditch, its head rearing at a 45-degree angle from its body as though it was trying to escape it. He smelled the heavy scent of deca
y, and wondered what had gone through its mind as it was hit by the car or truck that had ended its life.

  When his mother had been diagnosed with cancer, Philip had hoped for the best. We live in the modern age of medicine after all, he thought, this can be fixed. But over time, sitting in the doctor’s office, with his mother’s small hand in his, he realized that he was to lose her from his life, that there was a helplessness that was to be. He prayed and prayed, in hopes that God would heal his mother, give her the vitality and strength of a 20-year-old again, but the more he prayed, the less energy she had.

  He would always remember the last conversation he had with his mother, on the day before she passed. There was a sickly sweet smell in the room that hid under her Jaipur perfume, and he realized now that it was the same smell he smelled from the deer in the ditch by the side of the road. There had been a lull in their conversation, and as his mother looked at him, a great beaming smile lit up on her face, as though she had seen the face of God. Philip asked her, “What are you