Good morning, y’all. Me and Mulva watched an old movie last night, “Silkwood”, which was real good. It had a real funny joke in it about Indian (Native American) naming conventions for their children. The “Silkwood” joke was much funnier than the one Daddy used to tell about “Falling Rocks”. There would have been hell to pay if Daddy had told the “Silkwood” joke, so I guess the right thing was done all around.
When we left off our story, I am flying through the night, and I mean literally flying. I am leaving Asheville headed for home. I glanced at the speedometer and it was to the North of 95 mph. My astute observational skills realized getting locked up in North Carolina would just be the icing on the cake. I dialed it back to 65 and tried to control the molten cauldron of lava that was my brain.
Fortunately for all, Jackson was on the scene. He had met up with his daughter Mattie, made the transfer of the keys, including the all important garbage key, and visited a while with Mom before she drifted off. Jackson reported Mom’s repeated reference to her fuchsia blanket had diminished to about every third sentence. Jackson had explained to Mom they were going to take her to a rehab facility the next day and that she would be there to get her strength back. At first Mom related that she was happy to stay at Memorial Mission, that they were taking good care of her. Jackson explained that the hospital needed the bed for really sick people and that Mom was well enough to where she could go to a hospital that would build her up to the point of caring for herself again. Mom bought it. To clarify, that was everyone’s best wish, that Mom be able to care for herself and be happy doing it. Daddy would say the odds of that happening were about as good as hitting a hard four, but we hold out hope.
At this point, I’m going to interrupt the narration a bit to fill in a little more background about Jackson, I realize I skimped quite a bit on his profile page.
Jackson can do anything, I mean literally, anything. He played bass guitar and electric flute in a rock and roll band that opened for many of the big names back in the 70’s. He trained as an electrician, but he can do anything that needs to be done in the construction of a house. He owns a couple of hundred acres of land that back up to a national forest. The land had an old log cabin on it that Jackson took completely apart and re-chinked himself. The interior is a comfy modern getaway for folks who come to visit. Jackson has worked in stained glass, etched glass and other mediums to satisfy that artistic spirit that resides within him. He even does his own auto repair in his big old garage that houses his music studio on the second floor. He is truly a Renaissance man. Jackson is an outlier in our family, and I needed to point that out before going further. I suspect his success in life is directly proportional to the amount of time spent under Mom’s wing. He had the least.
To continue on with the main feature, I’m using the drive back home to clear my head and to catalog the events of the last three days. I’m making mental notes of calls I have to make, starting with my bail bondsman. I’m trying to piece together the events that transpired between Thanksgiving when Mom was ok, and New Years when she was near death. The actions of my sister and aunt are undecipherable. Charlotte did not visit Mom in the hospital while I was there. Maybe she sent the crazy Ann Wallace as her surrogate, who knows?
Finally, I roll into the driveway of TackyToo, and Mulva seems happy to see me. We visit for a while, and I tell Mulva I need to send an email to everyone while it’s still fresh in my mind. Driving always helps me cut through the clutter, and I wanted to get my thoughts down before I slept. I send the following email to Jackson, Edna, Charlotte and Maggie:
As I lay down to sleep the Grateful Dead’s song is rumbling in my brain. “What a long strange trip it’s been”.