Objects of His Affection

Chapter One The Restlessness Begins Can you tell me where Martha Amanda Ward Smith is buried?" Had I ever spoken her whole name out loud? "Who?" "She's my mother; she was buried here in 1961. Martha Ward Smith." The attendant came back with a map on which he'd circled her grave and marked it with a yellow highlighter. I walked to the car feeling as if I'd just come from AAA with a map to a distant destination. How tacky: a map to my mother's grave. My eyes were already damp, my heart pregnant with embarrassment and anticipation. Within two minutes, our car arrived at the designated spot. My wife, Darlene, and I walked to her grave. With my arm around Darlene, I looked down at the matured green grass. I eyed the dates of the marker: September 10, 1923-October 10, 1961. What a short life -- barely thirty-eight years. Stunned by the math, I said, "Honey, she's been dead longer than she lived." By then, I was leaning on Darlene, my knees buckling beneath me. This was the first time I'd been to Mom's grave since the day we buried her. My mind drifted back to a day thirty-nine years ago. It had been a crisp, fall day in Graham, North Carolina. I rode my bike home from school as fast as I could with the hope of catching some big bream or maybe a bass or two out of Johnson's Pond about a half a mile from our home. I remember thinking it strange that my mother's car wasn't in the driveway. But it was Friday -- the day Mom usually got her hair done in Greensboro -- so I figured that maybe she'd stayed a little longer to visit friends. With a handful of cookies and a milk mustache, I grabbed my Zebco 33 Spinner and made a dash for my favorite fishing hole. Within twenty minutes my rod bent double under the weight of some hungry aquatic creature. It felt huge! With my heart pumping, I had visions of a ten-pound bass, while simply hoping it wasn't one of those ugly snapping turtles that had taken up residence in our neighborhood pond. After a hearty struggle, my afternoon catch relented and surfaced. I had caught the biggest catfish of my life. I didn't even know there were catfish in Johnson's Pond. Escaping harm from my whiskered friend's barbs, I unhooked him and ran a stick through his gills so I could take him home and show the spoils of my afternoon adventure to Mom. But as I got closer to the house with my rod in one hand and my slimy, big fish in the other, I could see that Mom's 1960 white Rambler American still wasn't in the driveway. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Mrs. Peters walking across her yard into ours. She was our pastor's wife, and the church's manse was just across the street from us. She didn't look her normal cheerful self. "Scotty, something bad has happened today."Immediately -- I don't know why -- I asked, "Is it Mom? Is she OK?""No, Scotty, she's not. Your mother was killed in a car wreck late this morning as she was driving home from Greensboro. I am so sorry. Why don't you come on home with me?" How does an eleven-year-old absorb such news? I remember the feeling of shock. I couldn't cry. I didn't want to ask questions. I just went numb. Before long, my only sibling, Moose (legally Steve, but nicknamed after the Archie's comic-book character since the eighth grade), came to the Peters' home after junior varsity football practice. Though as close as sixth grade and ninth grade brothers can be, we just kind of looked at each other. No tears, no words; we just sat there in silent aloneness. The sun went down, and Mrs. Peters made us supper whileSmith, Scotty is the author of 'Objects of His Affection ' with ISBN 9781582295954 and ISBN 1582295956.