Welcome to The VERB!

In the film Christmas Vacation, the final scene shows the lead character, Clark, standing on his snow-covered lawn, looking up at the moon. He exhales, then whispers, "I did it." He's referring to the family Christmas he'd always wanted to host in his home. And though things didn't turn out as idyllic as he imagined, he pulled it off.

I recently had a similar moment. But it began a little over two decades ago when I was heavy with child.

Long past my so-called due date, I decided to take an evening stroll around the neighborhood to give my body a kickstart. Hubby tied my sneakers because at that point I couldn't see my feet, let alone reach them. I left the house and waddled up the drive, but I'd barely made it to the next mailbox before I realized I had company. A pack of dogs surrounded me. Big dogs, small dogs, long dogs, short dogs. Know what they were doing? Howling.

I don't know where these dogs came from; had never seen so many in the neighborhood before. They weren't vicious or threatening in any way, but every step I took, they were right there with me. Howling. Almost as if they were ... protecting me. Eventually I turned back toward home, afraid of tripping and flailing about on the road like a beached whale until some good-hearted soul came along and helped me up. The assorted mongrels escorted me all the way to my front door, still howling, and even hung out on the lawn for a while after I went inside. The next day, I went into labor. Did the dogs know?

I haven't forgotten that weird incident, obviously, and have always seen it as a sign of things to come. Throughout the nine months of my pregnancy, I read every baby book I could get my hands on, so I thought I knew what to expect when I became a mom. I had no idea. Suddenly I was the protector of another human being, and my senses sharpened to a fine point. I worried not just about the basic things--food, clothing and shelter--but the things not easily measured. Is he happy? Does he feel safe and secure? Loved? What if he falls down the stairs? What if those tubes in his ears don't stop the infections? What if some pervert steals him when I turn my head? What if he's bullied at school? What if he fails a grade? What if he contracts a serious disease or breaks a bone when he swings on those trees like a yardape? What if his girlfriend breaks his heart? What if he wrecks the cars or worse, hits someone? What if ...? What if ...?

You wouldn't know it if you saw me, but inside I am constantly on Mother Alert, figuratively circling my son and, if need be, howling at the moon. Over the years, I've often thought, If I ever get this boy to 21, I can then relax. At 21, he officially becomes a legal adult. He'll take over the reins of his life and I won't have to worry anymore. So when we gathered around his party table a few weeks ago, and I watched him blow out 21 candles on his Oreo Blizzard birthday cake, I let out a deep breath and whispered, "I did it."

And then that Mother voice spoke up and said, Do you realize he can now buy alcoholic beverages?

HORN-TOOTIN' TIME
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Elizabeth Guy
Editor

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This issue 
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GO WEST
Indian Summer