Mothers and Moments

Nothing would be better than a visit with her mother. It had to be today.

Goodness knows she could use a break.

Mother lived a couple of hours away, the kids would surely get on her nerves being cooped up in the car for that long. Six kids – one adult. Luckily, the road to Courtenay could be broken into sections, she thought. If I get them into the car early they could probably stay calm at least past the “Hump” and be too full to squawk about ice cream in Whiskey Creek. “It’s too early for ice cream,” she’d tell them, hoping that they’d forget that she’d said it when they returned home late the day after.

It was too cold for a spring swim at Parksville or Qualicum Beach, but she could let them out and blow off some steam for a bit in Qualicum. From there it was an hour’s run up the highway to Courtenay.

Courtenay. Her home. Where she was born, where her first two children were born. Courtenay was where the air smelled right, fresh, and not full of pulp and paper fumes from a mill. Where Jersey cows meandered the lush grassy fields of Sandwick, and made milk and butter taste just a little better. Where she felt safe and welcomed, pampered even, by her loving mother who adored her children.

She could see it in her mind; a happy trip along the Island Highway, a happy stop at Qualicum to stretch and play, the final part of the journey past Bowser, the huge shell mountain at Fanny Bay, through tiny Union Bay and finally Royston, the village that would tell her she was close, maybe ten minutes from the tiny home where her mother lived in Sandwick. She could smell the air, she could see the smiles on the children, she could hear the sing songs in the car, she could feel the hearty hugs all around.  It was going to be a happy trip worth taking.

“Boys in the back,” she said as they scrambled at, on, and around the 1954 Monarch. Back seats were big. Front seats were benches, plenty of room for the two girls and the driver. Seat belts were not an issue; space was an issue, in particular, the space one declared was “mine” was immediately susceptible to encroachment.

“You can’t touch this part of the seat,” “I get to sit here if I want,” “I want to sit by the window,” “You always get to sit by the window,” and so on.

“I just need to tune them out,” she thought, then suddenly found herself saying”Hush! Ssshhh!! Enough! Be good.”

It worked for a while. Mt. Arrowsmith watched over them from the right as they climbed the passage known locally as “the Hump”. Trouble began with a rustle, as subtle and isistant as the wind through the cedars as she motored through Cathedral Grove. Squabbling and poking and occasional yelps were coming from the back seat. Trouble was rearing its childish head, not lurking like “Cammie”, the legendary lake monster of Cameron Lake, known but unseen.  This trouble was in full display and rolling and wrestling in the seat behind her.

“Look at Cameron Lake. Did you know they say it is as deep as the mountain behind it is high?” Some discussion about lakes and depths from the older ones followed, then, ultimately, more poking and silliness as the car passed Little Qualicum Falls. She debated in her mind the idea of stopping, giving them a run up to the falls, poop them out a bit, but just as quickly rejected it. It would delay the trip and make it longer than planned.  Then they would be getting hungry, too.  She pressed down on the accelerator.

By Whiskey Creek the noise was getting distracting. Giggling, shrieking, story telling, wrestling, and general nonsense poured from the back seat. “At least the girls aren’t being silly,” she thought, “they seem to be pretty good at ignoring their brothers. Why do they have to be so silly, so noisy?” She concentrated on her driving and tried again to shut out the noise.

“Let’s play a game,” she said suddenly.

“What kind of game? OK. What? Stupid. I’m not stupid,” came the simultaneous reply, mostly from behind her.

“Watch the first number of the license plates of the cars going by. Let’s see if we can count all the way to “9”.

The road through to Coombs suddenly got very quiet on the other side . Despite the watchful gazes from the 12 peering eyes, some standing on the seat to look out the window, the first few cars passed and the number “1” was not in play. The game began to die.

“Look at the goats on the roof. Did you know the people who own those goats used to live near us?”

Shriek giggle giggle

Shriek giggle giggle

“Stop that! I’m trying to drive.”

Silence as everyone held their breath. Inevitably, as the boys began to make eye contact, the giggling returned, slowly but more surely as each powerful burst of air blasted past each set of quivering little boy lips.

Shriek giggle giggle

Shriek giggle giggle

What else could she do?

She needed to teach them a lesson. Start with the oldest – no – the two oldest.

“Joe. Bill. Get out.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Get out.”

For the first time since Bishop Avenue in Port Alberni they were quiet. All of them. She had their attention now, she needed to follow through.

“This road is highway 4. Walk straight down this road towards the water. When you get to the island highway turn left. Walk on the left side of the road and keep the water on your right. Keep walking on that road and you will come to Sandwick Road where Grandma lives.”

Every eye in the car was wide, every ear in the car was tuned to her voice, every mouth was silent. “Good,” she thought. “Impact.”

In her rear view mirror she could see her boys walking as she pulled away. She ignored the loud protests of the remaining boys in the back. “Not yet” she thought. ” They have to know I’m serious. Besides, it’s actually almost pleasant in here now.”

She allowed herself to be “convinced” by the budding lawyers in the car that she needed to double back and pick the boys up. The conversation lasted long enough for the boys to have walked more than a few blocks and were farther ahead that she had expected.

“Your brothers convinced me that I should come back to get you. Get in the car.”

She ignored the smirky looks on their faces, pretended to not hear the bravado, “We were okay, we knew how to find Grandma’s house.” She looked away and had to suppress a laugh when she caught the younger boys conspiratorial glances at their older sibs, and the brotherly smiles they shared.

She knew instantly that their version of this story, if any of them remembered it, would be vastly different from her own. No matter. What mattered is that they had shared a moment, the kind of moment that makes the bond of brothers stronger, more solid, even if none of them could explain why.

“That’s what mothers do,” she thought as she passed the oyster shell mountain at Fanny Bay, “we create moments, teachable moments.”

By the time the Monarch hit Union Bay the car was quiet. She was thinking about seeing her mother. The kids were probably wondering what was for lunch.

“I hope we have cake and berries,” said someone. The others dreamed of cake and berries.