The Best of Us
The school bus pulled up.
The black block letters read SEWANHAKA SCHOOL DISTRICT. It arrived, inch-perfect, slowly halting in front of each house in Franklin Square, Long Island. Brick houses would give way to taupe cement sidewalks and serve as a partition of green lawns. The door of the type A Blue Bird school bus would slowly open and sitting in the driver seat would be Adeline Schembre Arena.
A mother of four, Adeline drove the school bus while Paul, Michael, Barbara and Bruce walked to school every day. Her husband, Vinnie, left the house early, driving to Queens where he worked as a butcher.
She woke up at 5:00 am, cooked breakfast, sent Vinnie on his way and got each Arena kid ready for a busy day of scholastics and sports.
In 1960, Adeline was diagnosed with breast cancer. Later that year she underwent the first of two radical mastectomies, removing both of her breasts and all of the muscle tissue around them. Cancer, radiation and surgery continued to tear her apart, however, each day for the better part of 15 years a yellow school bus would slow to a halt at the edge of the taupe sidewalks of Franklin Square, Long Island and the door would open to Adeline Arena at the helm.
With discipline, toughness and a will to finish what she started, Adeline would insure that each child of the SEWANHAKA SCHOOL DISTRICT arrived at school, inch-perfect and ready for the day.
—
I’m the worst son.
What have I done? I cover my eyes with both hands and I peak back up at the eight-foot adobe wall where my mother is inconveniently sitting. There’s a damp spot on her cotton grey shirt right at the small of her back. This is important because she only wears cotton. I’ve been reminded on multiple occasions. Her weathered hands are laid flat on the top of the coral-colored wall and a Modelo Especial sits next to her, her lone companion in this Humpty Dupty adventure, sweating from the midday sun in Indio, California.
The majority of the group has scaled the wall and are casually drinking beers and chanting my Mom’s name while I look up like the asshole who has just propped up his 50-something Old Dear to the top of an eight-foot wall. The aforementioned wall is the only thing standing between us and our first #Momchella.
(Yea, you read that right — #Momchella. I believe it is somewhere in the Idiot’s Guide to the Universe under the chapter on Bad Sons and it reads: the act of taking one’s Mother to Coachella, a three-day music and arts festival in the middle of the desert. I also believe in the fine print it states pretty simply — not recommended.)
Not much phases Sandy Hannan.
I think she developed her sense of humor early on. Her maiden name is Sandy Jo Nutt. I know what you guys are thinking — it has to be really, really tough to have Jo as a middle name. It’s prime material for any aspiring comic from Kindergarten through, heck, 16th grade.
It took a real sense of humor for her to laugh when doctors told her that my sister Kelly was sick and that she would be disabled her whole life. She laughed and learned how to program a computer so that Kelly could talk with the rest of the kids in school.
Her sense of humor was tested when Kelly died at 13. She didn’t love that joke. But she laughed. She laughed knowing that 13 years is better than none. She laughed at what life continued to teach her. She laughed because it made her feel less alone. It made her feel like “if I can laugh through this, I can laugh through anything”.
The sun is beating down. The son is an idiot. Neko Case starts in 30 minutes and my Mom’s got a hankering to check out her set.
A pretty sizeable crowd has gathered around on the other side of the wall. Folks have stopped in awe of #Momchella. Everywhere Sandy goes she draws a crowd. People are drawn to her. Passerbys are enjoying cold beers and Sandy is having a laugh from the top of the wall. I’m running through scenarios in my head like newspaper headings in an old timey picture show — “Mom Breaks Hip Clambering Over Wall at #Momchella”, “#Momchella Gone Wrong”, “Lovely Mother Tears ACL While Stupid Son Looks on”.
She takes one last swig of the Modelo. Looks over her right shoulder and smiles at me.
She starts laughing and jumps.
—
The thrashing bass of Slipknot pounds in Veronica Martinez’s head phones as she sits at her desk calmly filing invoices, organizing calendars and maintaining a number of tasks that basically keep the club running.
Amidst the hustle and bustle of a soccer club, phones ringing, a president dashing in and out and a too-loud communications and digital department making racket directly into her left ear, Vero remains focused, a veritable Buddha in the middle of a battle field. Little known fact — Buddha also loved Slipknot.
School would let out in the early afternoon at Queen Ann Place Elementary in Mid-City Los Angeles. Vero and Guadalupe Martinez would grab their back packs and the whole rest of the neighborhood would follow suit, lollygagging to the place where everyone in the neighborhood hung out. The kids darted through the modest living room, flautas in hand, coloring books strewn about the floor, catch in the middle of the street pausing momentarily with each passing car and in the middle of it all was Maria De Jesus Martinez.
Maria left Guadalajara for Los Angeles in 1970. She was 25. She met her husband Jesus and started a family in Central LA. Maria was the foundation of the neighborhood. She takes care of everyone. Always has.
At 73, Maria has slowed down slightly. She dyes her black hair a light brown to hide the canas. Vero usually does the dying at home, but on special occasions she’ll drive her to the salon to get gussied up. Five years ago Maria and Jesus moved in with Vero. A daughterly act of adulation for always being the bedrock.
Vero quietly arrives at work each day. The same way she has for the last 12 years. She offers a smile and an enthusiastic, “good morning, dude!”. Once settled, she slips an ear bud into her right ear and presses play. Pedal guitar intro as bass beats in and the drums snap. Surrounded by musical chaos and the commotion of a professional soccer club Vero remains the foundation. She takes care of everyone. Always has.
—
“If not now, then when. If not now, then when. If not now, then when.” Jenny Blakley quietly repeated to herself placing boxes and accoutrements into the back of her Charcoal Honda Element.
Christmas was two days in the rearview mirror and a 17-hour, 37-minute drive from Seattle to Los Angeles sat in the foreground. Jenny had said most of her goodbyes. She drank cider out of 16 oz. cans, guffawed while flashing her toothy smile, talked soccer with now former co-workers in dimly-lit bars while gelid rain blanketed the grey skyline synonymous with Seattle winters.
Jenny had just made a big decision. She was leaving the comforts of home for Los Angeles. She had decided to toss her Emerald City fandom aside for a job with the LA Galaxy. Her friends chided her about her switching allegiances from one club to another, but in the back of her head she heard her Mom imploring the love of why not. “Why not try it?” her Mom would question, pushing her feathered dirty blonde hair out from in front of her face.
Karen Godley Jeffries, Jenny’s Mom, passed away from Pancreatic Cancer in 2008. By all accounts Mrs. Jeffries was eccentric, silly and quietly confident. Folks in Michigan, Anchorage, Alaska, Cabot, Arkansas and throughout Washington state called her a certifiable life enthusiast.
Standing by herself in the living room Jenny folded the blanket her Aunt had given her. The quilt was composed of a compilation of silly scrubs Mrs. Jeffries wore during her career as a care taker in nursing homes throughout the country. Our myths and memories are all sewn into our shadows.
Jenny placed the blanket in the backseat. She sat at the wheel, blanket in tow. She caught a glimpse of herself in the rear view mirror — eccentric, silly and quietly confident. She turned the key on the ignition. If not now, then when.
