Because My Mom Didn't Teach Me To Make Good Choices

In honor of Mother's Day, since I've already helped you with your shopping, I thought I would tell you a story about my own Mother, Sandra Kaye.  Or, more accurately, a story about an adventure that she and I had one balmy Tennessee evening.

You first must understand that Sandra Kaye was not your typical Mom, and I was not your typical teenager.  We were kind of like a Hot Mess Duo, and did most everything together.  Only I was the responsible, rational one, and Mom was the spazzy, fun one.  For example, when we traveled together, I was in charge of reading the map and navigation.  Mom was in charge of snacks.

The year was sometime in the early to mid-nineties.  I don't know exactly when, because thankfully I've blocked out much of my childhood as a result of the PTSD I developed from being raised on a farm by the nutjobs who were my parents.  But it was probably around 1994, if I was guessing, because I was a couple of years into high school.  My hometown has a huge cemetery on the edge of town--acres and acres of big, old, moldy, crumbling monuments, dating all the way back to before the Civil War.  Before the War, the area was called Cemetery Hill, but because it was the highest spot with the best views in town, it was used as a fort during the War, and hence was renamed Fort Hill Cemetery after.  It has about twelve thousand graves in it, and I can tell you first hand that it is creepy as fuck, especially at night.  I drove through the cemetery twice most weekdays because it was the most direct route from my house to my high school, and passed by it most other days because it was on the way to my Dad's work (he worked seven days a week).  However, I'd never really spent much time in there because, as I said, CREEPY.  AS.  FUCK.

So one afternoon, my Mom and I were bored and trying to figure out something to do.  She and I being bored together never ended well, but we hadn't killed anybody yet, so all was okay.  I mentioned that my on-off  boyfriend (who from here on out we shall refer to as "Asshat") had gotten arrested again and that I thought he was spending the weekend doing his Community Service hours by weed-eating the cemetery.  (Yeah, I really dated some winners in my day.  You know you're headed in the right direction in life if your high school boyfriend already has a rap sheet.  I'd also like to ad that, at least at this point in time, my parents liked this guy.  I mean, he had only stolen a car.  It wasn't like he had murdered somebody.  And they liked his parents, so I guess that made it okay for me to date a drug-dealing car thief, because you do not want your only daughter dating a guy with asshole parents!)  Anyway, because we lived in Cleveland, Tennessee, and there was absolutely nothing to do, Mom suggested we cruise on up to the cemetery and see if we saw Asshat.  Then we could laugh at him for being stupid enough to get arrested.  I said sure, and we rolled out in my Mom's super sexy green Ford Aerostar minivan and headed for the cemetery.

(I told you-- SEXY.  Only ours had running boards.  This is just a random Internet photo, not our van.)


When we got to the cemetery, we started driving through its winding gravel roads.  As I said, the cemetery is huge, and the size of the monuments isn't regulated, so there are statues and mausoleums and all sorts of crazy shit in there.  We figured we'd drive around, find Asshat (likely propped up against a tree, getting high), say, "Way to go on the community service, dicksmack," then be on our way.  Which is probably what would have happened if we'd ever found him.  Or if Mom hadn't turned a corner too sharp in the minivan and gotten the van's running board hung on a tombstone.

Now Mom was usually a fairly decent driver, but this was jacked.  We couldn't go backward.  We couldn't go forward.  The stone was somehow shoved up kind of between where the running board was attached to the van.  Mom and I didn't know shit about cars, and had no idea what we needed to do to get unstuck (Dad covered all the basics with me-- how to change your oil, fix a flat-- but he never taught me how to remove the van from a rogue grave marker.  He probably should have thought of that because he knew the kind of luck I have. )

Now keep in mind that this was before the majority of the population had cell phones, ourselves included.  And we hadn't seen a single person the whole time we had been in the cemetery, and where we were stuck couldn't be seen from any of the main roads.  Under normal circumstances, Mom and I were badasses, so at first we were fine, just stumped about what we were going to do to get home.

And then it started to get dark.  Quickly.  So much for the badassery. 

I will tell you-- most of the time, I think cemeteries are pretty cool.  When we travel, I love to stop at old cemeteries and wander around, reading the names and dates on the stones and imagining what the people buried there must have been like.  It's kind of peaceful and bittersweet.  Unfortunately, it feels completely different when you are trapped against your will in a cemetery at nightfall and (due to your slightly overactive imagination not helped by your insane mother and her likewise slightly overactive imagination) convinced yourself that OBVIOUSLY THE DEAD GUY BURIED BENEATH THAT MARKER IS OUT TO GET YOU AND WHAT IF IT ISN'T HIS HEADSTONE YOU ARE HUNG ON AT ALL BUT WHAT IF HE REACHED UP FROM BEYOND THE  GRAVE AND IS LITERALLY CLENCHING THE AXLE OF THE FUCKING VAN?  Somebody was about to crawl out from under that van and drag us back to hell.  You could just feel it.  Chaos ensued.

This is where I would tell the end of the story, but I swear I do not remember it.  I do not have the slightest memory of what we did, or how we got out of that cemetery.  I do not know if we were assaulted by a spirit.  I do not know if somebody came by and helped us get unstuck.  I do not know if my Dad organized a search party once he got home and found us missing (probably not-- he probably would have been like "THANK GOD IT'LL BE QUIET FOR A CHANGE AND I CAN WORK ON MY AIRPLANE IN PEACE.  Hells bells and damn skippy!")  Maybe something so horrible happened to us there that my memory locked it away just so I could survive my life.  Or maybe we just managed to get unstuck and then went and got frozen yogurt and watched a movie.  I really don't know.  I could freaked out, slipped and hit my head on another gravestone, and lost an entire chunk of my past.  I HAVE NO FUCKING CLUE.  But if I did, at least the getting stuck in the cemetery with Mom part is still there.  And what a story that will be for my grand kids someday.

Happy Mother's Day, Special K.