I got a solid "A" on this paper, with four "Excellant!" comments. The man likes human nature. What can I say?
We, as a society, generally use humor to get through many situations. These situations can range from the stress of writing the perfect essay, to a minor traffic collision, to an illness of a friend, and even to the death of a loved one. Steppenwolf once sang, �I can fly so high, I never wanna die.� But Barb, my mother�s best friend and my second mother, did. She died February 11, 1996, from cancer. I went to the hospital only once, right before she died. She had on a Winnie the Pooh baseball hate to cover her bald head. She smiled and held out her arms for a hug. I apprehensively walked over, bent down, and hugged her. She winced in pain. I stayed in the corner of her hospital room for the rest of the visit. I closed my eyes and let her and my mother talk. I did not want to remember her that way. Instead, I prefer the humorous memories, which made Barb�s death easier to bear.
Laughter is the only diversion that got me through Barb�s death. I remember her as a 260-pound Jewish woman in pink roller-skates. She would sail around the rink dancing to the Mexican Chicken Dance. Barb�s hair would be in a tight bun at the top of her head. Her arms would flap; her fingers would move as if they were the beak of a chicken; and she would clap three times. She would so this over and over until the music stopped. We always went to Skateland. We would skate around the rink until out feet were numb and we could no longer walk.
Mikki is Barb�s daughter. We first met when I was four years old and Mikki was only six months old. We grew up together and would spend almost every birthday at Skateland. We would eat cake and ice cream, open presents, play pool, request our favorite songs, and sail around the rink skating to them. On the way back from Skateland, Barb and my mother chattered in the front seat, while Mikki and I were listening to the radio blasting. The four of us sang the words �BORN TO BE WIIIIILD� at the top of our lungs. We laughed. Those were the only words we knew. The tears tolled down our faces from laughing so hard. Those tears and that laughter are what I remember. Every time I hear that song I turn the radio up and scream the words at the top of my lungs. For that brief moment, Barb is sitting next to me. Sometimes I feel if I sing loud enough, I can bring her back. I cannot bring her back, but I can remember.
When I was six years old, Barb told me she used to live in a tree house at the top of a palm tree. I had never seen her house, and her father played along with the story. She told me that her family needed special shoes in the shape of bird feet to climb the palm tree. I knew the house existed, but only because she told me so.
Many times Barb and Mikki would come over. Barb and my mother would spend the day cooking, while Mikki and I would eagerly watch. The smell of flour hung heavily in the air. The kitchen was a mess with various ingredients. Barb and my mother working around the tiny space all day, kneading the dough, rolling it out, and cutting it into thin strips. In a day or so it would be spinach pasta, but at that moment, it was a huge mess. Barb and my mother had flour fights. They would begin with my mother touching a single flour covered finger to Barb�s nose. Barb would then take three, flour covered fingers to my mother�s cheek. In no time at all, flour would be flying around the kitchen. Barb would be cackling; mom would be howling; and Mikki and I would be around the corner watching and giggling.
Later the house would be filled with the smell of home made apple pie. Barb never had the recipe. Eventually, she revealed to my mother and me the secret of her famous crust, Pillsbury frozen piecrust. She never let anyone see the box, and she never told anyone how she made it. That was out little secret. Everyone always love the piecrust. It was always so soft and flaky. The question most frequently asked when my mother would make the pie, no matter for whom the was made �How do you make this crust?� My mother and I would look at each other, giggle, and say it was a secret family recipe. To this day, when the question gets asked, Barb floats through my mind. All I can do is giggle.
February 12th Mikki came over. We were all very tired. We had yet to tell her about her mother. That was my mother�s job. The three of us sat on the soft, carpeted stairs. The words that were spoken are no longer present in my memory, but sitting there crying with Mikki, I wondered how she would continue on without her mother who I remember so well. Later that day, Mikki was sitting on our couch, I plopped down next to her and wrapped an arm around her. I started with, �Did you know you used to live in a tree house at the very top of a palm tree?� She was only two years old when I was told that story. She grinned and said I was too gullible. I smiled and said, �How about the time, I think it was after a day at Skateland, we were all going back to your house and �Born to Be Wild� came on the radio. You and I did not know all the words; we only knew �BOOOOOORRRN TO BE WIIIIIIIIILD.� She laughed as I sang the line as loud as I could. I reminded her about making pasta, about all those many times at Skateland, and of course, about the piecrust.
Remember those things are what made Barb�s death tolerable. Every time I remember a joke, or sing �Born to Be Wild,� I feel as though Barb is sitting next to me. The pain does not hurt as much, nor is it as deep as it would be without the laughter. I told Mikki that those were the memories about which I was someday going to write. Those were the recollections that would keep Barb�s memory alive. The cancer had been vicious to Barb. I was not going to remember the night at the hospital. I will, however, always remember the piecrust. I have not been to Skateland since Barb died, and every time my mother makes apple pie, we giggle about the piecrust. And still when �Born to Be Wild� comes on the radio, I crank up the volume and sing at the top of my lungs until my throat hurts.