It wasn’t until I mastered the sleep-over that I understood most people set their clocks to the actual time. My mother had her own time zones. Her bedroom alarm clock was set 20 minutes ahead. The bathroom about ten. And the kitchen five. Maybe it arose from the days when sleep eluded her. When a smile had to be painted on before it could be followed. When there were no extras to be found, not in heart, mind nor pocketbook, she created them herself on the faces of each clock.
The time changed here in France early this morning. Most of the clocks change themselves now. Our phones and iPads. Our computers. It’s 8:08 on my iPad. I glanced up at the screen saver on my computer and on full display was what could only be explained as my mother’s hand, 8:09.
It reminds me. She reminds me. Time means nothing. It’s what we do with the time. We get to decide.
It didn’t matter the season, my mother always chose to “spring ahead.” To give herself a head start when facing any challenge. Whenever I feel the stress of time, I reach into the pocket of 20s, 10s and 5s, that she gathered for us through the years, and I, just like those minutes, am saved.
Maybe it’s because I was brought up to listen for them. To watch. Even to feel the track. It sounds of train this morning, though I know it can’t be true. There are no trains that run through our neighborhood, not through the hills of the Montaiguet, here in the south of France.
There were no flashing lights on the line behind the statue of Big Ole that guarded the Main Street of Alexandria, MN. No barriers to block out the danger. But to cross over from neighborhood to town, you had to get over the tracks. I began watching for one, coming down the hill by Lord’s house, just as my mother taught me. There were no distractions of cell phones. No music. No photos to take. But there was more than enough to hold my attention. Geese droppings to navigate through from the true owners of the lake on the left, who hissed and chased, just in case you forgot. Someone fishing. Someone biking. A gentle honk and hand wave out a car window — followed by an extensive explanation of yes, I indeed have gotten this big and am able to walk to town all by myself. Jingled change in pockets to be twirled and dreamed over. Shoulders burning in the summer sun. Would Shari and Jan keep fighting? Would Cindy still be my friend if I couldn’t sleep over? Is it Barbie’s birthday? Will I dive off the high tower? Will I be stopped at the tracks, losing five to ten precious minutes of my summer vacation — I listened for the train. Ready, willing, excited even, at the possibility that I could yell out to goose, fisher, or any passerby, “T R A I N!!!!!!”
I never go walking without my phone now. Is it for safety? Maybe. It would be hard to argue that case though. Is it because I need to begin every sentence with, “I was listening to a podcast…” — possibly. I do watch my surroundings. I say hello to the birds. Bonjour the daily walkers. I paint the path. But I know I need reminding to take it all in. Even the voices in my head. To really listen. To really see.
I know the sounds I’m hearing this morning are construction. Roads being redone up the hill. But my heart leaps with youthful warnings to pay attention. Listen. It’s all rumbling by so fast. Not to be lost, but gathered in. I want to shout it out to everyone – look how big we’ve gotten — how far we’ve come! — but it all sounds like “Train!” I look both ways, and cross over to the beauty that lies ahead.
It was only an hour each weekday. After school. I’d get off the bus at around 3:30pm and wait. Two picture windows faced our driveway. Some days, I could be distracted by The Brady Bunch, but the majority of those 60 minutes before my mom came home from work was spent waiting against those windows.
They taught us at Washington Elementary not to touch the glass windows that lined our classroom, because it was the janitor who would have to clean the windows dailly. And we didn’t want to make his job harder, did we? But seeing how it was my job to clean the windows at home each Thursday afternoon with newspaper and Windex, I wasn’t that concerned. I fogged the glass with my breath. Drew smiley faces. Smeared them away. Blew again. Then sad faces. Erased and blew. Challenged myself to tic-tac-toe. Continuously smearing cheek and fingers across the glass. Waiting. And waiting.
The gravel road always gave sufficient warning. The sound of the tires popping at 4:37pm would tell me that my mom was about to arrive. I’d hoist my top above my waist and wipe the window. Race to the garage entry. Fling the door. And I was saved.
She never mentioned it — the streaked glass. But of course she must have known. It wasn’t like my t-shirt wipe gave a proper cleaning. But that’s who she was — the person who allowed me to be me. Never made fun of my silly antics. She saw me. And loved me.
I smiled each Thursday afternoon as I took last week’s Echo and wiped it across the pane. It sparkled clean along with my heart. A fresh start. All waiting’s worries were washed away.
I see it now. So clearly. I thought she was saving me, daily, and she did, but even more importantly, she gave me the ability to save myself. A gift I continue to use. I smile out my morning window, and I am saved.
