Golden Days

“Nina Mae knew Elvis!” Tara winked at her younger sister in the back seat and resumed her sing-song chant.  She drew out the long “i” in Nina mimicking the Mississippi twang of the tour guide at Elvis’ boyhood home during a road trip the three of us made to Tupelo, Mississippi earlier in the summer. 

“Coulda see’d  ‘im any time I wanted to,” Brynnan took up the refrain. 

“But I didn’t wanna see ‘im!” they said in unison before dissolving into laughter, “He wadn’t that big back then."

The girls weren’t making fun of Nina Mae, they mocked my fifty-year crush on Elvis Presley, thinking it hilariously incomprehensible their mother could have amorous fantasies at all, much less for the King of Rock and Roll.  I feigned offense, but in truth the camaraderie between my daughters brought me joy. I knew their teasing was an initiation of sorts for Brynnan. Over the summer, Brynnan, nineteen years her sister’s junior, had graduated from little sister to sustaining member of the sisterhood.


We were on our way to the beach. It was our last opportunity for a girl's trip before Brynnan returned to college. I remember thinking I really didn't have the time to be gone for a whole week. I wouldn't have resisted  had I known it would be the last time the three of us, my two daughters Tara, Brynnan and I, would be together. 

We traveled two-lane blacktops that wind through the prairies of west Alabama before continuing south over the Mobile-Tensaw river delta and on to sand and scrubs oaks of the coastal plain.  Brynnan taught us sorority songs.  Tara told stories that began, “Hey, Mom! Remember when we. . .” 

“Let’s go by the red church!” Brynnan interjected. 

“Yeah, but this time, let’s forego the artistry,” Tara laughed. 

Tara referred to the photo stop she and I made one summer at the wood-frame Episcopal church that was built by slaves and stained red with tobacco juice near the small Alabama town of Gallion. In the name of creativity, we sat on the grass between the cemetery tombstones and balanced cameras on our knees. We rolled to our stomachs, leaned on our elbows, and even lay on our backs. Unfortunately, shots from interesting angles were not all we captured.  For days, both of us suffered itching misery from head-to-toe red bug bites, commonly known in other parts of the world as chiggers.  Brynnan loved to hear the story, thinking our self-imposed suffering humorous.  She wanted to see the church. I suspect she wanted become part of the memories.

An impromptu lunch at Brynnan’s request at a “cute” restaurant in Tuscaloosa and Tara’s more-frequent-than-usual stops necessitated by her pregnancy had seriously undermined my intended travel schedule. Determined to arrive in Gulf Shores before dark and thinking it best to stay on the road and take the shortest route possible, I refused.   At Tara's continued urging, I relented. I’m glad I did, even if I did have to drive two miles before I found a place to turn around. 

Back on the road after our detour, as we approached the Baldwin County line, Tara asked, “Mom, would it be alright if we drove over the Bay?”  She wanted to take the long way around over Mobile Bay, through Spanish Fort, Daphne, Fairhope, and down well-remembered, much loved country back roads to the beach.   It had been years since she visited the places of her childhood.

I formulated all the reasons to decline. Foremost was the fact our four hour trip had stretched to seven, and nightfall was approaching. Instead of saying no, I heard myself answer, “Sure, why not.” I still wonder where those words came from. Maybe it was something in Tara’s voice that made me acquiesce, or maybe it was a moment of grace.  An inner sense said, “Something important is happening."

We drove onto the bridge that spans Mobile Bay. Golden rays washed haze from the heat of the day and played on the emerald green shoreline.  I turned off the radio and slowed the car to the minimum allowable speed.  No one spoke. Quiet permeated the air. Time slowed and assumed a poignant quality. Each color, intensified by the glow of day’s end, competed for admiration. Silver-blue floated on the surface of the water and pushed green away until morning. A shaft of light from the setting sun kissed the peaks of tiny waves, making them sparkle, each in its own time. Pink brushed the horizon where waters from the river delta mingle to meander their way to the Gulf of Mexico.  I knew Tara reminisced about growing up on the Eastern Shore of Mobile Bay.  Neither of us could go back without wondering why we ever left. I felt a twinge of sadness, the kind you feel at the edge of evening when summer is coming to an end.

Tara honored the twilight performance with her attention and her silence. She gazed over the water with a reverence reserved for the sacred.  It was as if she wanted to capture the moment to savor for eternity.  I think our souls know things our minds don’t.

That week at the beach, we played.  We ate anything and everything we wanted.  Most of all we talked of the fun we would have with a new baby girl.  The doctors first said the child was male. Later tests proved them mistaken.  I thanked God that Tara would know the blessing of a daughter.

Powerful forces were at work that day on the way to the beach. When I resented interruptions to my agenda, something whispered, “Don’t miss this.” 

I have come to realize--spontaneity is the mother of memories. Had I not released control of the day to receive the gifts of the moment, I would have only regret. After Tara died, when I thought of how perilously close I had come to denying those last graced moments, I couldn't help but wonder--how many times have I been so focused on the task at hand that I missed the blessing of the day?  How many times have angels come near while I looked the other way? 

Reflections: 

"Each day comes bearing its own gifts.  Untie the ribbons.” ~Ruth Ann Schabacker 


Psalm 18:24 This is the day the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it.


Prayer: 

“Normal day, let me be aware of the treasure you are.  Let me learn from you, love you, bless you before you depart.  Let me not pass you by in quest of some rare and perfect tomorrow.  Let me hold you while I may, for it may not always be so.  One day I shall dig my nails into the earth, or bury my face in the pillow, or stretch myself taut, or raise my hands to the sky and want, more than all the world, your return.”~Mary Jean Iron

--Do I have a treasured memory that I wouldn’t have had I not stopped to savor the moment?

--Am I living in the present? Or am I putting off "living," waiting for the "right" time?

--How do I feel about interruptions that encroach upon my day? Am I open to the possibility they may be blessed moments from God?


--Have I felt a quiet urge to do something I wasn't planning to do?  Where did it come from? How did I respond? What happened?