A MOM'S STORY        

            In l964, my husband and I and our four boys, Michael, Christopher, James and John (Jackie) moved from Pennsylvania to North Carolina. My husband was in the Marine Corps stationed at Camp Lejeune.  It was quite a change for me, a coal miners daughter, to be transplanted to tobacco fields.           
            We adjusted to the change quite rapidly.  We became a part of the military family and days were filled with the activity of four pre-schoolers.
            Life was "normal".  We did the things every family did.  The boys began school,  played  in little league sports, and became boy scouts.
            My husband's overseas tours came and went.  The boys and I continued to carry on everyday "normal" activities.  I remember doing household renovations while daddy was gone.  He was always so glad to be home, no matter what had been done, it was never disapproved.
            During his last overseas tour, my husband realized just how much his family had grown during our years in North Carolina. When my oldest son, Michael, answered the phone one evening, my husband was taken aback by the sound of a man's voice. 
            He asked with a stern voice, "Who's this."
            Michael laughed and said, "It's me, Dad."  
           With growing up came the "normal" demands.  What time must I be home, when do I get my drivers license, when can I date, why can't I, my friends do, were just some of the dialog we began hearing.              
           We were blessed by not having any ''major" problems with the boys.  Michael graduated from high school and entered the work force.  Chris was now in the11th grade, Jimmy in the 9th and Jackie in the 7th.  Michael was the assistant manager at a local theater.  He usually worked the evening shift.  Afterward it was not uncommon that he would meet with some of his friends and they would spend what was left of the evening together.  It meant that many nights he wouldn't get home until the early morning hours. We had a bit of a problem with it from the start, but resigned ourselves to the fact that the boys were growing into adulthood.  Only when my sleep had been broken, would I really get impatient with the hours Michael kept.            
            On Saturday, February 4, l978, things would never be "normal" for us again.  I can remember the details as vividly today, as I did that night.  At about 3:00 in the morning the ringing of the doorbell awakened me.  The dog began barking wildly.  As I passed Michael's bedroom I realized he wasn't home.  Thinking he had forgotten his key, I was prepared to lecture him on responsibility and the disturbing of my night's sleep.  I was not prepared for the visitor I saw standing on my porch.
            Seeing a sheriff's deputy, I called to my husband.  We quieted the dog and opened the door                      
           After asking our family name, the deputy said, "Do you have a son named Michael?" 
            When I responded, "Yes."  
            He said, "There's been an accident.  He's been taken to the hospital."   
           Details of the accident were sketchy.  I do remember asking if Michael had been hit or if he hit someone.  I was told it looked like Michael was the victim, but the investigation was still on going.            
           We awoke the boys and left for the hospital.  We were detained outside the emergency room.  Michael was unconscious.  I called the base chaplain so Michael could be anointed by the church.  When we finally got in to see him, I could not believe how battered he was.  I held his hand and told him to hang in there.  My next decision still haunts me.  In an effort to spare my surviving sons the vision of their brother in such a  condition, I did not let them see him.  I robbed them of their last chance to see their brother alive.
            Michael was moved to the intensive care ward.  We waited.  The chaplain joined us.  After speaking with the doctor, the chaplain urged us to leave for awhile.  We went to morning Mass and had to pass the scene of the accident.  Until today I cannot go through that intersection of town without seeing my Michael there.  When we returned to the hospital, the chaplain was waiting for us.  We sat in a small waiting room reciting our rosary.  At about 10:30 a.m., the doctor come over to us.  He said, "Mike's gone."  They did everything they could, but survival was not to be.
         Making the funeral arrangement was a family endeavor.  With the guidance of the chaplain, we went through the motions. We had made no provisions for death for ourselves, let alone for one of the children.
            That was "abnormal".  Parents are supposed to die before the children! 
            The afternoon paper carried a picture of the accident on the front page.  " Jeep-Mustang collide, drivers injured,” screamed the caption.  The other driver was charged with driving under the influence and no operators license.  Witnesses later told police the other driver had run a red light.  We had become a statistic.  We were the victims of another drunk driving accident.
            When we viewed the body on Sunday morning, we decided to close the casket to the public. The boys were a part of all the decisions that were made.  Because Mike sustained so many head injuries, his head had to be shaved.  Even with the help of a wig, he was just not the Mike everyone knew.  Jimmy felt compelled to give his brother all his graduation mementos.  Mike had been a bi-centennial graduate and was so proud of that fact.  He once said to me, "Just think, Mom, there'll never be another class as special as this one."  He was especially taken with the tall ships in Boston Harbor.  I guess all that made a real impression on Jimmy, because he slipped Mike's key and tassel into his breast pocket before we closed the casket.
            The day of the funeral was overwhelming in many ways.  It was so painful watching Mike's friends, beautiful, vital young men, weeping openly as they raised his casket and carried it into the church.  The presence of a church filled to capacity with such love moved us deeply.  We always thought of ourselves as little people, since we moved in no social circles.  We had only ourselves.  All other members of our family lived in other states.
             I would never have believed so many people cared.
            The procession of cars to the cemetery was endless.  One young man was even bundled onto his motorcycle.  We never knew how much Mike was loved and the physical out pouring gave us a great deal of comfort.
            It is now 25 years after the fact.  The pain never leaves us.  We have learned to cope with it.             
            I would like to share some of the wonders we have experienced after these dark, dark, days.  Rainbows do follow the storms of life.  It seems the brightest appear after the worst of storms, but you must look up to see them.  Mike's spirit never leaves us and we still find joy in the bittersweet memories.
            Many things have changed.  My husband and I are now alone.  He continues at his job, and I continue to try to get in touch with some latent creativity.  The boys are all now married and have moved away from home.  We have been blessed with seven grandchildren.  The first being a little girl, followed by three boys, one of which was a special little preemie (2lb. 9oz.) who continues to thrive and amaze and please us all. (Since this writing another granddaughter and grandson has joined the fold.)
            As a part of my keeping "busy" I did two things I turned to doll-making and playing with clothespins.  Isn't that what every "middle-aged" woman does, who's left to her own devices?  Both avenues have brought me closer to Mike's spirit and continue to comfort me.  I have to chuckle sometimes when I find myself seeing results I could never have imagined. 
            Always having been a person who dabbled in crafts and finding enjoyment in what I did, I turned to that outlet to distract my mind.

                         

             My first creations were four little rag dolls.  Playing off my sons names, Michael Joseph became Mickie Jo.  Likewise, the other boys, Christopher, James and John (Jackie)  became Chrissy Jo, Jamie Jo and Jackie Jo.  Once created, I put the dolls aside thinking one day the dolls would go to my son’s daughters or wives.  Mickie Jo would remain with  me.
             The thought then occurred to me that Michael's doll could fill a very special purpose.  As Michael matured, he often said,  "One day, Mom, I'm going to be in the White House."
            "Of course, it can happen if you are willing to work for it,” I responded
            My husband's father had been a local councilman in Pennsylvania and Michael always thought that was pretty special.  I now believed, I can still make Michael's dream come true.  I can send him in spirit, through this doll to the White House.  The idea was so overwhelming, I could hardly contain myself.  I didn't know how it would happen, but I knew it would.
            Setting the dolls and the idea aside for the time being, I moved on to the creation of my clothespin characters.  These I am convinced are my son's legacy to me.  The pin we used in the act of cleansing (putting clean clothes on the line) became my final cleansing of my sorrow.   I continue to be amazed at the ease with which these little people are born one after another.  Once I have a mental image, which I contribute to my son's inspiration, my fingers seem to know exactly what to do to make the character appear.
            From these characters two important things happened.  I realized my first creations, two little children for each month of the year, had a story to tell.  Encouraged by a wonderful gentleman who passed through my life, I took my children into the local school systems.
             Using them as a tool, we discussed issues of right and wrong and acceptable and unacceptable behavior.  We touched on setting and achieving goals, ecology and even the importance of traditions.   The children were most receptive to my idea and some of the feed-back was most enlightening.
            As my family of characters grew, encouraged by a sister I have, living in Virginia, I had an opportunity to participate in the National Arts and Crafts Extravaganza in Washington, DC.  There I met a wonderful old gentleman, Robert George.  This was no ordinary man.  He was the Presidential Santa Claus.  Like all believing children, I took my heart's desire to him.  I explained Michael's dream and how he could perhaps be instrumental in bringing it to fruition.  He said, with a wink and a tear,  "Let me see what I can do."
            Imagine my elation, when a week later I received a phone call from Santa Claus.
            "I have received clearance from the White House, send me your doll," he said.  
             I was speechless!  Michael was going to the White House!          
            As I carefully packed the doll, tears of joy spilled from my eyes.  I enclosed a letter to First Lady Barbara Bush giving an account of the importance of this happening. I also told her the doll could be disposed of at her discretion.
             Once Mike, in spirit, had been to the White House, the doll could be given to a hospitalized or needy child.
            On or about December 18, l989, I received a letter with a return address, THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, DC.  I almost could not contain my wanting to tear it open.  With trembling hands I carried my prize into the house, and very carefully slit the envelope and removed its contents.  A letter from the First Lady unfolded.  Not only had she received Mickie Jo, she was going to keep him in the White House.  This year for his birthday, December 22, Mike would have his goal.  Tears welled in my eyes.  This ordinary Mom had achieved a dream for her son.  There IS a Santa Claus and dreams do come true!
            The blues still set in from time to time, but faith sustains us and the enduring presence of Michael remains with us all.  Out of the depths of my agony I have experienced an ecstasy that defies words.  A tragedy will remain a tragedy if we don't learn and grow from it! 
                                                 

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