Fat Girls and Lawn Chairs (26 page)

Panicked, I chased down every friend I could find, tied them to a chair, and forced them to listen to me read my piece. My
friends were all suitably supportive, but I knew in my heart that addressing a large crowd could be significantly different
from reading to two or three people at a time. The response could be more/or less/or hostile/or flatline.

It could (Goddess forbid) be difficult.

But I had given my word, so I sweated through the program (having discovered I was second to the last to perform), and finally
it was my turn to go backstage and hatch butterflies.

As I stood behind the curtain I remembered a conversation I had had earlier with a friend. She had just received permanent
Michigan custody of her father’s car and she had just driven it for the first time here in this state. Before his death her
father lived in California and both before and after his death she had driven his car in California—but suddenly, this evening
driving the car had been difficult. Her father became more dead. She was driving stolen property. I told her that there had
been a time when I had believed that grieving for someone was a one-time, get-it-over-with event and that after my mother’s
death I had been surprised to discover that over the years the experience changes, but it never really ends. There will always
be something to remind you that this significant person in your life is missing a significant event she or he should have
shared.

As I stood there behind the curtain I thought, “Of all the time you’ve been gone, Mom, this is the one night you really should
have been here. After all the anger and confusion you felt over the anger and confusion I wrote so bitterly about while you
were alive, it might amuse you to realize the things I write about now are actually funny. After all the concern you expressed
over the fact that I never seemed to have a sense of who I was or where I was going, it might reassure you to realize that
now—however late this is in my life—I am learning to hear and express my own voice. This is something you should have seen.”

I stepped out onto the stage, making some lame note of introduction and I felt the audience hesitate, catch the humor of my
remark and then laugh, and I remember thinking, “Well, we were right about that—this is NOTHING like reading to my friend
Annie over her kitchen table.”

And I stepped back and let my mother read.

C
HERYL
P
ECK
lives with her cat, Babycakes, in Three Rivers, Michigan, where she does not grow tomatoes and rarely sits in lawn chairs.
This is her first book. Cheryl originally self-published the book for her family and friends through a friend’s vermicom-posting
and publishing company. This way if the book didn’t sell, she could always use it for worm bedding.

*
Do not try this at home.

I write to be amusing. However, for the water-impaired: the number one rule in moving watercraft, whether it is an inner tube
or a cigarette boat is never, never, NEVER grab any stationary object while in a moving water vehicle. Never. If you have
any doubts, get in the front of Bob’s canoe and listen to his minute-by-minute instructions down the river. It will be quite
clear by the time you reach shore again.

Even clearer if you’ve gotten him wet.