We No Longer Take Bad Checks

Saturday, June 26, 2004

Mom stopped in to see the house, stay a few days, and generally do things that mothers do when they come to town and see their son. We had dinner plans with my brother for Saturday night, but Saturday morning was operating without any specific agenda. I started in on the chores while Mom lounged on the back porch.

Like most visitors to the new house, Mom was immediately trapped by my screen porch … it’s like a Venus Fly Trap with a ceiling fan, drawing people into it’s shady and comfortable snare. My Mom enjoyed the irony of the son doing chores without provocation while she lounged about reading Get Fuzzy cartoons.

Eventually the extreme warmth of the sun and a lack of fuel for the weed trimmer made me think twice about mowing. Keeping with a long-held Richardson Saturday tradition, Mom and I loaded up the truck and headed to the dump.

Well, it’s not exactly the same tradition. They don’t call it the “dump” any more … it’s now a recycling center. The truck isn’t my grandfather’s old 1960′s Ford 3-speed manual with a broken AM radio … it’s my 1994 Chevy 1500 4-speed automatic with a broken FM radio. Instead of taking the household garbage to the Wayne County “dump” in Rosewood, North Carolina, Mom and I are taking a big pile of cardboard to the Walton County Recycling Center in Monroe, Georgia.

Mom and I were talking about family traditions on the way to Monroe, how she missed the Saturday routine of working around the house with the family each weekend. Weekdays in our house meant soccer for Todd, work & travel for Dad, teaching & night school for Mom, band practice for Brian, and whatever particular schedule my sister Alice had decided to create for herself.

Life is a bit different now. Dad lives in South Carolina now that my parents are divorced. Mom lives along in New Bern, keeping the house they bought after my brother left for college. My sister Alice lives in a group home, requiring constant attention for her autism and mental retardation. Todd and I are both married, living near Atlanta but not necessarily close to each other.

We pull into the recycling center, a covered area set in front of a series of dumpsites. The sign on the office reads “We no longer accept bad checks”, a statement that makes my Mom and I both wonder if Walton County ever had a policy that allowed them to accept bad checks. We dump the cardboard and head for home, opting to roll down the truck windows instead of using the truck’s air conditioner. Mom thinks that traditions like Saturday trips to the dump in old work trucks require windows to be rolled down, enjoying the breeze as the trees pass her by.

Honestly, we had to cut off the air because the fan cut out … but that last bit about traditions sounded a lot more romantic. I really need to replace that relay.

I can understand why something as simple as a trip to the dump makes my Mom happy. Even though my dump is an environmentally friendly recycling center, and my truck has a newer radio that is just as broken as the old truck’s radio, the pattern and routine of Saturday chores makes her feel that I am developing something akin to a stable life. It may take some time for Suzan and I to actually get life under control and develop a pattern around our new house, but I think we’re off to a good start.

Mom and I get home right after Suzan returns from the gym, a new part of my wife’s Saturday routine. We take my mom to Where The Ribs Are, another part of our Saturday routine that didn’t exist in the old Richardson household. The folks at our corner barbecue restaurant would be disappointed if we didn’t try to keep some sort of weekend routine, and so would my Mom.

Damn … this means I have to mow the yard on Sunday. Stupid chores.