Holding my Mother's Hand

I sometimes miss the days when I had to reach up to take my mother’s hand. She would wrap me in layers of winter clothing so deep that I could barely bounce along, let alone walk. My face would feel stiff from the cold while I sweat beneath my coat.

We would walk along at a steady pace – me taking two steps to her one. The great, old, towering storefronts would radiate the cold and my nose would run. My only respite would come when we stopped at the intersections to wait for the light to change. There I would be sheltered on the left by the skirt of my mother’s dress and all around by a great fortress of the legs of the other adults waiting for permission to charge to the other side.

While we stood there waiting for the children to catch their breath, I could hear the muffled sound of the great herd of cars – three lanes across and flowing south like a sea of bison. Through the “gaps in the adult trees” I could see red cars, black cars, white cars, yellow cars, beige cars, and the occasional two-tone pink and grays.

As we waited and waited – sometimes for a hundred years – my mother relaxed her grip on my hand, but never let go. I could smell the cold cloth of the coats around me, cough drops, nicotine, and the varied pleasant fragrances that distinguished the older women from the younger.

Then the scramble bell would sound the alarm and the sea of humanity would surge as if they were escaping a fire en masse. My mother’s grip would tighten, as did mine, for we both knew that I would be crushed or lost forever if she let go.

Once safely across, the sea would part and I could see the city. Colored lights were everywhere, along with the smell of real garland. Great flocks of pigeons lined the rooftops as if they owned the town. There were three large red bells above the road. They flashed left, middle, right, left, middle, right to simulate their ringing.

The bells of the Salvation Army volunteers were real and joyful. The people gave generously. My mother would let me put the coins in the kettle as my treat. My other treats were to see the moving Christmas displays in the window of Standts Jewelers and the Santa house on the courthouse lawn. If I was really good she would take me to the library to see the toilet paper roll fort and to check out a book. I liked the sound of the stone steps that led to the “secret entrance” to the children’s department.

After much suffering in the cold I welcomed the warmth of the old department stores. My mother let go of my hand, but she made sure I was close. She would lift and touch everything in the store while I wasn’t allowed to touch anything.

Then we would go outside and repeat the cycle of crowds, and smells, and scramble bells. Sometimes we would pass The Pencil Man on his neat board with wheels. He alone knew my plight as he was down with me – below the great cloud of adults. We sometimes exchanged a thin smile, as if we were exchanging Christmas gifts.

To read more about downtown Anderson in those days you might want to check out my second novel The Pencil Man.

For all of your winter reading needs or for a special Christmas gift, you will enjoy Angel and the Ivory Tower, The Pencil Man, The Art of Freezing Pickles, Satchel at the Second Chance, and Lawrence of Lawrence.

In all of my sixty-two years on this earth with my mother, she never really let go of my hand.

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