Winter Memory

I'm a pretty good girl.  I love God and my kids.  I've never cheated on my husband.  I am honest and respectable and kind.  But I have sown my share of wild oats, to be sure.

My mom died about four and half years ago.  My friend Angela lost her mom about the same time.  Sometime over the holidays that year, Angela remarked that now her mom knew everything.  We both kind of laughed -- as much as two grieving motherless-mothers can -- and went on celebrating the holidays.

But I think about that sometimes.  And in my darker times, I think specifically about the times that my mother would not have been very proud.  And sometimes I regret making the stupid decisions that got me into ridiculous situations back in the day.

And sometimes, I think of Ray Gorman.  And I smile in spite of myself.

Ray Gorman was the winter of my senior year, I think.  He was one night of that winter anyway.  My friends/roommates, Jill and Jennifer, and I were at Gammons.  Again.  Still?  Gammons was a cheesy college town disco in a bad run-down mall in Lawrence.  We loved it.  From Comedy Night on Tuesday, which we would attend so religiously we could do the opening act along with the professional, right through Drink and Drown on Thursday, all the way to closing time on Saturday night (Sunday morning) -- "you don't have to go home, but you can't stay here!"

It seems like this particular night there was not the usual crowd elbowing each other for space at the bar and on the dance floor.  If I remember correctly -- which I very well may not. . . -- most students were already gone home for Christmas break or perhaps not back yet for the new semester.  However it was, Jennifer and I started talking to a couple of guys and we ended up going back to their apartment.  After all, it was just down the street and they COULD NOT BELIEVE that neither of us had ever seen Brian's Song.

So, fast forward to a seedy college-guy apartment in the middle of a snowy Kansas night.  Brian's Song is going strong in the VCR and Jennifer and her new friend are going strong on the couch.  And it was freezing.

I complained and complained and for some reason, Ray Gorman thought it was a good idea to start a fire.  In the fireplace.  I thought it was, too.  Unfortunately, Ray didn't have any firewood, and I didn't have any intention of giving up on the idea of Brian's Song, fireside.  In a desperate effort to shut me up, he went into his bedroom and came out with an armload of wood.

His headboard.

We laughed and laughed and watched the movie and snuggled just a bit.  Nothing else "hot" happened in or around that bed that night -- truth be told, it wouldn't have anyway.  I knew that.  I don't know if he did or not.

I figure someday I'll run into good old Ray Gorman around town and I may just get myself into a situation where I can remind him of that story.  He probably wonders to this day what happened to his headboard.

Or maybe, he'll wind up in heaven before me and he can explain the whole thing to my mother. . . .