My first and best girlfriend, my mom, died on April 10, 2021, in the loving arms of my brother Scott, and her husband of 61 years by her side. Mildred Ann Young Burgess is her given name but of course Millie is how most of you know her. Mom was born December 16, 1941, in Macomb, Illinois to the parents of Tresler and Mildred Ailene Marrs Young. After a storied courtship, she married our Dad, Don Burgess of Aledo, Illinois in 1960 and it was then their life together began in Rock Island, Illinois. As a woman ahead of her time, while married and raising two young sons, Mom completed her teaching degree at Augustana College. After the birth of her third child, me, Mom’s storied career as a kindergarten teacher began in Matherville, Illinois and her devotion to public education would continue after our move to Girard in 1972.
To countless people, Mom was known as Mrs. Burgess, and she held many roles in the school system. These roles ranged from numerous volunteer positions, substitute teacher, teacher aide, to finally, her coveted position of kindergarten teacher. Teaching was her passion. One of her favorite activities to do were “cooking units” where she taught students many skills in one venture; and “students could learn virtually all subjects by learning how to scramble an egg.” However, her true reasoning for this activity was “to teach children survival skills for the present and the future.” She felt play was an immeasurable marker of learning and spent countless Saturdays scouring garage sales for classroom toys, games, and puzzles. Upon her retirement in 2000, Mom said would work as a substitute if she were “bored or broke” but she was neither. However, she continued to be involved in the school system and produced monthly the school board news for the local paper. She relished this time with her former comrades and enjoyed her new role as “Ace Reporter.”
Mom loved sports and she loved all things Big Red and the now North Mac Panthers. She was famous for running both a football pool at Girard (where Coach Parmentier referred to her as the “resident bookie”) and a bragging rights family football pool. Before the term “sports mom” was fashionable, she fit the definition perfectly even washing not only our uniforms but other kids as well. Mom was famous for getting grass stains out of white football pants, but more famous for helping kids in need, with that wash, a soft shoulder, or a warm dinner. Her loyalty and passion continued as a sports Mimi who let neither sleet, rain, snow, or heat keep her from watching her second generation loves compete. Like with us, she was there to celebrate victories and to wipe away tears in defeat. When given a chance, she often shared her strategies with the coaches, and one coach in particular laughed when he told me, “Millie let me know when I wasn’t doing so well, but she also told me when I did okay.”
Mom’s passion for play, for her family, for her friends, is perhaps best remembered on the Burgess Rocky Beach. In the 48 years we lived at Sunset Lake, Mom hosted hundreds of people at her home, from adults, to teenagers, to children. Summer holidays were the favorite and Mom loved to hold gatherings- no one left without a meal, a beverage, a boat ride, a swim, or a laugh. Fourth of July was a beloved holiday and the parties were legendary. Because she constantly worried that people would not have enough to eat, Mom’s tables were always bountiful. She loved to cook for guests and for her family and up until just recently, she was the top chef at Burgess and Son, Inc. Perhaps one of her greatest accolades was when a foreign exchange student from Italy ate an entire meatloaf of hers as he related he’d never “had anything so wonderful.” Mom shopped, baked, and cooked relentlessly for her family and my back patio was a constant drop off of goodies for the grands because I “didn’t buy them enough fun stuff.”
Mom also enjoyed compliments on her vast number of plants and flowers in her yard where she spent innumerable hours working. Often, kids would have to “trade a swim for a weed” and she employed many throughout the years to cultivate her gardens. These kids usually finished knowing more “than I ever wanted to know about plants” and Mom loved it. Workers never left without a to go bag of food, or maybe even their own plant. She also dearly loved animals; both her pets and the wildlife found at Sunset Lake. She not only fed a constant stream of people at her kitchen table, but every stray animal at her door. Birdfeeders and squirrel feeders populated her yard and keeping tabs on these became nearly a fulltime job. Mom also loved to be on the go and people frequently comically remarked on how many times her car was seen on the road to town. No distance was too far for a fountain Pepsi, and she always knew the spots for good ice, including when she traveled. And she did enjoy traveling, but she was always ready to return home. And home will never be the same again without her, and no one will ever have my back like my Mom.
The first man to ever love me, the man to whom all future men were compared, my Dad, died January 9, 2026, with his son Shawn and me, his daughter, by his side. Nearly a firecracker baby, Donald E. Burgess was born the only child to Gene and Minola Mayhew Burgess in Aledo, Illinois on July 5, 1940. Upon graduating from high school, Dad attended Western Illinois University to major in Industrial Arts. As fate would have it, he moved into a basement apartment and hollered “hey good lookin’” to my Mom when she walked out of her house next door. Two years later they were married on February 28, 1960. Dad did not finish college as two young sons arrived in quick succession and Mom was attending college full-time. While they lived on mostly love in a small aluminum trailer, Dad worked, of all things, at a laundromat, and the Rock Island Arsenal. In early 1964, he joined the Illinois State Police, and I arrived a few years later. He worked the road and swing shift for many years, then took a desk job for more regular hours in 1972 in Springfield which led all of us to our home in Girard, Illinois.
I could write about the awards he received, the promotions he earned but that does not tell what kind of policeman he was. At some point the ISP adopted the words “Integrity, Service, & Pride,” and Dad embodied all those traits. To our chagrin and many who came to ask, he would never “fix a ticket,” or allow his name to be used to get out of trouble. We quickly found it was better to receive the penalty rather than have Dad find out we’d used a name drop. Even worse, he drove the speed limit. Always. Locals freely passed him and waved, and he calmly returned the polite gesture. Because he was the only state policeman in our community, he was often called in times of trauma to take word to a soon to be grieving family or intervene in a dangerous situation. Dad did so at any time of day or night and he would never discuss with anyone what he had seen or heard. Dad was a policeman 24/7. One time when we were getting gas in a larger city, we left and he pulled the car up the block and went back to the station. Quietly he told Mom to get into the driver’s seat and to drive away quickly if she heard a skirmish. While in the station (no pay at the pump back then), he had a funny feeling about two patrons leering at the worker. All he did was return and stand with his gun and badge discreetly displayed, and the potentially nefarious characters left without incident. We went on our way to visit our grandparents and thought really nothing of the event. It is who he was, always protecting no matter where we were. The 60’s and 70’s were a tumultuous time to be an officer, and often even within the ranks could be challenging. There was a young Black man hired to the ISP and this was an anomaly in 1974; the officer was not treated well by many. Dad asked Mom to fix her best spaghetti, buy a bottle of red wine, and that the first Black family we would meet was coming to our rural home for dinner. Despite my brother Scott telling the officer’s wife she was the same color as our Labrador and even had the same name (Barbara) we had a wonderful evening, and Dad was instrumental in the acceptance of the officer in the mostly white unit. He loved putting on his uniform every morning, his gun was a part of who he was, and he was highly annoyed when civilian clothes were adopted for his position. He did not remove his gun from his side until he retired December 31, 1990, and he walked for the rest of his life, even when using a walker, in the unmistakable gait of a policeman whose hip will never forget the weight of a weapon.
Besides being a policeman, our Dad was a wonderful carpenter and a man who could fix just about anything. Having grown up in his own dad’s business “Burgess Cabinet Shop,” there was not much he could not build or make. He designed and constructed our home near Rock Island and leaving that was hard on my Mom, especially when she saw the lake house Dad had purchased on his own. But throughout the years, Dad took the home through two complete renovations, then finally had enough money to pay to have one done; I know the construction crew certainly appreciated his continual oversight of the work. Though Mom was largely known for her fabulous lake parties, it was Dad who designed the spaces and put the finishing touches on the famous Burgess Rocky Beach with its one-of-a-kind hand built wooden diving board and iconic death-defying metal slide rescued from demolition at West Grade School. Our garage was mostly his workshop which held many wood projects, engines both large and small, and whatever else he had an inkling to craft. As a little girl, I was absolutely in want of a canopy bed. For my birthday one year, he wrapped up the design plans for a bed and had me watch and help while he created the “sleeping quarters for the princess.” Next, I longed for a table to match, so he took me on a sweltering summer day to an auction of old motel furniture and purchased the ugliest 1950’s brown workstation I had ever seen. However, it wasn’t long before he transformed it into a darling white desk with pink knobs and a curved hutch to match. It is still sitting in my daughter’s room today. With my brothers and the neighbor boys who had tragically lost their own dad, they built a treehouse on nearby lake property. I spent the day ferrying hammers, nails, wood, and lemonade back and forth in my red wagon and if it appears idyllic, it was. He spent many very early mornings taking those same boys and my brothers to their sports practices, to their dismay, in his squad car but they never missed because of Dad. Both of my brothers are very fine fix-it men themselves and like Dad, there is not much they cannot do. If Dad had to pay to have something repaired, we all felt the pain as he opened his wallet, and as Mom would say, let the moths out as well as a little cash.
Dad spent the first part of his official retirement working as a crop adjuster just to have some fun, and fun he had. This work often brought him to Normal, Illinois where I lived and attended college. Many times, he would stay with me in my little apartment, we would cook dinner with my friends and have a ball. One particular day I had a poetry presentation after his visit and while it was not awful, my professor said, “I do believe you partied too much with your father last night.” She was right. In 1994, he established with my brother Shawn, Burgess & Son, Plumbing and Heating which they ran together until it closed in 2024. In the early days, Dad and Shawn did everything, from keeping books to running backhoes. And I might add, according to Shawn, there were many things Dad did not know how to do but did them anyway.
For many years, Dad enjoyed working on his little farm he bought near our home. A menagerie of misfit and unwanted animals often found their way to the property, and he forever got calls about a goat, or a llama, or something else that had escaped. He ate free for years at a local restaurant when he took a horse a worker could no longer afford and he allowed her to ride and visit her pet whenever she pleased. My own horse made her way there as my first born arrived and I was short on time, and money. His 2000-pound Belgium horses were his loves and those horses gazed at Dad adoringly. I used to tell him he did not have any trouble telling me no but certainly did with the animals. Not much could get children out of the lake on a swim day, except for the trip to Gramps’s farm to feed the animals. We argued constantly that his truck smelled like horse crap and he said it did not, but if it did, it was the smell of good living.
While Dad was an ISP officer, beards were not allowed and after he retired in 1990, he never shaved again. During the summer of 2005 while we were on vacation together with Mom and Dad, a woman came up to us in a restaurant and said “Excuse me but my kids think you are Santa Claus on vacation, could you go talk to them?” Dad was delighted to do so, and I can still see the joy on his face and on the little boys’ faces when he joined them in their booth. After a bit, my oldest exclaimed to us, “Our Grandpa isn’t Santa!” And I said, “Well, he has made a lot of dreams come true for countless people, including me, so that may very well make him Santa.”
I will miss my personal Santa for the rest of my life, but he joins Mom who died in 2021. Every time I went to visit Dad in his little apartment, I said “Hello Dad! How are you today?” and every single time he replied: “Better now that you are here.” I did not realize how wonderful those few words were until I found I would never hear them again.
Like most people I know, we fall into that “I never win anything” category. The only 50/50 jackpot I hit was at a high school basketball game for $30 and I contributed $15 because I felt sorry for the kids who were collecting. Our luck changed for one brief instant when my husband won the grand prize of a vacation for two to virtually anywhere. I was in complete shock and briefly saw us jet-setting to an elusive tropical destination, but what flew out of my mouth was: “you know I can’t leave the kids.” And while this story does not center on my inability to do so, which should be covered on a therapist’s couch anyway, it did lead us to our “unusual for us” destination. Throughout most of our travel history as a family of six, we typically rent fully equipped houses with fairly private ocean beach access and on a generous year, one with a pool. The hubs and I are not gamblers in the traditional sense but this practice I assume can be like playing slots; it’s pretty fun and addicting as long as you win which I think we mostly do. We all have a long running list of amenities that describe each place and in our reminiscing we don’t recall particular locales but the physical structure, such as: Sue (the manager with whom we had frequent contact) house where Mom crashed the bicycle on the way to the beach (ouch); favorite house with small but cool pool where Dad forgot the entry code and blamed us; best outdoor shower ever house; circular staircase the boys almost pulled out the ceiling house, subpar house with no beach chairs but semi okay pool; flooded driveway house where dad lost the bottom part of the van, and on and on. To this day our favorite description is the one when we pulled up and our youngest, still in a car seat, saltily quipped “Geesh, Daddy, this place is a dump.” Anyway, the company from whom the hubs won the prize was fine with us converting the winnings for two to winnings for a family, within reason. After much debate, we settled on a picturesque haven in the Florida Keys that also provided family bungalows; I glanced over the diagram of the living quarters and it looked fine, but now I realize I did not give the blueprints the attention they deserved. Nonetheless, it appeared otherworldly with much more gusto than we were accustomed to and way out of our normal price range. Although we never considered ourselves resort people, it seemed quite lovely and could satisfy each member of the family. After booking, the pandemic juggernaut of 2020 arrived like the ghastly beast it was and we lived, as much of the world did, cooped up together in suffocating isolation and apprehension of the future. As time slowly waned and summer neared, it was questionable whether the spot would open and if it did, would we go? Because Florida does what Florida does, and we thought what harm could come from taking refuge in the Keys, we loaded our minivan and set out for the twenty-four-hour sojourn to the archipelago of America.
Admittedly, when we arrived, we were a bit awestruck as the opulent Gatsby-like mansion came into view and rose from the ground in a seemingly natural rock formation. Diamond shine glistened on the milky exterior which made the immense structure look dewy, and even soft to the touch. Darkened windows that resembled heavily hooded eyes loomed ostensibly across the front of the building, signaling exclusivity to all who entered. Every space surrounding the property was resplendent with plant life, so the grounds resembled a sultry forest. Sequoia-like palm trees guarded their brethren ground coverings with their steely presence. Living towers of greenery scattered across the property in sporadic fashion while bougainvillea so red they dripped and bled ruby splotches beneath them. Garden crotons whose leaves ran wildly with thick yellow veins mingled easily with dainty orchid-like flowers. Top heavy ferns rested their necks indifferently on the ground while iguanas larger than dachshunds hung from trees and roamed freely and wildly, reminiscent of a pre-historic age. The bush opened to a vast aquatic complex where fulgent turquoise water rippled serenely in various connected patterns ranging in size and depth. Rattan chairs filled with milky white cotton pillows scattered themselves in methodical happenstance around the pools and cabanas with linen curtains that mesmerizingly swayed like midnight moon dancers set about to provide respite from the often-unyielding sun. When guests required a bit more nature, the creatively sculpted path led to the expansive beach area also populated with dreamy lounge furnishings clearly made for Daisy Buchanan. A craggy cove with jutted seating capped one end of the beach and at the other was a pier that pushed out into the bay as a steady engineering marvel. My children were absolutely entranced by genteel waitstaff who weaved effortlessly through the area offering an expansive array of decadent pleasures- smoothies rimmed with exotic fruits, crispy cheese sticks begging to be consumed, chocolate pie with mounds of silky frosting calling for attention. I quickly and sternly informed the brood to not look in their eyes- doing so would produce a Medusa-like hypnotic state and they would succumb to any and all wishes of the snack bar, for a cost. Under no circumstances were they to order goods, it was not all-inclusive and they were to return to the bungalow which was the only station where provisions were free to them. (You do know the definition of all inclusive. And no, I am not stingy and no, I do not care that the snacks made the long trek from Illinois and no they did not go stale on the road trip). A curved lazy terracotta drive stamped in ric rac ribbon formation tightly hugged the resort and the Ferraris, Mercedes, BMWs, and Bentleys purred like contented kittens as they casually glided to the entrance. And that’s really when I had to wonder if this stay would be a bit different.
Even though we stopped halfway through the trip so the hubs could rest, (he refuses to let others drive yet, I am the one with issues) six people in one hotel room, a twelve hour car ride complete with restroom breaks at suspicious locations, and a great deal of testosterone in one vehicle, makes for some harried travelers. Upon arrival, we poured out of our durable dapple-gray minivan who’d lost her shine in Southern Illinois as black-tied personnel swarmed us, quickly talking and moving octopus-like arms to disassemble our precariously packed luggage, but stood dumbstruck when faced with the duct-taped car topper. Knocking trash back into the van as in a carnival whack-a-mole game, and gently guiding hands away from the ingeniously secured cargo, I profusely thanked them but politely declined any help as I pointed to the four children- “they’re all strong, they can do it. If you could simply direct us to our place, we can manage on our own.” The urbane concierge briefly floundered in astonishment, but he recovered and led us to a wide cemented path that reminded me of Oz’s twisting yellow brick road, and as he raised his arm in direction, a wretched pitch-black serpent whose thick body stretched the expanse of the walkway took its time slithering into the foliage. I felt the air go out of my lungs and murmured “omen” under my breath. My husband made a not so soft comment about stupid superstitions as he barged past, nearly knocking me off the track. I made a quick move to grab both young boys from taking off after the snake while I woozily whispered to the gang to cautiously move forward, fearing what may await us on the horizon.
However, as our home for the week came into view, I was immediately transported into Hansel and Gretel’s fairy tale and understood how they must have felt when they came upon the candy cottage. My heart melted at the most adorable pink structure, like the dollhouse I’d always imagined I should live. Lollipops seemed to mimic light poles; a rainbow of gutter gumdrops edged the graham cracker roof like shingles. Twisted green roped licorice outlined the heavy shutters that waited patiently to protect their delicate windows at the slightest hint of a bright sun too bright or a rain too harsh. Shades of light rose dressed the top of the villa which then trailed into the darker stucco that wrapped around the bottom; it was as if the house itself blushed from its own comeliness. As I gazed at our chalet for the week, I thought perhaps I could forget about the anxiety of the last months, and I pushed the foreboding dread away that the serpent arose. With that, we opened the quaint door and the two youngest immediately dropped everything to race into the house to claim proprietary space. I did a quick survey and thought the entry was a bit cramped but before I had time for a complete look about, the urchins returned, both madly speaking above each other in high spirited voices. I could not comprehend their language as my head filled with buzzing, I felt held underwater but I slowly understood “where are the bedrooms? There’s only one.” In slow motion, I turned to my husband, and my mind went to the apocalyptic message of TheHeart of Darkness or as more may know Apocalypse Now “the horror, the horror.” But instead, I mouthed, “WTF? What?” And he shrugged his shoulders in the typical “I DON’T KNOW. I’M GETTING BEER.”
With this the color drained from our daughter’s countenance; I feared she would faint helplessly in the archway, but it was so narrow, she was forced to stay upright. Then like Violet Beauregarde after Wonka’s chewing gum, but instead of turning blue, Reagan began to turn frightening shades of crimson. I watched in alarm as our darling girl turned into a fiery creature who roared with fury as she sprang on all fours up the staircase and quickly began to wail “WHERE’S MY ROOOOOOOOM.” I cautiously followed her frenzied trail and peered over a short ledge to in fact see one room with a king size bed, and a miniature sitting area with a loveseat that was surely made for small children, not normal sized adults. Unfortunately, the remaining three brutes laughed balefully at their sister’s expense which made the strained situation even worse. In complete pandemonium, they drubbed “where’s my room?” congruously while their sister screamed “shut up you assholes,” and to no one in general phrases that bounced around like a stuck pinball machine “trapped with you all for four fucking months” and “didn’t want to come on this stupid vacation.” While I was extremely dismayed at this event, I could relate. I too wanted Reagan to have her own room; the lockdown was stifling for all. The first few days, maybe even the first week, seemed a novelty, but as the week turned into months the uncertainty and resentment compounded, and life seemed to hang in motionless suspension. The seniors of 2020, like Reagan, felt particularly distraught and robbed of memories they would never make; they would never look back with nostalgia on their senior prom, walking out of high school for the last day, savoring the last sport played on their team, traditional graduation ceremonies, and on and on. No one seemed exempt from Covid’s bastion and despite our best efforts, the fear and anger that permeated the world stalked our lives; we had our health, but it was hard to not mourn the ebb and flow of our customary days that were now absent. She needed her space. We all did. Nonetheless, none of us would have it and her untoward phrases ricocheted off the walls, from the one room upstairs to the one room downstairs. The young boys, though, remained unfazed, they were too busy spreading the forbidden to travel X-Box materials all over the room while staking claim to the one couch, and the one remaining chair that had no arms but folded into a miniature futon. I felt the harbinger of doom. . . but brightly began “we are in the enchanting Keys, and in a bougie and quite frankly utopian resort, we clearly aren’t supposed to stay inside.” I was drowned out by a clap of thunder and torrential rainstorm.
To advertise that our home away from home slept six adults still puzzles me. I wondered if people who were not related ended up in this seemingly perfect bungalow and then stared questionably at the sleeping quarters. One king size bed for presumably two people so of course the hubs (and I) claimed it, the hide-a-bed sofa not ten feet from our bed to which Reagan threw herself down upon and thrashed haphazardly, still bemoaning her fate. This left one couch in the living area, claimed by the X-Box and the young boys, which somewhat created a double bed that nearly consumed all walking space. This left Reese, #1, who furtively spent the first part of the week simply trying to find a place for his weary body. For years, this was the child we called “The General” because he ruled his siblings with unflinching authority during their formative ages. First Reesielocks stood by the sofa bed in the loft area, but Reagan’s eyes gleamed scarlet and her “get out” was enough to make Reese back away, very very carefully. It was only a few short steps to our berth, to which I replied, “hmm I don’t think so.” Initially, he took the two pieces from the sofa and camped next to us. Briefly, my eyes welled as I saw him as a wee boy curled in that exact same spot when he could not sleep. He tried his best to get comfortable, even as the cushions parted like a fault line under his weight and he folded and creased himself in every way imaginable. Soon Reese was led to believe that downstairs with his younger brothers would provide both camaraderie and respite, but he quickly found himself in the throes of all night gaming which he simply could not muster the strength to power through. For rest, he was provided with the chair that had no sides but did expand; however, only his head and torso fit on it which left his arms and legs hanging from their sockets like some sort of medieval torture apparatus. From sheer exhaustion he would finally drift off dreamily, lulled by the quiet hum of the gaming console, and the soft chatter of his little brothers. On that trial run of togetherness, I was awakened by a scream at 3am that made my veins run cold and rocket out of bed. I was met with irrational mania, howling laughter, and snippets of “his nose on my butt,” and “his nose touched my butt,” and “GD ASS in my face. YOU F’ING LITTLE SHITS.” Reese seethed. His hair stood on end, his eyes hinged with fury, and he scrubbed his face with the closest thing he could find, a moldy dishrag. All the while he haphazardly pursued his much more agile brothers as they shrieked with frenetic delight at their victorious and adroit scheme. It felt like Sunday evening’s Mutualof Omaha’s Wild Kingdom that featured gorillas who are generally peaceful but run around thumping their chests after a wrestling match gone awry. Eventually, and because they could not contain their pride, I was able to discern the event was all a part of the covert operation concocted by either #3 or #4, I was not sure which concocted the clever subterfuge. Regardless, the plan was set in motion and perfectly executed: they sat and discreetly gamed until Reese dozed heavily. The unfolded low to the ground furniture allowed for creative positioning so one brother pulled down his boxers and balanced precariously over the sleeping giant’s face. The other made a sudden loud noise so that Reese’s eyes flew open while he simultaneously bolted upright. Consequently, let’s just say he was met with a very unpleasant situation, and I had to turn my back to laugh at their meticulous ingenuity. For three long nights Reese stumbled around the house, seeking a reposeful night but was only met with cushions that did not fit his stature and brothers who lured him back with promises of goodwill but had no intention whatsoever of fulfilling that deal. As he crept down to the beach like Quasimodo himself, where he could finally recline in somewhat peace, it dawned on me that perhaps I could request a rollaway bed. After two clicks on the website, Reagan came to the seaside and reported a bed had been delivered, but it was in the diminutive kitchen. We did manage to maneuver it to the living room which made for an obstacle course as even less floor space remained, yet, Reese finally experienced some tranquility (and we threatened the younger two like we really meant it).
The best arrangements were indeed the beach and the pool, and we were in the closest proximity to both that we had ever been. The resort teemed with more guests than our previous adventures and I noticed again that the way we operated together was not the norm in this venue. In our typical beach escapades, we slopped to our oceanside area with paraphernalia that rivaled Panama Jack’s store including a cooler that took two people to carry. Bags of snacks usually end up with more sand than chips in them and at the end of the day we look like a molting pack of wild birds with errant patches of sunburn exploding catastrophically over our bodies. In short, we pack like we do not intend to return, nor do we return to base in the near future. Patrons at Playa Largo seemed to need nothing by their chairs, including sunscreen as they languidly lounged with already tanned skin glistening under a fine mist of banana coconut oil. They did not seem affected by the swimmer’s itch, which left half of our family speckled with a poxy affliction. Hands encrusted in gold cupped various sundry drinks served in Cocktail style by a Tom Cruise look-alike, and desecrated charcuterie boards lay mournfully in waste. And it was hot, so hot that the warm bath-like waters of the gulf often proved unrefreshing, and inwardly I pined for the burst of frigidity we found in the oceanside (We did cross the island for one trip to the Atlantic but that is beside the point). I supposed we were not “playas,” at Playa Largo after all, which, of all things, drew us closer as a familial unit. This was the most evident in two people who we came to call “Honey Boo-boo.”
During the week, we tended to scatter a bit throughout the lodgings, each of us seeking refuge in silent anonymity, and truthfully the togetherness was taxing at times for all involved. One night at dinner, I mentioned to the family that while lying in the sun, I witnessed quite a spectacle from a couple near me, then bit by bit every member revealed a similar encounter. We began to take note of their arrival, just because it was so startling, and it pulled us together in a way that normalized our own nutty behaviors. It was apparent that the twosome was on their honeymoon, and while we did not hear their names, we did hear the woman coo in syrupy falsetto “Boo-boo” which gave way to our “Honey Boo-Boo” in reference to the “horror story posing as reality television” starring the awfully behaved child and her mother. Our own Honey Boo-boo was a glimpse into a mock live reality piece. Honey’s diaphanous clothing always revealed next to nothing underneath, and the surgical manipulations were as obvious as were the ones that were not. Because her stilettos sunk with every step deep into the sand, she continuously groped Boo-boo, and he made a show half holding half- me Tarzan – you Jane dragging her to various spots for photos. Boo-boo thought himself carefully sculpted but was actually quite mushy, like an overly ripe banana. Every action they performed was filmed and photographed for posterity, and at one point I wondered if Covid had robbed them of their nuptial celebration which caused this tasteless show. However, I came to know we witnessed in real time the dawn of a social media monster- the influencer. Tawdry poses, bacchanal antics, and garish gestures unfolded in premeditated rhythms, but it was much more melodramatic than our own midwestern lives and we simply could not tear ourselves away from their antics; we kept watching. As the week progressed, more people arrived beachside at the same time as Honey Boo-boo which led us to believe that other patrons were as repulsed and fascinated by these mores as were we. However, Honey Boo-boo did make their appearance nightly for the popular “Eventide;” an event that brought the entire community together at Playa Largo. There are definitive scientific explanations as to why the sunsets in the Keys are exceptionally vivid; I’ve read them, and I understand them, but these cannot prepare you for the truly majestic and divine occurrence of the daily disappearing star. Eventide celebrated this celestial phenomenon, and everyone present held a collective breath as the sun made her slow burning descent into the Florida Bay and became one with the water while the sky exploded in too many colors to name. As reggae sounds drifted into the air from the trio of musicians, a scantily clad young man in a makeshift loin cloth paddled a kayak while another person held a fire breathing tiki torch. Perhaps fifty yards out in the saltwater was a firepit and the goal was to light the fire just as the sun vanished, signifying a type of pagan ritual where the fire represents the vanishing sun’s continued existence, therefore life’s continued existence. Throughout the week, there were guest lighters and though in reality it was just a person paddling out to light a fire, and the sun would set just like it had every day, it really did take on an ethereal and sacred aura. Except for when Honey Boo-boo came to the party. To the naked eye, it may have looked like happenstance as to who kayaked out for the occasion, but it was entirely apparent that anyone could, for the right price. I am not sure how much it was, but we felt like we should have been paid to watch Honey Boo-boo. As they strutted to the shore all the while waving to the crowd (no one returned the favor), groping one another, flipping hair, and gruesomely smiling like Pennywise, I looked at my family and it felt like we had a shared revelation, that we kinetically meshed and silently agreed this was not something to admire. Watching them was hinged with schadenfreude as their inability to set the kindling ablaze was more pleasant than I could imagine. As they clumsily struggled with the activity, it was like the gods themselves had enough of the show, after all, we all know what happened when Icarus flew too close to the sun. Then #3 child put it into words: “At least we’re not like that, Mom” and I thought there we have it. They do have standards after all.
Perhaps the only downside to the actual resort aside from Honey Boo-boo was the divided highway that ran in front north and south -south to continue to the most southern tip of America and north to take us straight back to Illinois. Cars raced on this relatively tiny road at breakneck speeds and if I am sticking to Tom Cruise movies think Days of Thunder speed. Would be vacationers may lounge as if time does not exist on the beach but not while traveling on this route. I don’t know if I have ever seen more middle fingers in my life as I did trying to join traffic in either direction. It was very disheartening. Apparently waiting patiently for your turn would never happen so to enter the highway the driver just had to channel those inner Mario skills, gun it, and hope for the best. I am ashamed to admit that my husband and I were often too tipsy to drive on our evening dinner excursions from La Playa so that left the next in line to drive, a very young twenty-year-old Reese. As we all walked to our van, beads of sweat sprung up on Reese and began their tortuous slide down his worried face as he begrudgingly marched to the impending rite of passage that would send fear through the hearts even the bravest: trying to cross a busy boulevard with five people telling you how to do it, and two of them drunk. Our travels across the parkway took a great deal out of us and looking back, I think if we survived trying to cross that road, we could survive anything, including all the Keys had offered up. The entire scenario was straight out of the immensely popular 80’s Atari video game Frogger. Happy little hopping sounds filled my mind until suddenly- that deadening squashing splat. Our van inched haltingly, with Reese pumping the brakes exponentially which caused the seatbelts to simultaneously lock, vehicles swerved, blared their awful horns, amidst a cacophony of “fucking GO Reese, what are you 80? Floor it. Geezus.” From the farthest back seat, all I saw was my first miracle in his little red coupe scooting around the patio, his tiny feet whirring for all their might, his plump hands gripping the steering wheel, and tears burst forth from my eyes and I tried to holler above the other trilling passengers “leave him alone you animals! Just do the best you can Angel!” Finally, as if divine intervention occurred again, the actual hand of god seemed to swoop down and we were delivered onto the road. A hush descended upon the vehicle, and we cruised in silence for a short time. In the spirit of camaraderie, I asked the others to thank Reese for safely delivering us onto Hell’s expressway but he did not get very much in return.
I, however, got a lot in return that week at Playa Largo, but we were all ready for the comfort and spaciousness of our home. We just had the twenty-four-hour return car trip standing in our way, and a secret $500 bar bill that the hubs reticently hemmed and hawed around about then claimed the children drove it up but we all knew he folded like a card table in the presence of someone to wait on him, Medusa or not. Some of our friends have long chastised us for not flying to our destinations, for not getting multiple hotel rooms for a one-night stay, for not doing more than just lying on the beach for a week. My immediate reaction is cost, a big family is very expensive, but my truest reaction is that despite the trials of our standard retreats, I absolutely cling to those times with our family. Even cramped in that far back seat to where I am now relegated, I get several hours of just being in the presence of these humans we created, and I drink it all in. One of the babes will rest a head on my shoulder, throw a heavy leg over mine, drape an arm across my lap, or nestle against me, and I am filled with immeasurable joy because for these moments they are all mine again. They don’t belong to a sport, or to a friend, or to a job, or to adulthood; they are all mine, just as they once were as tiny beings. My husband has long said I don’t share well and I guess that is something I would reveal to the phantom therapist that I am never seeing. Because to myself, I begrudgingly admit he is right; I admit that sharing my children with the unkind world was very hard for me and for one week I don’t have to. And I will ride in a car across the country, I will forgo a trip for two, I will stay in one room in a hotel, or a too small bungalow, just to have that feeling again.
We arrived home on the hub’s birthday and before I wearily set out for the local market to pick up something for dinner, I asked the family for menu suggestions. Each child murmured something about prior engagements as one by one they backed away slowly in alarmed panic and flew out the door. The hubs then lamented “I can’t believe they left, and even on my birthday.” And that, more than anything that week, left me bemused, but I replied, “It’s okay Boo-boo, Honey’s here.”
There is a picture of me and my mom that I was too young to remember taking but is my all-time favorite. The backdrop of the picture is our house in northwestern Illinois in a newly formed subdivision aptly named Cherry Dale which came to represent a time of near mythological greatness in our family’s young life. It sat atop a hill, and the bucolic landscape consisted of a rolling pasture populated with delicate pink and white spring beauties, then fragrant sweet dandelions whose yellow heads shone beatifically against their dark green bodies. In our provincial world sat a slightly rusted metal swing set which wobbled like a tottering baby but never fell. I can’t help but think – maybe the world would be a better place if these once universal sets were still a prominent fixture, crisscrossing all locales. At the bottom of the gently sloping hill was a valley of sorts, complete with a weeping willow tree where my brothers frequently played Tarzan and a small reddish-brown barn that housed our beloved Welsh pony, Goldie. As the legend goes, Goldie was given to our family by a cousin of Dad’s because every young family needs a pony to complete the panacea. For years when we would see this cousin (who I fittingly no longer remember her name) we held her in esteemed reverence as the “giver of the Goldie.” Goldie was aptly named when she arrived, and appropriately so. An aura of earthiness, of all that was good in the world seemed to emanate from her. One look in those luminous chocolate eyes with lashes that seemed to caress the clouds, and you knew there was peace and harmony abound. Nothing could make a day more perfect or fix a broken day like time with our golden girl.
This photo is of me and Mom sitting on Goldie and it is quintessentially faultless and of remarkable quality in the early age of snapshots. Although I do not know what precipitated the event, I imagine the sequence in my head. My brothers must have been doing their afternoon duty of caring for Goldie and brought her to the front of the house. I envision Mom was in the throes of domiciliary when Goldie appeared in the yard, but she quickly dropped everything for a chance to hop on her with me. Mom would often leave the house a mess, the kitchen undone for more pleasurable activities, and as a teenager, I found this to be a source of embarrassment. Other moms had very tidy houses; ours was far from it, but my own journey into motherhood taught me to admire this simple revolt against domestic oppression. The other scenario in my head is that maybe the early summer day was as incredibly perfect as those early summer days can be, raw in their birth while the grinding unforgiving winter still haunts a body, mind, and soul. Late blooming lilacs and freshly born foliage not yet baked in the heat hang suspended in the air and speckled butterflies drunk on nectar fly haphazardly in the soft light. So perhaps this day suddenly overcame Mom’s controlled wanderlust, and she asked for Goldie so she could take a carefree romp even just around the yard; that would not surprise me either. She often did brazen impulsive activities that breathed life into mundane routine. To her, routines were made to be broken. A cloudless azure sky spreads out behind us and to the right, the slightly burnt toast colored house makes a striking contrast of blues and browns flawlessly arranged in the photograph.
Those colors are so perfectly coordinated from the sky to the house, to Mom, to Goldie, to a tiny me, it seems almost staged, but this could not be further from Mom’s genetic make-up. At the time of this photo, the early 70’s, it was still commonplace for women of suburbia to wear dresses during the day, or at least a stylish pantsuit and while I do have memories of Mom dressed as such, her clothing on this day reiterates her consistent mutiny against what she was supposed to be. Ironically, her rebellion is not the hippy flower child that history calls to mind, Mom did not even participate in that. Shockingly, she wore what was comfortable. A navy-blue baggy short sleeve sweatshirt piles carefully around her waist and elbow length sleeves hang carelessly on her arms. Cut off blue jean shorts, rolled tightly at the knee are a lighter shade than her sweatshirt and her shockingly milk-white legs dangle loosely at Goldie’s coffee and cream-colored well-fed belly. And she is barefoot; her Geisha-like tiny feet are not even hugging Goldie; they simply hang uncovered in their brashness. The only thing that resembles tradition is Mom’s bouffant hair, piled relatively high in stiff auburn waves that contrast her naked face, but it is her blue eyes that match her shorts, the shirt, and the sky that shine with alacrity. She holds me snugly in front of her, one arm wrapped around my waist and another loosely on the reins. A wispy cap of straw blonde hair covers my head and the yellow bounces impetuously off Mom’s indigo sweatshirt. My eyes are cast down to my hands that are buried, seemingly nonexistent, in Goldie’s lusciously coarse honey colored mane which forever remained a source of wonderment to me.
Goldie stands perfectly still like she knew the photo was important and would live forever serving as a memory of a life well lived. I can still smell her when I look at the picture like a scratch and sniff in my memory. When we moved three hours from our beloved Cherry Dale, she went with us even though she could not be housed at our new lake property. As a child, it was given that all pets would move with us, including our pony. As an adult, I appreciate the formidable challenge this event was for my parents, but Dad found Goldie a home not far from our house. In exchange for her boarding, the property owner’s children could ride her, and she adapted seamlessly into her new environment. She still had a lovely barn, a pasture, and young ones to live out fantasies in her charge. A lightweight bare back saddle was all a rider needed, more for us to feel like true horsemen. And she always willingly opened her mouth with laughable exaggeration, showing her gargantuan teeth, to slip in her bit and bridle. We never arrived without apples or carrots and when her tender lips grazed and tickled my hand, the sticky slobber working to paste my fingers together made me squeal with glee.Her long Rapunzel tail nearly reached the ground and more than once I begged Mom to let me trim it, but she had seen the repercussions of a style gone wrong on many a Barbie so of course the scissors were far from my reach. Goldie knew her role in our young family and she played it to perfection. She was Silver when my brothers played Lone Ranger, whisking them away from peril, sometimes Trigger untying their hands after the bandits robbed them. She was Bunny to me as I played Little House on the Prairie and made my way to the hay fields with lunch for Pa or to town to the Olsen’s General Store, albeit for a confrontation with Nellie. Whatever we dreamed; Goldie cheerfully provided.
The only difference in Goldie’s new residence versus her previous was the pasture. While ours doubled as a backyard that was always kept neatly trimmed, the new location was a true farm pasture and was often overgrown with an abundance of wild things both identifiable and not. A few times a year, the farmer would mow, but it was often overgrown with an assortment of native plants. Tall grasses with feather soft tips tickled dangling legs and mismatched patches of wildflowers dotted the landscape. Goldie often found herself with fragrant Sweet William woven into her mane, or a crown of clover atop her ears.Intermingled with these idyllic grasses were more threatening species which served as a reminder that although a landscape may appear tranquil, it is never fully tamed. Among the downy reeds were those with toothy nettles that covered jeans like an outbreak of chicken pox or embedded unfortunate bare skin with smatterings of welts. Other similar varieties sliced tender surfaces with thin razor-sharp cuts that burned maleficently accidentally or purposefully. Allergens made up of semi harmless poisons often attacked without qualm leaving us itching and then covered in pink Caladryl. Our red sofa was usually spotted with pink dots and the eucalyptus-like medicinal smell wafted from the cloth on humid days for years to come. But the time on Goldie pre-empted any peril we may incur.
My brothers are older than I am and Goldie would trot and gallop for them, but she would not for me, not even as I grew heavier and bigger which she had to notice as I sat atop her expansive back. For years, when I was riding Goldie, the only way she would move was if Mom walked in front of her. For a while this suited me but as I aged, it angered me prodigiously. Because we often made our trips to see Goldie together, I would be forced to watch my siblings’ charades, my envy seething as they indefatigably romped through the uncut trails while I was relegated to the sidelines waiting my turn with Mom. No amount of prodding with my small heels on Goldie’s sides or clucking and tugging on the reins would make her proceed at any pace. So Mom diligently trudged in front of us, sometimes with a stick to chop down thigh high straw and hopefully ward off any terrifying serpent hidden in the dense vegetation. Though Goldie was typical pony size and in horse terms, about eleven hands, she was taller than my short Mom. Consequently, I felt like Cinderella on my giant steed gazing down at my stableman.
To get Goldie to trot, Mom would have to jog in front of her, and Mom was not a jogger. But, she bore through the pasture methodically, her stubby legs like a hay thresher, chopping the way for both horse and rider. Dust particles flew into the air creating miniature cyclones that plugged our eyes and nose. Even on cool spring days or crisp fall days, the pasture held the heat of the sun which made Goldie slightly lather but drenched Mom in sweat. The only part that did not seem to mind the heat was the unyielding tawny bouffant which railed up and down in the glistening sun like a drill bit ceaselessly working to penetrate a board. Nonetheless, Goldie’s trotting only increased my need for more, so I called incessantly “Go faster Mom, go faster!” And Mom bore down with the might of an Olympic race runner gunning for the finish like her life and honor of her country depended on it. The sprinting of both Mom and Goldie caused such buoyancy, such unapologetic euphoria that in my hubris I often forgot to pay attention to the reins. As Mom ran, Goldie ran, and I bounced, whooped and cackled with glee. My short stick hair blew straight back; my eyes watered from the gale force wind slapping me relentlessly and sheer happiness streaked my cheeks making white stripes on my slightly pink dusty face. However, one fine day during this moment of rapture, suddenly without warning, without provocation, I was on the ground.
I did not land explosively, rather I simply slipped off the oiled saddle and landed with an abrupt thud on the parched ground. However, Mom was so intent on the run, and so obviously intent on finishing the (albeit excruciating) exercise neither she nor Goldie noticed I was absent. Threatening spiky towers of terror loomed over me and vines immediately sprang to life and began to wind themselves tightly around my ankles choking off circulation. Panic swelled in my chest and beat in my head which quickly mixed with fury and embarrassment. Immediately, tempestuous thoughts of an icy solitary night with horrific beasts lurking in the shadows filled my thoughts. I was terrified of the dark and the now eclipsed sun ignited my fear and fury. How could they not notice I was gone? That idea was so unbearably foreign, so insulting to my core, that I began the long, slow, tortured steps to a sheer unabashed tantrum. With painful measures, I gathered my strength to sit on my knees and wail. I howled like a coyote wailing at the moon, and the anger and terror in my own voice startled me. However, it quickly became clear that Mom nor Goldie could not hear me and though their gait was in reality rather slow, it did not take long for them to get some distance between us.
I am unsure what finally made Mom look back, but when she turned her head, our eyes met and locked and what passed I know was nothing less than a showdown of sorts. Instantly, Mom lit up like fireworks with amusement, her face broke into a wide smile, and her body shook with laughter. My angry sobs increased as Mom ever so slowly turned Goldie and their previous jog turned to a languid stroll. It was like a contest of who could cry louder and who could walk slower- both of us determined to win. What a sight I must have been – wide wild eyes peering through weeds, my skin covered in chalky grime and sporadic cockleburs adhered to my clothing and hair; my face drenched with tears and inflamed with rage. Customary of Mom she continued to slow her pace, giggling harder with each exaggerated step which hindered her rescue even more.
When Mom finally reached me, I imagined she would gather me into her arms, cover my stained face with calming kisses, patiently pluck the burs from my hair, then lift me carefully atop Goldie all the while telling me how absolutely precious I was, and would I please please forgive her for this awful transgression? Instead, she met me with even more cackling, more guffawing at both my outlandish outburst and appearance. As I fumed and weakly lifted my heavy arms, exhausted from my own hysterics, she put her hands on her hips ever so deliberately delivered: “Listen, you can lie there bawling like there’s no tomorrow and ruin this perfect day, but nothing bad has happened. Either get back on that horse or sit there crying. The choice is yours.” I sat on the ground and continued to stew; the afternoon sun began its ritual descent and powdery particles from spent blossoms swirled in the air. Insects taunted Goldie and she swatted them nonchalantly with that lovely tail while she munched as best as she could on the grasses as though nothing had happened. She was a traitor too.
Mom sighed heavily, crossed her arms, and just looked at me. At last I stood, ambled over to my pony, and rested my head against her chest, feeling the reassuring thump of her heart. Mom made a make-shift stirrup with her hand which allowed me to clamor ungracefully onto Goldie, and then she lightly patted my back and whispered “that’s my strong girl.”
That’s my strong girl.
Our afternoon ended, and it did not end as cheerfully as it had begun. We gingerly walked back to the barn, all three of us knowing something had shifted in our day. It was like an old party balloon that had lost most of its air and lay insipidly in a corner. But what Mom was trying to teach me on that day, and she continued to teach me, was quite plainly- grit, self-reliance, independence. Obviously, she knew the world could be and often was a very cruel place. I suspect she already thought about a day when she would not be around to rescue me, or maybe even when I would not want her to do so; isn’t that the goal? I am still not sure of that. When I look at the photo of us on Goldie, I am reminded of the lesson, and I remember “you can sit there bawling or get back up.” When Mom died, I felt as if both Goldie and Mom were pulled from under me, and that I was free falling in an abyss that seemingly had no end, no ground. When I did land, I felt so broken; I felt like I didn’t know how to move again, because I still desperately needed her. But also when I look at that picture, framed on my mantle, I feel her, I feel that day. And I get back up, dust off myself, and get on that horse.
Shelley's Write, As Usual 