This "make a memory" kick started because I read about how important it is to make good memories with those you love in a book by Allison Dubois. Something about that got me thinking. I am so often caught up in just getting through the day that the idea of consciously making a good memory had never occurred to me.
Maybe we're all like that. Or maybe I'm just too goal directed and don't know how to enjoy life. Or did I just forget somewhere along the line that life is supposed to have happy moments? Maybe I'm just getting old and grouchy.
But the spiritual psychic value of doing things that are special with those in your family who you love somehow had gotten lost over the years. (See my book "Fifty Shades of Gray Hair - Second Sight" for a full explanation of what happened to my marriage.) My son and I do see each other quite often. He stops by for his dinner break from his job. He keeps some of his wardrobe in my closet. But doing something special and something that we would always remember as a fun time seemed very important. Mom wants to make a memory together.
I mentioned the idea to him and he was very enthusiastic, got on the computer and got us tickets for the Seattle Symphony, Rimsky-Korsakov with their Grammy winning violist soloing. The son was lucky enough to be in a school where every child had a music class every day from fourth grade on. He learned the cello. It was the very best thing that he ever studied. Consequently, he loves music and especially string instruments. I love music and as son pointed out, Rimsky-Korsakov's Scheherazade is a very romantic piece of music, something you'll love mom. Well, he has me pegged as ridiculously romantic, and he's not far wrong. But how perfect. Violins and Scheherazade.
So we're on for a big adventure with my twenty something son overnight in Seattle. Got the hotel, a nice, reasonably priced one within walking distance of Benaroya Hall, got Amtrak tickets for early trip down and back the next evening.
And then I had a "Tom" dream. The son and I were in a taxi cab going up an extremely steep hill. Walking the other way on the sidewalk, I saw Tom in his Hawaiian shirt. He didn't look at us, I was about to call hello to him, but our cab took off up the hill and it was too late. When Tom appears in my dreams, I always sense him as a presence, feel his spirit, or something like that. But it's always very different from dreams of just passing images. This dream had that psychic impact that often tells me to pay attention. Well, I thought, he's glad I'm doing something good with our son. The marriage may have been a bust, but we both loved being parents.
Everything goes great. Eight am Amtrak ride is delightful. We go to Pike Place Market. Great lunch. Aquarium. And when we are exhausted, at the bottom of the very steep hill that leads to our hotel, miraculously a cab drops off a passenger right where we are standing in the middle of the street. We grab it, and head up the 45 degree hill, just like the dream. I laugh to myself. Hi Tom.
As we walk over to Benaroya Hall, I share with my son very good memories of before he was born, when Tom and I used to go to the opera at Lincoln Center. His opinion of his father goes up. In later years, Tom gave up on all that kind of thing.
Concert is fabulous. We have an incredible time. Great late supper after the symphony, much intellectual discussion of music, culture, and our new lives on the west coast. Son and I bond; we're still trying to figure out what happened to us when Tom died, but we rarely touch directly on that topic these days. Too heavy. This is fun trip.
Next morning, hotel was perfect, but neither of us slept that well. We're tired out from our big day yesterday. And then we realize we have to check out of the hotel by 11 am. The train home doesn't leave till seven something. Houston, we have a problem. The idea of spending eight more hours bouncing around Seattle, even if it means the Space Needle and the EMP Museum, is just more than either of us can manage. I've made a mistake. I should have booked the bus home at 11 something am.
We're both getting cranky and I am in a panic. Are we going to be vagabonds carrying our backpacks around Seattle for the next seven hours? Yesterday was great, but this is going to spoil the "memory" I was making.
We are trudging along when suddenly I notice that I'm pretty sure we are on the street where the Bellaire Bus that goes to our town has a stop, if they have passengers to pick up or drop off. It's almost 11:30, but I don't remember the exact time the bus is due at this stop, just that it's around 11 am. And I don't remember exactly what building the stop is in, either, but I've taken that bus several times from the airport and am sure I can find that building where the bus pulls off the street to pick up passengers. I think.
I race up the hill followed by son. Then, miraculously, I see the bus ahead of us. It turns into the entrance of a building a little further up the hill. If we hurry, we can catch it. We charge in after it. It stops. They are running twenty minutes late. They have room for two unscheduled riders. We get on. Thank you Tom. I don't know how you do these things. But coincidence? I don't think so. My son and I had a great memory of a great day in Seattle doing things we love and enjoying life and each other. We miss our guy who left us a lot. Even if I can't totally forgive him, I guess I still love him. We both do. And I am sure he was there with us on our "make a memory day" in Seattle. In fact, he saved the day. And wearing his Hawaiian shirt, no less.