Day CLIV: Billy

It was my mom's birthday on Friday.

And what better way to celebrate with a visit than with a visit from her son?

A road trip was precisely what this weekend needed; the north shore is a pretty phenomenal place to clear your mind and relax. Sometimes, a clear head and a healthy does of doing nothing is all you need for your two day vacation. 

So, following a half day at the office, a few lunch threats from Kyle, and a half-hearted attempt at packing, Mike and I headed up to the North Shore where my mom works as the F&B Manager of Cove Point Lodge in Beaver Bay, MN.

After a very quick three hours, we arrived at the lodge, checked in to our room--a delightful corner unit with a fireplace and a deck--and, because Beth Wilson is who she is, we began drinking.

A few miles out of Beaver Bay, in a little town called Silver Bay, we visited the local favorite bar. It was basically a cleaner version of any VFW or American Legion, and it was cleverly attached to a liquor store. Great idea, right?

Anyway, after meeting a few of my mom's employees, the lovely Liz and Kathy, we decided to start the night off with shots of Patron.

Hey, your mom only turns 46 once, right?

Soon enough, we all had cocktails and were playing our favorite songs through the jukebox in the corner. It was only the natural order of things, then, that we started to play pool. Three or so games passed between Stewart, Mike, Mom, and myself before Mike and I were approached by a local.

His name, we learned, was Billy.

We learned he was a transplant from Seattle, from Sante Fe, from Reno. A vagabond of sorts, he was something of a local legend. The kind of friendly that's harmless, but increasingly unnerving. Every Budweiser he knocked back seemed to generate a new tale: his time in the Airforce, his lesbian sister, his commerce tycoon wife, his dog named Jabez.

And it was never once with context, these spun, inebriated stories. So, it only seems fair to share a few quotes from him throughout the night, presented without context...because, again, there was none.

"This dog knows how to fit between boobs since he was six weeks old." 

"I'm not fool. I don't believe in religion. I believe in god." 

"It could be raining pussy out there and I'd still get hit in the head with a dick."

At the end of the night, as we were leaving, and after he handed over his phone number in case we wanted to take a ride on his bikes the following day, he turned to the local ladies at the bar. They were giving him a hard time that his friends were leaving.

Without missing a beat, Billy retorted: "Pretty good trade off; those guys were way better looking than you."

And what kind of birthday would be complete without a shot of Billy and the birthday girl?

Happy Birthday, Mom. Hope you had a blast.

Looks like ya did!

Day XCVII: Mom

Here's something cute: I was born on Mother's Day.

And that's my mom. She's riding a skateboard in Colorado. Not bad for a sixty year-old, eh?

Kidding: she's forty five.

My mom is one of those people who doesn't give a damn what anyone thinks of her. She has butterfly tattoos and changes her hair weekly. Her regular use of the word "fuck" is a great indicator for the amount of time she thinks about what others have to say about her. I've always admired that in my mom. And sometimes find myself wishing a little more of that flippancy and self-assuredness found its way through the gene pool.

When I was younger, I dreaded growing up to be my mom. Don't we all? I was always told: "You must be Beth's son!" or "Don't you look just like your mom!" and I despised it. I hated that lack of originality and that a son, a male child, could be so similar to their female parent. Looking back, it's funny to recognize and observe that reluctance to be so frequently compared to my mother. Because now: I would be lucky to be half the person my mumsy is. She's dynamic and friendly, huge-hearted and caring. She's stubborn and driven, and doesn't settle for less than she deserves. 

At twenty four, my mom was raising a darling, charismatic, and dashing four year-old, and also my brother. Between my her and my dad, they somehow managed to raise two spectacular children, even at such a young age. If I had a toddler and another son in diapers at my age...?

Let's not even postulate. There's just no way.

So this is for my mother, my mom. 

No words will ever be able to express my gratitude and love for her, or even come close to giving back everything she instilled in me. I am one of the two most fortunate boys on this planet for having grown up with someone like her, constantly vigilant, always guiding our steps.

I love you, mom. 

And I will be forever full of admiration and respect for everything you've done, for everything you do, for everything to come.

#SundaySelfie: me and my godson, Bernard