A Bunch of Assholes

Welcome. It is a great word. It turns a house into a home and a stranger into family. A simple two syllable sound that is so easy to say, but so few people know how to wield it. It is an invisible force that can be sensed without a word being spoken. A feeling that says,

“Come on in”
“Get something to eat”
“Take a nap”
“Kick your shoes off”
“Take a shit”
“Make a phone call”
"Sit a spell"

I always felt welcomed at my Nanny’s house. She lived on Sloan Street, down in the Roswell Mill Village, in a little yellow house with brown trim. Three hundred and sixty five days a year, twenty four hours a day, she was always glad to see me. There was never a time when she said, “Doodle, would you mind coming back a little later, I am in the middle of something” or “I would ask you to have supper with us but I am afraid that we don’t have enough to eat”. Nanny’s house was a refuge. There simply was no safer place to be. She always made sure that you left with your stomach full, and your heart unburdened.

Now my mother on the other hand is a different story. Living with my father for sixteen years took its toll on her. A bitterness crept into her heart, and she began to feel the clock of life clicking away the years. I wish I had a dime for every time that I have heard her say, “I wasted the best years of my life on your sorry ass daddy”. Anything or anyone that she interpreted as an obstacle to her happiness was told that, “If you don’t like it, you can get the fuck out”. Those obstacles were more often than not, my brother, my sister and I. We had the great misfortune to be teenagers when my mother took on her new militant view on life. If you came home five minutes late on a Friday night, you could, “Get the fuck out”. If she didn’t like the person you were dating, you could, “Get the fuck out”. If you did something to piss off her new husband, then you could definitely be sure to, “Get the fuck out”.

Twenty years have past since I was a teenager and I still do not feel welcome in her house. One year, while having Thanksgiving dinner at her house, my back suddenly began to cramp severely. The pain was so intense that I could hardly speak. I laid on the floor awhile while my brother pretended to be a chiropractor and waited for the pain to go away. It didn’t. Back in those days, I drove a big Chevy van with no windows, the kind preferred by ice cream men and kidnappers. It was a high ride, and both passenger and driver had to pull themselves up to be seated. I was in no condition to drive home that night, and Dolly, who stands a towering 4’11, could not even reach the pedals. I needed Mom to ask me to stay the night. The thought never crossed her mind.

“You’ll be alright”.
“You’ll be home before you know it”.

I have heard people say that you can never go home. I know that is at least true for me. The home that I knew has been broken since I was fifteen and it was a violent, noisy place anyway. It is funny to me that I have been made to feel more welcome in my friend’s homes than in the places where my mom or dad dwell. Rbutler’s mother and sister have always made me feel like family. “Come on in, there is cold watermelon in the fridge” or “RButler’s out cutting the grass, do you need a Co Cola?” It seems like such a simple thing, to treat a person with dignity:

-To offer them a seat in your home and not mind if they rummage through your old people magazines and tabloids

-To let them know that it is not the end of the world, when they accidentally knock over the $2.49 cent statue of the sad clown that you bought at Eckerds

-To let them stand by the fire when it’s cold and the fan when it is not

-To offer them a story and something cold to drink before they continue their journey

Making someone feel welcome is beginning to be a lost art, like letter writing. Our lives just keep getting faster and faster and the little things that put the “civil” in civilization get pushed to the edge of the road. Pretty soon we are all just a bunch of assholes.