For whatever reason this evening, I'm remembering my mom. It's probably not uncommon to reflect on someone you loved deeply around the anniversary of their passing. January 7th 2017 was the day my world was turned on its head.
I went from having a silly argument over the phone with my mom on a Thursday, to receiving a heartfelt voicemail on a Friday, to waking up at 6:00 AM on Saturday to hear my sister tell me over invisible telephone wires that my mom just became as nonexistent as the wires connecting our phone call.
Tonight, a little after the three year anniversary of her death, I'm reminded of some of the simpler times. Being under the age of 10 but still past the age of reason, we were dropping off checks to one of the businesses she did payroll for.
My mom, before I was — as the tried and true expression goes — a twinkle in her eye, worked for a company called Paychex. She didn't have a college education, she was just whip-smart about math and accounting. More so, she was incredibly skilled at navigating the tax laws that might affect the clients to whom she was assigned.
My mom is the reason employees leaving Paychex have to sign a non-compete waiver before parting ways with their employer.
My mom founded her own third party payroll processing company — say that five times fast — and I grew up around her running that business.
I learned a few things:
1. Don't speak to someone while they're on the phone. It's rude and you'll get yelled at. (I never said my mom was perfect.)
2. The sound of a dot matrix printer making checks is the most beautiful sound in the world.
3. When checks need to be delivered, you get to experience oldies classics.
When my sister and I were young, any time mom had to drop off payroll to one of her clients, we were her backseat entourage. We would go on a drive to whichever client needed documents delivered while my mom rolled down the driver side window and smoked Merit Light 100s.
As an aside, I don't want to blame my mom for my smoking habit, but she certainly helped.
I looked forward to these trips. I loved seeing the trees and concrete and stucco and life teeming all around us whip past as we drove down I-270. I particularly loved it when she would deliver payroll to a specific client.
The client owned a restaurant. I can't remember the name, but I remember eating there as a family a few times when they still had smoking and non-smoking sections. It's hard to remember what was most memorable about the place. Whether it was the massive fish tank they had at the entrance, or the smell of Aqua Di Gio the manager wore any time my mom came around on business, or the impeccably delicious mozzarella sticks, or the way every piece of lighting in the building became a trigger for nostalgia, long before I even knew the meaning of the word.
None of those, regardless of how descriptive I am about them, compares to my most memorable trip to the restaurant.
I don't remember all that much. Keep in mind, I was less than ten years old. But, I do remember it was a warm afternoon. Shortly before summer break because there was a drive at our school selling Impatients to benefit the school's booster club. I remember the itchy school polo shirt against my skin. I remember the afternoon sun warming my back as it shone through the window behind me. I remember the purple tinge of the lighted aquarium off to my right. Most of all, I remember eating mozzarella sticks slathered in marinara sauce. I remember feeling full and bored of my mom discussing business with one of her clients. Most of all, I remember using a toothpick at the table to pierce a hole in the side of my Styrofoam cup full of iced tea.
To this day, I don't know why I poked a hole in my cup. I just know I did, and I've been feeling guilty ever since.
So, kids, keep in mind: nostalgia is a dangerous and horrifying drug. But like most other drugs, it's still fun to experience.