J is for Special Memories of Jay

So many memories of our son, Jay!  He and I had a mutual admiration society from the day he was born. Since I was his only source of nourishment for several months. If he had had his way, we’d have sat in the rocker twenty-four hours a day just rocking and nursing. I can still see the way he’d pull away from my breast, holding on with only his little gums so that he could give me a great big smile while taking a little break. I nursed him for only about four months, so it’s getting close to fifty years since the last time he and I had these special times.

Another special memory that comes to mind happened one day in his first summer. When he awakened from his nap, I noticed a strange round red spot on his cheek. Oh, no . . . my baby had a ringworm!Wendy, Jay, and I made the rounds of all the drug stores in Pascagoula with me asking pharmacists if it was ringworm. They all just shook their heads and said they didn’t know what it was. After a couple of hours of no success, we headed home. I just couldn’t imagine how my baby had been infected. As we rounded the corner of our street, Wendy, that little adult housed in a five-year-old body, said, “Look, Mommy! The ringworm is leaving.” I looked down, and sure enough, it was fading away. Can you guess what the “ringworm” was? Jay had slept on his pacifier. So much for my doctoring skills!

Here’s another one . . . one day when Jay was about four years old, he and I were driving to my husband’s store. Jay was away in nevernever land thinking very seriously about something. Out of the blue, he said, “When I grow up, I’m gonna be a fireman, and I’m gonna park my fire truck at home. I’ll have twelve children, and I’m gonna let them climb all over my fire truck.” I said, “That’s nice. (I think his dad had fussed at him for climbing on his truck.) Did you know that those children will be my grandchildren?” “Uh huh.” Then I replied, “Will you bring your children to see me and Daddy?” I’ll never forget his response, “Oh, Ma, you plolly be dead by then!” Now THAT was encouraging!

Jay didn’t cry easily, but I remember one time that he wept. He was about eight years old when he came into the house late one afternoon, blubbering. He stood in the middle of the living room floor and announced that he wasn’t ever going back to play with the Jacoby boys. He had very wet, no soggy, brand new tennis shoes (that’s what we called all athletic shoes back then) in his hand. One of the Jacobys had thrown his shoes in the swimming pool, and he was convinced that they were ruined. They weren’t, of course, but his little heart was broken. Unlike many children today, our children didn’t get new clothes and shoes frequently. They got new ones either when the ones that they had wore out or the children outgrew them. I assured him that it would be all right. The shoes would dry out and be fine. My heart hurts even today when I picture him standing there so sad.

Fast forward about fifteen years and we’ll see Jay cry for the last time. He and his band had moved back from New York, where instead of making their fortune, they had almost starved. It was Christmas Eve, and the phone rang. Jay was crying. I hadn’t heard that voice from Jay since the Jacobys meanness. When I asked what was wrong, he explained. He had had a terrible argument with Suzy, his girlfriend. She was still in New York, and whatever he said to her had hurt her feelings terribly. They had hung up angry with each other. And it was Christmas! He was devastated. “What should I do, Mom?” I told him that he needed to get himself together, think about how to apologize, call Suzy and let her know that he was sorry, and then come home for the night. He needed some TLC, and home is where he could always get it. That’s what he did. I mentioned this to Suzy years later, and she didn’t even remember what they quarreled about.

I have many more memories, but I’ll close with just one more. I was an English teacher at Woodham High School in Pensacola, Florida. One day during lunch the phone rang in the teachers’ work area. My friend Becky McPheron answered it. It was Jay. Since he knew Becky well, he chatted with her for a few minutes before she called me to the phone. Just before she called for me, she told Jay, “We’re burning up! The air conditioning is out, and we’re all about to die. Your mom is so hot.” Jay paused just a second and said, “Mrs. McPheron, my mom’s always hot!” She told me what he said, and I never forgot. He couldn’t have said anything that I’d love more. I’m sure you understand.

Again, fast forward to 2017. I wrote a book about my boy. It’s a book of memories, and I’ll write more about it in another post. You see, Jay died on July 2, 1992, and I’ve been writing about him ever since. I collected some of my writing into a book that I titled My Mom’s Always Hot! A Mother’s Memories. You might enjoy the cover. It shouts my boy, Jay, and his mom!