When I was growing up, there was a Schlotzsky’s restaurant on the way home from Mom’s work, so every so often she’d stop by and bring sandwiches home.
I’ve moved around a bunch since then. Most places don’t have a franchise, so it’d been a while since I’d bitten into one.
My son’s grandparents gave him a scholarship to Space Camp at the U.S. Space & Rocket Center in Huntsville. We dropped him off and checked Google Maps to see if there was a Schlotzsky’s nearby. We were in luck. It was even on our way.
When sourdough goodness filled with ham, salami, cheddar, mozzarella, black olives and tomatoes arrived, I took a photograph and made a mistake: I sent a group text to Mom and Jay Bell, my good friend from “Bradenton-Fun-in-the-Sun-Baby,” Florida.
Why was it a mistake?
Jay immediately sent back a message that read: “I’m jealous, xxxxx.” (You can count the Xs and take a few guesses about what he called me that day. Consider it a vulgar crosswords puzzle. No points if you get it right.)
“Dude,” I texted back because, for some reason, I’m the only person in the world who uses the word “Dude” anymore, “my mom’s on this text.”
“Oh, sorry, Scott’s Mom,” Bell texted.
“It’s okay,” Mom replied. “I’m jealous too.”
So we fast forward in time a few years, and Mom’s gone. She died from complications of chronic obstructive pulmonary disease. She’s buried in a plot in Spring Hill, Tennessee, where she grew up.
My daughter played flute in the Tupelo High School band, and they were competing in a contest in Columbia, Tennessee, which borders Spring Hill.
She left to get on the bus, and the wife, boy and I decided to drive up and surprise her, but Tupelo wasn’t scheduled to perform until late in the evening, so it was a perfect time to drop by Spring Hill and pay our respects.
But it was weird. I don’t know why. The grave was there, but it wasn’t connecting for some reason. I wish I knew how to explain it. Grief and loss dripped from the overhanging trees, but I wanted more and, to be honest, expected more.
What exactly did I want? I couldn’t say then but have some ideas now.
On the way to Columbia, we’d consulted Google Maps and looked for a Schlotzsky’s in the area. It was like 40 or 50 minutes away, and that seemed too far. But we’d done the search south of Columbia. From Spring Hill, it was a 20-minute drive to Franklin. That was a no-brainer.
And that’s where I found Mom, in a Schlotzsky’s/Cinnabon. It didn’t even require a bite. The sight of the sourdough goodness in front of me was enough to blend our spirits in a way that I’d hoped would’ve happened at the cemetery.
I believe in cemeteries. Their markers and crypts are constant reminders of what was and what will be.
As powerful as they are, they have limits. They’re focused on death, but Mom had lived, you know?
While recently visiting her husband, and my stepfather, in the home they’d shared, we were overwhelmed by the photos on the wall and the absence at the center of them all.
On the return trip, we stopped at another Schlotzsky’s, which was south of Birmingham, and filled ourselves up. I sent a photo to Jay Bell because, hey, I still want him to be jealous.
