With every milestone in my life, I immediately think of my mama. I may be a 50-year-old grandmother now; but I will always be just a little girl needing her mama. I don’t think that’ll ever fade away. I lost my mom when I was 20; so, she missed a lot of my milestones. Then again, she was only 37 years old herself. So she missed a lot of milestones of her own. She never got to watch her children get married. She never got to meet her grandchildren or great-grandchild. She never lived beyond the “Dirty Thirties;” so, there was never a 40th birthday party or 50th.
I remember turning 37 and realizing that there was still so much life to live; and just how young my mom was when she passed. That year, I tried to live boldly. I rode the scariest ride at the fair just to remind myself I was alive. You look to your mother as a blueprint for the future, and without her past 37, I didn’t know what life beyond that looked like. I’ve been winging it ever since. Every time something significant happens, I think of her. I wonder if she would’ve done it the same way. I long for her advice—or just a sign that I’m doing okay.
My next thoughts go to my friends. I’ve had the honor to give eulogies for my 2 best friends’ funerals in my 50 years, and frankly, that’s 2 too many. That’s something for people in their 80s to do; not someone my age. I was grateful to do one last thing for them and their families—but I would’ve much rather shared these milestones with them in person.
Eden never even made it to 37 before she died. I remember sitting with Vickey afterward and promising each other that we would make the most out of life from here on out. We would make more of an effort to see each other and not allow life’s stupid obstacles get in the way of us enjoying and living our lives to the fullest. And we did make more of an effort. We did get together more; and laughed louder and appreciated our friendship more. The last time I saw her, we were making plans to go on a trip together-just us girls- as soon as we could both find time off. We hugged in my kitchen, and I watched from the window as she drove away. About 6 weeks later she was gone too.
I did what I know she would’ve wanted me to do. I mustered up the strength to put on another black dress and honored her beautiful soul.
But her death changed me for good.
As I followed behind the hearse; I kept thinking of the trips we had talked about; all the plans we were trying to make, but never actually got to see it come to fruition. I left the cemetery; threw my backpack and hammock in the car and was out of town 20 minutes later. As they lowered her casket in the ground, the tears that flowed weren’t just because I knew how much we would all miss my friend; it was also for life we didn’t get to live. We had always joked that we would get old and live together like the Goldin Girls, eating cake at midnight, talking about the “good old days.” And now that was all stripped away.
Like a parent scolding His child, God held me by the chin and forced me to look up, open my eyes see that this life is a gift, and it’s meant to be lived to the fullest. So, from then on, I started having my adventures.
While some people like to plan a week of relaxing by the beach or at a spa; I chase the wild. I hiked (and subsequently got lost) in the Appalachian Mountains. I camped alone on the banks of the Chunky River, listening to deer (or bears) sniffing around my camp gear. I hammocked in the Ouachita Mountains and watched fireworks coming from the city of Hot Springs. I went on a Bigfoot Hunt – obviously didn’t find him; but it was worth the trip. I hiked over 6 miles deep into the Ozark mountains, along the tallest sheer bluff face found between the Rocky and Appalachian Mountains, climbed through a hole in mountain and walked along a narrow 5-foot-wide ledge off the bluff, over 500 feet in the air and dangled my feet over the Buffalo River. I saw real glowworms—one of the only places in the world outside New Zealand where they exist. I rode an Amtrak from Greenwood to Chicago just to eat pizza with my daughter, then caught another train to D.C., wandered the Capitol alone, and finally took a train to Baltimore.
I’ve packed in more adventure in the three years since Vickey passed than in decades prior. But this year? This will be my greatest adventure yet.
This year I turn 50 years old.
With such a momentous birthday, the people I’ve lost have been heavy on my heart. But it’s not just my mama and my friends. So many others didn’t make it this far.
I’ve wanted to do this for 10 years now; but didn’t ever have the nerve to do. And this year, I’m taking all those that didn’t make it to 50 along with me. I know how tenuous life can be, how quickly everything can change. I fully intend to live the rest of my life creating memories worth sharing long after I’m gone. I want my granddaughter to one day hold a picture of me up to her friends and say, “You know, my Oma did the wildest, craziest things!” So, for this next adventure, I am riding in the Naked Bicycle Ride in New Orleans.
This isn’t about the nudity. It’s about the cycles; and acceptance.
When I lived in Gulfport, I rode my bike everywhere – from work to the grocery store. Every Saturday, my children and I would pack a lunch and some drinks, hop on our bikes and ride 8-10 miles up and down the MS Gulf Coast. Riding around on our bikes was easy there. We had bike lanes from the interstate to the beach and board walks from Long Beach to Biloxi. But sadly, that is not the case in the Delta.
The Naked Bicycle Ride started in Portland as a protest formed by a group of artists protesting society’s oil dependency. Over the years it has spread worldwide, in every major city, gradually shifted into more of an advocacy event for cyclist safety and body positivity, which are 2 very personal issues for me. Also – who doesn’t want to do something outlandish for a good cause? I figured this would be the perfect way for me to celebrate 50 incredible years living this beautiful life God has blessed me with. For anyone who knew the younger me, it’s a miracle that I’ve made it this far. This birthday is not just a celebration for me. It’s a reflection of the beautiful journey I’ve travelled over this lifetime, and a tribute to those I’ve loved and lost—each one leaving their own mark on my heart. I am not only riding for myself, but I am also riding for all those exceptional souls that didn’t get to see their own 50th.
I’m Riding for….
My mama- Because she never got to do anything too crazy. She spent all her precious energy and short time on this earth (only 37 years) taking care of everyone else. And I can hear her saying “You’re as crazy as your damn daddy!” And I know she loved him as much as she loved anyone else until the day she died. Their love kept them tethered, even 17 years after divorcing. I know she’s rolling her eyes and thinking to herself, “I didn’t call her ‘Crazy’ for nothing.” But I also know she would fight anyone tooth and nail to defend me because that’s who she was and what she did. She was my mama; and she always fought for me. It was the sheer fight in her that got her to 37 years old.
Eden and Vickey- just because I know they’d get the biggest kick out of it. They always got a kick out of our crazy shenanigans. Those girls knew all my secrets and supported me through all kinds of crazy. And they know that riding on a bike, is not the worst thing I’ve done for them😊
Chris and Jody- because my childhood wouldn’t have been complete without them. They were more like family than just friends. My first realization that they were like family came when my mom said one night, “better get out of your nightgown and put more clothes on. Barbara is coming by with the boys really quick.” And I said, “it’s just Chris and Jody. They don’t care.” Watching Chris’ kids grow up has been a privilege; and sharing stories with them is a treasure. The last time I saw Jody was only a few minutes before his accident. My mom was teasing us about getting “our tails back to school.” The last time I saw Chris, he was riding a motorcycle down the road, his babies trailing behind him on their own “little toy motorcycles” like little ducklings following the leader.
My cousin Danny Lewis – because he was never too busy to push me on the tire swing in his front yard; and wasn’t too cool to hold my hand and walk with me from Elementary to the High School where my Aunt Tammy was. He didn’t even see 21. I can’t imagine what he would look like as an older man. He will forever be young in my mind; and there’s something beautiful about that.
My Uncle Danny Joe – because he bailed me out on more than one speeding ticket that he knew I couldn’t afford to pay; and let me crash at his house any time I wanted. Growing up, I thought he was the most handsome of all my uncles – and I have a bunch of uncles.
Misty Rainey – My sweet cousin because she stayed with us as much as she stayed at home. Because behind the deep hauntingly brown eyes of that little girl was an old soul that would reach out and grab you by the heart strings, sucking you in.
Lane – my sweet nephew- because I can still feel his spirit in his mama’s laughter and his sister’s mischievous grin; and can still practically see him standing next to Randolph and David – right beside them tinkering with the tools and working on stuff.
Jake Byars – he was the first friend we lost. Losing him showed us just how fragile life could be. We were so young; that I don’t think it really sunk it at first. His death was almost an unspoken memory that haunted our young minds. No one knew what to say; how to act; or how to just be. Now that I am a mother, I have a special place in my heart for his mama’s strength in carrying on; and continuing to show up for his brother Todd. Seeing his dad cheering loudly from the stands warmed my heart.
Tal Tharp and Jay Duke- because we grew up together out in the country; trauma-bonded by the long morning and afternoon rides on Mr. Pena’s school bus. They were best pals that passed together; so, they should be together on the ride too. I love to see their families and know how proud they’d be of them today. They were the boys that never started trouble. They were some of the good ones. And sadly, it really is always the good ones that die young.
Little Ariana – because that little head of curls bounced up and down the stairs of my home countless times; and when you’re at my home- I’m gonna treat you like you’re mine, love you like you’re mine and scold you like you’re mine. After she had her accident, we moved out of that house. As we were packing and cleaning, we found a mirror upstairs that she had written her name on in marker. That was a special treasure to find. Just like her name was permanently marked on my mirror; her smile and youthfulness will always leave a stain on everyone who knew her.
Roy Cook – because he loved me, though he never had me. He was such a special friend to me right on the cusp of adulthood. We rode a million miles down every back road we could get lost on, escaping reality, forever questioning what we were going to do with our lives; and finding a bond that always kept us tethered together in spirit, even though we eventually went our separate ways. I always thought back on him, prayed he was happy, and I still smile at the memories we shared.
So, when you see me butt naked, among a sea of perfect strangers, with my unbridled naughty bits on full display, just know that I didn’t get here easily. My journey has been as hard as it has been beautiful. And for just a moment in time, I will be completely free – free from social conventions, free from the constraints of mistakes made and the weight of grief.
For just a few miles in New Orleans, the little girl that I was once will reemerge; changed by life’s heartbreaks; but not broken. She is still there and will rise up like a phoenix, strong, resilient, defiant, and pulchritudinous. And she will not ride alone. The spirits of those I ride for will be with the little girl inside me; celebrated by every memory that shaped me.
I once heard that our children reflect the best and the worst of us. I know I reflect the worse of my mother. She may have been sick and frail physically, but mentally she was as strong as an ox. I have had too many weak moments. I’ve made choices that I am sure would have disappointed her. But my mother could also be spontaneously silly. She would get so tickled at herself, that she couldn’t breathe. One of my favorite memories is of her singing loudly and off-key “We Are Family” into the broomstick as she swept the kitchen floor. This is a side of my mother that a lot of people never got a chance to see. She had to fight so hard against the cards she was dealt that she rarely got the chance to play.
Realizing early on just how precious those rare silly moments with her were, I made a conscious decision to always be silly with my own children. While my silliness has more often than not caused my children some embarrassment (this latest probably causing the most), I hope that when I am long gone, my antics will serve as a source of joyful reflection. And while I am riding down the streets of New Orleans in my birthday suit, that mama will be laughing her head off in heaven and cheering me on; and I will reflect the very best of her.
Lessons Learned From The Rainbow 