Who am I this weekend?

Taking a break

A couple of months after Dad died, I was talking to Mom on the phone. As I’ve written before, she was a strong woman. But she and Dad had been married for a long time. I knew that she was having trouble adjusting to life without him.

When I asked how she was doing, she usually replied, “Fine,” and then moved on quickly to ask about the boys. But that day she simply said, “I need something to look forward to.” 

“We could come down,” I said. We had moved back to Iowa because we could make the trip back home in a day. “The boys would love to visit, and Mike and I could help you with. . . things.” I wasn’t sure what those things were. She wasn’t one to accept much help. 

“No,” she said. “I need to get away. Is there anything going on up there?”

“Actually,” I said, “it’s almost time for the Iowa City Book Festival.” Although this was long before the days of video calls, I could hear my mom light up. “Yes,” she said. “I’ve always wanted to come to that.”

That’s how we found ourselves a few weeks later in an auditorium in Iowa City where one of our favorite authors, David Rhodes, was reading from his new novel. He was joined by a debut author who we had never heard of. Both gave great readings and had an easy conversation about their books, which were set in the Midwest. As soon as they were done, I leaned over to Mom. “I’m going to buy Rhodes’s new book and have him sign it.”

“Yes, and we should buy the other guy’s book too. I’ll get his,” she said. “Then we can both read both of them.”

I headed to the end of the long line forming in front of Rhodes, and Mom joined the shorter line of the debut author. As I waited, I watched her. I still worried about her. She was strong, but also frail, getting older. She looked so small without Dad beside her.

When she got to the front of the line, I watched her strike up a conversation with the young author. I couldn’t hear what they were talking about, but the conversation was lively. He was tall, about Dad’s height, but he leaned against the edge of the stage where he had read, coming closer to my mom’s level. It occurred to me that this might have been the first time that she had interacted with someone who didn’t know that she had recently lost her husband. I imagined the freedom of chatting about books and birds and the Midwest without being a widow right then.

This weekend, I am once again escaping into the Iowa City Book Festival. In fact, I’ve turned it into a staycation. I’m writing this Substack from a hotel room overlooking the Ped Mall in downtown Iowa City. It’s been a busy semester. I need a break from work projects. It’s also been a hard semester healthwise. I’m asking a lot of my body, sometimes too much. 

I planned this weekend to take a break from those identities that are hard right now. Books are my happy place - reading them, hearing them read, hanging out with people who love them as much as I do. I also intentionally planned to stay in a place that’s familiar. I know that I can navigate Iowa City, even when my body is not at its best. I know where the elevator is in Prairie Lights. I’m staying at a hotel that’s attached to a market for easy access to snacks when I don’t feel like going far. My plan was to be someone else for a little bit. 

For the most part, I achieved that goal. This weekend, I’m a person who wakes up slowly, lingering over coffee and a croissant. I’m a person who spends five dollars on a really good chocolate bar and significantly more than that on a stack of books.

I’m a person who attends four readings in one day, walks through the local book fair, caps off the evening by seeing the movie adaptation of Rachel Yoder’s book Nightbitch at FilmScene with my friend Erin. (The movie, like the book, is a powerful look at the clashing identities of a young mother.) I’m a person who is lucky enough to take a break when my identities clash.

I’m a person who now smiles more than I cry when memories of my mom come flooding back. I can’t share books with her anymore, but I still think of her when I read one I know she would love. And I’m grateful she taught me that sometimes we all need something to look forward to.