If Wishes Were Fishes

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"If wishes were fishes, we'd all cast nets."

Frank Herbert (1920–1986)

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I've been thinking lately of decisions I wish I could be allowed to make again — because I know I would make different choices.

It's that old "if I knew then what I know now" thing. I remember hearing that when I was a teenager and giggling at it the way teenagers do, in their way of making you aware that they are merely humoring you — but, in fact, they don't appreciate the irony and probably can't until they've put on more mileage. I realize now, as I reflect on it, that I knew a lot less then than I thought I did. (I like to think I know more now.)

Another way of putting it was "You can't go home again" — and that is something else at which most teenagers would probably smirk because they know it is rubbish. They think that because most teenagers have experienced time, but few have experienced space, and it is only after experiencing both that you can grasp that concept.

It is only after you have experienced an extended distance from the only home you may have had that you can appreciate the truth of that cliche. In one's absence, the memory of home becomes romanticized. You forget the bad things — and there were bad things because there are always bad things — and you idealize the good.

I think that often plays a role in the difficulties that some soldiers experience when they come home from a war. It isn't the only factor, of course, but I do believe it is one of them. Expectations are raised to a level that is simply unrealistic.

Still, I suppose most people have the inclination to look back wistfully on their youths. I know I do.

If I knew then what I know now, I'd treasure the time I had with friends who are no longer with us even more than I did. There were some friends whose deaths were anticipated, so I had time to reflect on how much they meant to me before they died. Others died unexpectedly; those are the ones who haunt me. I miss both sets of friends equally, but there is a sense of unfinished business with one group.

I feel that with my mother. She died in a flash flood 19 years ago this month — on Cinco de Mayo, as a matter of fact. Since the anniversary is always so close to Mother's Day, that holiday is always a reminder.

As if I needed one.

I've lived with many regrets. I regret the times I didn't tell her I loved her. I made a fatal mistake — I took her for granted.

Well, I made that mistake repeatedly when I was a teenager, not so much later. We had a good relationship, and I'm sure she knew I loved her — mothers usually do. I did tell her that often, as a matter of fact — but not the last time I saw her.

Next year, Mother's Day will fall on the 20th anniversary of her funeral. That's a date I will always remember as well. I lived in another state in those days and couldn't be in Dallas until the evening of the 9th. Arrangements were made for the funeral to be on the 10th.

For the first few days after the flood, it was easy to fool myself into believing that things weren't really as I had been told. Oh, I knew that wasn't the case, but outwardly my life had not changed. Everything was exactly the same ...

Until I arrived in Dallas. I got here late on the night of the 9th. My father had already gone to bed, so no one greeted me. I went into the dining room, fully expecting to see Mom come through the door at any minute. Instead I saw all the tell–tale signs of a death — flowers and cards on the dining table, flowing into the living room, and lots of covered dishes in the refrigerator.

I remember getting something to drink and just sitting in the dining room, looking around at a room that was so familiar and yet seemed so alien to me. I wish I could have a do–over for those moments. I would do a better job of preparing myself for what was to come in just a few hours.

The next day, at the funeral, everything hit me at once. I felt like Indiana Jones getting crushed by the big ball.

Yes, sir, if I had to go through that experience again (and I might have to; my father is still living), there are a lot of things I would wish for. I would wish to be better prepared this time. I guess the end result is no better, but it beats being blindsided.

Most of all, I guess, I would wish to not have to go through it again.

But that isn't how life works, is it?

Cinco de Mayo

I live in Texas, where roughly one–third of the residents are Hispanic. That being the case, I guess it is no surprise that Cinco de Mayo is a big deal here.

Some people live in places where the Hispanic population is not that significant. In those places, Cinco de Mayo may go virtually unnoticed — or it may just be an excuse to have a party. If you live in such a place, let me briefly give you the history of Cinco de Mayo. It is the commemoration of the date in 1862 when the Mexican army pulled off an implausible victory over the larger and better–equipped French forces in the Battle of Puebla.

Some Americans mistakenly believe that Cinco de Mayo is the Mexican Independence Day — which, I suppose, would be both ironic and appropriate, coming in the middle of the swine flu outbreak. But Mexico's actual Independence Day is in September.

Most of my experience with Hispanics and the Cinco de Mayo holiday has come in Texas. I don't know how it is treated elsewhere, but here, it is an opportunity for liquor stores to promote sales on beer and other alcoholic beverages and for grocery stores to promote sales on items for parties and cookouts — both things that are ethnic (i.e., tortillas) and seasonal (i.e., hot dogs and hamburgers) as well as things like paper plates, paper napkins and plastic utensils.

In addition to its benefits for marketing — which certainly cannot be underestimated in the current recession — Cinco de Mayo is celebrated with festivals and dancing in many places.

For my family — and for many others in the Dallas–Fort Worth Metroplex — the 1995 edition of Cinco de Mayo was tragically memorable. On that day, a heavy–duty storm swept through, dumping several inches of rain on the area in a short time and causing flash flooding. My parents had been having dinner with some friends and were on their way home when rapidly rising waters stalled their car. They got out of the car to seek higher ground. At that point, my mother, a first–grade teacher, was swept to her death and my father was pinned between the car and the guardrail. That probably saved his life.

I've told that story so many times in the last 14 years that it sometimes seems that I'm reciting a tale that I have memorized — as if it had happened to someone else. Sometimes it's hard to remember that it did happen to others — the old, the young, from all walks of life.

But it also happened to my family. If I need a reminder, I still have the newspapers from that weekend. Looking at them brings back the memories in a rush that seems almost as violent as the storm must have been. I was living elsewhere when the storm struck so I did not experience it firsthand. But it had an impact on my life that I still feel to this day.

Mom passed along many things to me, including an appreciation for good books and good music and an interest in history. If she had known in advance the day she would die, I think Mom would have been intrigued to know that May 5 was also:

• The day in 1809 when the first woman was awarded a U.S. patent. Mary Kies developed a technique that revitalized the moribund hat–making industry in New England and was honored by Dolley Madison for it.


• The day in 1821 that Napoleon died in exile.


• The day in 1891 that composer Pyotr Tchaikovsky, as guest conductor, participated in the opening of the Music Hall in New York City. It is now known as Carnegie Hall.


• The day in 1904 that Cy Young pitched the first perfect game in the modern era of baseball. The award that is given annually to the top pitchers in the American and National Leagues is named after him.


• The day in 1925 that teacher John Scopes was arrested for violating a Tennessee law that prohibited the teaching of evolution in public schools, leading to the infamous "Scopes Monkey Trial." Mom introduced me to the play "Inherit the Wind," which was based on the trial.


• The day in 1945 that U.S. troops liberated the Mauthausen concentration camp in Austria.


• The day in 1961 that Alan Shepard became the first American to travel in outer space. The day before, the Freedom Riders embarked on their first historic journey on integrated buses into the segregated South.

And, of course, it was the day of Cinco de Mayo in 1862.

It is also the birthday of many famous people:

• Karl Marx (in 1818)


• Journalist Nellie Bly (in 1864)


• Freeman Gosden, who was "Amos" in the "Amos 'n' Andy" radio series (in 1899)


• Actor Tyrone Power (in 1914)


• Rep. Leo Ryan, who was killed in Guyana in 1978 by members of the Peoples Temple (in 1925)

The day that Mom died in 1995, a Russian grandmaster of chess, Mikhail Botvinnik, also died. His name may not be familiar to most Americans, but, as an electrical engineer, he distinguished himself in that field while rising to become a world champion chess player in the 1940s, 1950s and 1960s.

I don't know if Mom knew how to play chess. My father taught me how to play, and we played chess many times when I was growing up. But Mom and I never played.

Botvinnik left behind an extensive legacy for students of the game. Mom would have appreciated that, I think. Her legacy also was educational — her work teaching first–graders and building a foundation for a lifetime of learning in each and every life that came into her classroom.