Ever since the time I went to Sheepshead Bay to watch the people catch fish off of the piers, I kept in very close contact with my mother. You might say that it was a bit eccentric for a young boy to keep such a closeness with his mother, but I was 10 years old and there was a good reason for it. It had nothing to do with me. I would have gone anywhere and come back home at dinner time, but I knew she would worry, especially after what happened.
We lived about a mile and a half from the Bay, not far from the Atlantic Ocean and Manhattan Beach—which is where the rich people lived. But for me, there was nothing of interest to see beyond the Bay. Here the fishing ships would dock at the piers, and when the ships left early in the morning to go out into the Atlantic, people would gather on the piers with rods and reels to cast into the Bay. It was where there was always action. As I watched the men cutting the bait and baiting the hooks, I wondered who would be the first one to catch a fish. And then suddenly a rod would bend into an obvious pulsating curve, stirring everyone’s interest.
“Got one!” the old-timer said calmly. Surely he had done this a hundred times before as he aptly reeled in that fish. It was a beauty, fluttering around on the end of his line. But I guess I was so engrossed with all the new and interesting things that were happening around me that I lost track of time.
The sun was setting and the western sky was all lit up in a colorful sunset. It was starting to get colder, so I figured that I better head home. I crossed the street and walked towards the corner at Ocean Avenue where it ends at the Bay. I continued walking north on Ocean Avenue, the most direct route to go home and was about two and a half blocks from home when I heard my mother’s voice calling my name. Then I saw her as she ran into the street towards me, avoiding the people walking on the sidewalk.
“Why did you take so long to come home? Where were you?” she said frantically with panting breath. I could see that she was relieved to see me.
“Ma, I was watching them fish and I forgot.” I didn’t answer any more than that as I noticed the tears on her face. “Ma, what’s wrong,” I quickly responded, “what happened?”
“He told me that maybe you drowned in Sheepshead Bay!”
“Who said that?!” I shouted.
“The boy that I asked, the one with the new bicycle,” she replied while wiping the tears that were now streaming down her face. “I didn’t know what to think! I was afraid!” she said as she hugged me.
“I would never go so close to the water or do anything like that. I’m not stupid! You know that, Ma!” I said, reassuringly.
“Come, let’s get home. Irving is alone in the house!” She said. I realized then, when I saw my mother crying, that I never wanted her to worry or cry because of me.
I always knew my mother’s heart, and after that time I kept in close contact with her. I always worried that she would be worrying about me. I know that God blessed me when He gave me my Mother.
When I was older and married and my parents knew that I was going on a big trip out of state, I would call them when I reached my destination. On the phone I remember my Mom saying, “I’m so glad you called. Now I’ll be able to sleep tonight!”
And I answered, “Me too, Mom!”
By David Weinstein
