By Angela Pilson

By the end of spring break, I’ve had enough of Judge Judy, Dr. Oz and ornery, cranky grandparents. My mom and I have been in Florida since Friday morning, and although I have not seen them in two years, I am exhausted and fed up.

When we arrive in Wildwood — where my grandparents recently bought a house for $70,000 (the neighbor down the road is now selling his for $15,000) — the first thing we do is grab some groceries from the Winn-Dixie. Armed with a cheese Danish, a can of tuna, pepperoncini, muffin mix, Nilla wafers and sweet tea, we head back to fix dinner. Grandpa is in the sunroom painting — the first thing I notice about him is his beard. I’ve never seen him with one, and he looks frail and pitiful. The teeth on the lower gums of his mouth are yellow, spotted black and tiny with gaps in between. The top row hides behind white, large dentures; when he smiled, these are what you see.

The second thing that startles me is what he says. “There’s this technique here you have to use to make the color so it doesn’t look like mud, which is what I want to teach you.” He’s never really offered to teach me anything.

Throughout the week, Grandpa bickers and argues about the golf course with Mom and Grandma. In Rome, N.Y., they ran Beaver Creek Golf Course and sold it a few years ago. The new owners, Mike and Frank, are in default — they’re bankrupt and in lieu of foreclosure. They want to give it back to Grandpa. He argues with his attorney about what will happen. The deal is this: They auction it off, and if no one buys it, they have two options. They can sell it and live off the profits and Social Security, or they can try to run it with no start-up capital.

All week this is the topic of discussion. It stresses my mother. I never wanted so badly to yell at my grandfather and shake him until his blue eyes were wide with understanding.

He says, “If you go up there and be the general manager and run things, I’ll supervise, and you can have a job, since you were just laid off. And Paul and another guy could do maintenance on the green. Mary could work the bar with Sarah. It could work. When I go, it’ll become equity, and about $300,000 will be left for the kids.”

I turn to Mom, who is close to tears. She says, “I just want you to be comfortable, Dad.”

He’s guilt-tripping her. She’s baited with years of emotional damage, baited with the hope of a few more good years. I could hear the if only, if only running through my mother’s head. If she did go up there, Dad wouldn’t stick around and wait. It wouldn’t be fair to him, stuck at home working, trying to save and plan for their own retirement. I walk away and return to reading.

During the entire visit, the television is on. Maybe it’s something older people do: It is on in the morning for the news, in the afternoon for Dr. Oz, and in the evening for a movie or Judge Judy. It is on during dinner, after dinner, and while my mother sleeps in the living room. They don’t really leave the house except with us. They watch shows, make lunch, paint, and do yard work. We go to the flea market, and the fighting doesn’t stop.

My mother knows not to buy things she doesn’t need. I expect her to know not to buy things she doesn’t need while unemployed. I am wrong. I return to where she and Grandma are still standing 15 minutes later. “Grab that shoebox there, Angie,” my mother says.

I look at it. It is filled with CD cases. Most of them are obscure bands. “Why?”

“Because I bought them.” The second I hear these words I am pissed. Not angry, not upset, but almost to the point of tears. This war with clutter is an ongoing battle between my mom and me. She has the backyard shed filled with boxes of stuff, the back bedroom piled to the ceiling with clothes, the carport overflowing with boxes, a dresser in the hallway, two closets filled with clothes, a dresser and wardrobe in her bedroom, and my father only has a dresser and nightstand. This is not an exaggeration.

I leave and pace the vendor booths back and forth. Gospel and country music blare from the center: It’s not what you take when you leave this world behind… A woman who suffers from the same “disease” as my mother says, “I’ma take this to the car, unload it and come back.” I just sit in the car and read while Mom makes three trips from the car’s trunk to the market, each time returning with another plastic bag or two. I am ready for our trip to Disney.

My mother and I are not really good with taking directions from each other. I get upset when she repeats herself, as if I didn’t hear her tell me to “turn left at this next light” the first 15 times. I tell her “I know” about 20 times, and she then gets frazzled, sensitive and tells me to stop yelling at her. Really, we should know by now.

My mother is upset by other drivers. She can’t handle the clusters, the stops, the braking, the speeding, and the cut-offs. I tell her to go straight as she passes the turn for the Magic Kingdom entrance. She is yelling at me that she has to turn back, that the turn was the Disney World entrance, as I try to out-shout her and explain that the Epcot gate is further down. The sign appears for Epcot, next turn, and she gets quiet.

After the first ride, I go inside one of the shops to find a bag to hold all my stuff in. The purse I’m wearing doesn’t zip. The store is offering a deal for a bag: $10.95 with a $25 purchase. Mom asks the lady in front of us if she wouldn’t mind buying the bag if we give her the money. She buys it for us and refuses Mom’s money. “Enjoy it,” she says. “Pay it forward.”

When we finished thanking her and found an empty bench to transfer contents from one bag to another, Mom turns to me. “You know, it’s funny she said that — pay it forward. I say that all the time.” I smile at her and see not just my mother, but a woman moved by another’s kindness.

How easy it is to forget that mothers are women, too. To forget grandfathers are men and daddys. They worry about their children and what they’ll leave behind for them. They collect and gather and plan and sacrifice comfort. My mother may collect junk for God-knows whatever reason, Grandpa may want to spend his last few years furrowing his grey brows over a failing business, but I all I want to be left behind when they’re gone are memories.

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Angela Pilson is a senior at CCU and an English major. Her flash fiction piece has recently been accepted for publication by North American Review. She has been published in Tempo, Archarios, and The Chanticleer.