The Call of the Whoopie

Have you ever had a whoopie pie? Two small moist devils food cakes sandwiching a thick, sweet frosting. If you've never had one, I suggest you stop reading right here and go to your local bakery to pick one up, you won't regret it. (If your local bakery doesn't have whoopie pies then you should stop going there immediately, it is clearly not a reputable source for baked goods) Anyways, I arrived home last night after a lovely Valentine's Day evening spent with Heartbreak Hill and then with my wonderful friends, to find that I am now the proud owner of lots and lots of whoopie pies courtesy of my very favorite valentine, my dad. Despite the fact that I had just eaten a huge dinner and felt as though I might burst, I quickly tore into a delicious red velvet whoopie pie (a sort of Valentine's day twist on the traditional pie), and savored every last bite. Heaven!

As I climbed into bed, still licking the frosting off my lips (what a picture that is...), I got to remembering. My mom loved whoopie pies. I distinctly remember a time having whoopie pies with my mom and joking about how they called to us to eat them, "the call of the whoopie" she called it. "Whoooop whooop," we all ran around the kitchen yelling. To this day I can't eat a whoopie pie without hearing the call of the whoopie somewhere in the back of my head followed by my mom's infectious laughter.

When someone close to you passes away, people always talk about the "hard times of the year." You know, the holidays, birthdays, anniversaries, etc; The times when it's supposed to be especially hard to be without the one's that you love. It's not really like that for me. Don't get me wrong, those times aren't easy, but at least you see them coming, and you are surrounded by all of the friends and family who are still in your life. For me, the "hard times" have been the times when the memories just came up out of the blue, when I didn't have time to prepare for them, when I was suddenly ambushed with the reminder that my mom isn't here anymore. It is then that I miss my mom the most, when I wish it was as easy as just picking up the phone to hear her voice and remember together the things that once had us laughing so hard.

These days I find myself "ambushed" less often. Not because I don't think about my mom or because I don't miss her, I definitely do both of those things every day. But since I've started training for the marathon, spending hours alone with my thoughts and feelings, the memories of my my mom have gradually turned away from ambushes to just what they are, memories of great times in my life. They are less a reminder that she is gone and more a happy reminder that my mom always lives on in my memory. Training for the marathon has done more for me than I think professional therapy probably ever could have.

So last night, as I climbed into bed remembering the "call of the whoopie," my legs aching from the great 9 mile run over the Newton hills earlier that evening, I peacefully fell asleep to the sound of whooping and my mom's laughter in my head, looking forward to memories and long runs to come.