The summers in Southern California are fantastic. You wouldn’t really know this unless you’ve lived somewhere else -- like say -- Arizona.
I remember one particular morning when I was nine. My father had recently installed French doors in the master bedroom. The doors were open wide and the June-gloom was burning off to reveal a masterful sunny afternoon.
This early afternoon my mother was in a mood. The mood I loved best. In this state she was child-like and vibrant with energy after her morning pot of coffee and pack of cigarettes. Our speaker system was hard-wired throughout the 1700 square foot house that was well situated in north Orange County.
The neighbors could hear Bob Marley echoing against the back fence and mom was bouncing about—the 100-pound dogs hopping at her feet. It was laundry day and dad was gone at his Sunday soccer game at the YMCA.
My mother’s voice was always amazing--even if she was gallivanting around belting out the lyrics to Bob Marley’s “I Shot the Sherriff.”
I sat Indian-style on the bed. I folded socks and watched her mania in all of its glory. I slowly absorbed the meaning of the lyrics she so masterfully mimicked.
“Why would this guy shoot the sheriff but not the deputy?” I pondered. At nine-years-old this is a valid question. I mean, why would this guy want to shoot anyone in the first place? After all, this is happy music, right?
“It’s like Robin Hood sweetie,” mom explained. “Robin Hood was a good guy, the sheriff was a bad guy. Just because a man wears a badge doesn’t mean he’s good. Be mindful of the ones who wear a mask. Don’t be afraid to question someone’s intention -- even if they wear a badge. You know -- your dad was going to be a cop.”
And then she sang.
