Moving through and toward new things. Don’t give up on my blog. I WILL RETURN. I feel the words coming, images sparking in my imagination like a match being struck in a dark room.
Winters beginning to nip at my fingers and nose. The Sun’s fire soon to be extinguished by late afternoon and the Moon will raise her quartz face to the night before the Sun sleeps. On clear evenings pinhole stars glisten like diamonds on black velvet. I’m inspired by the weight of the dark. In a few days it will settle in around me like a cool cave. A womb where Creative Intelligence inspires my work. Authoring an overwhelming urge to push forward, and wondrous Words will once again Rule.
The next day we waited in the hall outside the intensive care unit until everyone arrived. Once all four of us were there we took turns visiting mother. Each of us saying what we needed to in private. When my turn came all I could say was,”Mom, thank you for giving me life,” which I meant. Sheri spent alot of time talking about mom’s wisdom and love. All the things she’d learned from her. Try as I might, I could think of nothing wise or loving I’d learned from my mother. In fact, one of many things mom frequently complained about to my siblings in regards to how she felt about me, and why, was how upsetting it was to her that I never went to her for advice, help, or direction.
As a small child I felt an innate lack of trust in her. Couldn’t handle being patronized and lied to which she did often. Like Snow White’s evil stepmother she went to great lengths to lure me in but unlike Snow White, I didn’t take the bait. Took to fits of rage when she would try to pull the wool over my eyes. Once tipping over my dresser to make my point. A story she told many times, always leaving her part out, she used what I did as evidence to prove my insanity. Discredit my experience and feelings. Hide her behavior.
Years later, after I’d left home, married and had my first child, I fell in love with a man who wasn’t my husband. I went to my mother for direction. I still wonder how she’d finally put me to sleep, why I thought she would help or comfort me. When I arrived at her house we took a ride in my car. I proceeded to open my heart fully to her. Sparing nothing I poured my feelings into her hollowed out bosom. There was no tenderness, compassion, or wisdom in her response. She started off with, Oh sure, when you were in good standing with your almighty church, [I'd been excommunicated for adultery], you were too good for us, but now that your life is falling apart you come running to us for help. With me, mother always spoke as if she and my siblings were a unit that I was outside of. Her mean-spirited snarling words were the poisonous kiss that awakened me. Reminded me of the truth between her and I.
When I was fourteen years old I met my huntsman. A man who rescued me by marrying me when I was seventeen years old. Instead of the cozy cottage of the seven dwarfs, my refuge, became the Mormon Church. Rather than being proud of me, or at the very least attempting to understand and support my desire to climb out of the godless violence, poverty and alcoholism of our family by seeking God, Love, safety and community through my church, she punished me for it by accusing me of becoming arrogant because I chose not to spend much time around them. Also wouldn’t allow them to drink and smoke in my home. Spend time with my children when they were drinking and drugging which was all the time. My parents and siblings took vacations had parties and dinners without inviting me and my family. Truthfully I would not have gone and they knew that. At that time I didn’t drink or drug. Nor could I stand the fighting that almost always went on. Much of it physical.
The second and last time I went to my mother for help was several years later. I’d succumbed to addiction. Been arrested for writing my own prescriptions for tranquilizers. I called my mother to bail me out, promising to pay her back the next day which I fully intended to do. Even though she’d bailed my brothers and sisters out many times, in many ways including jail, that she’d never bailed me out of anything, she said no.Weeks later when the probation department called her to see if she felt I was a safe candidate for probation or if she felt it best that I be sent to jail for five years, she told them that locking me up was the best option.
When I finally came in front of the judge he took pity on me. I had no prior offenses of any kind, honestly had no idea that what I’d done was such a big deal [a felony]. The officer who’d done my pre-probation investigation and report came to me in private, said he thought I should read it. He’d talked to several different people including friends, lovers, employers and the doctor I stole the script pad from. All of which said probation was enough. I was touched and surprised to read their understanding and compassionate reports about me. When I got to my mothers appraisal the shock was no less of a jolt than a hit from a stun gun. There was nothing good in her report. She basically said I was useless, worthless. Then added that I’d always thought I deserved more than everyone else. And in regards to the aspirations of those in my family, she was telling the truth.
Next came the meeting to determine what should be done with mom. Her breathing and feeding were being supported, she was still in a coma. Three doctors one nurse and the four of us kids filed into a room with a large conference table. Each of them gave us their prognosis. Basically it was the same except that they wanted to put her on full life support. My mom was clear on this matter. Had a DNR order in place.
It’d been just over forty-eight hours since her fall. I wondered if we should give her some time before we pulled the plug. Didn’t speak up because I was unwilling to be responsible for her care. Mother didn’t help those who cared for her to do so, but instead commanded us to do what she wanted. She used guilt and fear to scare us into doing it exactly the way she wanted it done. Just the way she’d done all our lives. Ron spoke up first, “Mom wouldn’t want this.” Vicki turned to Sheri who responded, but my hearing seemed to fade, like someone turned down the volume of the situation, so I don’t recall what she said. Then Vicki, very much the acting matron of our family in many ways, for most of her life, looked at me. I think I shook my head yes. Relieved to not be alone with such a ponderous decision Vicki agreed. The last order of the business of mom’s life was if we wanted them to make her comfortable with morphine, to which there was a resounding Yes.
Nearly two weeks ago my mother fell down the stairs. She was staying with my older sister Vicki while my younger sister Sheri, her primary caretaker was out of town. Mom taking a nose dive down the stairs was Vickis biggest concern. Something she worried about every time mom stayed at her house. The agreement was that if mom woke in the night she’d call out to Vicki so she could help her navigate the dark safely. This was standard middle of the night potty procedure, which left some of us wondering if the dead quiet silence that preceded mom’s plunge was intentional.
Her head smacked the yellow pine stair treads so hard the sound shocked my sister awake, like the crack of a gun fired into the night in a peaceful small town neighborhood. Then came the screams, horrible primal shrieks of terror erupting from my sisters lips, tearing a violent hole in her heart; opening a portal for mom’s departure.
Holding mother’s head in her lap, like a vulnerable newborn, she pleaded with her not to die. Watched in helpless confusion as mom’s life-sustaining blood, liquid garnets, trickled out of her right ear, like the sap of a mahogany tree cut away from its source.
As soon as she arrived at the hospital they rushed her into emergency surgery, drained the flood of blood threatening the circuitry of mom’s brain. Prognosis: Broken shoulder. Coma. We can’t say. Some wake up in a few days, a month; some never wake up. Have to wait and see. Treatment: Intravenous nourishment. Soulless air wheezing through a plug on the hospital wall. Morphine. Wait and wonder.
All her children gathered round her sterile bed. Her beloved, our brother Ron, incapacitated by his drug addiction. Vicki, mom’s right hand. Sheri her left, partially paralyzed years before by a stroke. Me her nemesis. The room, a tiny cell, was separated from the nurses station; raised above each humming, buzzing, beeping, wheezing unit, by a sliding glass door with a broken track. Mom’s head wrapped in bandages like a turban, a dried black blood clot closed off her right ear canal. Eyes closed, her incoherent body overwhelming as a corpse.
We talked awkwardly amongst ourselves, nurses coming and going. In whispers we lightly touched the subject of moms do not resuscitate order, the ventilator supporting her insufficient breathing sibilating in the background. Intravenous fluids dripping slowly into her sodden body. We laughed and cried, none of us knowing what to do. Ron stood up, hobbled to the picture window door. As he was leaving I heard him say, “We need a Chaplain.”
I was surprised and comforted by the fact that the Chaplain was a woman. She offered a prayer, then asked those of us that wanted to to share what we most appreciated about our mother. As I listened to the others offer up their praises I got scared. What the hell am I going to say? racing through my mind. Unable to fake feelings that don’t exist, when my turn came I said, “Thank you mother, for giving me the courage to live ‘To thine own self be true, above all things.’ ” It felt honest and although I didn’t share it, I believe that her rejection, the pain of being left out, unloved and emotionally abused by her helped birth my lion-hearted Self. I also believe that that is what drove the biggest wedge between us. I chose to live bravely as me, and it cost me her. I added “I love you,” but it didn’t feel right when I said it.
Then the Chaplain asked us what denomination mom belonged to. Someone said Protestant. Someone else said Episcopal. “And did she have a favorite prayer?”
My intention was to keep quiet as much as possible. To listen carefully to the hearts and wishes of my siblings. Didn’t feel it was my place to interject much of anything, considering mom and I’s lifetime of contention. But the room fell silent so I interjected what I knew. “Her favorite prayer was the Serenity Prayer.”
“Do you know the words to that prayer,” the Chaplain inquired.
“I have a copy,” I said, digging through my bag to find it. I was disappointed the card I carried didn’t have the prayer in it’s entirety.
We all said the first verse together. My heart unwound a bit because I knew mom’s favorite prayer. I was also surprised that my sisters and brother didn’t know.
After a long day of waiting for mom’s destiny to be made clear to us, [Wake up or die mom; which will it be?], drinking too much coffee, eating only boiled eggs, a brownie and some almonds, I decided to go home. As my car whizzed along the rural route to safety, questions whirred through my mind like a ticker tape parade.
All I wanted was to hear my son’s voices. To have them tell me that what I wasn’t feeling was ok. I called all three of them. Left rambling update messages on their voice mail; feeling awkward because none of us had an authentic relationship with her. Because I was not in love with her.
Time to get the oars rowing through the fog of unprocessed experiences. Search for the light that’s trying to break through. Listen for the music that inspires the images waiting to emerge.
I’ve decided to share an experience I had with my granddaughter this last week. It touched me deeply, also brought me back to consciousness after I’d slipped into the projections fear creates.
Five days before the wedding I had a reaction to some new eye shadow I’d bought. My goal in purchasing new makeup was to look as beautiful as possible. I must admit though that my intention was less than honorable. My son’s stepmother, a woman I have to work very hard to be kind to, flew in for the wedding. Over the years I’ve used my beauty as a weapon. Deliberately trying to create insecurity in women I felt insecure around. She was my nemesis in this way. Not because she is more beautiful than I am though.
When my children were young, she used her position as their step mother, the one who was there, the so-called “good” woman, [mother] to exaggerate my difficulties, mistakes and failures. She also discredited and blocked my attempts to love and be there for my children, making a painful situation for me and my kids worse. Thinking about it made me angry, very sad. That said, I started the weekend focusing on the problem, not the solution.
So back to the allergic reaction that ruined my vengeful plan. My eyes swelled shut. The skin around them as rough and red as someone who’d been sobbing for weeks. Not only was I unable to paint away the pain, I couldn’t wear any mask at all, for several days. At first I was very self-conscious, secretly focused on how I looked. The old me would have gone so far as to not show up at all, believing my beauty was all I had going for me. Intellectually I know better than that today. Emotionally though, it didn’t sink in until my granddaughter said what she said to me.
The first evening we all spent together was so painful for me I soon forgot about what me eyes looked like. All my energy went into pretending I was fine, even though my heart felt like it was being torn right out of my chest. The past rushed in and nearly crushed me. All I wanted to do was run out of there, drive away and never go back. But, I was also determined not to let her drive me out again, so I stayed. Shared a meal and tried to carry on. I thought I was doing pretty well but after I left my youngest son, [the groom and the child who stayed with me], called to see if I was ok. The old me would have smothered him with my pain, manipulated him to choose sides. Instead, I assured him. Told him to have a good time, promised to see him the next day. Then I pulled my car over and sobbed.
Before now, I’d only met my grandaughter once. She wasn’t two yet, didn’t remember the visit at all. When her and her daddy came through the terminal door at the airport she ran to me. Gave me a huge hug and kiss. The relief I felt was physical. My heart opened like the wings of a butterfly opening when it emerges from its cocoon. As we all walked to the car, the wall of pain and fear between me and her father was gone.
When we got back to where we were staying she wanted to walk down and see the pool. She didn’t have her bathing suit on so she asked me if it would be ok if she took off her clothes, went into the water anyway. No one was around so I said yes all the while wondering if I was making a mistake her father wouldn’t forgive me for. On the walk back she asked me not to tell her dad. I confess I was suddenly terrified but told her we had to tell her daddy the truth. Only because I was afraid she would tell him later. That he would think I was trying to keep it a secret. He was fine with it. Laughed and teased her about skinny dipping. I was relieved.
Later that night she and I went back with our suits. Her daddy and my husband, who she was already calling papa, walked back to the pool. They watched while her and I spent the next hour splashing around. Before we went to bed she insisted on her and I taking a shower together. Inside I hesitated, wondering what she would think of my naked body. The chlorine made my eyes worse. They’d started to weep on their own.
In the shower she was humming a song, a chant that sounded like she’d learned it in a temple in india. Knowing her family doesn’t listen to such things I asked her where she learned the song she was singing. ”I’m making it up. Do you like it grandma? Do you want me to keep singing?”
“I love it Anna. It’s beautiful.”
Suddenly she stopped, looked up at me and said, “Even though your eyes are sore you’re still pretty grandma.”
Her words took me off guard. I’d told no one what I was feeling. “Oh. Thank you sweetie.”
After I’d dried her tenderly she asked me to rub her body with lotion. Her five-year old skin soft as velvet, innocent and undefiled, I was humbled by her openness and trust. I gently combed her fine wet hair into a ponytail. Each of these everyday things feeling like a part of a very important ceremony to me. We both put on our pajamas. I hugged her, told her how happy I was she was there, to which she responded, “It’s not about how you look grandma. It’s about showing up.”
The next three days went great. Other than a tug or two my heart stayed open and inviting. By the time the wedding day arrived my eyes had recovered enough for the makeup artists the bride had hired to work some magic and I looked dazzling. When I arrived at the reception many of the guests who didn’t know me, thought I was one of the bridesmaids. I would have thought the compliment ridiculous had several people not said the same thing. Although it felt great to hear, the most interesting thing for me was that I didn’t have the thought, “Damn straight, take that!” For the first time in my life I was able to receive a compliment about my beauty. Say, and mean, Thank you.
I’m happy you are all here to witness, read, share with me, and comment on my thoughts, feelings and experiences. I didn’t want to disappear for a couple of weeks without an explanation, so todays post is to let you know what’s going on. Why I won’t be posting or reading your posts. I’LL BE BACK though.
On June 30th my youngest son is getting married. I have three sons’, the oldest two are married. This is the first of my children’s weddings I’ve been a part of. I’m so excited, determined to stay present to the entire process. Enjoy the hustle and bustle of wedding day preparations. Last night my sons fiancée called to share her undiluted joy. She’s effervescent as champagne and it’s contagious!
The first time I married I was seventeen years old. My wedding was nice but I don’t remember it being exciting. For my parents it was a huge financial burden which they reminded me of regularly. The wedding was something they wanted to get through and be done with. I was married in the Mormon temple so my parents couldn’t get a temple recommend to be there. Secretly I was happy about it. My dad though was bitter which caused my parents to fight more than usual. When my current husband and I decided to tie the knot we picked up the license a few hours before we got married. Impulsive and quick as Vegas, we called a Justice of the Peace, I ran down to the local florist, bought a cheap bouquet of flowers, and thirty minutes later we got married in the yard sitting on the tailgate of his truck. You might be a redneck if… Ha! My youngest son [the groom], was the ring bearer and the flower boy. Thinking back on that now, I’m so happy his wedding’s an event. A celebration of love.
My dress is really something! My daughter-in-law to be went shopping with me. I’m no frump, have my own style that I wear quite well, but formal attire is not the usual for me. We ended up choosing a Merlot colored floor length silk gown. Think red carpet stunning. I’ve worn some pretty dresses over the years but nothing like this. I was a bit concerned about standing out too much. Juneeebug, [my nick name for the blushing bride], was very persistent about my getting this one. I’m really glad she was, I feel smashing when I’m wearing it.
Most of the preparations fall upon the brides family, but they’ve delegated a few things to me. In my family I’m known for my creative flair, so one of my contributions was making the card box. For anyone who doesn’t know, it’s a box that sits at the reception so people can drop cards into it when they come in the door. Anywho, I decided to make a card box that looked like a three-tiered wedding cake. I took three different sized square white hat boxes, cut the bottoms out of each one, then glued them one on top of the other. Next I cut a slit in the top box. The open bottoms created a shoot that let the cards drop way into the bottom of the cardboard cake. Next I sprayed the boxes with a textured paint so it would look like frosting then sprayed the whole thing with a very light pink. I used stick on jewels in different shapes [including hearts] and sizes and in various colors of pink, then glued pretty silk flowers to the corners of each layer. I wrapped the base of each box in silk fuchsia [one of her wedding colors] ribbon. The final touch was tying a bounteous bow on the top of the cake. It turned out absolutely beautiful!
I chose bright and playful invitations to invite friends and family to a rehearsal dinner my husband and I are hosting the Thursday evening before the wedding. One of the first things on the list of ‘what to do’ during this exciting celebration, which begins on the 26th of June and continues until the 1st of July.
I’m also making up spunky flowery welcome bags for the guests who will be staying at the hotel for the wedding weekend. Original and fun, the tissue paper I’m stuffing them with is fuchsia and orange. In the bag, like Easter basket surprises, I’m sprinkling in Hershey kisses and chewy cherry hearts.
I’m a bit nervous but really looking forward to our Mother and Son dance. There are days when I can hardly believe my baby’s getting married. I wouldn’t call him a mommies boy but we’ve always been close. Luckily Juneeebug and I hit it off. Have developed a real friendship with each other. At the risk of sounding terribly cliché, I really am getting a daughter. Since I never had one, it’s really fun. We share clothes and jewelry and secrets. I’ve included the song we’ll be dancing to at the bottom of this page. Yes, I am going to cry.
My oldest son has two children. His two-year old son won’t be coming but his daughter who is five will be. She’s the flower girl. I’ve only met her once when she was 18 months old and she doesn’t remember that visit. The story is a long one. You will be reading about it sometime in the future as it’s much later in the memoir than the excerpts you’ve been reading recently. While she’s here for the wedding I’ve made plans to take her to the Boston Aquarium. Also to bring her and her daddy to see our cabin so they can get a picture in their mind’s eye before they head back to Utah.
When my youngest son decided to stay with me after the divorce, move to New England, it split him and his brothers apart. He and my middle son, just two years apart, were very best friends so the move was incredibly painful for them both. There’s been times when there’s been almost no contact. Times when trying to stay connected was just to painful for all of us. We’ve spent years trying to rebuild, undo some of what’s been done, and have relationships with each other that feel natural and comfortable. Slowly, it’s coming. In ways, I believe the connections are stronger than they would have been had we stayed together. Nothing is taken for granted.
Both my older sons’ will be standing up with their little brother; once very much an outcast among them. This wedding is creating a platform, an opportunity to re-seed the garden of our family. My son and his to be bride have been together for seven years and are very much in love. Their goal, other than the obvious, has been to create an atmosphere of love that their guests will be able to feel,which they’re definitely doing.
This will be the first time me and all three of my sons have been together for well over twenty years. Broken promises and hearts kept me from being a part of the weddings of my two oldest sons of which I still have regret. As we all gather to celebrate the youngest of our clan and his stunning brides wedding day, for me, it is also a humbling, holy, family reunion.
School was out for Thanksgiving. Most the kids in the neighborhood were playing outside. Many of them riding their bikes up and down the sidewalks. I liked playing by myself most of the time and much of my play was serious business. I decided that it was my job to protect the ants that lived beneath the sidewalk in front of our house. My front line defense was formed by sitting in the center of the cement square where they emerged from the ground. A tiny sand pyramid had sprouted between two cement sidewalk squares. Their door was at the top of the bitty crater where fire ants poured out into the day like lava from a volcano.
I liked watching them scurry around. Stumble like they were drunk trying to carry pebbles and crumbs bigger than they were down into their home. I liked imagining what it must be like down there, was worried that a mommy ant would get stepped on or run over. Her babies left alone, they’d be scared. Wonder what happened to their mama. So I claimed their square as my domain, which placed me right smack in the way of anyone who wanted to pedal past our house. When kids tried to make their way through I insisted they go around me, which required them to drive on the grass making a few of them crash. Most times they called me a stupid retard then went around. Every now and then someone would try to usurp my position by threatening to run over me with their bike. Refusing to move, my sister and brother would come to my defense; lure them away from me by starting up some sort of game.
Mom was busy in the kitchen getting ready for Thanksgiving. When I went in the house to pee I could smell the sage and rosemary she used in her stuffing. Pumpkin pies baking in the oven. When she wasn’t looking I snatched a handful of miniature marshmallows she’d poured on top of her sweet potatoes. Her beer can sat in a puddle of sweat on the counter. She had the radio on. The newsman was talking about the movie star who was now our Governor. When my mom turned her back to rinse out a bowl I grabbed a handful of the stuffing, jammed it in my mouth. She took a drag off her cigarette then set it in the ashtray so she could stir the stuffing. Smoke blew out of her mouth and nose like puff the magic dragon.
When us kids went to bed dad still wasn’t home from work. Laying in the dark I listened to mom cleaning up the kitchen. Could hear the whispering snap of her beer cans opening, smell her cigarettes. The nine o’clock news was just coming on when I drifted off to sleep.
I woke up to explosions, heart pounding against my chest like a drum. Dark. Dad’s words coming through the wall like bullets, “You fucking bitch, I’ll kill you!” Then something else blows up. Glass shattering, mom’s body thudding against a wall. Crying.
Us kids knotted together in the same bed listening to the battle. Hot. Our bodies feel like we’re melting. Sticky skin. Can’t breathe. Twisted tight together everything including our heads tucked beneath the blankets. Buried alive we wait for it to stop. When it doesn’t we cover our ears real tight. Fall back to sleep.
Morning. Sun kissing my face, birds singing. Like a punch in the belly my mind flashes back to the bombs. Untied, but still in the same bed, my brother and sisters are sleeping. I’m careful not to wake them when I climb off the bed.
Mom and dad are nowhere in sight. I can’t put my finger on it but sense something essentials been erased. A fist inside my chest squeezes my heart. I think mom’s dead. The chandelier in the living room hangs lopsided, the only thing connecting it to the ceiling are black and red wires. No bulbs. Glass all over the living room carpet, couch turned over, TV face down on the floor.
I find three stray cats perched on the kitchen counter. Trying to shoo them away I swing my arm, making them snarl, hiss at me. Growling under their breath, they rip pieces off the thawing Thanksgiving turkey. All that’s left of the kitchen window is a few sharp shards in the corners of the frame. Food splattered, dripping down the walls. Cups, plates and silverware tornadoed around the room. All I can think about is what we’ll eat for dinner.
After we moved to Utah when I was nine Christmas Eve was never the same. Our family went to my father’s aunt Edna and Uncle Pete’s house but we didn’t dress up. There was nothing special about being there and there was no other kids. If there was a tree I don’t remember it. I know we had dinner but my mind goes blank when I try to remember what we ate. The bright spot was grandma Bestemor. This is what we called her although it’s like saying grandma grandmother being that Bestemor means grandmother in Norwegian. She was kind but old so she couldn’t get around very well. I used to like sitting on her lap. She bounced me on her leg while she sang songs in Norwegian.
Mom, dad, Aunt Edna and Uncle Pete sat around and drank most of the night. Grandma Bestemor went off to bed early. I was always nervous when we were there. Things almost always ended in a fight. And the fights were more times than not physical. I worried about who was going to drive us home. Seventy miles from our house both my parents drunk. I also worried just the way I did in California that Santa would come while we were away. That he’d think no one lived in our house and fly right past. All the fear gave me a stomach ache. Made me have to use the bathroom.
The last year we went to my aunt and uncles for Christmas Eve was the worst. Before we left to come home all the adults got into a big brawl. Dad jumped on moms back so my aunt jumped in to help her, making dad even madder. While he was lying on my mom, pinning her to the floor like a rug, he reached around behind his head, grabbed Aunt Edna by the hair and flung her off him like a rag doll. Uncle Pete jumped in to break them all up and somehow we made it to our car. As we drove away I looked out the back window. Aunt Edna and Uncle Pete were standing in their driveway watching us leave. I could see Aunt Edna’s blonde bun, normally neat as a Victorian ladies, dangling down the side of her bright red face.
On the way home mom and dad kept drinking. One thing led to another and they got into it. Us kids huddled together in the backseat as the car careened down the highway at seventy miles per hour. Trembling like leaves on a quaking aspen tree we pleaded with mom to shut up but she wouldn’t. She called dad a no good god damn drunk. Said she fuckin hated him. That he’d ruined all our lives. Dad kept telling her to shut up too but she continued slicing him to pieces with her tongue.
Suddenly the car screeched and veered sharply to the right as dad reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a gun. Cracking mom in the forehead with it he opened the door and shoved her out of the car. All I could hear was screaming then realized it was me. The car kept moving as we watched mom tumble head over heels down the embankment and out of sight.
Dad passed out as soon as we got home. Not knowing what else to do us kids hid out in our room. I tried to keep everyone calm but all I could think about was what was going to happen to us now that mom was dead. Two or three hours had passed when I heard a vehicle pull up out front. When I looked out the window I could see that it was a police car. The cop, a guy I came to know as fat Tad was slid way over on the passenger side with mom. Her shirt was off and they were kissing.
While we lived in California Julaften [Christmas Eve] was spent at my dad’s parent’s house. Everyone got dressed up. Us girls wore dresses and patent leather shoes mom bought just for the occasion. I don’t remember what the my brothers wore. Mom fixed herself up real pretty. She wore a dress too. Dad got cleaned up like he did when he was going out with the boys. Combed his hair into a slick looking duck tail and slathered on Old Spice cologne.
Grandma Jerry loved Christmas. Spent weeks preparing. Even though it was warm and sunny inside grandma’s house it always felt like a Norwegian winter wonderland. Her tree, placed in the same corner year after year, flocked so thick the branches drooped like a tree in the woods after a heavy snow storm. Her lights and her delicate glass orb ornaments, all the same size, were blue.
All through the evening the music never stopped. Grandpa would turn the volume up or down depending on what was going on but as soon as one record would end another would begin. Their home was full of family. Grandma bustled around with plates of food and trays of drinks, her hair wrapped up in a colorful scarf, red lipstick the only makeup she wore.
It took her days to decorate her tree. While she waited for something to come out of the oven she strung lights, placed a bulb, then sat back, studied her tree to see if things were just where they needed to be to please her. We weren’t allowed to touch. Sitting next to her beautiful winking blue tree I could almost feel the cold snow.
One table was set aside for her Pepperkaker [gingerbread] village. Like everything grandma made she was meticulous with this too. Candies and frosting adorned each house and store like semi precious stones on jewelry. She poured sugar around each building to look like drifted snow. It sparkled in the sunlight that sneaked through her heavy drapes.
Grandma and grandpa’s house always smelt like the warm food she spent weeks preparing. The perfectly set dinner table sizzled and steamed with Ribbe [pork ribs], Julepoise [pork sausage], Medisterkaker [meatballs with gravy], Kalrabi [mashed rutabaga], Biscuits and Rodkai [sweet and sour red cabbage] which made me gag. Beer flowed freely and there was always a bowl of Glogg [wine with cloves, cinnamon, ginger, brown sugar, raisins and ground almonds].
My favorite was grandma’s cookies. The same every year she made Sandkake’s. Like tiny pie crusts she pressed them into little tins, careful to make sure they weren’t too thick or thin, which they never were. I loved her Fattigmand’s, which means “poor man’s cookie.” To make these she rolled out, cut, twisted and looped the dough, then fried them in oil. Her Krumkake’s, shaped like little cones adorned with intricate patterns, reminded me of lace. Diamond shaped Sirupsnitter’s tasted like licorice. Grandma also made Potica, Slovakian yeast bread stuffed with apples, walnuts and cream cheese. The secret to getting it tender was in the kneading she said. Letting it rise twice then pricking the bread so the air bubbles could escape.
After the feast was over all the kids would perform for the adults. Grandpa had an accordion he only brought out for Christmas. Each of us would take turns trying to play along with whatever music grandpa had playing on their phonograph. The last thing we did was open gifts. Because there were so many of us it took a long time. Grandma and grandpa gave everyone one gift. Us kids always got pajamas that we changed into before we went home.
When it was time to leave I always got nervous. If mom and dad weren’t fighting on the drive home dad would point out lights in the sky and tell us it was Santa. He was so convincing I could see reindeer pulling Santa’s sleigh. Rudolf’s nose leading the way. Secretly I always worried Santa would beat us to our house; find out we weren’t in bed sleeping and leave.
For years I begged my mother to let me go live in a foster home. Defeated by her determination that my emotional reactions to the alcoholic insanity, the life threatening violence in our house was a result of my being born defective. She was also hell-bent on convincing my brothers and sisters, aunts, uncles and family friends of the same thing. What Leslie did now, how Leslie acted and reacted was one of her favorite topics. I’d listen while she told family members and friends about something I’d done or said to her. How I’d go “crazy” for no reason. Scream and hit and throw things. How I begged to be put in foster care. Cried all the time. They’d shake their heads in disbelief, so convincing was my mother that she was an innocent victim. A woman who loved her children more than life itself. I could feel hot rage roll in my belly like lava. My laser beam eyes, indignant fire, threatening to incinerate her.
When I confronted her, asked why she never told them what came before my “crazy” behavior she would try to convince me too. Saying to me in her megalomania mother knows best way, that it wasn’t my fault. That I was born with the same sickness my dad had. Even though I knew she was wrong, a pathological liar, grief seized my heart. A tight fist lodged in my throat, my tears evaporated into a vapor of hate. I pleaded with her at the top of my lungs, “Please. Let me go live in a foster home.”
I got my wish a few weeks after I tried to shoot my father attempting to defend her life. I heard my mother telling someone on the phone that she had to get me out of the house before my father killed me. I went to live with my oldest sister, her husband and their two-year old son. To earn my keep my job was to babysit while my sister worked.
I don’t remember packing anything. I made a bed on the couch in their single wide trailer house. My job ended up being pretty much everything but cooking. I cleaned and did laundry. My nephew fell in love with me. Even though my sister wasn’t that interested in her child she got jealous when he wanted to be with me more than he wanted to be with her. When it was time for potty training he’d only go for me.
A few weeks shy of my fourteenth birthday I was just about to graduate from the ninth grade. When I wasn’t in school, playing mommy or keeping my sister’s house, I was on the streets with my friends. My best friend at the time was Laird Johnson. Her family moved to our small town from Brazil. Her father was in the military and they’d lived all over the world. To me Laird was as exotic as pitanga. She and I hit it off immediately. I spent most weekends at her house. Skittish as an un-socialized dog I hated being around her parents, especially her exceptionally alpha father. Once we got downstairs into her room though, I loved being there.
She had two twin beds and her very own bathroom. Both her dressers and her closet were brimming with clothes I could tell were expensive. In her closet she had a shoe tree heavy with jeweled sandals, boots, boat shoes, dress shoes and casual shoes. I hungered, like Eve for knowledge I plucked the shoes I thought she wouldn’t miss. Stuffed them in the bottom of my grocery bag suitcase.
Laird was much more worldly and mature than I was. Aware of her beauty and playboy bunny body, she knew how to dress, put on her makeup to accentuate her ripe sensuality. Even though her father didn’t like it she let me wear her clothes. She’d choose an outfit for me and we’d stick it outside her window. When we left the house I was wearing my own clothes. Then I’d change in a gas station bathroom before we hit the streets.
I always took extra long showers at her house. She had two or three shampoos to choose from but my favorite was Herbal Essence. We spent well over an hour putting on our makeup. She taught me how to use a needle to separate my eyelashes after applying just the right amount of Maybelline Great Lash Very Black mascara. We brushed our teeth with Ultra Bright toothpaste and doused ourselves head to toe with Avon’s Sweet Honesty perfume. After which I almost felt sweet, honest, clean.
She and I’d walk up and down Main Street like naive prostitutes talking to the boys and men in every car that pulled over. The older guys always asked us how old we were. Eighteen was our agreed upon answer. Our favorite guys were Duff and Pete. In their twenties they had cars and places where we could hang and make out. At first we all stayed together but then Duff and Laird started going off alone. We’d pick a time and place to meet at the end of the night so we could walk back to her house together. Her dad was always waiting up so we had to be home on time.
Duff talked Laird into meeting him later in the night after her parents were in bed. We stuffed both beds with blankets and pillows to look like we were there sleeping in case her parents checked, then climbed out her window. After her dad caught us climbing back in one night I wasn’t allowed to stay there anymore. Not long after that her dad made her mom call the school to ask about me. The school secretary Mrs. Sunbloom told her she thought I was a bad influence. From then on we weren’t allowed to hang out anymore. I was sad and confused. Laird was always the one who wanted to drink, sneak out, and run off alone with Duff. She’s the one who thought up most the lies we told her parents but I didn’t say anything.
Even though I missed Laird alot I started hanging out with some other girls. Louise’s McGuire’s house became my weekend crash pad. Her parents were much more trusting. Or maybe oblivious would be a better way to describe them. A good church going family they had no idea what their kids were up to. At first I was scared to hang out in Louise’s room. The walls were painted black and she had a black light. To me the atmosphere felt eerie. The only music I’d listened to was country and western, my parent’s favorite. She loved Pink Floyd and played The Dark Side of the Moon over and over. The kid’s bedrooms were upstairs. Their house was old the stairs narrow and steep. Her parents were seasoned, didn’t like climbing the ladder erect steps so they never came up to her room. Louise was a late in life surprise so her brothers were much older. They smoked pot and drank in their rooms. Had CB radios and stayed up late into the night talking with truckers.
I was still hanging out with Pete. Louise liked a guy that was in his thirties named Dennis. He and Pete belonged to the local chain gang. Slang for CB club. On the weekend at ‘Darktime’ the thing to do was go out on skunk hunts. One person in the group was the skunk. He’d hide in his vehicle somewhere within a ten-mile or so radius. Over the radio he’d give clues to everyone in the gang and they’d all drive around and search for him. When Pete was the skunk we spent our time doing eights, CB slang for love and kisses.
Louise liked to hang out with Dennis past her curfew. My job was to go home to her house on time so her parents would hear me come in and think we were both there. Louise made up a story I could tell her parents if they caught me coming in alone. We’d gotten away with it lots of times so I was surprised the night her mom opened the front door when I got there. I launched into our agreed upon speech. Didn’t know that Dennis and Louise had a big fight and she’d been home for a couple hours. Her mom made me call my sister to come get me. I never stayed the night there again.
Late in the summer out of the blue Laird called my sister’s house. We hadn’t seen each other for a while so I had no idea what she’d been up to. She said her family was moving and she wanted to tell me goodbye. When I asked why she said her dad was being transferred. Her mom dropped her off so we could spend some time together. Laird was really sad which made me really sad. We both cried until our cheeks were bruised with Very Black mascara. I was surprised when Lairds mom hugged me goodbye. I thought she hated me. Several months later I found out why they’d left in such a hurry. Laird snuck out to meet Duff one night. They were drinking and smoking dope. He roughed her up and raped her. Dumped her bloody and half-naked on the side of the road not far from her house. Her father was determined to keep what happened a secret so they disappeared.
My father’s aunt made a living sewing Barbie clothes. When my parents took us to visit her daughter Kelly and I used to spend hours role-playing with her Barbie dolls. She had several, including Tutti, Skipper, and two different Ken’s. When we played it was like living in Cher’s closet. Her mom made coats and skirts, glamorous gowns, scarves and dresses, bras, panties, slacks and fur hats. She even made black patent leather looking knee-high boots. Anything her mom couldn’t make she bought for Kelly, so there was also a several pair of teeny different colored high heels, sunglasses and jewelry. Her dad made her a Barbie house complete with miniature closets. Kelly carefully hung all her dolls clothes on itty bitty plastic hangers that matched the high heels.
Even though I was just about to start the fourth grade at home I was still playing house with my baby dolls. I didn’t have a Barbie of my own so she shared with me. My dad and her mom made a big TaDo because Kelly and I looked so much like each other and their side of the family with our chestnut hair, olive complexion and dark brown eyes. Kelly liked to play with Francine because her hair was the same color as coffee beans like hers. Most times I picked Malibu Barbie. I thought her suntan was sexy and I sensed that Ken really liked her long blonde Christa Helm hair.
We both wanted the Ken with brown felt hair. It brought to mind my grandmothers Christmas tree sprayed with flock when I touched it. Because the Barbie’s belonged to her, she always got to choose first which meant I got stuck dating the Ken with the molded blond coif.
Feeling rich and pretty we spent hours dressing and redressing, the four of us crowding into Barbie’s school bus yellow camper van and racing off to have a picnic next to our make shift lake. Using spoons from the kitchen as shovels, we dug a large serving platter sized hole in the backyard and filled it with water. Spread out a tiny blanket Kelly’s mom whipped up on her sewing machine while we waited. Spent the afternoon picnicking and basking in the sun.
Upset that Barbie was stuck with a guy she didn’t want I pretended that Francine’s boyfriend wanted to be mine. When Kelly went into the house to go to the bathroom Barbie was mean to Francine. Called her an ugly bitch. Let her fuzzy haired Ken kiss my beautiful blonde Barbie.
Jealous of all the things Kelly had, including her mom, I told myself that she was spoiled, then stole whatever I could from her. Stuffed my pockets full with tiny clothes and shoes. I even smuggled one of the Barbie’s she didn’t play with and the yellow knob head Ken out to my parent’s car. Figured once I got away she’d never catch me. They lived a hundred miles from our house and never came to visit.
At home I couldn’t play Barbie’s inside the house. Afraid someone would find out about my stealing Kelly’s dolls and the clothes her mother had sewn for them, I tucked them in the waist of my pants and snuck them outside. Played in a pretty spot by the stream behind our house.
At first they loved each other but then things started to change. Ken stopped trusting Barbie, started accusing her of cheating on him. Even though she insisted she wasn’t, he didn’t believe her. Instead of lying next to her, kissing her softly, telling her he loved her with all his heart, he started to kiss her real hard. He slapped her. Threatened to kill her if he ever caught her with another Ken. Even though she begged him to calm down he kept getting madder and stronger. Ken liked the way he felt when he was in control of Barbie. Made her sit perfectly still on a rock next to the stream, warning her not to move a muscle or he would drown her skinny fucking ass. She begged him to let her leave but he refused. Barbie tried to run away but Ken chased her down, dragged her back by her ratty blonde hair. Beat her for leaving him, then raped her.
Barbie began to look disheveled. Her pretty clothes dirty and torn from Ken shoving her around. All her shoes lost her feet were bare and dirty. You’re a stinky whore he screamed in her face, then threw her into the ditch. Even though she begged him to pull her out he didn’t save her until she’d floated down stream and through the culvert. Yanking her from the water by her wet stringy hair Ken called Barbie an ugly bitch then threw her into the dirt. Lying on her back he shoved and twisted her head into a rock until her nose was scraped right off her smashed up face. Hating the way she looked when he got done with her, he pulled her head off and hucked it into the stream. Stood and watched as her blonde hair floated away.
