Electric Love
voluminous blossom
opens her face to the Sun;
swallows fire,
dares to dazzle,
has no fear.
When the rain comes
melting her pretty petals
fall: worthy remains
feed the garden of her blessed beginning.
Tammy Wynette was one of my mother’s favorites when I was a young child. She played this song many times. It opened my heart to fire of God burning in my belly every time I heard it. So, here’s to you mom.
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.
To be continued very soon…
Anna and I
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.
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.
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.
Not long after my husband and I married something strange happened. Because we didn’t know each other very well, had only been seeing each other for a couple of months when we decided, quite casually, to get married, we knew nothing of each other’s families. Had never spoken about our histories.
I was busy in the kitchen when he came to ask me if I’d folded his shop rags after I washed them. The question was odd considering that most times I never got around to folding the clothes. The dryer was our dresser.
“No? Why?”
“Come check this out!”
I followed him to the back room where he kept his tools and there in the corner were his raggedy rags; parts and pieces of old sheets and towels torn into manageable sizes folded neatly. Placed evenly to one side of the shelf they were on.
The rest of the room was a tangle of wrenches, hammers, screw-drivers, tool boxes, nails, wire, bolts, and various small power tools. Also several boxes of outdated ‘Fine Home Building’ and various other ‘How To’ periodicals, formed a leaning tower of accumulated knowledge, tucked off to one side. Nothing had its place. The neat little pile of carefully folded rags was an island in the storm of my ‘Mr. Fix Its’ make shift shop.
“What’s up with that?” It’d be nice if you cleaned the whole room,” I sneered.
“It’s wasn’t me,” he insisted. His tone, more serious than his usual half-joking manner, threw me.
“What da ya mean?” I asked sharply. I was beginning to feel a little scared. Not knowing him real well, I wondered if he was messing with my mind.
“I mean; I didn’t fold the rags!” he snapped.
We were the only two around. My son was visiting his father in Utah so I knew he couldn’t have done it.
The feeling in the tiny room had shifted from my usual irritation at him, for bothering me with something I deemed stupid, to, What the hell is going on right now?
We both stood staring at the pile when he asked, “Who’s Olga?”
“Huh?”
“Who’s Olga? That name just popped into my mind.”
Stunned, I whispered, “My dad’s mother. She’s been dead for years.”
Olga was my grandmother’s name but no one called her that. I knew her as grandma Jerry. Although she was considered crazy by my dad, mom, and grandfather, I never experienced her as such. Her home was always immaculate. Everything had its place. It was the same with her appearance. Her hair was almost always wrapped up in a colorful scarf, like a woman from an exotic island. Her manner was purposeful yet sensuous. She loved Jazz music, ethnic art, and cooking. A fabulous hostess her home was the place the family gathered on holidays. She packed everything in moth balls. The memory of her lingers, like that odd smell, I think of as her perfume.
I took after her with my dark hair and eyes. Our features sharp, foreign. Long legs. Clear olive skin. We spent afternoons floating in her and my grandfather’s pool. In her fifties she still looked sexy in her Rousseau print two piece suit. A private woman she didn’t like living in a tract of homes, so grandpa put up an eight foot cinderblock fence around the backyard where the pool was. When we out there she encouraged me to keep my voice down. Talked so quietly herself I thought of it as a whisper. When the woman in the house next door was in her backyard grandma hushed me. We floated, quiet as lilies on a pond, listening to her whisper and giggle with a man my grandma referred to as the ‘son-of-a-bitching cheat.’
My grandfather built His and Her’s cedar changing rooms next to the pool. Grandma made sure there we always plenty a fresh colorful beach towels, ready and waiting on the wooded dowels that jutted out of the aromatic wall. Hanging next to the door there was a sign that read: I DON’T SWIM IN YOUR TOILET, SO PLEASE, DON’T PEE IN MY POOL. I always did. Scampered and splashed quickly away from the sunflower of urine blossoming from between my thighs.
Always more than enough at my grandparents home, they had several rafts, balls, and blow-up toys. Orange life vests, sized from small to large, tucked neatly into their cubbies. Two styrofoam doughnuts with blue nylon rope hung where you could get to them easily, in case someone was drowning, which always made me feel safe.
Me and grandma didn’t know how to swim. One afternoon while we were sunning ourselves on rafts, I reached for a ball floating next to me, leaned too far and fell into the deep end. My memory gets all watery there but I was told that grandma nearly died trying to save me. After that happened dad decided I needed to learn how to swim. I remember standing on the diving board crying. Dad was sitting in a lawn chair under the awning next to the back door. He ordered me to jump.
“No! I can’t! I’m scared dad. I’ll drown!”
“I’m not gunna let ya drown. It’s not that hard. Now jump god dammit!”
We went back and forth like this for a few minutes when finally he charged toward me. There was nowhere to run but off the end of the diving board so I held my ground. Pinched my toes tight and bent my legs. He tried to bounce me into the water by jumping up and down. I got down on my hands and knees which pissed him off. Next thing I knew he flung me into the water. I sunk for what felt like forever, my mouth taking in more water than a canoe with a gaping hole. Hands and feet flailing for my life. I don’t remember how I got out of the pool that day. I know how to swim though, so I suppose I learned my lesson.
Grandma stopped having me over to sun with her. Believing I’d almost killed her I understood why she didn’t want me in the pool with her anymore, but I was confused about why she was never home when we went to their house. I asked my mother but she never gave me an answer that felt true. Like my grandmother, I had the habit of listening in when I heard whispering. That’s how I learned that grandma had accused grandpa of messing around with the giggling neighbor lady. So he had her committed for shock treatments.
When I asked my mother about the month I spent with my uncle she flatly denied it ever happened. “I would’ve never let my ten year old daughter do something like that,” was her defensive reaction to my inquiry. She still denies it ever happened.
I flew from Utah to California. The flight took just over an hour and I remember it well. When the plane began to make its decent, the change in pressure caused excruciating pain in my ears. I’d never flown before, had no idea what was wrong, which frightened me. Clutching both ears in the palms of my hands, I gritted my teeth, hunkered down in my seat and tried not to cry out. A stewardess noticed I was weeping and gave me a piece gum to chew. It helped a little. Her unexpected kindness though, touched me so deeply; the pain was like a gift.
My uncle picked me up in his convertible. Took me to get ice cream. Although my memories are fragmented I remember certain things well. He liked to barbecue steak. Bought them fresh from a local butcher shop. Teased me in a way that didn’t always feel like teasing, about my wanting him to burn my meat before I could eat it. Said I ruined it.
He was married to my dad’s sister. They have two sons not much older than me, but I don’t remember them being around. Other than one shadowy image of my aunt, who was a teacher, teaching me words from a dictionary, I don’t remember her there either.
My uncle was a cop. I can’t remember who looked after me while he was working. Maybe my aunt being that she would have been out of school but I have not one clear memory of her. I remember the excited feeling I got when I thought of him coming home at the end of the day so we could get ice cream.
I slept in the bedroom across the hall from his room, which I remember as being dark like a cave. He had a king size bed. The room I slept in had two twin beds. I slept in the one closest to the door.
His house was light caramel colored stucco. A Spanish style tract home typical for the area. The windows and doors had fancy black wrought iron bars on the outside. I thought of him as rich. Compared to the extreme poverty I came from, he was. Looking back I consider him to have been solid middle class. He had a pool but I don’t remember swimming.
I was a bed wetter. Concerned I would ruin the mattress, he covered it with plastic which made the sheets slick as a slip and slid. Set a Big Ben alarm clock in a stainless steel sauce pan next to my bed. It was set for 1:00 am. The plan was it would wake me so I could go to the bathroom to pee. I imagine it must have been pretty loud but it didn’t wake me up, he did. Guided my sleepy body to the bathroom at the end of the hall. I remember feeling self conscious when he lifted my nighty, pulled down my panties.
The reason I asked my mother about the trip is because I kept having a recurring dream. My uncle was Mexican. His people were the only Mexican people I’d ever been around. A big wonderful family that liked gathering at their family farm. In the dream I’m watching a dark eyed little girl lying in a bed of straw. She’s inside a barn. In the loft. Her head is turned to the right. She’s looking directly at me. A blank faced stare. There’s an older Mexican man on top of her. His pants are around his ankles. He’s raping her but he’s tender. Kissing her softly, between groans, he tells her how much he loves her in Spanish. I wake from the dream screaming. In excruciating pain from the waist down; terror pumping through my body.
I hadn’t spoken to my uncle for years when I decided to try to reach him. Called my mother to get his number but she wouldn’t give it to me. I eventually contacted the woman I knew he was married to and she gave me his number. They’d always maintained separate households. She and I’d been friends so the call was light and comfortable. I didn’t tell her why I wanted to talk to him. I wanted it to come as a surprise. To catch him off guard. I left her my number. Said she’d let him know I was looking for him that night when they had dinner.
He and I’d been fairly close well into my adult life. I’d been to see him many times. Always felt more like a date than a niece when I was visiting. He wined and dined me. Introduced me to his friends. It always felt a bit strange but I enjoyed the feeling of being special. He’d also stayed in mine and my husband’s home. Came to Utah every year to hunt deer. After our divorce he stayed in touch with my ex-husband, but I hadn’t heard from him since then.
Over the next week or so I left several messages on his answering machine but never got a call back. I found out later that he did however, out of the blue, call my older sister and my mother, just to say hi; see how everyone was doing. If he told them I was looking for him, they never told me. I never heard from him. A month or so later I got a call from my mother. He died of a sudden an unexpected heart attack.
It was my brother-in-law Don who called the morning Cody died. I think of him as the self-appointed Sheik of our family. He treats all the females, young and old alike, as a part of his imaginary harem. Cody and I’d spoken about this many times. He was uncomfortable bringing his wife around Don. Didn’t like the way he touched and spoke to her.
After he told me Cody’d died, which he did gently, he said, “I’m not sure you want to be a part of this but your sisters are flying out to California tomorrow to meet your brother Ron and your mother.”
“Of course I want to be a part of it, he’s my brother!” was my retort.
Accustomed to paying the way for most of our immediate family, he assumed I would need him to pay for my ticket. “I’ll take care of getting your ticket,” he stated matter-of-factly.
“I can take care of my own ticket,”I replied flatly.
“I’ll put them all on a card so you girls will be together. You can give Vicki a check. We’ll pick you up on the way to the airport.”
I was nervous all night long. Hadn’t seen his wife, my older sister Vicki, for nearly two years. The split happened after I told him off in a parking lot one night. Getting snared for a time by my ego, caught up in a desire to win the subtle competition he’d incited between me and my sister, I’d engaged with him in a secret flirtation for several months. During that time I learned that he’d carried on a lengthy affair with my younger sister Sheri. The relationship had ended, but Vicki seemed to be the only one who didn’t know about it.
I hadn’t lived around my family for years. Had only recently moved to the area. After observing his behavior with the females in the family, including my sister’s sons’ girlfriends, I remembered something that happened before they’d moved away.
I’d recently gotten divorced and was hanging at their house. A pseudo home that became a drug den on the weekends. Vicki was passed out in the living room when he backed me against the kitchen counter and tried to grope and kiss me. When I resisted he flat-out stated, “I’ve never wanted a woman I didn’t eventually have.”
To which I replied, “There’s a first time for everything,” and walked out.
Before that night Vicki’s kids used to come to my house to play with my children after school. After I told him no, he put a stop to the visits. The excuse being he didn’t want his [her] kids around any Mormons, of which I was at the time.
In the parking lot that night my brother-in-law tried to tell me about a sexual dream he’d had about me. “This has got to stop!” I insisted. “You’re married to my sister.”
Surprised by my sudden change of heart he pushed words at me like a shove, “You’re sister is a psycho bitch!”
I could tell he expected me to agree, back down; become a me and him, against her. I exploded like gasoline thrown on a hot fire! Told him exactly what I thought of him. Including how I felt about his affair with my youngest sister. After several attempts to put out the flames of my rage, he gave up. His usual Don Juan demeanor deflated, he jumped in is truck and ran away.
The next day he took my mother to lunch. Something he’d never done before. Also went to see my youngest sister. Neither of which called to ask me what happened. It took a couple of weeks for Vicki to call to get my side of the story. When I told her he’d been coming on to me, she didn’t believe it. Said she knew her husband wasn’t an angel but was confident he wouldn’t have anything to do with either of her sisters. The implication was that neither of us would be worthy of his attentions. That we were somehow beneath him; and her.
At first I decided to let her continue in her ignorance. To play the martyr, take the fall for him. By the next morning though I’d come to my senses. I fired off an email missile informing her of the affair her husband had carried on with our youngest sister. Her reply was the family default; Leslie’s crazy. Trying to cause trouble, again. Although I’d tried to make contact with her many times, we hadn’t spoken since then.
.
Six years ago my husband and I decided to act on our dream of building our own home. We mocked up various floor plans, all of which kept getting larger and larger, including stained glass windows in our hand carved mahogany front door, and terracotta tiles imported from Italy. Oh yes our dream kept getting more and more extravagant with every new sketch. Then we came to our senses and re-membered our dream. To live in a cozy cabin on a nice piece of land.
First step shopping log cabin kit manufacturers. My husband wanted to buy a forest, cut down the trees, drag them out of the woods; debark each one and use a chainsaw to cut and fit the randomly sized, shaped, logs together. Come up with some way to connect them so the house didn’t topple over, and finally chink between each one to seal it all up nice and tight. Although the idea sounded wildly western [I'm from the west originally] and kinda romantic, I nixed it straight away. We picked a plan and kit that suited our long-term goals. I agreed on just purchasing the logs and windows and doing everything else ourselves.
Then we set about finding a piece of land. We live in the country and wanted to have at least a couple of acres so we could spread out a bit. We walked several swathes of wild woods in our quest to find the perfect place to root. I had one stipulation. Well two, I wanted a stream, and if after walking the boundary lines I had a tick on me, then it wasn’t the right piece of land. Needless to say it took a while before we made it out of the puckerbrush, bug free. Finally after far too much de-ticking, my son sent us searching in an area that he thought might suit our fancy.
We got up early, climbed on our Harley’s and rode off into the sunrise to check it out. Three acres that had never been lived on. As we weaved our way back and forth across the land, checking the condition of the soil, the trees, reading our way through the understory, we stumbled upon several old trillium bursting with blossoms red as Merlot. Found three different areas bounteous with Lady Slippers just starting to lift their heads; open their voluptuous pink faces to the dappled sunlight of the wood. When all was said and done, not one tick. This was the place.
Next came a loan. Gulp. My husband was never married before he married me [twelve years ago]. At forty-three he had managed to avoid all ties that bind; including a regular job where you report all your income and things like that. I had managed to ruin my credit, mostly because I honestly had no idea there was such a thing. I was so caught up in my pay check to pay check, robbing Peter to pay part of what I owed Paul, I never thought about such things. Needless to say we were behind the eight ball. Fortunately the ‘getting banged around alot’ position, didn’t dissuade me from going after what I wanted in life so we forged ahead. As luck would have it our neighbor put us in touch with his cousin, who called a friend, who knew a guy, who set us up with very charismatic crook. We qualified for the dough by getting a no doc loan and we were off and building!
Two diesel trucks piled high with logs pulled onto ‘our land’ late that summer and my heart sank. I couldn’t imagine how we were ever gunna get it done in six months. The time alloted for our construction loan. After that the interest rate goes up exponentially. But my husband, who is a builder, and an eternal optimist assured me that he had everything under control. Did I mention that he is also fiercely, stubbornly, independent. Which means he wanted to do the whole thing himself.
Meanwhile back at the loan sharks office Mr.Fox packed everything up and disappeared. We got a call from the Texas mafia, aka, the mortgage company who was funding our construction account. He informed us in a godfather, you will find a horses head in your bed if you don’t do as I say, tone of voice, that we had four weeks to finish before all funds dried up. We were not even close to being able to pull that off. Destiny on our side the appraiser was a local guy who had it in for the Texas gang. He helped us stage a closing which allowed us to avoid having to replace our mattress. Since that time our mortgage has been passed around like a cheap hooker at a bachelor party. Once a year without fail we get a letter instructing us where we are to drop off the loot. A clever way to keep from being followed I suppose.
Recently I decided to be done with the riffraff and refinance our loan. Get a legitimate FHA approved mortgage. Leave the laundered money family. Going back to the part of the story where my husband assured me that he had it all covered. That he could get the house done in six months no problem; has been a problem. We are six years in and finally doing the detailed finish work. It has been an adventure to say the least.
At times, I have wanted to hire someone from the family that gave us the original mortgage to take my husband for a little ride. Shake him up, inspire him, but don’t break his fingers, he needs them to get the damn house done! I have to confess though, this house is built like a work of art. All the wiring run and stapled, neat, colorful threads of electricity bringing things to life. The plumbing is like a plastic sculpture. In a log house you have to be very creative as you don’t have many walls to bury things in. We have a central vacuum system and a heat recovery ventilation system. Which makes up for the dust and ash from the wood-stove that we both enjoy immensely. The counters are tiled with beautiful amazon rain-forest marble. In the master bedroom the vanity and shower are tiled with authentic river rock sliced flat. All the trim is douglas-fir stained in mahogany and the cabinets are wild-looking hickory. The logs are a natural golden pine and the whole building was built with green materials. It’s a healthy house. We tiled the hearth with slate and then inlaid hand painted ceramic leaf tiles. Each tile took over two hours to set. My husband using a tiny diamond dremel to cut the shape of each leaf into the twelve-inch slate base tiles. Everything is custom. Most of which we could never have afforded had he not been able and willing to do it himself.
Getting this new loan has been a bit more challenging than the first one. Anyone who has borrowed money legitimately knows what I am talking about. There was only one thing that had the potential to interfere with our forward movement and that was the appraisal. We are almost there but not quite. To get a FHA approved mortgage is tough these days. We worried like a guy who knows he has betrayed the kingpin. But once again luck was on our side. When the appraiser came to do an inspection he was a local guy who was also in the same process. We got the call today. Our new loan has been approved.
