ARIZONA CHRONICLES PART IV

5 Jul

After moving out west, my mother had two moods, depressed and angry.  It must have been difficult for her I concede.  She was young and thousands of miles from home and living with two small children in a confined space.  My father worked all night and slept all day.  Living in a new area with all its dangers could not have been easy on her.

When we first moved to Arizona, my father worked at the Arizona State Prison.  I knew he was a guard and the position stressed him.  I overheard him discussing with my uncle one night the tour of the gas chamber the new guards had been on.  I pictured those old movies with prisoners escaping with bed sheets and nail files and could not sleep at night until I heard my father return from the late shift.  I would wait for him under the table and watch as he ate the dinner my mother saved for him on a plate in the oven.

We all breathed a sigh of relief when a job came open at the sawmill just outside of town.  It was steady pay and steady work and it meant my father did not have to deal with murderers and rapists on a daily basis.  At least not convicted ones.  It also meant he worked outdoors in the heat during the heat and could be at home with us at night.

Due to my injury, I was forced to stay indoors with my mother and my sister while dad went off to cut down trees.  Trust me, I did not like this any more than they did.  I would hobble around with my bandaged foot and spend my day coloring and writing.  It was during this time I wrote my first book about a witch who lived in a trailer vaguely based on my mother.

Then one day dad was home in a cast.  A tree had fallen on his foot, we were both hobbling around the trailer, and mom was losing her mind.  I remember spilling a bowl of Fruity Pebbles on the kitchen table and she would not speak to me for two days.  My father finally read her the riot act and all was forgotten, for a moment.  She was homesick.  She missed her parents.  There was no pleasing her.

Me, on the other hand, ran outdoors as soon as the bandage was off my foot and did not look back.  Summer was almost over; there were too many dangerous things to try before school began.  I was a constant fixture in the fields with my uncles who were barely older than I was.  My grandfather had remarried and had a son three years older than me and the youngest one month after I was born.  They and a group of rough and tumble boys were my only friends and I aspired to keep up with them.

This meant catching lizards with my bare hands, walking the plank over a pit of broken glass and nail riddled boards and jumping off a shed over a barbed wire fence.  I was, to say the least, fearless in my attempts to show I could do everything they could do and better.  What is a miracle is I did not see the inside of the hospital more than I did.  Some of that could be attributed to my mother, who believed in unless you were punctured enough to gush blood, you could walk any injury off.

I did not want to be a boy, I simply wanted to best them.  It was during this summer my hair was long and bleached out and a chore to wash and comb out every night.  My mother was not sympathetic of a tender scalp and would hit you with the brush if you dared to complain.  One night, I begged her to cut off my hair and she was happy to oblige.

I had in mind a cute pixie cut easy enough to wash and let air dry, but would still indicate I was a girl.  So much for daydreams.  Instead, she butchered off inches and inches of my flaxen locks until I was left with a Buster Brown cut that did nothing for my girlishness.  I cried nonstop until she made me an appointment at the Aloha Beauty Salon the next day.

Two things happened at the beauty salon.  The owner/hairdresser chastised my mom for doing such a bad job and I was secretly thrilled someone could tell my mother she did something wrong and she had to take it.  Second, I met Daniel.

His mother was white, but his father was Hawaiian, and he was a beautiful dark haired boy, on the heavy side with a smile that dried my tears.  He told me he liked me in short hair, and I was officially in eight-year-old love.  My uncles told me I looked like a boy, but I did not care.   Daniel had said I looked good and that was all that mattered.

Less than a week later, my mother pushed me out the door one morning when it was barely light out and told me I had to walk down the half-mile dirt road to

Still recovering from the haircut

the bus stop.  School had started suddenly and I was not at all prepared.  I walked the entire way down the road, saw two kids at the bus stop and walked back up to where my mother informed me I had no choice.  There were probably threats of bodily injury if I missed that bus.

Terrified beyond all belief, I trudged back down that road in tears and climbed on that bus, praying it was going to the right school.  Instead of brick buildings usually associated with school, we were led to a series of trailers.  I would be taking class in one of them.  Still disoriented, with my hair too short to hide behind and my hands trembling, I met my teacher and my classmates.  I was an interloper and a specimen to be dissected.  “Tell us how you came to Arizona,” my teacher insisted.
So, instead of tales of beds in the back of a station wagon and a detour in Texas due to a horrific accident, I regaled them with a plane that crashed over water and my father who had to save us all.  At the end of my story, the teacher nodded, obviously not as impressed as my classmates were.  She said, “Quite an imagination you have there.”  I merely shrugged.  She had not been specific she wanted the truth.

As I sat in a desk at the back of the room, someone tapped on my shoulder.  I turned to look into the pale blue eyes of a boy with hair as white blonde as mine was.  His skin was golden brown from the sun and when he smiled, there was a gap between his teeth.  Just like mine.  I remember staring into his eyes as he asked me, “Is there an ocean between Kentucky and Arizona?”

I swooned.  My first of many stupid boys who would blind me with their good looks.  I shrugged and learned his name was Dylan.  Now, I no longer wanted to best the boys.  I wanted to sit quietly beside them, giggle at their every juvenile joke, and bat my eyelashes like they did in the movies.  I was going to settle in Arizona just fine.  Being in love, even meant mom’s mood swings could be tolerated.  If I had only known what was in store.

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4 Responses to “ARIZONA CHRONICLES PART IV”

  1. getoveryourselfnkm July 6, 2010 at 4:22 pm #

    the more I read your stuff, the more I believe in reincarnation. Since I am way older than you, I was surprised you knew about a Buster Brown haircut. My version was similar.
    http://getoveryouselfnkm.wordpress.com/2010/06/14/two-to-five-years-old/

    • Cold Dead Heart July 6, 2010 at 6:57 pm #

      lol….so funny…I loved your story. I know about Buster Brown because my sweet aunt called me that for years after that haircut…lol….why do they torture us so???

  2. Rachel July 15, 2010 at 9:16 pm #

    Thank you for visiting the blog and I am pleased you enjoyed the poetry. I will have to spend time here reading your blog it has a lovely essence.
    Sincerely
    Rachel Charlotte Miller

    • Cold Dead Heart July 17, 2010 at 10:01 am #

      Thank you very much for your comment and your visit ….keep writing!

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