My synapses have been on overtime lately. I’m a whirling dervish of energy and excitement. I’d like to blame it on my giving up gluten and potatoes (I know I know..nothing to live for), but there’s something brewing in the inner regions of my psyche that have been dormant for so long. Truth is I feel so much more me lately. I keep thinking I’m as me as I’ll ever be, but then there’s another layer I had forgotten I locked away in a closet.
I did give up gluten, which has meant more time in the kitchen cooking delicious items. Look at those gluten free pizzas with mushrooms and carmelized onions. So delicious too.
“I get lost in my mind..lost in my mind….lost…I get lost…loooooooooosssssssssst.” Pardon me while I sing along to Head and the Heart singing Lost in My Mind.
I’m also addicted to upcycling and repurposing. My kiddo said this is how all hoarders start out. She may have a point, except I’m not one for things lying about. Except as I glance over at my art table it’s covered in paint, sea glass, canvases and my coffee mug with a naked woman with swinging breasts. Don’t believe me? Here’s a picture. Genius.
Maybe physically feel better and it’s rewiring my mental. I haven’t been feeling out of sorts, but lately I feel downright childlike. I have a wonderment and such an appetite for life. Maybe I’m replacing my bread and potatoes hunger for another. A hunger to live as if there is a tomorrow of promise.
Now listen to this song….I think you’ll feel the way I do:
I’d love to feel
Your hand touching mine
And tell me why
I must keep working on
Yes I’d give my life
To lay my head tonight on a bed
Of California stars
Humans wouldn’t be so fat if they did cat exercises every day.
It’s really easy….just stretch.
It’s like cat yoga, rubbing my fur along surfaces and it keeps me fit if I wanted to chase a mouse.
After stretching – take a nap.
It’s a cat’s life
I had forgotten one of the benefits of living more South than North is summer storms. Yesterday, with the sun out, the thunder rolled in and the sky opened and rain fell in a torrential downpour. Rather than take shelter inside, I walked along the field, feeling the warm rain on my face and felt cleansed from the inside out. I have learned in the years that have passed me by that it really is the simple things that make me happy.
I think about the scars of a life lived that no longer define me. They are simply a conversation piece of who I’ve been. Who I am is much more complicated and less defined than the marks of what has come before. I’m an evolving being, adapting to the landscape that is sometimes more foreign than a strange planet. I did not think my journey would lead me here, but I like the scenery.
So, I’m happy. It took me a while to get here. I still fret over the superficial things, but I don’t dwell on them. I’ve become brave in my attempts to maximize what life I do have stretched out before me. I take chances on things that in the past would have frightened me. It’s a cliché to say with age comes wisdom, although I don’t always feel smarter. I just know better.
Which means I’ll walk leisurely in the rain and smile. I will consider that a moment of pure joy. I like to collect those moments like beads. I’ll bring them out like a prayer mala when the harshness of life reminds me that it isn’t all rain in the sunshine.
Pretty profound for a Monday morning, but I’m on my second cup of coffee. Caffeine makes me introspective and apparently quite deep. At least in my addled mind.
My mother tightly coiled, always walking the fine line between despair and tension, began to unravel just before the holidays. She began locking herself for long periods of time in the bathroom and I would stand in the hallway watching my sister push pictures beneath the slit of the door trying to cheer her up. The part of me that used to care about whether or not she would open the door with a crooked smile and still sniffing tears had departed. My compassion for my mother was replaced by anger. I felt left alone to raise myself and my sister and angry with my father for not yelling at her to stop what she was doing.
When I left the house in the cool morning to go to school, I would no longer look back at my sister standing in the doorway, her fingers pressed against the glass as if beckoning me to take her with me. I would tell her she was too little, but I also felt if she were home, nothing bad would happen to my mother that day. When I was home, I refused to come out of my room unless it was dinnertime or my father insisted I come out and play. I would count down the hours he was at home on the weekend, watching my mother pretend to be something other than what we saw during the days he was at work. I roiled with anger and rampaged against whatever was happening in my house.
Then one day I arrived home to my fake grandmother making dinner and announcing my mother was in the hospital. My father arrived later and told us it was an infected tooth. She would be in the hospital for a little while. It was as if someone had flung open the windows and fresh air was blowing through the curtains. To this day, I am not sure what actually happened to my mother. She was in the hospital for a week, we saw her exactly once, she burst into tears, and we were bustled from the room.
My father stumbled with being both mother and father. He was unsure how to wash clothes and whites were suddenly tinged pink. He cooked frozen pizzas for dinner, still slightly frozen in the center, but we ate happily anyway. We built elaborate cities on the carpet with Popsicle sticks and went to bed leaving it there. My mother would have balked at the idea. I began insisting my sister take baths that consisted of more than splashing her face and laying out her pajamas for her nightly. I cooked scrambled eggs for breakfast and burnt bacon and thought for the first time in a long time, there was nothing to worry about.
It snowed the morning my mother came home. I remember standing in the door, watching the golf ball size flakes fall and blanket the morose brown ground we had refused to call a lawn. In Kentucky, we were use to lush green grass sprinkled with dandelions and smelling sweet of earth. I longed for the alfalfa fields next to our trailer when we first moved to Arizona. I would run through them in my bare feet, the soft leaves tickling my ankles, lie down on a soft blanket of green, and watch the clouds. Our yard at the house was nothing more than rocks and clumps of weeds.
My sister and I stood at the door calling for more snow. When we first moved to the mountains, our first winter in Arizona, there had been enough snow for a snowman. We had higher aspirations this time. I thought an igloo was surely easy to build and we had a sled just waiting to be used for something other than dragging large rocks home from the dried up creek. We stood watching the snowfall in our pajamas until my fake grandmother came in. Dad muttered something about going to get our mother, and suddenly the snowfall lost its luster.
She arrived, looking thinner, but exactly the same. She hugged us, told us how much she missed us and then went straight to bed. My father doted on her, making her hot soup and bringing her the newspaper to read. It is when I realized she was his other child. The favorite one. The one he had to tend to because she needed the most attention. Instead of feeling jealousy, I felt saddened and resolute I would never need or want anyone to take care of me.
She was still too shaky for Thanksgiving dinner that year and we had it at my fake grandmother’s house. My grandfather had been injured falling off a logging truck and there was talk of them returning to Kentucky. Micah and I ate our dinners in lawn chairs beneath the carport. It was freezing outside and there was still snow. We watched Russ building a large bon fire in an empty drum, tossing in whatever sticks and paper he could find until it roared above his head. Micah said he knew they would be leaving Arizona. I told him I would be sorry to see him go, but glad to see Russ leave. As we exchanged knowing glances, Russ threw two empty aerosol cans onto his fire and there was a sudden explosion. The can tipped over and fire shot toward the carport. When the smoke cleared, Russ stood there with singed hair and eyebrows, yet still smiling. I could not wait for him to leave.
They moved away just before Christmas. There were hugs and tears and at some point during the goodbye dinner, I hit Russ above the eye with a matchbox car. All of the pictures we had in our photo album are of me smiling from ear to ear and Russ scowling with his eye swollen and turning purple. It was my last goodbye gift to someone who would go on to cause damage in other people’s lives. Micah and I cried, our shared experiences bonding us, yet things would never be the same. We promised to write, but never did. Out of sight, so they say.
With that, whatever family we had in Arizona was now gone. There were friends, those my mother had yet to alienate, but we were ostensibly alone. Christmas was a morose day of half heartedly opening presents and arguing between my parents. There was a seismic shift in the plates of our lives, and I did not have a clue what it was. My mother was torn between wanting to return to Kentucky and wanting to stay in Arizona where she felt truly at home. I just wanted to get away.
Just after the holidays, my mother was in the hospital again. She would be hospitalized several times as I grew up. I often joked she had every organ remove you could spare to lose. I will be honest and say I am not sure what it was that time in Arizona. I am not sure my father even bothered with an excuse. She was just simply in the hospital and then she was home again. This pattern would play out through out our lives.
It was just before New Years, after mom was home and in bed again, the snow fell overnight. A deep plush carpet of white covering our yard and our street. I trudged out into it just as the sun rose and everywhere I looked there was just white. I threw myself down in it, despite the cold and my thin coat, and made a series of snow angels. I built a snowman with rocks for eyes and a mouth. I threw snowballs at my bedroom window until my sister peeked out and then half dressed, joined me in the snow. We laughed and played even as the sun grew hotter and our snowman began to melt. This was what we had been waiting for, and it was perfect. It made me believe if you waited long enough, those perfect moments would come; you just had to be patient.
I developed a mercurial nature at a very early age. I learned to internalize and keep the essence of me hidden away. Call it survival skills or genetics, but I became withdrawn from people and refused to believe I needed anyone else. Instead, I became a listener. An observer of the world around me.
Nothing fascinated me more than the adults orbiting around our life in Arizona. There were gin rummy nights soaked in sloe gin and loud conversation coming from a room filled with the thick fog of smoke. I would sit on a chair in the living room, close enough to hear every word, yet nonchalant enough to look as if I cared about the game of Monopoly being played by the kids. I hovered between both worlds and lost all interest in whatever childhood I had left.
My immature crushes on Dylan and Daniel were a thing of distant memory. I had a new object of affection and as I sat perched on the arm of the couch, I wondered why I had wasted time on mere boys. He was every cliché of a cowboy that had ever been written. Wearing road weary blue jeans, black cowboy boots and a silver and turquoise belt buckle the size of a dinner plate, he walked into our house one night and I fell in love. I stood there mutely staring at him as he was introduced around and reluctantly left the room so the adults could do whatever they did that made them cackle with laughter and talk loudly at each other.
The entire night I stared at his face. He was tanned, probably younger than he looked and sporting a neat mustache beneath a mangled nose. He was in town for the rodeo and one of the women of the group had brought him home. He sat in his chair and she stood at his side, his arm casually around her waist. I shivered at the thought of his hairy arm on my skin. He was as ugly as he was beautiful, but I guess that was most of the attraction.
I became eager to fetch beers and refill the chip bowl, as the night grew longer and the crowd rowdier. He pinched my cheek, calling me cute as a button and plopped a sweat stained cowboy hat on my head. I had resisted the urge to run my fingers through his dark curly hair and stumbled over whatever thought came to my head. I did not have a clue the power of lust yet, but I was awash in the hormones of puberty that were yet to develop.
It was close to midnight when my mother insisted I go to bed. That apparently was the witching hour when the adults could no longer tolerate children’s presence and the more outrageous things would happen once we were ensconced in our bedroom. I cajoled, pleaded, but to no avail. As I made my way out of the kitchen, fighting back the tears that threatened to embarrass me, Merle had grabbed my hands, putting them on his slender hips and declared he would bunny hop me to my room.
There it was, this grown man, hopping down the hallway to my room, laughing as I giggled and then stopping at the door of my room. I wanted him to kiss my cheek, to feel the tickle of his mustache on against my skin, but instead he tousled my hair. He declared me a cutie, and then he was gone. I was both mortified and elated at being called cute.
Later that night, I snuck out of my room to tiptoe to the bathroom and peek down the hall at the adults. Merle sat in one of our kitchen chairs, his girl of choice on his lap and he was kissing the slender slope of her neck. She laughed and squirmed, her drink sloshing from her glass onto the table. Her mascara was running down her cheeks and she was undoubtedly drunker than anyone else at the table was, but still he wanted her. I was cute, but was she what men wanted?
I saw Merle again at the rodeo that ended the Fourth of July celebration. This holiday was a big deal in our small town. It meant a parade of floats, men on horses and a shoot out in the town square. There would be smoke, blanks being shot and men falling covered in fake blood and then carried to the parking lot of the Silver Spur in wood coffins. Sunburned, covered in sweat and cranky, we would then drive to the fairgrounds where we would sit on the hood of our truck and watch the cowboys try to stay on the horses.
There had been talk the rodeo would be canceled that year. There had been a tragic death at the last one. A horse had bucked and fallen on top of its rider, puncturing several organs and killing him two days later. Although it was by its very nature a brutal sport, the death hung heavy over the festivities. It was decided to have the rodeo anyway, and just after the National Anthem, there was a tribute to the fallen cowboy. I remember watching the cowboys, lined along the fence, wiping tears from their eyes and hiding beneath the brims of their hats.
As I sat on the hood, frying in the open sun and wishing I were anywhere but there, Merle walked up to my father. They shook hands and then he turned to me, a beatific smile on his face and gave me a wink. In my burgeoning adult like mind, winking back was the thing to do. So I did. He threw back his head, roaring with laughter and squeezed my shoulder. He told my father then, something that has resonated with me my entire life, she is going to be a handful.
I was a handful, but not in the way he probably meant. I grew up to make horrible decisions when it came to the matters of the cold dead heart I had tucked away. Somewhere along the way, I lost all sense of myself and a belief I could be loved for who I really was. I was a handful because I was impossible to know or pin down. I was loved, but whom did they really love?
As the sun set and everyone was leaving the rodeo, Merle walked to the back of the truck where I sat with my sister drinking a coca cola and fighting off heat exhaustion. He leaned in and kissed my cheek, his mustache tickling my cheek. It was not a kiss of someone making an inappropriate gesture to an underage girl. It was meant to reassure. I knew it even then.
“You’ll be okay, kiddo.” He said his voice soft and gentle like his kiss had been.
I’m not sure what he saw or thought he saw, but I knew his words were meant to convey a message of hope. Looking back, I think he meant hang on until you really are an adult. You will see all of this means so little. You will have your own child, your own life and someday you’ll stop searching for who you are. You will just find her, and you’ll be okay until you do.
Merle left town. Springerville went back to normal after the Fourth of July fireworks faded from the sky. There would be more card parties in the house, more drinks and laughter, but it had lost its luster. I chose to bury my nose in a book rather than eaves drop on conversations I could not yet understand.
School was out soon and one morning I woke up to find my mother crying at the kitchen table. I heard their words, but it was as if they were speaking from miles away. Just snippets of information penetrated my denial. The sawmill was closing. No work for my father. It was time to sell the house and move back to Kentucky.
The field adjoining our road began to look like an intricate ant farm lay on its side. Dug into the earth was a complicated maze of tunnels for the houses that would be built upon them. I began spending my days walking the paths, hidden in the earth with only the sun overhead. There were so many changes from when we first moved in and I was not happy with any of them.
I climbed up on the side, my feet dangling down and stared at the red Sold on the realtor sign in our front yard. It was leaning to the side from the one afternoon I walked up to it and kicked it over. Fearing my mother’s wrath, I then picked it up and tried to right it. The sign was a mocking reminder that some things cannot be undone. Selling our house and moving back to Kentucky was one of them.
In the evenings, I would sit in the spare bedroom with my sister playing Barbies and looking longingly at the disassembled cardboard castle now perched against the wall. Of all the rooms packed and ready for the move, our playroom was the saddest. We no longer had cardboard walls to hide us from the real world as my sister and I pretended we belonged to a royal family. She was so young, I think she was anxiously awaiting the day they would arrive to take us to our real home.
She was too young to understand we were leaving to never return. Instead, she treated our move as if it was another road trip with diner scrambled eggs and dirty gas station bathrooms. I envied her ability to laugh and be happy despite the inevitable. Even then, I knew in my gut, instead of life improving, it would become harder.
The weeks leading to our move, my mother was angrier than ever before. This was something my father could not fix, and I think she hated him for it. He had a family to support and he felt he could do better in Kentucky. I would also like to think her volatility came into play. Although she viewed Arizona as her new home, she had never assimilated and was anything but happy. Maybe he thought moving back to her family would fix her. To this day, we have never discussed what happened in Arizona to her.
The morning we moved, the truck came and burly men packed our whole life into it. I clung to my basketball, hoping for a last minute reprieve, but when my mother pried it from my hands and threw it in with our furniture, it was over. I would no longer wander through the mountains near our home or slide down a hill of volcanic rocks. I would never again taste the sweet nectar of the Indian paintbrush flower or listen to the coyotes howl at night. I was saying goodbye to the fragrant alfalfa fields and a night sky full of diamonds. There were bad things to remember, but there were also a lifetime of moments that would change the adult I might have been.
I walked to Daniel’s house. We stood on his porch, our hands in our jean pockets and said our goodbyes. His mother wiped tears from her eyes and gave me a hug that hurt my heart. I promised to write Daniel and send postcards, but I never did. Instead, I walked away from him, pausing only long enough to look back and give him a little wave. My last memory of him is his dark eyes looking into mine as he raised his hand to return my wave. Then he turned to go back inside.
My friends in the neighborhood told me awkward goodbyes. I took one more peek at my babysitter’s room of Playgirl penises and Robbie gave me his favorite GI Joe to remember him by. I lied and told him we would be back in a year. This is just temporary, I reassured him. A sweet lie, I thought. I knew I would never see any of them again. I never did find the GI Joe in any of the boxes. I am certain it was thrown out at some point.
We flew back to Kentucky. I swallowed the painful lump in my throat as the plane skimmed over a sea of white clouds. There were hours of sitting in my seat, resisting the urge to scream and pretending to be excited to arrive in Kentucky. Instead of being happy as I was swept into the arms of my aunts and uncles who cried happy tears we were home, I was lost and would remain lost for a long time. For months, I carried a baggie of black rocks we had chiseled out of a mountainside when we first arrived. They were that touchstone to what I left behind.
We moved in with my grandparents where we stayed for months until we rented a small house. We would move several times, one house after another, never a home. This nomadic wanderlust carried over to my adult life. I have moved more times than I would like to count and never felt I belonged anywhere. I had left my home. It was not just a place; it was a state of mind.
My sister and I as adults talk about Arizona as if it were a shared dreamed. She remembers less, but likes to hear the stories of our adventures there. We prefer to file away the painful moments, the reality of what our family really went through. We sit together and look through the pictures, capturing only a fraction of the moments etched on our brains.
I can close my eyes and see the tall sunflowers that grew beside our trailer. I can put out my hand and feel myself petting my beloved dog Peppy who had come home to say goodbye. He is still there, buried in the earth, beneath the sun he loved to lay in. I can stand outside and inhale and it’s there. That indefinable scent of the mountains, of the fresh water streams and of the heat in the soil. I can throw my head back and taste the snowflakes on my tongue or the taste of freshwater from the springs we would swim in. I can hear the wind blowing through the pine trees. I am forever grateful even at a young age, I understood enough to take it all in, to hold it close because I would need it again.
There is no happy ending. My mother did not move back to Kentucky and become happier. My parents remained married, they weathered the storms of her depressions, and resigned themselves to the life they have chosen. Just recently, she is once again a victim of her own life. I watch my father, my heart breaking, sad that moving back did not fix all that was wrong with her.
As soon as I was old enough, I moved out on my own. I worked hard and then I moved away. I took my daughter on my journey just as my parents had taken me on theirs. We lived in New York and she saw her first Broadway play. We lived in Pennsylvania and went white water rafting and rock climbing. We lived in Massachusetts and every weekend ventured out to the historic sites and the aquarium. We lived in Rhode Island and she splashed in the cold water of the ocean and made a sand castle. I’ve made sure her life, if not secured by belonging somewhere, was filled with memories to sustain the life she would want to build for herself.
Like my parents, I have returned to Kentucky, except this time I did not feel I was leaving anything of me behind. I am still on that journey to find that home again. I wish I could say it is wherever my daughter is, that would be the beautiful prosaic thing to claim. My daughter is my life, but something else is a home for me.
I know I will find it again. It is not out of reach. I was offered an opportunity to move out West for work sometime in the future. I felt a surge of something I wish I could describe. One day I will stop moving around. One day I will stop yearning. One day, I will stand beneath that big sky and smile and be thankful for the journey that brought me there. I know one day I am going to end up exactly where I am supposed to be.
This time, I will bring my daughter along and we will talk about the places we have lived and the life we have led. Then one day, she will leave on her own journey. There is something I‘ll make sure of, something I never had. She may wander to find herself, but she will know I will have a home waiting for her. Always waiting for her to find her way back.
The house was finally finished. My mother cried as we walked through the empty rooms, our voices echoing. I marveled at the new carpet and the smell of fresh paint. We had a breakfast bar and a room for a table. There was a large wood burning stove in the living room. There were two rooms with closets and I nearly wept at getting my own room, until it was announced I would not be getting my own room. Di was too afraid to sleep in hers alone and I would have to share one with her. Oh yeah, and she insisted on a nightlight. My first night in the room, I cursed my parents for having a kid afraid of the dark.
The first day in our new home, I stood outside in the gravel driveway and looked around at the houses. Across the street, a blonde boy played with his dark skinned sisters. Next-door three little girls dug in the dirt beneath their swing set. I could see a dark curly haired boy riding his bike up the dirt road. A place where I was new. Where I could reinvent myself.
I made a conscious decision to forget about the sadness and put aside my anger. The new house with its new appliances represented a clean slate for us all. My mother was happy for the first time we moved to Arizona and it affected the entire house. My father began making pies and leaving poems on the refrigerator for us. This is what happy is, I thought.
I met the curly haired boy first. His name was Robby and he lived with his grandmother and his sister. He did not know where his mom or dad had gone. He invited me to his house and his grandmother gave me a cup of punch with a scoop of ice cream in it. I remember the smell of patchouli and carne asada always cooking on the stove. He showed me his older sister’s room and it was a revelation.
Her dresser was covered in perfume bottles and bongs. There were pictures torn out of a Playgirl magazine taped to her walls. Robby showed me her record collection, but my eyes could not tear away from the myriad of penises before my eyes. They were in all shapes and sizes. Who knew!
We rode our bikes down to the blonde boy’s house. His name was Bobby and he lived there with his very religious parents and the two Native American sisters they had adopted. He resented their very existence and I remember him sweetly telling the youngest to eat a grasshopper, which she did with relish. Bobby called his friend Stoney who came over to meet the new girl. Like that, I had forgotten about Daniel and Dylan.
I came home one afternoon, covered in dirt and exhausted from riding my bike through trails no child should ever be on. My parents oblivious to the dangers of mountain living, simply said be home by dark. My mother and father were fighting. My granny and his brother were coming to visit. To see our new house. My mom did not want them staying with us. There was bad blood going back years, but my father told her she was being unreasonable.
This is as good as time as any to dissect my mother’s psyche. She grew up with alcoholic parents who nearly killed each other. Her brothers and sisters are all in their own way as damaged as anyone. My mother would like to believe she escaped the same fate, but she is wrong. If there is anything my mother clings to, it is that she is right. Always.
Therefore, she is qualified to sit in judgment of all those before her. This pertains to strangers, friends and especially family. She did not like my father’s mother, who yes, was an alcoholic in her own right. Yet, it was this same disease she excused from her parents. My mother specifically did not like anyone in my father’s family and made no bones about it. Her contempt was always barely concealed and the tension could be cut with a knife.
My father has survived his marriage by conceding a lot to my mother. However, he was not budging on this one. My granny and Uncle Daryl were coming to visit and that was final. I remember the slam of the bedroom door and my mother standing there gape jawed. She had turned to me as if looking for me to say she was right. I merely shrugged.
My granny arrived with my uncle exactly three days later. They pulled into the driveway in a Pinto and empty beer cans stashed in the seats. Daryl was the youngest of my father’s brothers. Longhaired and good-looking, he said his quick hellos and then left for the bars. My granny hugged us with a Camel cigarette clinging from her mouth and exclaimed we looked like the natives with our brown skin. My mother sneered, pouted and harrumphed through the visit. I had never been so entertained by her hostility.
If my granny asked where the coffee was, my mother shoved it in her hand and slammed the cabinet door. If my granny poured beer into a glass, my mother shoved a coaster beneath it. If granny lit a cigarette, my mother went outside to smoke a half pack. The entire equilibrium of our world had been thrown off its axis and I would giggle in delight at the sparring between the two of them.
They stayed a week and in that time, I saw Daryl maybe twice. He was awash in booze and local women and did not even bother coming home. My granny on the other hand insisted on trailing my mother everywhere. I think she too was taking some perverse pleasure in pushing my mother over the edge. Then the talk of us returning with them to visit in Kentucky began. I could see my mother really wanted to go, wanted to see her parents, but the thought of being in a car with my father’s family was almost too much.
Until my father decided, we were indeed going back to Kentucky for a short visit. We would drive back with granny and Daryl and fly back to Arizona. I was excited about the trip, I had not seen my mom’s family in a couple of years and the thought of a road trip and diner scrambled eggs was enticing. Until I realized we were driving back in the Pinto. You know the car that in certain crashes the gas tank exploded.
Also, let me mention this Pinto was years and years old and quite small. Riding back to Kentucky would be my father, mother, granny, Daryl, myself and my sister, sans car seat of course because there was no room. Therefore, while granny and my mother and sister shared the back seat, I sat on the floor on the hump. I would be sure I lost my virginity on this trip, if it had not hurt so much when I actually did.
So there we went, across the same highways we had traveled on to get to Arizona. Except this time, my sister and I were trapped in a ticking time bomb with four smoking adults who bickered and fought along the way over a course of three days. Yes, there were diner scrambled eggs and chocolate milk shakes, but as we crawled toward Kentucky, I prayed for a bed and some peace and quiet. I realize that was too much to ask for.
By the time we arrived, I had strep throat and a double ear infection. As I was passed from relative to relative, I felt as if every bone in my body was bruised. I slumped on the couch as my papa tried to feed me McDonald’s cheeseburgers. We had not had McDonalds in two years and I could not even taste it. By the end of the first night, I could not swallow and was spitting into a bowl. Not what I had in mind for my first visit back home.
The worst part was we were only in town a few days since the drive had taken us so long. It was a blur of fried foods, loud voices and pleas for us to not go back. My mother cried, but she had begun to believe Arizona was her home now. She loved her house, her friends and her tennis. Still sick, I did not care about anything but getting home to my bed. That, and flying on a plane for the first time.
As we said goodbye to our family at the airport, I trembled as we boarded the plane, confined in our small seats. I was still ill and probably feverish at this point. Yet, as I looked out that window as the earth fell away and we were in the clouds, heading back to our new home, I felt infinitely better. Everything was an adventure I discovered. That hunger began in me. I wanted to do more. I wanted to do everything. I wanted everything.
I like to think of Arizona as the place I found my sense of wonder for life outside myself and where my mother lost her ever loving mind. Despite finally having the house of her dreams, the husband who loved her and the children who were for the most part were well behaved, my mother became even more miserable. For the first time, she was working as a maid at a local hotel while I was at school and my sister stayed with my fake grandmother. If possible, she became more depressed and withdrawn from us when she was home. Her behavior concerned the family so much, my grandmothers showed up on our doorstep one day to save her.
Having her mother and mother in law under the same roof did not ease my mother’s nerves. If anything, she became more high strung and volatile. My grandmother, never one to be shy on her opinion, chastised my mother for allowing us to go native. We were dirt covered tanned tomboys claiming lizards as pets and immersing ourselves in nature. We were determined to be savages and my grandmothers begged my mother to return home to civilization. It didn’t help you could hear the coyotes howling in the dark of night and dirt devils were becoming a daily event.
I breathed a sigh of relief when the grandmothers left and we were left behind. Mother became what can only be called unhinged. There were a lot of slamming doors, locking herself in the bathroom and rampages over spills. We learned to avoid her at all costs. My father, in his infinite wisdom, had a perfect solution. He would begin taking her out to the bars for date night.
There were three bars and no grocery stores in our small town. Priorities were determined. So, every Saturday night, my dad put on his cowboy boots and ostentatious silver belt buckle and mom pinned her hair back and they went to the Silver Spur. As excited as we were to have our parents out of the house, we were subjected to a steady stream of baby sitters that got progressively worse.
There was the one who boiled two cartons of eggs and made the largest bowl of egg salad I’ve ever seen. The entire house smelled of eggs and cigarettes and her Shalimar perfume. I begged my parents to never let her step foot in the house again. Then there were the young teen girls who snuck boys in the backdoor and made out on our sofa. The worst was an older woman who was saddled not only with my sister and me, but Micah and Russ.
Russ in all his deviancy could be entertaining with the babysitters. He was determined to either make them cry or leave. He felt he was too old to be under supervision. The babysitter that evening was sweet and determined we would have a good time playing monopoly or watching television. Instead, Russ began a standoff in the bedroom that lasted for hours and resulted in our parents being called home early and the door being taken off the hinges. Micah and I camped in the hallway and begrudgingly admired Russ for an amusing evening.
Going to the bar meant my parents made new friends. One couple in particular was as far removed from the locals as possible. The wife wore heavy make up and low cut blouses, unheard of in our small town. The husband was witty, charming and cared whether he had dirt beneath his fingernails. There house was on the outskirts of town, a rambling two story jammed with paintings and art. There was always music playing and weekend barbecues to attend. They served raw oysters on the half shell and I found it decadent beyond belief. I wanted to be adopted into this family.
Every weekend I spent on a barstool in the kitchen painting bird houses or stenciling mirrors with my friend’s mother I had taken as my own. While all the children were off riding bikes, I was listening to Etta James and Billie Holiday with the father. I felt as if I belonged to these people and hated to go home. How could you not love a mother who shaved chocolate onto big dollops of whipped cream in your hot chocolate?
Their creativity was never more apparent than at Halloween. The mother’s love of all things Halloween and her determination to decorate every inch of their house, inspired many parties I threw well into my adulthood. While I was accustomed to plastic face masks and ill fitting Barbie pajamas as a costume, she would make intricate costumes for her children.
Her son that year went as an African American baby. He wore a sky high afro wig, black face and a white diaper as a costume. Racist? Sure. But in our small town of Arizona there were no African Americans. The only minority was the Native Americans who resided in small hovels at the edge of town and on the reservations. My family was shocked having grown up in a much more diverse area.
The daughter was a beautiful butterfly. I would sit on the stool and watch the mother dot the gauzy wings with glue then sprinkle with glitter. I wanted to be a butterfly. Instead, my mother decided I would be a hobo. Easy enough costume. I would look upon those wings the days before Halloween with such envy, wanting to wear them myself and my friend’s mother could tell.
She pulled my mother aside and said there was still time to make a second set of butterfly wings. My mother, not entirely uncreative, balked at the idea. Looking back, I think she saw my longing for something else other than the life I was leading. It was her first indication I would not be like them, nor would I ever be. I would always want something else and she felt rejected. We left my friend’s house that day and never returned. I saw them on Halloween night, the boy in his black face and my friend in her beautiful purple and pink butterfly wings and black leotard. The mother looked at me in my ill fitting hobo costume and patted my shoulder. She leaned over and whispered, “Someday you’ll make your own butterfly wings.”
She was right. Someday I would create and make, despite those who told me I couldn’t. I missed those weekends spent painting and talking about the perfect color blue. My mother had cut me off from the lifeline of my creativity, but she had not killed it. Instead, I would cut beautiful pictures from magazines and save them in a box. I began writing down the words floating in my imagination and recreating that world I found at someone else’s house. My butterfly wings were words that carried me far away and she had not even realized it yet.
There is a fine line between exposing one’s self and showing off an appendix scar. I think I could be guilty of both as I unbuttoned my jeans and showed everyone the four-inch red incision line on my first day back to school. There was a certain sense of pride that I had survived not only surgery, but an infection. Not that I understood the implication of either. I was the only one in my grade missing an organ, and that made me quasi-famous.
I did not lie, but neither did I correct the wild rumors. Someone asked me if my guts exploded and I just held up my hand and told them I couldn’t really talk about it. A girl from another grade said she heard I had died and was brought back to life. I shrugged mysteriously and moved through the lunch line. Suddenly there were new faces at my lunch table and they all wanted to know what it felt like to be sliced open. I didn’t bother mentioning I was asleep.
Having surgery did slow me down. Since they apparently used super glue to close my incision, I was afraid for months it would suddenly open to expose a gaping hole where my appendix had once been. I was afraid to go down the slide, ride my bike or climb on the monkey bars. I begged off jumping off sheds until I was certain I wouldn’t explode on impact.
It was during this hey day as a school celebrity, Dylan began noticing me. He carried my lunch tray to my table. He sat across from me and told me lame jokes. He drug me behind the first grade trailer and asked to see my scar up close. With a finger he gently touched the still tender wound and smiled at me. My knees felt weak and I could barely speak, but I remember making an equally lame joke. He laughed and my heart sang. I sat in the classroom fantasizing about the beautiful flaxen hair children we would make. My near death experience had convinced him what he had been missing.
Apparently, near death experiences aren’t nearly as interesting as a new girl in school. How quickly I fell off my pedestal when the dark haired girl from the Navajo Reservation was suddenly thrust into our classroom. She wore beaded bracelets and pulled her shiny black hair with leather ponytails. She told stories of powwows and her traditional beliefs. My organ pickling in a jar in some hospital was suddenly deemed not as worthy. I watched as Dylan pulled on her ponytail and whatever daydreams of our life together were gone. Apparently shiny new objects attracted him.
Dejected, I found solace with Daniel who had visited me in the hospital and brought me lifesavers. He rode me on his bike and avoided potholes and bumps to keep my remaining organs intact. He held up barbed wire fences so I could crawl under rather than over. He stole heavy gold bracelets from his mother and slide them on my arms. We would sit for hours on the edge of ditches they were building for underground utilities for the new houses being built. Sometimes we would talk about general things or sometimes we would just sit and say nothing. I didn’t know it then, but he understood me.
I came home one evening at my curfew of dusk. It didn’t matter where we were, we just had to be home before dark. As a kid living in the mountains, you didn’t bother arguing with that logic. Just as the sun began to set, the howling of the coyotes and wolves began, and you wanted to be inside. My father was home early from work and I thought this meant he had lost his job. My stomach seized at the thought of living in something smaller than the tin can we called home.
Instead, he announced he had bought us a house. Well, actually a plot of land they would be building a house on. Three bedrooms he said excitedly and we will have two bathrooms. My mind was on overdrive with the possibilities. No more sharing a room with my sister! No more arguing over bathroom time! No more being trapped in a container so foggy with smoke we could barely see out the windows.
The best news, it was close to where we lived so I could still ride my bike to visit Daniel. We would have our own yard and the Arizona equivalent of grass which was a dirty yard with sporadic tufts of weeds. I remember my mother smiling and laughing for the first time in what felt like years. She was happy to get out of the prison van too. A brand new house, not in our wildest dreams did we ever think that was possible. I was already picking out paint colors for my room.
I excitedly told Daniel about the move and he frowned. I wasn’t going to be that far away, but we could no longer just walk across the street to see each other. I would have neighbors and would probably be riding bikes with them. He was angry at me for allowing myself to be moved. As he stormed away in a huff, I stood there on the dirt road feeling confused. How could someone be happy and sad at the same time? My child mind couldn’t wrap itself around that. Why did something have to be taken away in order to gain something else?
I cried myself to sleep that night, not sure if it was out of joy or sadness.
The house was being built and I was miserable. My best friend, Daniel no longer raided his mother’s jewelry box and brought me gifts. He felt I should have control over where I lived, when in fact I had none. I spent my days fawning over Dylan with the white hair and trying to keep up with the uncles who were barely older than I was. I baked with my fake grandmother (she would forever be known as Dorothy as she had stolen my papa away from my granny) and waited until we moved into our house, which now had green exterior walls and a poured concrete foundation.
My parents in their euphoria did not notice their eldest was unhappy. If they did, they simply could not acknowledge anything negative when so many positive things were happening to my family. I, on the other hand, was becoming resentful and angry we were moving yet again and no amount of appendix scar attention could ease my suffering.
Even Dylan became tarnished with my newfound colorless view of life. I would sit at my desk and seethe at his shallowness and the way the girls doted on him. Was I really one of those girls? When he called my name at lunchtime, I pretended to not hear him. Instead, I sat on the football field with a book and retreated into a world that was not mine. I was a festering cauldron of burgeoning female ready to blow at any moment.
There are things that happen in life. You can look back and see them as you did as a child. Worst possible moments of despair and pain, or you can see them for what they really were. Just moments. As you get older, you collect them like seashells in a plastic container and you’re not really sure why you still have them. You keep meaning to throw them out, but you went through all the trouble of collecting them, surely they have some value. They don’t. Because every time you walk on a beach you will see there are more shells. Just like moments. There will be more. Some of them wonderful, a few of them painful.
Arizona has become like that for me. There were things that happened emblazoned in my brain. Things I cannot always find humor in. Every place I’ve moved, they were wrapped in bubble wrap and carried with me. I could look back at Arizona as a place of pain, but it wasn’t. There was the smell of alfalfa, the feel of the sun on my already bronze skin, the millions of stars I miss every time I look in the sky from somewhere else. There was so much good, I refuse to let it be tainted by anything awful that happened.
At the time, I was too young to process how life cycles through these wonderful and miserable moments. I was miserable and made more miserable by events occurring I felt I had no control over. I hated the house and everything it stood for. I hated everyone and every thing. Except my dog, Peppy. He was the one consistent thing in my life.
A fur faced ball of energy who would sit beside me and ponder the hopeless of the world, he was my companion in pain. He understood when my parents were too self absorbed to. He understood when no one around me saw me. When he curled beside me, it was like a hug from someone who loved you despite your unpleasantness.
Then I came home from school and my father was not at work. He was waiting for me at the gate and he put a hand on my shoulder. He led me around the back of the trailer where a mound of dirt was covered with rocks we had found in the dried riverbanks of the Little Colorado River. He explained a farmer had shot Peppy. Probably chasing cattle at night. He had made it home and died on our rickety wooden porch. When dad had come home from work that night, he found him and buried him.
That morning, I had not been greeted by Peppy, and I remember looking around the yard for him. He was off somewhere doing something and I had not given it a second thought. He was always there when I came home from school. But not anymore. I remember standing, looking at that dirt mound, thinking of my Peppy dying alone in the dark on our porch. I wondered if he had lain there, alone and cold, and wondered why I hadn’t come out to comfort him. I had not been there for him when he needed me. It made an already difficult time in my life unbearable. If possible, I retreated further. That unexpended rage had come what fueled me. It was just a matter of time before it was unleashed somewhere, on someone.
My uncle, Russ was four years older than I was. He was cocky and deranged in a future serial killer sort of way. He made his brother, Micha’s life miserable and mine. We hated him, loathed him. There were things, things that I will never speak of. Yet, we were powerless to him. He was bigger and a bully and we cowered in his wake.
One day we were walking along the road up to the graveyard. As morbid as it was, I did find comfort amongst the dead. It was proof I wasn’t alone in losing someone. I walked behind, watching Russ smash bugs beneath his sneakers and toss rocks at the lizards he came upon. When he stopped at a ditch, retrieving a stick and began dragging something from its murky waters, I stopped too.
In horror, I watched him drag a freshly dead dog from the water. Obviously, hit by a car and left to die. He laughed in glee and suggested we autopsy it. I became not myself that day. Everything flashed as if it were happening to someone else. Suddenly, I was standing over Russ who was lying in the road. There was bright red blood spurting from the cut above his eye and I was panting and holding a rock. I felt that rage unraveling from my belly and my body shook with it.
My parents punished me for hitting him. There had been stitches. I have many regrets in my life, but that was not one of them. It wasn’t the act of violence, I would never condone such a thing, but it was my no longer standing there as a bystander to something horrible. I had done something. Maybe not the right thing, but I had done something.
He, of course, would retaliate against me in a hundred ways. He would push me down in a ditch or into a barbed wire fences. I would return with bruises and cuts, but I would never tell on him. He would taunt me, call me names, and invoke the name of Peppy to try to hurt me. However, he never did. Whenever he seemed to get the upper hand, I would remember him that day lying on the road and crying. Big tears of pain, surprise, and the fear in his eyes as I stood looming with that rock. He was no longer a monster to fear, but a weak boy who would grow into an even weaker man.
I suddenly forgot about Daniel and Dylan and the dog grave we were leaving behind. I was ready for a fresh start in a new house and I felt hopeful.
So, I could overcome the heat, dust storms and fatality around every corner because I was in love with two boys at the tender age of eight. They were like photograph negatives of each other. Dylan all blonde and light skinned, Daniel with his dark hair and dark eyes. They also had very different opinions of me. Dylan completely ignored my every word and attempt to make eye contact and Daniel would steal his mother’s jewelry and hand it to me at the bus stop in the morning. When I received my first new bike with the purple seat and tassels hanging from the handlebars, it was Daniel who taught me to ride it and would cruise along side of me in case I fell. When I inevitably fell, it was Daniel who picked me up.
By a mere stroke of chance, we had moved to a trailer not far from where Daniel lived in his. When I say a trailer, I mean barely a two-room vacation pop up. My parent’s bedroom was at one end, living room and kitchen at the other, and my sister and I slept on bunk beds in what was a hallway. The entire trailer was about the size of a hotel room. Not exactly the paradise we had planned, but there was good news. We were having a house built in a new subdivision. This would only be temporary.
What was not temporary was my mother’s new found excitement for Arizona living. She began taking tennis lessons while we were at school, and started cooking again. Well, she would make what was supposed to be food. I don’t remember many dinners, I do believe I have repressed those memories. There were sly attempts at sneaking us liver disguised as steak. Thank goodness I had round cheeks I could stuff like a hamster with bites of liver and Brussels sprouts to spit out later when I went out to feed the dog. She would rail against us wasting food, but her logic about kids in Africa did not hold water with me. I was sure they were eating better than we were.
So, I went to school during the day, staring forlornly at Dylan and during the afternoon, I would ride my bike with Daniel and accept whatever piece of jewelry he had managed to filch from his mother. Of course, my mom always made me give them back, but it was the thought that counts. He adored me, and I in turn adored his adoration. Really the perfect relationship.
During this time, my parents pretty much ignored me. At night, I would sit with my sister watching a crummy television and thinking of stories to tell. There was nothing better to me than making my baby sister laugh. I would climb up on my top bunk, listening to the coyotes outside howling their goodnights and I did feel happy. I was glad we had moved across the world.
All was well until my curiosity got the better of me. Daniel was in our backyard and like any boy out in the woods, when he had to go, he just went. He simply unzipped his pants and let loose in a small ditch. Now, I was young and curious. So instead of looking away, I stepped beside him and examined the goods, as any inquisitive young girl would. I knew boys had different equipment. I had seen my male cousins when they were babies.
To my mother who was washing dishes and watching from the window, this was apparently a huge deal. To describe her as a screaming banshee is an understatement. She snatched me up and drug me by the arm back into the hovel we called home. There was a belt spanking and I was told what I had done was very nasty. As I sat carefully on the edge of the bed, there were no tears. So, I had seen a boy’s penis. Big deal. It wasn’t that impressive.
The next day she forbid me to see Daniel. I told her I wouldn’t, but would just hop on my purple bike and hide it behind his shed while we sat in his room and listened to music on his tape player. His mother adored me, she would make me homemade tortillas, and fruit punch. She would occasionally trim the hair my mother butchered so it would grow back normally. I use to pray she would want a daughter so much she would insist I come stay with her.
I felt sure I could still harbor dual crushes on Dylan and Daniel. Dylan barely knew I existed anyway. Well, that is not exactly true. He did know I existed. I had become the object of his teasing after I spilled an entire container of black paint on our teacher. The room was divided. Half thought I did it on purpose and admired me, and the other half just thought it was hilarious. Dylan was one of the latter and would laugh every time there was a painting project. My teacher did not. I was not allowed to handle paint after that day.
Humiliation burned my cheeks with embarrassment. Nothing worse than having the object of your affection think you’re a joke. However, I learned to play along with it and in turn realized I could not at any point take myself too seriously. In the whole scheme of things, spilling paint was such a small thing and it was actually very funny. The look of horror on my teacher’s face as black paint splashed her white pants and white shirt was humorous. Because I did not become upset with his teasing, Dylan actually began paying attention to me. I was like a boy, he said, I didn’t freak out or cry. So there it was. The reason why over the years I would have more male friends than female. Why I always seemed to have a boyfriend. I was one of their tribe and they accepted me.
I was thrilled, elated and would sit at recess with Dylan every day listening to his stories of his older brother. When he told me about “rubbers,” I pretended to know what he was talking about. The image I had in my mind was not very accurate. But I didn’t want to show my ignorance. I also knew enough I could not ask my mother or father.
Everything would have been perfect, except one morning I woke up sicker than I had ever been. I had eaten my mother’s dinner the night before, and surely that was the culprit. My mom had a full day of tennis and whatever else she occupied her time with and insisted I had to go to school. I couldn’t even get off the bathroom floor, let alone walk. Begrudgingly, she called the nurse who suggested hot tea. That was an even worse idea and there was suddenly pain. I remember lying on the cold tile floor of the bathroom and staring at the ceiling light. If I died, would Dylan always remember me as his first love? Would Daniel?
There was also the thought of if I died; I hope my mother would be racked with guilt the rest of her life for yelling at me I was going to school. When my mother returned to the bathroom, she looked worried and not for herself. Surely, I could get some mileage out of this.
I remember words and phrases that sounded like “surgery,” “infection,” and “rectal exam.” I was bent over and violated by a sympathetic doctor who then told my mother my appendix had burst and I was to be admitted. I stood in line at admitting. The pain was throbbing in my right side and I did not fully grasp what was to occur. My mother was crying and all I could care about was the pain ending.
At one point the pain was so severe, I just remember blacking out and waking up in a gown and having an IV inserted into my hand. The nurse looked at my mother who was crying hysterically at my side and rolled her eyes. I smiled at her and she smiled back. I’ll never forget that kind face and the pat she gave me on my head. “You’re going to be just fine.” She said, and I believed her.
Coincidentally, or maybe not if you believe in destiny, the surgeon who would be removing what was left of my appendix was from my hometown. This dried my mother’s tears. I thought they had flown someone in especially from Kentucky to cut me open. For a brief shining moment I felt special. This was quickly dashed when they gave me a shot of medicine that set my veins on fire and I found myself drifting to peaceful sleep.
My eyes opened to a nurse calling my name and gently shaking me. My throat hurt and I could taste rubbing alcohol. I could feel a throb in my side and asked if I had stitches. I was disappointed they had glued the incision shut instead of cool black sutures I could show off. She promised there would be a scar, so it wasn’t a total loss.
I was in the hospital for a week due to the infection. What transpired was an endless string of meals consisting of jello and broth. To this day, I still cannot stand jello. The food was just this side of bearable compared to my mother’s dinners, so I didn’t complain. There were visitors to entertain and gifts to accept. My sister was not allowed to visit in the hospital, so she was taken to the movies by my father. I still bring this up as practically child neglect. How dare he choose to take her to the movies while my life was hanging on by a thread.
Then I was expelled from the hospital in a wheelchair and told I would be out of school for a couple more weeks. I didn’t like school anyway, so this was just the news I was waiting for. I was tucked in a bed with magazines and a radio and told to take it easy. If I had more organs to donate, I would have surely volunteered them. Even my mother seemed to have softened due to the guilt of almost sending her oldest child to school to die from sepsis. I would take away from this experience a hard lesson. The special treatment didn’t last long. Queen for the day was a fleeting crown.
Within a week my mother was crawling out of her skin having to tend to her sick child and my little sister who did not understand I needed to rest. Instead, she wanted to hear stories and touch my scar and share popsicles with me. I think this was an important time for our bonding. We became close and I feared she would inherit my incredible bursting appendix. I became a little mother to her, and she was happy to have me around. My mother, on the other hand, was ready to have her life back that included watching the Price is Right in peace.
I was ready to run and play myself. I missed my friends and was anxious to be out of the house and in the fresh air. I’m sure this extended period of togetherness forever altered my relationship with my mother. She was already on the edge and to have a child have emergency surgery then be underfoot for almost a month must have been a lot to take. I think maybe she resented me for the imposition on her already tenuous hold on her sanity. It didn’t get any better after that.
We moved to a trailer in a desert with no television, radio or reason to live. Surely, tribes in the outermost reaches of a Brazilian jungle had better accommodations. My parents plied us with comic books, novels and a monopoly board. This, of course, did not take the place of a working television. I was hoping our “real” family would rescue us from this psychotic set of parent’s clutches. Instead, we suffered in the heat, whining we were bored. My mother in her infinite wisdom decided to send us out into the scorching sun so we could no longer interrupt her daily sobbing spells.
So without the benefit of sunscreen, we huddled beneath the scarce pine trees looking for shade and watching the other similarly abused children hide beneath decks and cars until the sunset and we could go back inside for dinner. The funny thing about the desert is that at night it was cold. Therefore, you spent all day frying in the sun and then at night you covered yourself in layers of blankets. To this day, I am not sure how long this torture continued. I just remember one day we were in the desert and then it was time to move to the mountains.
The Superstition Mountains of Arizona were beautiful, majestic and full of things that given the slightest chance would eat you. We were in a trailer at the foot of a tall hill and at night in the pitch-black darkness, you could hear the howling of the coyotes in the distance. Except some nights, they were not so distant. They were roaming in the alfalfa fields on either side of our trailer. I would have been frightened by their presence, but I was more concerned about the mouse living in the bathroom.
This trip to the mountains was also the first time I contracted strep throat. I remember this distinctly because as my parents hacked their way through two packs of cigarettes each daily, I could no longer breath in the confines of the smoked filled coffin we called home. One night delirious with fever and unable to swallow, I remember lying on my side in the bed, the light from the bathroom illuminating the tacky tile floor and there was the mouse. Scurrying along and then pausing to look at me. I would have screamed in fright had any sound been possible from my swollen shut throat.
A trip to the local doctor, a shot of penicillin and bed rest, and that is where I lay for a week watching that mouse watching me. At the time, I did not think about bubonic plague or the diseases they carried. I simply did not want it in my bed and snuggling on my pillow. Night after night, I watched that mouse unable to sleep until finally I told my parents about it. A quick snap of a mousetrap and it was gone. I had been responsible for its demise and I was racked with guilt.
When I was better, we began taking weekend trips into the mountains for rest and relaxation. For one, there is no rest. You must be aware of your surroundings at all times. If you wonder why, refer to the list of things that will kill you. The woods contained all elements of danger. Half-fallen trees called widow makers, the tell tale rattle of a rattlesnakes nearby. Tracks that could belong to any type of hungry carnivore. A great place for a picnic.
Relaxation is subjective. I was not relaxing when sliding down hillsides onto trucking roads with my male cousins. Not relaxing trying to jump over a rushing creek only to slip and fall in and have to drag yourself to safety. Not relaxing when stepping onto a red anthill and enduring their sting. There was an incident when I lost my shoes. It is a miracle I made it out alive.
On a side note, even in the city life was dangerous I told myself. There was a time when I was following my cousins on a big wheel and they lost me in the dark. I pedaled around the ever-darkening streets of the apartment complex until a man found me crying and unable to find my way home. In a stroke of sheer luck that would indeed follow me my entire life, he picked me up into his arms and carried me home. He just so happened to know my aunt and where they lived.
I began to embrace the dangers of living in the mountains. There were things you did and did not do. My hair was bleached white and my skin a golden brown. I was beginning to get the hang of living like a savage. Then in one moment, my father helping to put a roof on someone’s trailer distracted me, and I stepped back onto a nail. A rusty nail.
I remember my mother being angry I was so careless as I sat in the doctor’s office having my wound cleaned and receiving a tetanus shot. My foot was bandaged and I was told to hop around for support. In other words, I was house bound in that trailer for another week. I almost missed that mouse.
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.
While away on vacation, I thought I’d just re-run the Arizona Chronicles. Someday I might actually work more on them.
I suppose as a writer you must be endowed with an impressive memory. We are told in Creative Writing 101 class to write, “What we know” and other cliché directives. I like to believe I have an amazing memory from my childhood despite my mother’s insistence that eighty-five percent of it did not happen. You can show her photographic evidence, and she will still deny the memory in question. This is my story of Arizona and my memories, faulty as they might be.
I was very young when my father announced we would be moving across the universe to this strange land called Arizona. Barely seven, I had no concept of geography and where this place might exist. My information beforehand was gleaned from my father’s insistence it was indeed a magical place and my grandfather calling it a desert where we would die. There was discussion of being scalped (yes, my grandfather was a racist) and scorpion attacks.
To my father’s credit, despite all the naysayers, he loaded our meager belongings onto a station wagon and headed west anyway. At this point, I look back in total slack-jawed awe at my father. Here was a man of wanderlust, who wanted to embark on a grand adventure and he did it. The fact we were actually in the car and moving is even more a miracle when you realize my mother was the exact opposite of this.
Let’s get this over with. My mother was born seventy-five. If there is a complaint to file, she has a cabinet full. For every suggestion, she has a tale of someone injured or dying as a counterpoint. When I told her I was moving to NYC, she insisted I would be mugged, raped and murdered and probably more than once. This is the mother I know. The surprise is she agreed to move thousands of miles away from her family to live in the desert with two small children. I chalk it up to she was fairly young herself and had yet to become completely cynical and bitter.
So bags were strapped to the roof, a bed was made in the back for my sister and myself, and my father took off cross-country to the great unknown. I remember being excited and unable to sleep as we crawled across highways and away from the only home I had known. Everything was bright, shiny and new and I wanted to soak it all in. We left in the dark of night, only headlights visible, but in the distance, a silhouette beneath the moon, I saw the horizon and the possibilities that lay ahead.
This trip was the first time I tasted Dr. Pepper. I remember a gas station in some sweltering town and a beautiful young boy handing me one. There was a roadrunner on the side of the road that looked nothing like the cartoon version. There were scrambled eggs in a diner like nothing I had ever tasted and a man with a turban. Then there was the accident.
I remember crossing the highway to a rest stop. My sister and I were in the back of the station wagon on a pallet of blankets and probably arguing. My father was driving and probably arguing with my mother. Then there was a large truck plowing into our car. My next memory is standing on the side of the road, uninjured and watching my mother fall apart. She was crying hysterically and being hugged by my Grandfather’s wife who had been in another car. The entire back quarter panel of the car was crumpled and pushed in.
As I stood on the side of the road in the Texas heat, watching the chaos around me, I was too young to realize how close we had come to dying. My sister and I had been in that back end and here we stood disoriented and unhurt. Our trip had become derailed by our accident. We holed up in a hotel with air conditioning and orange trees. For better or worse, we were not turning back. I remember standing in the parking lot of the hotel, with an orange in my hand, watching my baby sister toddle in the grass and the seed was planted. I inhaled the scent of that orange and wanted more. Always more.
So, in hindsight, I feel as if child protective services should have at least looked into this whole trek across country. First of all, we did not even sit in a car with seatbelts. We bounced around haphazardly on our bed of blankets and hung out the windows like savages across three thousand miles. It is a true miracle the wreck did not do more damage than demolishing the back of the car and my mother’s already frayed nerves. This accident was also the first time I ever heard the word Valium, the magical pill that made my mother seem nicer. Of course, the effects were not long enough lasting.
We were a few days in a hotel in Texarkana that smelled of diesel and fried chicken. It meant sharing a room with my mother who at varying points was either too hot or too cold. It was also the first time in a long time we ate normal food. I say normal because my mother could make delicious fried chicken and about nothing else. She was infamous for her thrown together casseroles and her guilty attempts at feeding her family vegetables by serving overcooked brussels sprouts we could sip through straws. She claims it was because we were poor, but I do believe marauding wild dogs ate better food. When it was announced we were hitting the road again, I remember being disappointed my mother would once again be in the vicinity of a stove.
There were stories of the desert, yet I was still surprised when we were indeed in the desert. My first memory of Arizona is a Native American adobe ruin and immediately touching a cactus. The first hour in our new home state was spent picking needles out of my hand with tweezers and my mother commenting how hot it was. There is not a breeze to be found in the desert in July we discovered. There is a photo of me, wearing blue jeans and a blue shirt, my blonde hair bleached white and smiling in front of the ruin. I had yet to receive the warnings.
Okay, so my parents wait until we are driving along a tiny dirty road climbing Salt River Canyon with my mother crying we were going to plunge to our deaths with one pothole, to inform us that EVERYTHING will kill us in our new home. We should have been given a power point presentation at the least. The list was endless and frightening. I half listened, as I was certain my father after days in the car with my mother would drive us right over that edge. I remember the list being something like this:
1. Do not pick up rocks. There will be rattlesnakes sleeping beneath them and one bite and YOU WILL DIE.
2. Do not walk barefoot outside. There will be scorpions that will sting you and YOU WILL DIE.
3. Do not stand beneath trees. Many of the pines are old and they will fall on you and YOU WILL DIE.
4. Do not eat any berries. Who knows what is poisonous and if you eat one YOU WILL DIE.
5. Do not stay out in the midday sun. You will suffer from heatstroke and YOU WILL DIE.
6. There will be sudden dust storms. Take shelter or the wind will pick up sharp objects that will decapitate you and YOU WILL DIE.
7. Watch out for red anthills. They will swarm you and sting you and YOU WILL DIE.
8. Never play with fire or a magnifying glass. You will set the entire state on fire and YOU WILL DIE.
9. Never wander off whilst in the woods because cougars and bears will see you as lunch and YOU WILL DIE.
10. Never interrupt mother when she is having her midday nap or YOU WILL DIE.
So as the car stopped in front of a trailer, one of about ten in a small park located in the middle of the desert, I huddled with my sister and feared stepping foot onto the sand. This was Coolidge, Arizona with its barrel cacti and yucca trees and for what seemed like for the worst we were living here now. If my parents were trying to scare us straight, it worked.
Like a quiet sigh, I have exceed 200 posts. This was a blog I started on a lark, because my beloved D encouraged me and I’m shocked to realize I’ve continued it despite all the chaos that ensued shortly after it began. I have discovered so many great bloggers, but I have also discovered myself.
I do care about my readers, that I am giving all of you exactly what is on my mind without censoring. There are portions of my life I hold for myself. I am respectful of those satellites who revolve around my world not to include them in any overt way. The exception has been my parents. It started out as venting and evolved into barely a whisper about them. During the course of my blogging, they have all but disappeared from my daughter’s and mine life. I’m at peace with it.
I started off wanting to capture my poetry, my essays and my stories, but then I became enamored again with photography. I’m never sure where this blog will go or what I will post on any given day. I like the spontaneity of it all. It makes me happy to write again, and really that’s all anyone can hope for. Writing had become such an albatross, and now it’s a thrill again.
Occasionally I’ve addressed the emails I receive, so I will give you a brief glimpse into who cold dead heart is. Here are the top 10 questions I’ve received. And I do enjoy your emails, I apologize if I’m not better at responding to them in a timely manner. I’m working on it!
1. My daughter is a teen now. No, she does not like that I blog about her. No, she doesn’t read my blog. She really could care less about my writing at all. She’s creative enough for both of us.
2. Mieze of my Sunday posts, Mieze’s Musings, is not in fact my cat. He belongs to a wonderful and amazing woman who raised an even more remarkable son. She has other cats and maybe we’ll start including them. Mieze’s Musings is my favorite post and I look forward to it every Sunday. My beloved D sends me a photo and I write it on the spot. He never knows what photo I’m going to use or what I’m going to say. Don’t get me wrong, I love cats. It’s just I’m allergic. There you go, I ruined it for you.
3. Finally! The mystery is solved! I am cold dead hearted as a blog name because it had become my habit when asked “promise?” to respond with, “Cross my cold dead heart.” Anyone that knows me is aware that I am quite squishy hearted.
4. I’m a scorpio. Don’t hold it against me.
5. Despite the purple hair, I am a manager. I know, it’s scary that I am in charge of something. My last foray into colorful hair has left me dismayed. The blue wouldn’t come out. Total disaster. Yes, I will be going back to blonde for a while, sans color streaks. Who knows how I’ll feel in a few months.
6. I started my writing career with erotica romance novels. In the last five years, I’ve abandoned that genre not because I lost respect for it (it’s more difficult than you can imagine), but because I worried what my daughter would think. I still have one last novel, completely finished and edited and I can’t seem to pull the trigger on it. Maybe someday when she has her own kids, I’ll come out of smut retirement. In the meantime, I have all but abandoned writing except on my blog. Someday I’ll return to it, but I’m just not in that mind space right now.
7. My sister is four and a half years younger than me. We really are the best of friends. We work together and have lunch together practically every day. We’re told we have the same voice on the telephone. I am working on a series of recordings based on something I used to write years ago called “Two Sisters Talking.” Look for it soon. I can’t guarantee you can tell us apart.
8. I am older than I’ll admit. Let’s leave it at that.
9. Yes, I paint and someday I might post pics of what I do on here. I mostly paint and do art just for my walls. If I had to choose only one thing, it would be photography. I had put aside my love for it for many years.
10. I will probably address the rift that occurred in my family. I’m not sure. There was actually an intervention that was quite comical, if such a thing can be funny. My sister said yesterday and it’s true, “God, we lead such weird lives.” That about sums it up.
I want to thank you all my dear readers for your support, encouragement and your comments. You have all expanded my mind and my heart. I appreciate you all. Keep blogging, I will be reading.
Cold Dead Hearted