tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16970073317168371102024-03-21T05:34:27.678-04:00The Fat Lady SingsA Big, Fat Novel. A Tour de Force.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger39125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1697007331716837110.post-7393484490964643562008-05-31T20:45:00.002-04:002011-05-15T21:26:53.996-04:00Part I: Journeys (Chapter 37)<div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff6600;">Journeys</span></strong></div><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOcWG7RUjWtBeQOx6mDiXR4JtJDG6MAzJ2bYHfHGEHsfIcBIoxH4dcfycGTNuwX5hAX8Ylk9wT1PsmWp22wpfa8QOYqep3kUUEH8mmL6mOZLLvXeo7sQWVvoKY2ShgRH2mwHq-uxhK-GU/s1600-h/Nana's+July+10,+1983,+letter.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5207071999120786994" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOcWG7RUjWtBeQOx6mDiXR4JtJDG6MAzJ2bYHfHGEHsfIcBIoxH4dcfycGTNuwX5hAX8Ylk9wT1PsmWp22wpfa8QOYqep3kUUEH8mmL6mOZLLvXeo7sQWVvoKY2ShgRH2mwHq-uxhK-GU/s400/Nana's+July+10,+1983,+letter.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />July 10, 1983– <strong>Nicole today!</strong><br /><br />Had to do extra shopping today, bought extra chicken breasts, fresh tomatoes, and new potatoes. Samantha and Nicole finally here, direct from Disney World. (Fla.). S. terribly sunburned, N. black as coal. Little Black Chicken, ha, ha. S. lost weight, much too thin now. Feast or Famine with that girl. N. called me Great Nana. Told her Nana good enuff. S. Nitpicks at her constantly. I told her<br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>I’m glad you’re not MY mother.</strong><br /></span><br />I meant it, too.<br /><br />Took the girls to Catholic Daughters potluck. The old ladies fussed over N., said she was a cute thing. Spoiled, spoiled.<br /><br />Good food today, ate like a pig. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiwkFb_Tk6IoIAZGgzYbGqe1AJ7iXOFsUWC_UiVtlFbKZwhmHHhsjkHp2ruRT9txi2ZlsBEmWMJDe5wvhy125HTBigyDwlyaQ-uTQmX4bkoplvh7Z4xBvPGc4POXNhOdDTxI28c-fDQ7U/s1600-h/Lasagna+2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiwkFb_Tk6IoIAZGgzYbGqe1AJ7iXOFsUWC_UiVtlFbKZwhmHHhsjkHp2ruRT9txi2ZlsBEmWMJDe5wvhy125HTBigyDwlyaQ-uTQmX4bkoplvh7Z4xBvPGc4POXNhOdDTxI28c-fDQ7U/s400/Lasagna+2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5207078948377871954" /></a><br />Lasagna (Hazel Leedom), Green Bean Casserole (Julie Casey), Turkey Meatloaf (Marguerite Whitlock), Orange Jello with Marshmellows and coconut (Doris Farlow), White Cake w/ Peanut Butter Frosting (Colleen Harrison), Homemade Chocolate Chip Cookies (Mary Lou Keenan). I brought homemade bread, none left to take home.<br /><br />Wore my green plaid dress today, too tight around bosom. After lunch, tight everywhere.<br /><br />Weight Today = 140 lbs. Too fat, what was I thinking.<br /><br />Gluttony a Mortal Sin.<br /><br />Diet tomorrow.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKdo8Qcbx_M_bUAO-UDjg36Pfh1K1eR1R8dP7DoI79ty2llxK-Q8PTk1ddHKbcYILKuHozTY0j9QGoYvF766V7x7YJbsUmN7TsdC5uQuZ39rsySYZK5rnokcHoU0ni5jzkkdb0gn9hNqM/s1600-h/Nana's+July+10,+1983,+letter+cropped.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5207073635503326786" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKdo8Qcbx_M_bUAO-UDjg36Pfh1K1eR1R8dP7DoI79ty2llxK-Q8PTk1ddHKbcYILKuHozTY0j9QGoYvF766V7x7YJbsUmN7TsdC5uQuZ39rsySYZK5rnokcHoU0ni5jzkkdb0gn9hNqM/s400/Nana's+July+10,+1983,+letter+cropped.jpg" border="0" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1697007331716837110.post-46770861317554111472008-05-31T19:40:00.002-04:002011-05-15T21:27:53.756-04:00Part I: Journeys (Chapter 36)<div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff6600;">Journeys</span></strong></div><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLkGp5QI40aI5crqi1nikbhXWDTYcn0GN21HnXW-a6UruJ0UiFOi62Jw5HNRDKwzXCtfI7r1Pc8je1kfT_StR88EI1k-uyPqB57B2V8C6aY1Oz6JriIXcIofaM251UNnhC-ar5Xy1e2Hg/s1600-h/road+mirage+2+crosshatch.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5207059771348895234" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLkGp5QI40aI5crqi1nikbhXWDTYcn0GN21HnXW-a6UruJ0UiFOi62Jw5HNRDKwzXCtfI7r1Pc8je1kfT_StR88EI1k-uyPqB57B2V8C6aY1Oz6JriIXcIofaM251UNnhC-ar5Xy1e2Hg/s400/road+mirage+2+crosshatch.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />“Do we have to go so fast?” Nana says as she grips the dashboard.<br /><br />“We’re not going that fast,” I say, as I note the speedometer set squarely on 55. If nothing else, Sheldon is a careful, methodical driver who would rather die than break the law, even a minor one.<br /><br />“In my day, we didn’t go so fast.”<br /><br />“In your day, you didn’t have superhighways,” I say, watching the road ahead of us wavering in the Iowa heat. Mirage puddles glimmer ahead and then disappear just before we reach them.<br /><br />“Well, we didn’t need them. No one felt the need to hurry so much. Everything these days is ‘hurry, hurry, hurry...’”Nana tightens her grip on the dash. “I’m afraid.”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMROM8V2gbOvPBBGjkNk6PXbq16rSL0ju0Qug_zYi95YHfDtUIuF8MAm0dN9PsXR3coiV7ClubolxQpD8qGPfHWfEFbB96LqXEuM5N4fTSPy8JiLclf8ijVT3YQbnovCrs3LVwQh0LYVk/s1600-h/Woman+old+2+accent+lens+light.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5207065719878600210" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMROM8V2gbOvPBBGjkNk6PXbq16rSL0ju0Qug_zYi95YHfDtUIuF8MAm0dN9PsXR3coiV7ClubolxQpD8qGPfHWfEFbB96LqXEuM5N4fTSPy8JiLclf8ijVT3YQbnovCrs3LVwQh0LYVk/s400/Woman+old+2+accent+lens+light.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Sheldon slows down to 50. Phil and Sal’s van, which has been following us, also slows downs and then whips around and passes us. As the van passes, I can see Sal’s mouth moving, “Is everything okay?”<br /><br />Sheldon nods and waves the A-OK sign to the Millhouse vehicle. He glimpses over to his shoulder to Nana. “Better?”<br /><br />Nana loosens her grip, but keeps her hand on the dash. “Maybe a little.”<br /><br />“If I go much slower, I’ll be pulled over for being a nuisance.” Sheldon is being surprisingly patient with Nana.<br /><br />“I’m 89 years old,” Nana says, her voice wavering. “And I’ll die soon.”<br /><br />A simple declarative statement. I don’t know what to say–any reassurance would ring false, so I say nothing.<br /><br />“I’m scared.”<br /><br />Sheldon shuffles around in his seat.<br /><br />I can almost sense his shift from grandson-in-law to therapist.<br /><br />Sheldon draws in a deep breath. “So how do you feel about dying?”<br /><br />The silence is palpable and hangs in the air like a hint of rotting flesh.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiiq89THbZNlOvaQaVu80HEqlWQqlpb2uAiMm8HCOcRZyr1nzfPVfuH8pSeVCajky5fpofbvMYRir7X-gACFugnTvosOmp_cnkFrMr6F_1USgpMwTrM2FkIYesZ-BRbZEAAD74jndElDc/s1600-h/Polyester+pants+2+small.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5207069422140409378" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiiq89THbZNlOvaQaVu80HEqlWQqlpb2uAiMm8HCOcRZyr1nzfPVfuH8pSeVCajky5fpofbvMYRir7X-gACFugnTvosOmp_cnkFrMr6F_1USgpMwTrM2FkIYesZ-BRbZEAAD74jndElDc/s400/Polyester+pants+2+small.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Nana pulls her hand away from the dash. She draws in a deep breath, tugs at the collar of her green Qiana blouse, and smooths out her matching Polyester pants. The pant legs have a sewn-in crease, but the left one is crooked. “What am I supposed to feel?”<br /><br />“I don’t know. You tell me.”<br /><br />“Do we have to talk about this?”<br /><br />Nana turns around and wags her figure at me. “You keep out of this, little missus.” She places her left hand on Sheldon’s shoulder. “I’m not afraid to die, if that’s what you mean.”<br /><br />“Well, then, what are you afraid of?”<br /><br />Nana turns around and looks directly at me. “I’m afraid something bad’s up with Nicole, and I’ll never find out about it.” She stares at me, her eyes boring into me as if any secret could be drilled out through sheer O’Toole will power, and then she turns away. She runs her fingers through her hair.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKDq268oB_8859kHMhxxC75p6ndrYjEEJmH3l1moz_n1QLdff082nnD2xzqRctN_rg6_KBx1gthhjzGnrrSZWY8rWh4CbC0DdWMN1TOuVfMvBNQasCnPgaJtkEpEhp3B-SP0-p7HDaRnw/s1600-h/Iowa+Cornfield+Blur+bright.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5207056537238521330" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKDq268oB_8859kHMhxxC75p6ndrYjEEJmH3l1moz_n1QLdff082nnD2xzqRctN_rg6_KBx1gthhjzGnrrSZWY8rWh4CbC0DdWMN1TOuVfMvBNQasCnPgaJtkEpEhp3B-SP0-p7HDaRnw/s400/Iowa+Cornfield+Blur+bright.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />I look out the window and watch as cornfield after Iowa cornfield passes by in a blur.<br /><br />“I’m afraid I’ll never see my Nicole again.”Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1697007331716837110.post-22969831205115448462008-05-31T19:10:00.005-04:002011-05-15T21:30:00.087-04:00Part I: Journeys (Chapter 35)<div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff6600;">Journeys</span></strong></div><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnXNS-vI5dRbpc1zw9fvftQsls3oghi2q7gGCz_S6wK6FhMinOc_fc8xO314t_V-gxgD3XNCi2s_phiknJJpI2B8xzTjiRdBXv8FjK-fv4jkBied3n6P2L4cDaW0Il_FQ4hVWqHsdq-T0/s1600-h/Magic+Kingdom+2+stain+small+cell.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5207002609629152594" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnXNS-vI5dRbpc1zw9fvftQsls3oghi2q7gGCz_S6wK6FhMinOc_fc8xO314t_V-gxgD3XNCi2s_phiknJJpI2B8xzTjiRdBXv8FjK-fv4jkBied3n6P2L4cDaW0Il_FQ4hVWqHsdq-T0/s400/Magic+Kingdom+2+stain+small+cell.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />I have never felt closer to Nicole. I’m grateful to Auntie for the inheritance, not that I wanted her to die. It’s not that at all. It’s just that Auntie’s money has allowed me to take Nicole on this trip to Disney World.<br /><br />It’s been SUCH a great trip! Five days in the Magic Kingdom theme park, one day at Kennedy Space Center, and one day at Marineland.<br /><br />I’ve always wanted to take my daughter on a vacation like this, but money’s always been tight, with my divorce, going to school, and all. I know I haven’t always been the best mother–all that past drug use must have blown my brain chemistry. It seems as though I have lived my life backwards, and I’m sure my zigzag course has affected my relationship with Nicole in negative ways.<br /><br />Though she never says much about it. These days, she seems to be preoccupied with something else, something puzzling and mysterious–-I can’t put my finger on it. Maybe it’s just a kid thing.<br /><br />So when Auntie died last year, and my inheritance confirmed, I said, “Yes! I’m taking Nikki to Disney World!” She’s nearly 13 now, but looks and acts 10, and I have one last chance to make things right with her, to let her know that my split with her dad wasn’t her fault. Not anyone’s fault, really, but definitely not her fault.<br /><br />It’s also a break from Sheldon and his troubles with the divorce from Molly. He needs his space right now, I need mine. Win-win for all.<br /><br />Besides, I’m not at all sure about my relationship with Sheldon. Now that he’s put the divorce into motion, I’m getting this thud in my stomach, a feeling that I can’t turn back now, that I’m committed whether I want to be or not. But that’s another story.<br /><br />Still, I see other guys out there and I wonder if I’m really ready to settle down with one person.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOrEk4ns66oV_K_SdxjvC625JgIdknqrCJD3Xybw40rzQfja2AgAYfiumJhKdfrBSv7XVkK19ci0LBP4hpwrQ1Zm9EKrN6OrrWdw0Y5FKOY_3aKdenKhwmY9g7oKeiPQX5EMCcEHx8AC0/s1600-h/Jungle+Cruise+2+cutout.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5207005027695740258" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOrEk4ns66oV_K_SdxjvC625JgIdknqrCJD3Xybw40rzQfja2AgAYfiumJhKdfrBSv7XVkK19ci0LBP4hpwrQ1Zm9EKrN6OrrWdw0Y5FKOY_3aKdenKhwmY9g7oKeiPQX5EMCcEHx8AC0/s400/Jungle+Cruise+2+cutout.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />I’m feeling thin and saucy these days. I knew I was really looking good when a college guy, a guide on the Jungle Cruise, asked me out. I know I appear younger than I am because this guy wasn’t the first college kid to ask me out, but never in front of Nikki before. I was SO embarrassed because Nikki kept asking questions about what the man wanted–-I told her he was just being a jerk, that it was nothing–but I was also flattered. If Nicole hadn’t been there, I might’ve accepted, but my daughter comes first right now. Still, it was tempting...<br /><br />But I’ve got to focus on Nicole; she’s the reason for this trip, not a romp with some horny young stud muffin.<br /><br />And she’s so excited, she can barely contain herself. When I first told her about this trip, I thought she’d wet her pants.<br /><br />“Mommy,” she asked. “Are we REALLY, REALLY going?”<br /><br />She kept asking me this over and over as if she needed to remind me of my promise, that I might forget about the trip, cancel at the last minute. I know. I’ve let her down before, but I always had very good reasons: school, last minute projects, jobs to keep body together and roof over my head. But I could always feel her disappointment, palpable and intense. They say children are quick to forgive, but not Nicole. That girl can hold a grudge like no other person I have known. But, eventually, even she comes around, usually signaling with a hug and a slurpy kiss on the cheek.<br /><br />But, I knew, short of dying, I could never cancel this trip; this event denotes a definite turning point in our lives, a line that can’t be crossed–-this is more than just a trip to Disney World.<br /><br />Our entire mother-daughter relationship hinges on it. In short, if I had let her down this time, our relationship would have been kaput. I can’t let that happen.<br /><br />Every time I see Nikki, my heart does a little flip; I can’t believe what a pretty child she is, with her long shiny black hair and dark brown eyes–and she’s going to be a stunning adult. Thank God she’s never inherited my problem. She’s one of those kids who’s built like bean pole, straight up and down–-though sometimes I think she’s too thin.<br /><br />I think she’s going to grow tall and remain lithe. God, I hope so.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLLt4t6xec5PhXpp79M53yY5-3BMqrQr-Db8fmnYlXtMLgmOJISUmihkDCRhy0FM0CTLAMEfoydb4soTN-zBCvvKUieI4-2s67Ncd3G3yzI4dUIvR4h0u2-CH0l3oQiArLM5qeuiGArU8/s1600-h/anorexia+solarize+ink.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5207005603221357938" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLLt4t6xec5PhXpp79M53yY5-3BMqrQr-Db8fmnYlXtMLgmOJISUmihkDCRhy0FM0CTLAMEfoydb4soTN-zBCvvKUieI4-2s67Ncd3G3yzI4dUIvR4h0u2-CH0l3oQiArLM5qeuiGArU8/s400/anorexia+solarize+ink.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />She’s all angle and bone, at least that how I’m trying to paint her. At school, on my easel rests her portrait, as of yet unfinished. I have decided that her prevailing color is red, but I still have difficulties working with red; it hurts my eyes, and I just can’t quite mix the whites and blacks with red and still achieve the depth required. Professor Carruth, my painting teacher, says I’ll get it right soon enough...<br /><br />Even if I never get the painting the way I want it, it’s okay. Just so Nicole can live her life easier than I’m living mine. I don’t want her to struggle keeping her weight down, going on diets all the time or paying the consequences of being fat when dieting becomes too hard, which inevitably it does.<br /><br />And having a child who’s ashamed of you when you’re fat. That’s the hardest part. It’s bad enough when strangers stare at and judge you for being fat and sloppy and lazy, but when your child averts her head in shame when your rolls of fat shake like an earthquake, it just confirms your inadequacy.<br /><br />I still have the note she left for me one morning before she left for school:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5Ni4_cCFqPYZDPK98LUnhQS8vg93-CCyvkruo9gA_qBFmjU9z-YrzZHQjK7O9zE6cb-DCAtmP_2sWvY5Ph4N3QadgXAwsrVFGOiReSHirY2SIpgsYT64DIKe2cwf4fmfi4Xo3Me0pmdo/s1600-h/Nicole's+note--Chapter+35.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5200108793276495282" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5Ni4_cCFqPYZDPK98LUnhQS8vg93-CCyvkruo9gA_qBFmjU9z-YrzZHQjK7O9zE6cb-DCAtmP_2sWvY5Ph4N3QadgXAwsrVFGOiReSHirY2SIpgsYT64DIKe2cwf4fmfi4Xo3Me0pmdo/s400/Nicole's+note--Chapter+35.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><blockquote>Mommy, You don’t have to go see Mrs Jackson after all, she says its okay if you don’t come tonite. I’m doing good in school and besides dad says he can go instead, both parents don’t have to be there, just one has to be there. Love your child, Nicole Anne Dunkel.</blockquote>She was eight; at the time, I weighed close to 200 pounds. I could see her cringing at the sight of me pushing my bulk through the classroom door, the teacher and other kids staring at my wiggling fat.<br /><br />That’s when I decided to lose the weight. It took me almost a year, but it was worth it. Now Nicole hangs on me, wants to be with me all the time, wants her friends to meet her “new” mom.<br /><br />Even as I parade my new slender body, Nicole and I are still an unlikely mother/daughter combination. Unlike me, what with my pale freckled skin and red hair, Nikki’s dark complected like her father’s side of the family; she has inherited their dark brown eyes and jet hair. Sometimes I wonder how this un-Mallory-like child found her way into my womb; she’s Dunkel all the way, a soul mate to her dad.<br /><br />And, yet, this trip has uncovered a surprising connection between us. Just the other night, I wanted Nicole to experience fine dining in an expensive restaurant because I don’t know when she’ll ever have the opportunity again; after all, when we leave here, we turn back into pumpkins.<br /><br />I took her to a place called The Crab House–-okay, so it’s not exactly top tier in terms of fine dining, but when Big Macs tend to stretch your budget to the snapping point, a place like The Crab House might as well be the 21 Club or the Four Seasons.<br /><br />We even dressed up, I in a thigh-slapping satin red number with spaghetti straps and Nicole in an aqua summer dress.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP1m-pgcvXtsRQokk8khFrpn_gDy0PCV-zZaqyM95k3KnH5Q6B9ekoQnzqhYyhnkFDJyLZ1a5WGwaW4tE-CQGl6XfuHs358kVWUC5hR3HrmpU565bubbBmA4dbFzyJ7PeDWGsFhou7LN0/s1600-h/anorexia+solarize+ink+aqua.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5207006191631877506" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP1m-pgcvXtsRQokk8khFrpn_gDy0PCV-zZaqyM95k3KnH5Q6B9ekoQnzqhYyhnkFDJyLZ1a5WGwaW4tE-CQGl6XfuHs358kVWUC5hR3HrmpU565bubbBmA4dbFzyJ7PeDWGsFhou7LN0/s400/anorexia+solarize+ink+aqua.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />As we were seated and looking over our menus, I told her, “I’m SO lucky; I have a hot date with my beautiful daughter.”<br /><br />Nicole blushed. “You’re my perfect mother.”<br /><br />For that one moment, I was the perfect mother, and I was going to milk the moment for all it was worth.<br /><br />“The sky’s the limit. Order anything you want.”<br /><br />Nicole squirmed in her chair, and played with her menu. “I’m not really that hungry tonight.”<br /><br />I laughed. “What does hunger have to do with anything?”<br /><br />Nicole shrugged. “I dunno.”<br /><br />I can hardly fathom a child issuing from my genetic pool not experiencing constant hunger. I can’t even imagine not feeling hunger; I can’t remember the last time I wasn’t hungry, unless my rare non-hunger was chemically induced with diet pills. Or, rarely, over-the-top indulgence or illness.<br /><br />“Seafood is always a good choice, not too heavy.” I pointed to her menu. “What about that nice Shrimp Scampi dish?”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0OOOq7xcT6fnBxSSKLpe6LIxpirlBxQKgyWPGYbKPdwPmLWqVmblrvfPlqbAlJ6t96augF8hWyFJCnrY9cubz3SgHjf8-9Pik7ehfMPbh-szd9CMdbk7OQ1kddLd4YpKNhJEx_mzipS0/s1600-h/Shrimp+Scampi+Dry+cropped.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5207006578178934162" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0OOOq7xcT6fnBxSSKLpe6LIxpirlBxQKgyWPGYbKPdwPmLWqVmblrvfPlqbAlJ6t96augF8hWyFJCnrY9cubz3SgHjf8-9Pik7ehfMPbh-szd9CMdbk7OQ1kddLd4YpKNhJEx_mzipS0/s400/Shrimp+Scampi+Dry+cropped.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Nicole’s eyes grew big. “But it’s so expensive!”<br /><br />“It’s okay, honey.”<br /><br />So Nicole ordered the Shrimp Scampi with plain baked potato and steamed green beans. I ordered the Surf ‘n Turf–steak and lobster tail–-with side salad and ranch dressing, rice pilaf, and green beans almondine.<br /><br />As we waited for our food, I looked over the desert menu. Chocolate-peanut Butter Pie, Key Lime Pie, Boston Creme Pie, Mississippi Mud Pie, impossibly-designed ice cream sundaes. “I hope we have room for desert.”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0GLB5RoHbyECkFclX4JB8JId8pnBaCK4h2cg3aDVhMdcvqpzfl3ei70xmHHpc1K8FKV1vWLlQPgL48_GAE8CWmFQTgZ_6EZG2SdkTV-DCjqUUsvC-7GCgK1FI839pcnD_Sa6qhWwKHN4/s1600-h/dessert+spread+2+accent.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5207007385632785826" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0GLB5RoHbyECkFclX4JB8JId8pnBaCK4h2cg3aDVhMdcvqpzfl3ei70xmHHpc1K8FKV1vWLlQPgL48_GAE8CWmFQTgZ_6EZG2SdkTV-DCjqUUsvC-7GCgK1FI839pcnD_Sa6qhWwKHN4/s400/dessert+spread+2+accent.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />“Really, Mother,” Nicole said as she pushed a strand of black hair from her brow. “We don’t have to make pigs of ourselves.”<br /><br />Like a flash, it hit me: my daughter might be naturally lithe, but it doesn’t mean that she doesn’t worry about what she eats.<br /><br />Could it be she scrutinizes every bite that goes into her mouth?<br /><br />The server brought our bread, some hot cheesy stuff that cranked my appetite into overdrive, and my salad. I ate both my and Nicole’s cheese bread. “I don’t eat that stuff,” Nicole said. “But I’ll take a bite of your salad.” She picked at my salad until she found a naked lettuce leaf.<br /><br />When our main course finally came, I was ready to dive in. Bread never seems to satisfy my hunger; I don’t know why I continue eating it when I know it packs the pounds on my body and when it doesn’t really seem to fill me.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYVKarhXwZumAgTBRSc7_FiYaIIOHABbpjheehcNqxJiiAODHcPc1e0SiQMB9Qa56aXHUcPpswHh8SnWaNNGs5qmtDCPfUqaq8TtKEYfSAYfOp-9jolODQzDyJVsEZd4_8ebU-OyUEU6o/s1600-h/Cheese+biscuits+film.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5207007969748338098" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYVKarhXwZumAgTBRSc7_FiYaIIOHABbpjheehcNqxJiiAODHcPc1e0SiQMB9Qa56aXHUcPpswHh8SnWaNNGs5qmtDCPfUqaq8TtKEYfSAYfOp-9jolODQzDyJVsEZd4_8ebU-OyUEU6o/s400/Cheese+biscuits+film.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Bread draws me to the gustatory fire.<br /><br />I was still so hungry that I felt gaunt, my body empty.<br /><br />I noticed that Nicole picked at her food and made much of pushing it around on her plate, but she ate very little; I guess I shouldn’t have pressured her into ordering something exotic. Maybe she would’ve been happier ordering an ordinary burger or hot dog.<br /><br />I felt guilty, I was thinking, <em>Oh, baby, I’m sorry you don’t like your dinner; 10 years from now you’ll appreciate the finer points of this kind of dining</em>.<br /><br />“What will I appreciate 10 years from now?” Nicole asked.<br /><br />A chill went through me; I don’t like anyone reading my mind, even my daughter. And I wished she could have enjoyed this meal more, our special time together.<br /><br />“It’s okay, Mom. I’m just happy being with you.”<br /><br />I reached across the table and held her hand.<br /><br />Then I polished off her leftovers.<br /><br />*<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-IObq6zIJzB-AHf1ihXKf4kRbJYMobJS9OZwkBJ75eKW8hBEySOXoZNfJy1HlwNGiUuKjGJSM2h7i62n5U0GgI2BV5Gp73bYRu8eAZh208G5aDLxPcR_lB_w8S20YI0wL1pOel00F7YE/s1600-h/Magic+Kingdom+Haunted+House+Ink+Solarize+Lens+2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5207008764317287874" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-IObq6zIJzB-AHf1ihXKf4kRbJYMobJS9OZwkBJ75eKW8hBEySOXoZNfJy1HlwNGiUuKjGJSM2h7i62n5U0GgI2BV5Gp73bYRu8eAZh208G5aDLxPcR_lB_w8S20YI0wL1pOel00F7YE/s400/Magic+Kingdom+Haunted+House+Ink+Solarize+Lens+2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />It’s our last day here at Disney World; it’s nearly 10:30 p.m., and I want to milk every minute of our time together. We’re still in the Magic Kingdom–the theme park doesn’t close until midnight, although the park is emptying out; unlike during the peak daytime hours, the lines have grown short and even non-existent. But I can tell that Nicole’s flagging, that when we finally hit our room, she’ll drop into bed like a stone. Still, I don’t want this day to end just yet.<br /><br />“C’mon, Nikki! Just one more time,” I say, grabbing her hand and leading her to the Haunted House ride for the seventh time.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjayRlyhMFmkeIVLt-Gc1r0hWAMEQ5HQUkYvLZdqYAboqMrHpEsXAA5Nlu9d5VpvhCgQQl0467VC1SPA7r7FCUDLGzePjAr0hBvufCcbXfCEgsW9T74tqB75iNaxYymQ2NqQt-rqSDuDy8/s1600-h/Magic+Kingdom+Haunted+House+2+filter.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5207009137979442642" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjayRlyhMFmkeIVLt-Gc1r0hWAMEQ5HQUkYvLZdqYAboqMrHpEsXAA5Nlu9d5VpvhCgQQl0467VC1SPA7r7FCUDLGzePjAr0hBvufCcbXfCEgsW9T74tqB75iNaxYymQ2NqQt-rqSDuDy8/s400/Magic+Kingdom+Haunted+House+2+filter.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />“Do we have to?”<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZPfm0PdhDwnLcJ141DnyHN8JD2Q7LrcLzPQJ5mUJmpFUq230xqz0mLlGpDHIdb8CyCYER3g3PnQlK60eav5XuuZFO9jXcoEhTLfHUcPHxdfve_5TiflOBsTcB3GBWLmyW2Eejpmdv1Sk/s1600-h/Magic+Kingdom+2+dark.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5207009455807022562" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZPfm0PdhDwnLcJ141DnyHN8JD2Q7LrcLzPQJ5mUJmpFUq230xqz0mLlGpDHIdb8CyCYER3g3PnQlK60eav5XuuZFO9jXcoEhTLfHUcPHxdfve_5TiflOBsTcB3GBWLmyW2Eejpmdv1Sk/s400/Magic+Kingdom+2+dark.jpg" border="0" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1697007331716837110.post-16862749857125215832008-05-30T17:05:00.002-04:002011-05-15T21:31:16.534-04:00Part I: Journeys (Chapter 34)<div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff6600;">Journeys</span></strong></div><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG5cKtKt8YX-GTRoWG9aBcXgQTuabW3huFCLYMEJEwaWThB03_NbFNyHiMXFvGcUpZyhhGk9UJbqDl0YsXzKz-yHt6H3kISXIspoPSnxKgFl51nNhfqnsHxYwMCqNh2PIAoDEPpdSRwiw/s1600-h/woman+in+wheelchair+coutout.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5206330176664388866" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG5cKtKt8YX-GTRoWG9aBcXgQTuabW3huFCLYMEJEwaWThB03_NbFNyHiMXFvGcUpZyhhGk9UJbqDl0YsXzKz-yHt6H3kISXIspoPSnxKgFl51nNhfqnsHxYwMCqNh2PIAoDEPpdSRwiw/s400/woman+in+wheelchair+coutout.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />We pull up to the door of Happy Haven Nursing Home, and Phil pulls up behind us. I don’t like going inside these places, and Shel knows it, so he stops the engine and runs inside to the reception desk.<br /><br />Such places always depress me–-Way Stations to Death. You have to wonder how death can survive in such clinical, antiseptic environments–-nurses in their bright whites, ammonia and cleansers in the air, gleaming floors, bland food, and boring activities. Death is here, sanitized, disguised as happy face posters and Bingo games.<br /><br />Shel leads a young nurse, no more than 21 or 22, as she wheels Nana out to the car. I get out of the car and arrange the passenger seat so that Nana has enough room to stretch and put her seat back if she gets sleepy. I’ll sit behind Shel.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1ma_eeSAFCa03qQU9BeDdtx5rV3O3u3Zi1Wm03C1zmSsWYqppA6IMoVM0y4Fjhrx8qTapHh2FjGCq7rVIdfWpBTUpCDl6zCSSWyzH6A0kI_uRxCP2rCzUwlc0LUJQN5O02uXxV4KrO9I/s1600-h/woman+in+wheelchair+3+doublewater.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5206330666290660626" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1ma_eeSAFCa03qQU9BeDdtx5rV3O3u3Zi1Wm03C1zmSsWYqppA6IMoVM0y4Fjhrx8qTapHh2FjGCq7rVIdfWpBTUpCDl6zCSSWyzH6A0kI_uRxCP2rCzUwlc0LUJQN5O02uXxV4KrO9I/s400/woman+in+wheelchair+3+doublewater.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />“I thought you forgot me,” she says, yanking the plaid blanket off her lap. “Don’t know why I need this. It’s at least a 100 degrees out here.” She tosses the blanket over her shoulder, hitting the nurse in the face.<br /><br />The nurse jumps back, obviously taken by surprise by the flying blanket. “Okay, Mrs. Mallory,” she says, peeling the blanket off her face.<br /><br />“You okay?” I ask the nurse.<br /><br />“Fine,” she says, folding the blanket.<br /><br />“Sorry about that.”<br /><br />“It’s okay,” she whispers. “It’s part of the job.”<br /><br />“Look, I’ll take that with us,” I say, taking the blanket. “It might cool off at Winnehaha.”<br /><br />Nana starts to climb out of her chair.<br /><br />“Wait, Mrs. Mallory,” the nurse says, taking Nana’s arm. She guides Nana into the front seat, and snaps on the shoulder/seat belt. “There. Comfortable?”<br /><br />“It’s too hot.” Nana scrunches around in her seat and bunches up her sleeves.<br /><br />“The air’ll be on soon,” the nurse says. “Have fun, Mrs. Mallory. See you later!” She waves goodbye to Nana and disappears inside the building.<br /><br />“I’m hot!”<br /><br />“I’ll start the engine,” Shel says, turning the key.<br /><br />“I want my wheelchair with me.”<br /><br />“There’s no room in the car,” I say. “Sal’s taking it in the van.”<br /><br />“But I want it here!”<br /><br />Sal jumps out the van and pokes her head inside Nana’s window. “What’s the major malfunction here?”<br /><br />“I want my chair!”<br /><br />“Ma, we’re going to be right behind you.”<br /><br />“What if there’s an accident?”<br /><br />“We’ll all drive carefully, won’t we?” Sal says, looking right at Shel.<br /><br />“You bet,” he says.<br /><br />“I hate being old and sick,” Nana says to no one in particular.<br /><br />“But you’re looking real good today,” Sal says.<br /><br />“I’m dying, and everyone knows it.”<br /><br />“Oh, Ma...”<br /><br />“Let’s get this show on the road,” Nana says, wagging a finger at Sal. “Time grows short.”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzEH3Qvq9E-zjccn-FAH6l4Yj_NCVX2DaSmzemQUv6eC977NG_3QKEcylWMa-3QQy6K9L3wfdgHcNHM4iH3W4whBesFUymvKa59RUzPWrJ43OVkYf5MVTcmWt8tLFWX-ewni0bIXsoHig/s1600-h/woman+in+wheelchair+2+water.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5206331258996147490" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzEH3Qvq9E-zjccn-FAH6l4Yj_NCVX2DaSmzemQUv6eC977NG_3QKEcylWMa-3QQy6K9L3wfdgHcNHM4iH3W4whBesFUymvKa59RUzPWrJ43OVkYf5MVTcmWt8tLFWX-ewni0bIXsoHig/s400/woman+in+wheelchair+2+water.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />*<br /><br />As we head for I-29, Nana folds her arms and scowls. “Heard you got in last night.”<br /><br />“That’s right. About seven,” Shel says.<br /><br />I brace myself for what’s coming next.<br /><br />“Well, you’d think you’d find some time to visit an old woman instead of cattin’ around town all night.”<br /><br />“Oh, Nana...”<br /><br />Nana turns around and looks right at me. “Mark my words, little missus. When I’m buried up in Calvary, you’ll be sorry you weren’t nicer to me.”<br /><br />“Sal said you were tired,” Shel says, merging south on I-29.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8rs8smqdggddj9mSwhztjC6fo82e5YqSPOyFzXDBWQpxK-vUVy03WjXjuniZdqBPzuNv0u3aErTlCG-f45RLY6tWj2mwKq1jhf8Z9GvUsYFMVTs-ZLy90WHyr3AFlppxqI5fPScbfvtU/s1600-h/Sioux+City+I-29+water+Lens.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5206336859633501490" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8rs8smqdggddj9mSwhztjC6fo82e5YqSPOyFzXDBWQpxK-vUVy03WjXjuniZdqBPzuNv0u3aErTlCG-f45RLY6tWj2mwKq1jhf8Z9GvUsYFMVTs-ZLy90WHyr3AFlppxqI5fPScbfvtU/s400/Sioux+City+I-29+water+Lens.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />“So, what? I was waiting for you.”<br /><br />“Sorry. We thought you were asleep. Besides, we were tired, too,” I say. “We had to make the trip here in two days.”<br /><br />“I had some last minute clients I had to see,” Shel says.<br /><br />“I don’t understand all that old shrink stuff.”<br /><br />“Nana!”<br /><br />“Well, I don’t. In my day, you were expected to get your head on straight yourself. None of this spillin’ your guts to an outsider. Family business stayed in the family.”<br /><br />“The world is different now,” Shel says. “The pressures are worse.”<br /><br />“I’m glad I’m dying.”<br /><br />Shel and I don’t say anything. I, for one, don’t know how to respond to such statements, especially when I know they’re true. It’s no use sugar coating things for Nana.<br /><br />“You all went out last night, didn’t you?”<br /><br />I sigh. “Just to North Sioux for a few beers and to play a few slots. We didn’t stay long. Shel and I went to bed early.”<br /><br />“I still think you could’ve visited an old woman first....”<br /><br />I can see that this conversation is stuck in a loop, and so I search my brain for the “Ctrl-Alt-Delete” button that will shut this subject off. I decide to introduce another hot topic, one that I have been rehearsing for weeks.<br /><br />“By the way, Nicole sends her love.”Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1697007331716837110.post-61891128142211826482008-05-26T19:00:00.004-04:002011-05-15T21:39:25.386-04:00Part I: Journeys (Chapter 33)<div align="center"> <strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff6600;">Journeys</span></strong></div><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ0CA6EsLck5VfUVUK3ovE9dLDsLDpwdEFHBgknIK-pb8mo4dV12EIwdjIMZBCbuHPqXHVZhhN5W7UXPkCwollM0YL4uPVxetEl9ocZAH-5NLzv7VBpVxBfUnfDbFBnqLYgCTQg1_w8II/s1600-h/Samantha+Naked+Palette+3.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5205284937541790962" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ0CA6EsLck5VfUVUK3ovE9dLDsLDpwdEFHBgknIK-pb8mo4dV12EIwdjIMZBCbuHPqXHVZhhN5W7UXPkCwollM0YL4uPVxetEl9ocZAH-5NLzv7VBpVxBfUnfDbFBnqLYgCTQg1_w8II/s400/Samantha+Naked+Palette+3.jpg" border="0" /></a><p align="center"><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">Gargantua Goes on a Diet</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">by<br /><br />Nicole Anne Dunkel (Copyright 1982)</span></strong></span><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><br /><br /></p><p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha8GEsFS21z9JP7_OKJqd1-4TK6sSS3NPOU6eQFpYMK1YH2wcZ9NzrmCTeXsG3eZGiIlIZbXC9eyMYFYihZvfg19qowTEAU86NCDSACxTmP0m677S0AryKxgmxp0YL9_Yet8DEMfHqER0/s1600-h/Gargantua--1982--page+1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5200105696605074834" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha8GEsFS21z9JP7_OKJqd1-4TK6sSS3NPOU6eQFpYMK1YH2wcZ9NzrmCTeXsG3eZGiIlIZbXC9eyMYFYihZvfg19qowTEAU86NCDSACxTmP0m677S0AryKxgmxp0YL9_Yet8DEMfHqER0/s400/Gargantua--1982--page+1.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>Once upon a time there was a little girl who ate SO many Bing Candy Bars she grew & grew SO tall that she looked DOWN on the Empire State Building. Her body was so stretched out that it couldnt stretch any more, but Gargantua, the not-so-little girl’s name, kept on eating Bings anyway & so all that blubber had to go somewhere, so it began spreading out, out, out. Gargantua grew into a blob of mountainous fat. She grew SO fat she couldnt move at all so the New York City Police decided to leave her next to the Empire State Building & build a fence around her. There she sat, Fall, Winter, Spring, Summer, while all the city folks gawked & stared & fed her all kinds of sweets. Once, some tourists from Sioux City, Iowa even gave her Bings.<br /><br />One day, some people from the Modern Museum of Art decided to buy Gargantua & made plans to build an art gallery around her.<br /><br />“Thank you,” Gargantua said. “It’s getting cold out here.”<br /><br />But the museum people said building a gallery to fit around her would cost too much money. “You’ll have to go on a diet.”<br /><br />“But I don’t want to go on a diet!” she wailed.<br /><br />“You have to! We spent $1,000,000 for you so you have to do what we say.”<br /><br />So Gargantua went on a diet, restricted to just 100 dozen Twin Bings a day.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8ONhmMS3Pdl7sr9_Ui-Ql63lfAsTCg2sSKMUTfdB2zgoK5wDNuKoB18xymfRXtUAvWFvm_jCMrXGCBxcQbhvUPNlNpQPVB-v2sVsFxug3cjefs3YcLhk6qNXsxrIVlOgvsyb4rv4EK3U/s1600-h/twin+bing+box+2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5205286857392172290" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8ONhmMS3Pdl7sr9_Ui-Ql63lfAsTCg2sSKMUTfdB2zgoK5wDNuKoB18xymfRXtUAvWFvm_jCMrXGCBxcQbhvUPNlNpQPVB-v2sVsFxug3cjefs3YcLhk6qNXsxrIVlOgvsyb4rv4EK3U/s400/twin+bing+box+2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />“I’m SO hungry!” she wailed daily, every single day. But the museum people held fast.<br /><br />Gargantua grew thinner & thinner & shorter & shorter.<br /><br />Eventually, Gargantua grew small enough to fit the museum’s budget, & the building grew around her, until she was covered over by a glass pyramid.<br /><br /></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnxmqFW_pOqAjVIyp05l7PDMg6GSy2rQtsIPFyd5FnH8LCgOcuA-DhL6jG1RWZ1egoRlIMxG4i6cNDe3XA7zYI0OqvE2TwCipi5zQXx7PlGjaZeX8v61P16tHMiqTDL1ni8m3uNBGzECM/s1600-h/Gargantua--1982--page+2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5200106061677295010" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnxmqFW_pOqAjVIyp05l7PDMg6GSy2rQtsIPFyd5FnH8LCgOcuA-DhL6jG1RWZ1egoRlIMxG4i6cNDe3XA7zYI0OqvE2TwCipi5zQXx7PlGjaZeX8v61P16tHMiqTDL1ni8m3uNBGzECM/s400/Gargantua--1982--page+2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />People who visited the museum paid lots of money to watch Gargantua shrink.<br /><br />This pleasant life continued for many years, but Gargantua missed her mommy & daddy.<br /><br />One day, the museum people called Gargantua into the office.<br /><br />“You are free to go,” they said cheerfully.<br /><br />“But, you paid a lot of money for me, don’t I owe you some money for my room & board?”<br /><br />“You’ve more than paid your room & board. We made over $12,000,000,000 (that’s billion!) on your exhibit.<br /><br />Besides, look at you!”<br /><br />When Gargantua looked at herself in the mirror, she was surprised to see a normal little girl with large brown eyes & long black hair staring back at her. She wore a pretty red dress with white dots.<br /><br />“So we have to fire you, & bring in another Gargantua to fit in the exhibit.”<br /><br />“Goody, Goody!” Gargantua said. “I can go back to mommy & daddy.”<br /><br />“You can take back your old name.”<br /><br />But Gargantua couldnt remember her old name, it was so long ago.<br /><br />“We’ll look it up,” said Ms Moma, the head museum lady. She flipped through a card catalogue.<br /><br />“Aha! I found it! Your real name is ‘Nikki’!”<br /><br />So Nikki packed up all her new skinny clothes & vowed to NEVER EVER eat another Bing Candy Bar.<br /><br />She went home to her mommy & daddy.<br /><br />Except mommy was gone & daddy was crying. Mommy told daddy she didn’t love him anymore & ran off to college.<br /><br />Gargantua wished she had some Bings.<br /><p></p><p></p><p align="center"><strong>THE END</strong><br /></p><p></p><p>P.S. Nikki stayed with her daddy for many, many years, and when her mommy got old and sick, she stuck her in a nursing home.<br /></p><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3M7FN2NiRatNaaNCXzdcRGhbbqjnYsameUYTCtv5eotKw3osI5a2-EPj61LfxOq_vWT5PjFENZL4SDSXH-TRkgo2n_AE7hHWICfJ43FatQnGb1fIcA-tNstm1wFtCoxSYLKNQZAv9gSs/s1600-h/Samantha+Naked+Palette+yellow+3.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5205287196694588690" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3M7FN2NiRatNaaNCXzdcRGhbbqjnYsameUYTCtv5eotKw3osI5a2-EPj61LfxOq_vWT5PjFENZL4SDSXH-TRkgo2n_AE7hHWICfJ43FatQnGb1fIcA-tNstm1wFtCoxSYLKNQZAv9gSs/s400/Samantha+Naked+Palette+yellow+3.jpg" border="0" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1697007331716837110.post-13561040137373592532008-05-26T18:55:00.002-04:002011-05-15T21:35:26.620-04:00Part I: Journeys (Chapter 32)<div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff6600;">Journeys</span></strong></div><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiir7qY8Z4_BGt0Fr0KeHqub6r18oXFW8-SJUFnGaS0-uNUfa8AvFpyl4_LEiGaZeL0qe6H51Nuo0V0Ii4ZZREzzbZaaqc1GM8Ra22A2aRoYFeJZ9ND0pe9TL5wO3Kp-vJcl_10Sm9Nvc/s1600-h/woman+smoking+5+sepia+ink+cropped+2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5205238109513362610" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiir7qY8Z4_BGt0Fr0KeHqub6r18oXFW8-SJUFnGaS0-uNUfa8AvFpyl4_LEiGaZeL0qe6H51Nuo0V0Ii4ZZREzzbZaaqc1GM8Ra22A2aRoYFeJZ9ND0pe9TL5wO3Kp-vJcl_10Sm9Nvc/s400/woman+smoking+5+sepia+ink+cropped+2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />“Just grabbing a quick smoke,” Ruby says, firing up yet another Virginia Slims. “I never know where I can smoke around here.”<br /><br />Pool side. We’re about to head out for the reunion, but I can’t find my sandals and thought I might have left them out here. Instead, I find my sister dragging on a cigarette.<br /><br />“I’m sorry,” I say, trying to sound sympathetic, but, I, too, dislike secondhand smoke, though I’d rather die than admit this to Ruby.<br /><br />“Well, it doesn’t matter.” Ruby draws in a deep drag. “We’re going home tomorrow.”<br /><br />“Tomorrow? I thought you were staying until Tuesday.” Three days from now.<br /><br />“Ray’s got work piled up.”<br /><br />“Oh.”<br /><br />“Yeah, he’s working on a diesel engine. He needs to finish by Friday.”<br /><br />“I see.” I might be dense, but the fog eventually clears like a curtain opening up: my sister can’t wait to escape this family–what has taken me years to figure out has taken Ruby just hours. She’s just trying to be polite about it, but, in essence, she’s telling this family to kiss her skinny white Southern ass.<br /><br />“Where’s your daughter?” Ruby asks.<br /><br />“Nicole?”<br /><br />“I was looking forward to meeting her.”<br /><br />“She couldn’t come.”<br /><br />“Why?”<br /><br />I draw in a deep breath. I’m tired of lying. Besides, Ruby already knows about Roger, the Circle of Love, and Nicole’s pregnancy. “Because I told her not to.”<br /><br />“I don’t understand.”<br /><br />I tell her about my fears, how Nicole’s condition might shock and kill Nana, blah, blah, blah. In the retelling, my reasons are beginning to sound and feel hollow.<br /><br />“That’s it?”<br /><br />“Well, I’d feel guilty if Nana up and died because of Nicole’s outrageous behavior.”<br /><br />Ruby shuffles around a bit. She stubs out her cigarette in a cereal bowl, a makeshift ashtray.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKdyiaPge-T-UzyKvIZnc6ib5fd8ulNla6-i4Z7YaRL4AwCghBppYpSf9jXK0xDrul-geZy_Tp8lkxI8-cFCvP6Yftda2H40-cTV1gUvCEdTLm7Dmj-6DDuKIZMgylZfhf8k9p2AJpigA/s1600-h/Cigarette+butts+2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5205244186892086498" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKdyiaPge-T-UzyKvIZnc6ib5fd8ulNla6-i4Z7YaRL4AwCghBppYpSf9jXK0xDrul-geZy_Tp8lkxI8-cFCvP6Yftda2H40-cTV1gUvCEdTLm7Dmj-6DDuKIZMgylZfhf8k9p2AJpigA/s400/Cigarette+butts+2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />“I dunno about that...”<br /><br />“What’s not to know? Nana’s very frail right now.”<br /><br />“Maybe so,” Ruby says, pulling another cigarette out of her pack and tapping it on Sal’s redwood fence. She puts it between her lips but does not light it. “But it seems to me she’s not going to get any less frail. From what I hear, it’s only a matter of time...”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXpH2HrDaEsK-XJ8uumsJsK2jZu81JyAEgk4GYXeDJInBNzIETckc2mK1nNY_bnSp3zJIk53HVdnTgqAgGddNCbtR4daVwgBYkp1_oe4JbOoZxqXDskhrasNBmVpP53FsOG4utj-CYYdM/s1600-h/Redwood+fence+3+poster.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5205239204730023106" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXpH2HrDaEsK-XJ8uumsJsK2jZu81JyAEgk4GYXeDJInBNzIETckc2mK1nNY_bnSp3zJIk53HVdnTgqAgGddNCbtR4daVwgBYkp1_oe4JbOoZxqXDskhrasNBmVpP53FsOG4utj-CYYdM/s400/Redwood+fence+3+poster.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />“...But it doesn’t have to be today.”<br /><br />“What the hell difference does it make? I mean, if your Nana has a chance to see her granddaughter one last time and die today OR live a bit longer, what choice do you think she’d make?”<br /><br />I just want to tell Ruby to mind her own business, that she, an interloper, has no idea what she’s talking about, that she’s a <em>de facto</em> outcast who will probably die young from lung cancer, that my memories of her cute cherubic 22-month-old face will carry her only so far, and that I’m about to give her a serious piece of my mind.<br /><br />But I’m not about to do anything that would open up our familial chasm even deeper. I couldn’t bear that.<br /><br />Besides, what she says strikes a chord, perhaps just a soft, minor one, but, like in “Bolero,”one that is likely to grow and intensify.<br /><br />So I say nothing.<br /><br />“Y’all got to stop judging each other so much,” Ruby says, finally lighting up her cigarette. She takes in a long drag and blows smoke toward the sky.<br /><br />“Samantha!” Sheldon’s distant voice. “C’mon. Time to go. Everyone’s waiting!”<br /><br />As I turn to leave, I find my sandals nestled under some Bridal Wreath, next to an old <a href="http://snacks.cyberpunks.org/twin-bing.html"><strong><span style="color:#000099;">Twin Bing</span></strong></a> wrapper.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtDhm7VZLNjrJnxSSWjt_ax3-zXtHJZZ7r8MHwKSyWk4_niw0f_Jq4GIi9-X4w8nQXuHDGfCTre6_XfM4xBp2Iadqkmp3DLm5K194io9hjoduN3bmmq_paITM7uDYQo3kKCPVJ7HlgYTU/s1600-h/Twin+Bing+wrapper+2+Dry.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5205240231227206866" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtDhm7VZLNjrJnxSSWjt_ax3-zXtHJZZ7r8MHwKSyWk4_niw0f_Jq4GIi9-X4w8nQXuHDGfCTre6_XfM4xBp2Iadqkmp3DLm5K194io9hjoduN3bmmq_paITM7uDYQo3kKCPVJ7HlgYTU/s400/Twin+Bing+wrapper+2+Dry.jpg" border="0" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1697007331716837110.post-32490716364288836842008-05-26T18:50:00.003-04:002011-05-15T21:41:25.199-04:00Part I: Journeys (Chapter 31)<div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff6600;">Journeys</span></strong></div><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH_ZC_07KoH9gjUWs3xkzyhN8o4GnKqVoKByJldgasH4J7b1NE80rmLqhWryRwZirPfrVbQgeOEW46ILb3BYoiToTFk0P8-BJOINBgVvcJBtUnsvycpsMXC34Ybt1wddozs_jgbcQd5rE/s1600-h/Mother--BluePosterLge.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5205223253221485714" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH_ZC_07KoH9gjUWs3xkzyhN8o4GnKqVoKByJldgasH4J7b1NE80rmLqhWryRwZirPfrVbQgeOEW46ILb3BYoiToTFk0P8-BJOINBgVvcJBtUnsvycpsMXC34Ybt1wddozs_jgbcQd5rE/s400/Mother--BluePosterLge.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />I don’t understand why you won’t come to the funeral. She’s your mother, and you should want to pay your last respects. I’ll even pay for your airplane fare, just tell your professors why you won’t be in school. No one’s going to flunk you for going to your own mother’s funeral. Can’t you take your finals during summer vacation?<br /><br />I just don’t understand you, Samantha. Even if you don’t see her as your mother, she’s still your sister, and you love all your sisters, don’t you?<br /><br />I know California’s a long way from Pennsylvania, but haven’t you heard of that new invention called the jet airplane? If you don’t come, it’ll break Johnny’s heart. He loved your mother so much, and she treated him so mean. And now she’s dead....<br /><br />Poor Johnny cries all the time, and he asks about you. Says he has something important to tell you. I can’t imagine what, though. You really should put all that old bitterness behind and get your head on straight. Stop acting like the spoiled brat that you are.<br /><br />And don’t you want to see your little brothers? Johnny junior’s 15 now, doin’ real good in the group home, and Georgie’s 13. Plays football at his junior high. Tsk, Tsk. They grow up so fast, I just can’t believe how big they are now.<br /><br />You know, Sal’s upset with you. She thinks you’re being disrespectful to your mother, and people’ll talk if you don’t come. If you hurry, you can be here by tomorrow, and the funeral’s not until the day after.<br /><br />I said I’d pay your fare. It’ll cost me a fortune, over $800, but don’t worry about the money. I’ve always managed somehow on my investments and social security. I’ll just skimp somewhere, maybe not go to Bingo for a year or not paint the trim on the house. I’ll find the money somewhere, maybe borrow it from Auntie. It’s important that you come, and if I have to tell you why, then all the college education in the world isn’t going to make you smart.<br /><br />I just don’t know what I’m going to tell people. Sometimes, I wonder if you really belong to us, if the hospital didn’t give your mother the wrong baby. I’ve heard of such things. If you didn’t look so much like your mother...<br /><br />I don’t understand why she had to die so young. Tsk, tsk, 48 years old. Why her liver gave up like it did. Just look at your Uncle Freddie. He drinks like a fish, always has, and he hasn’t got a bad liver. And he’s 75. That old fart just keeps going. Mean as hell and proud of it. Maybe your mama just wasn’t mean enough.<br /><br />I still don’t understand why my Rosalyn couldn’t stop all that old drinking. Why all that booze was so important.<br /><br />I tried everything to get her to stop. I really did, but there’s only so much a mother can do....<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyQkmThWepsNlNrDgPsttoNb1gDTQSFZYXFe5nJNB92nHaLIXVgJZGREvPZHQvL9do-1oarnmzL9mwOhyphenhypheneIHMbpK7FmeNqYPh89VBzjXrN6iZVkcu8Bm8O7x1-NdDAKae2m5vYjzBxRQc/s1600-h/piano+crates+5+ink+2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5205223665538346146" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyQkmThWepsNlNrDgPsttoNb1gDTQSFZYXFe5nJNB92nHaLIXVgJZGREvPZHQvL9do-1oarnmzL9mwOhyphenhypheneIHMbpK7FmeNqYPh89VBzjXrN6iZVkcu8Bm8O7x1-NdDAKae2m5vYjzBxRQc/s400/piano+crates+5+ink+2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />I just hope you learn a lesson from this. If you don’t start watching what you eat, you’ll die an early death, too. They’ll need a derrick to bury you. You remember old Mrs. Niles, don’t you? She’s buried in a piano case, you know. She was so big, they had to buy two burial plots for her. Can you imagine? Remember that old saying? Now what was it? Oh, yes.<br /><br />“Don’t dig your grave with a fork.”<br /><br />I called Dean Platts. He asked about you, wondered how you’re doing. Says he’s glad you’re going to college, that he always knew you were smart. He gave me Ruby’s phone number. You know what she said when I told her the news and offered to pay her way to the funeral? She said, “I’m really sorry, Grandma Mallory, but I didn’t know her.”Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1697007331716837110.post-2238949926839571672008-05-26T18:45:00.002-04:002011-05-15T21:43:51.934-04:00Part I: Journeys (Chapter 30)<div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff6600;">Journeys</span></strong></div><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipw-pUC7WjeDljjPxk8xIJLsTwiA13ms-5sMDJDpLHEo7QbiGa0-fxOi0r_So9hoJWoSLk73N9V9cQOcSzzSdB1Yv2svUcdQrKIgm6j5A8JNsIWUYJzkj57VafLGp2xtXo_W-TUMWx4Bs/s1600-h/Spiro+Gyra+2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5205203599451139154" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipw-pUC7WjeDljjPxk8xIJLsTwiA13ms-5sMDJDpLHEo7QbiGa0-fxOi0r_So9hoJWoSLk73N9V9cQOcSzzSdB1Yv2svUcdQrKIgm6j5A8JNsIWUYJzkj57VafLGp2xtXo_W-TUMWx4Bs/s400/Spiro+Gyra+2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />The car radio is tuned to a jazz station. “Taking the Plunge (for Jennifer)” from Spyro Gyra’s <em>Alternating Currents</em> album wails through the four speakers, and I get this urge to hum along.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7yPfiE73aVVo0WCB-EgAr0upazX8QRKexIIEYoyvBPWa7kWqSSuyFDy3pkOSZYHDFL8RgSbTAwk2B9nXEziDC75lEdC-FvT7hl0XEDrPEW1NQUNZCZMrFvgKZaL1pp0_XtygWVtQneS4/s1600-h/Red+Jetta+4+Poster+Lens+water.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5205209689714764930" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7yPfiE73aVVo0WCB-EgAr0upazX8QRKexIIEYoyvBPWa7kWqSSuyFDy3pkOSZYHDFL8RgSbTAwk2B9nXEziDC75lEdC-FvT7hl0XEDrPEW1NQUNZCZMrFvgKZaL1pp0_XtygWVtQneS4/s400/Red+Jetta+4+Poster+Lens+water.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Instead, I help Shel load up the trunk of the Jetta: one cooler filled with beer, soda, and ice; another filled with potato salad, hot dogs, lunch meats, and hamburger; grocery bags filled with buns, potato chips, and condiments; and two Orioles’ bags stuffed with swimming suits, towels, and long pants for Shel who freezes to death when the temperature drops below 75 degrees.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh89LyNoD14BY2RlU_uaasghGUe0CsEEWGqotYrhERSi9-WXsdftfET2UZl2FSB9wEbuf-AU09eMCBE4ewTa7Rd60lk5WDPLuF2qDxDisoSVlo-HknJ1f9FMaSruIbmfhkNW6bz5TgKbAQ/s1600-h/fat+lady+4+Prussian+Blue+Bright.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5205205742639819874" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh89LyNoD14BY2RlU_uaasghGUe0CsEEWGqotYrhERSi9-WXsdftfET2UZl2FSB9wEbuf-AU09eMCBE4ewTa7Rd60lk5WDPLuF2qDxDisoSVlo-HknJ1f9FMaSruIbmfhkNW6bz5TgKbAQ/s400/fat+lady+4+Prussian+Blue+Bright.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Rolled up and stuffed in the back, along with dozens of failed attempts, is my latest painting, a geometric self-portrait in various tints of Prussian Blue, my trademark color. This 48" x 72" masterpiece is the culmination of my life’s work, the result of at least a hundred false starts–an attic filled with flawed selves, some of them stretched and framed, but most of them only half-finished and rolled up, stuffed into the eaves. I just can’t seem to destroy those mistakes, and yet I can’t show them to anyone; it’s important I keep them safely hidden away, away from those who would judge and stamp them as “unacceptable.”<br /><br />Although I’m almost certain that I was awarded the grant to France on the merits of this latest work, I haven’t yet decided if I’ll show the painting to my relatives. I’m not sure they would understand its significance in my life. Mostly, I’m afraid they’ll laugh at my work and marginalize it just because they won’t understand it.<br /><br />Next to the painting is a portfolio filled with some old letters, photos, and other memorabilia, stuff I haven’t even looked at in years. I even have copies of those letters I wrote a few years back to George, my prisoner pen pal. I wonder whatever happened to him? I’m not even sure why I have dragged the portfolio along. I doubt very much if I’ll be sharing most of that stuff with my family.<br /><br />“Samantha!” Shel shouts from the top step leading into Sal’s house, “I can’t find my jeans.”<br /><br />“I’ve already packed them.”<br /><br />“Oh.” Shel bounds down the steps and pokes his head into the back seat. “God, look at this mess!”<br /><br />Debris from the trip litters the floor: McDonald cups and wrappers, candy papers, old newspapers, and crumpled paper towels.<br /><br />“We’re picking up Nana in five minutes,” I say. “Sal says they don’t have room in the van.”<br /><br />Shel slaps his forehead. “I’ve got to clean this mess up. Can’t put her in this pigsty.” He begins swooping up garbage and tossing it into a trash can outside the garage. He does this until the car is cleaned out. Then he slaps his hands together. “Still a filthy car.” He looks into the trunk. “We even have room for her wheelchair?”<br /><br />“Sal’s taking it in the van. So we’ve got to make sure we all arrive at the nursing home and then at Winnehaha at the same time.” I jump into the passenger side and turn down the volume on the radio, which is now playing <em>Heavy Weather</em> by Weather Report.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiuN2MTjCqQXougKKTZW8Q4lHjmaH2wQd70lu1e4JSR5F9X8S5agW5Hui0QGJCsd4_X60USNfEM-7VgPQHURLEjvqV_AAh0bL4N9TVsmGftYiDznci65sE0Qm_rAKS6NooaxAoAzaL_KA/s1600-h/tornado+5+solarize+filter+lens.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5205209045469670514" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiuN2MTjCqQXougKKTZW8Q4lHjmaH2wQd70lu1e4JSR5F9X8S5agW5Hui0QGJCsd4_X60USNfEM-7VgPQHURLEjvqV_AAh0bL4N9TVsmGftYiDznci65sE0Qm_rAKS6NooaxAoAzaL_KA/s400/tornado+5+solarize+filter+lens.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />“Complicated arrangements...”<br /><br />“Excuse me?”<br /><br />“Oh, it’s nothing.”Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1697007331716837110.post-62701681993535858502008-05-26T18:40:00.007-04:002011-05-15T21:45:46.660-04:00Part I: Journeys (Chapter 29)<div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff6600;">Journeys</span></strong></div><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju6st7JxW5ESZZR3NJe9K4EdeX20GmEHsq_tNY66Si5cfZ_sLAUq_2BB7aAD8evh2epUR9HCoR5xaRQjR6_8idcaX-LKYfS0FhqAjZHjMUjPWfEVBtnqkw-_V2ECM4ELtviLhPdReNzIs/s1600-h/Mo+and+Dee+Dee+Cutout.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5205143847866117154" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju6st7JxW5ESZZR3NJe9K4EdeX20GmEHsq_tNY66Si5cfZ_sLAUq_2BB7aAD8evh2epUR9HCoR5xaRQjR6_8idcaX-LKYfS0FhqAjZHjMUjPWfEVBtnqkw-_V2ECM4ELtviLhPdReNzIs/s400/Mo+and+Dee+Dee+Cutout.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />St. Patrick’s Day, the night before his funeral, Pappa comes to me in what appears to be a dream, but I know it isn’t. Dreams feel different, somehow, more surreal and symbolic, and Pappa’s visit is, well, concrete:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL7S_h-eudluIokxImFmxEKh4VYNZeMBagXJaVlX7rbLRiZEZ4Y7y5fL8REjM_r6BkbGUiK1n21wZ_cSmzCDP9qMciWnudimerQ68PWTZthHBmrwyq-g2BlWLoq-szw6NhrcP-KY3yOYE/s1600-h/Sioux+City+St.+Boniface+water.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5205143280930434066" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL7S_h-eudluIokxImFmxEKh4VYNZeMBagXJaVlX7rbLRiZEZ4Y7y5fL8REjM_r6BkbGUiK1n21wZ_cSmzCDP9qMciWnudimerQ68PWTZthHBmrwyq-g2BlWLoq-szw6NhrcP-KY3yOYE/s400/Sioux+City+St.+Boniface+water.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><blockquote>I’m walking up a large hill near St. Boniface, my old grade school. Somehow, I know this is where we have agreed to meet, it feels right to be in this place at this time. It’s a bright sunny day–looks like October, my favorite month, blue sky, scarlet and yellow leaves, not an icy day in March. I’m walking uphill when I feel him behind me. I turn around. He dashes up the hill like a young man and catches up to me.<br /><br />“Not bad, Sammy Anne, this spiritual life,” he says, not even a little out of breath. He still looks the same–balding, gray hair, lined skin–but he has a spring in his step that I don’t remember. “I just couldn’t leave without saying some things to you,” he says.<br /><br />“I was hoping to get to Sioux City before you, well, you know–”<br /><br />“–Died. It’s okay to say it. I was ready, though I was hoping to hang around long enough to catch a few words with you. You know, you REALLY should work on that fear of flying.”<br /><br />“I know.”<br /><br />“What’s the worst that could happen?”<br /><br />“The plane would crash, and I’d have to join you here forever.”<br /><br />“Damn right! How’s Doug and Nicole?”<br /><br />“Just fine. Nicole’s getting so big–almost four now–and Doug, well, he got laid off again, but we’re going to be okay–”<br /><br />“It’s not going to last, this thing with Doug–”<br /><br />I can feel the tears in my eyes. “I know.”<br /><br />“I can’t tell you any more–as it is, I might be putting in some extra Purgatory time for shooting off my mouth. But you’ve got to be prepared.”<br /><br />“I’ll make it last as long as possible.”<br /><br />“Yes, I know you will.” Pappa points toward the horizon. “Let’s go over there, by that wall. There’s some other things I need to talk to you about before I go.”<br /><br />We are sitting on what appears to be a cloud.<br /><br />“You know, when you die, things become clear, like someone lifting a black curtain from your eyes. You get smart real fast. I know things now.”<br /><br />I don’t want to hear any more. Even in death, Pappa should not know the details of my life.<br /><br />“I’m sorry if I didn’t understand you better.”<br /><br />“It’s all in the past.”<br /><br />“I should’ve been there more–”<br /><br />“It’s okay.”<br /><br />“That bullshit with Dan and that creepy chiropractor–”<br /><br />“Please...I don’t want to talk about it.”<br /><br />“I always knew there was something funny about that doctor.”<br /><br />“Stop, Pappa!”<br /><br />“Even said something to your Nana about him, but–”<br /><br />I put my hands over my ears. I want to go back to Sioux City, away from this place where there are no secrets. “STOP IT!” I break into tears.<br /><br />He takes me in his arms and strokes my hair. “Okay, okay.”<br /><br />“There’s just so much going on right now.”<br /><br />“I understand. But don’t you know you’ll always be my little girl, and I can’t stand it when...?”<br /><br />“I’m a woman now.”<br /><br />“I just can’t stand it!” He buries his head in his hands and sobs, his body shaking. I put my arms around him.<br /><br />“It’s okay. Really,” I say, my turn to comfort him.<br /><br />We hold each other for a long time, knowing this will be the last time we’ll ever see and touch each other. I wish we would have done it more in life.<br /><br />And then I realize that even this time together grows short.<br /><br />As if he has read my mind, Pappa pulls away from me and looks at his watch, a duplicate of the VFW watch I have inherited. “I think we still have some things to talk about.”<br /><br />“Maybe.”<br /><br />“Please. It’s important.”<br /><br />“We’ll see.”<br /><br />“It’s just that your Nana and me, well, we never knew the kind of kid you were. We just thought you were ordinary, maybe even a little on the stupid side–”<br /><br />“I know.”<br /><br />“We were wrong. We didn’t know what was going on in your head.”<br /><br />“No one did.”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8cxz4Whi4AXi-OaFpVxW2gaSUwGsdQKAeYJaFcU3VKuf1At73MhMKsKfpEz0MGBeUjQUHpJnwJTxhs-ONQll0pniIRTtBIlVW81MoU1Ga7VrJKM9nH2dzh2CM_FNEatWZFobxKfsBdTY/s1600-h/DeeDeePoster.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5205144230118206514" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8cxz4Whi4AXi-OaFpVxW2gaSUwGsdQKAeYJaFcU3VKuf1At73MhMKsKfpEz0MGBeUjQUHpJnwJTxhs-ONQll0pniIRTtBIlVW81MoU1Ga7VrJKM9nH2dzh2CM_FNEatWZFobxKfsBdTY/s400/DeeDeePoster.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />“Things could’ve been different–”<br /><br />“It’s a moot point. Besides, you were what you were, and I am what I am. I just got dropped among the wrong people, that’s all. It happens.”<br /><br />“I’m sorry.”<br /><br />“Don’t be. I still love you.”<br /><br />“Oh, God, I love you, too.”<br /><br />“Just tell me one thing....”<br /><br />“Anything.”<br /><br />“How come we never took Ruby home with us?”<br /><br />I might as well have taken a whip to Pappa.<br /><br />He shrinks from me, turns away, and folds his arms. “You’ll have to ask your Nana that.”<br /><br />It’s then that I realize that I won’t be getting the answers I need, at least not from him.<br /><br />“Let’s walk,” I say, touching his shoulder.<br /><br />He turns around. His eyes are red.<br /><br />As we walk, I notice that we are again walking the periphery of my old grade school. I try tugging at the chain link fence that surrounds the school property, but the links have no substance, and it’s like pulling at air.<br /><br />“I remember walking you here that first day. Your little hand was shaking so much.”<br /><br />“I was scared shitless.”<br /><br />“I loved those times. You were so innocent–”<br /><br />“Please, Pappa!”<br /><br />“I’m not going to pry, Samantha. I just need to tell you some things.”<br /><br />“Okay.”<br /><br />“I haven’t always lived a good life,” Pappa says. “You should know this before anyone else says anything. I want you to hear it straight from me.”<br /><br />My grandfather tells me about his alcoholism and how he stopped drinking back in 1935, how his bootlegging operation almost cost him his marriage to Nana, how he started the bookie business. He hints that there may have been another woman at some point in his life, but that had been long ago, even before Sal was born, and the relationship never really went anywhere.<br /><br />As he tells me these things, I begin to see another man, a younger version of Pappa, a slim man with dark brown hair and a quick sense of humor evident in his blue eyes, the swain who must have swept Nana off her feet back in the early 1920s. I no longer see the old man diminished by age and illness, but just a young man with a tiny bit of the devil in him.<br /><br />“I’ve no regrets, Sam. I lived my life the way I needed to live it. I never felt I did anything wrong. I just did what I had to do.”<br /><br />And, suddenly, I realize what this otherworld visit is all about, why my grandfather really needed to see me one last time.<br /><br />“You’re so much like me it scares me. But I was a man, and the rules were different for me.”<br /><br />The anger rises up in me, not for my grandfather, really, but because I know what he says is true, that my road will be filled with obstacles, my life disapproved of by dowagers with wagging tongues.<br /><br />“I’ll be just fine,” I say. “And I’ll live the way I see fit.”<br /><br />“Oh, God. I hope so,” Pappa says, hugging me close. “Just be careful.”<br /><br />“I just don’t know if I can.”<br /><br />“Well, then. That’s all I’ve got to say. Time to go.” He pulls away from me. “Bye, honey.”<br /><br />“Bye, Pappa.”<br /><br />I turn away from him. Ahead is a hole in the fence. Somehow, I know this is the way back.<br /><br />“Samantha?”<br /><br />I turn around. He’s so far away now that I can barely see him, but his voice resonates clearly in my head.<br /><br />“Yes?”<br /><br />“You WILL sing again.” </blockquote><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUiMzRdqnTKZ_SeY1ve1pXooyF8pHeusGMFzo743dlPlx-ZLW0ude3nkMN_dIyMJtEbLPGp0SvdsNIxmXjfx_hXeTDaADzCFbxReIvIAfjJ8wua3ySmAx_U-4tg1fgfgQ570gjfH-q5tY/s1600-h/Young+man+WWI+2+water+partial+2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5205145059046894658" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUiMzRdqnTKZ_SeY1ve1pXooyF8pHeusGMFzo743dlPlx-ZLW0ude3nkMN_dIyMJtEbLPGp0SvdsNIxmXjfx_hXeTDaADzCFbxReIvIAfjJ8wua3ySmAx_U-4tg1fgfgQ570gjfH-q5tY/s400/Young+man+WWI+2+water+partial+2.jpg" border="0" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1697007331716837110.post-23626932247966997702008-05-13T18:35:00.012-04:002011-05-15T21:47:10.155-04:00Part I: Journeys (Chapter 28)<div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff6600;">Journeys</span></strong></div><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-E5RokRuTGz4OYl6AjSeqRIwSU0Y6QPQYnVjoosOjdgZVMTW_Ot_US3N1RLHVdOVTJug05M1GEK27navYLgFp10FA567oFiET1wWeh4EOTzvWgsHDcNVmNEjiV4weVOfJOEuMH_2f6Ok/s1600-h/Electrical+wires+2+Cross+hatch+cropped.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203800120102923074" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-E5RokRuTGz4OYl6AjSeqRIwSU0Y6QPQYnVjoosOjdgZVMTW_Ot_US3N1RLHVdOVTJug05M1GEK27navYLgFp10FA567oFiET1wWeh4EOTzvWgsHDcNVmNEjiV4weVOfJOEuMH_2f6Ok/s400/Electrical+wires+2+Cross+hatch+cropped.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />“When I die,” Aunt Sal says, “I want something important for my obituary.” She looks up, her eyes following the electrical lines which run directly over the swimming pool in her backyard.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc3fmOjZvvFbaZPjW9GY-KOMugNIL3stHQdBZiJKhmd-hI8A4I97sQ1jcB5K-A2EcnYzpP_irRLuvK6rZAVkcueRnc9mCsjmKU6neQxXUFXJkJkHvOWb27MlwkdAKJSbQPcttLGI6ngMs/s1600-h/swimming+pool+4+Water.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203800626909064018" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc3fmOjZvvFbaZPjW9GY-KOMugNIL3stHQdBZiJKhmd-hI8A4I97sQ1jcB5K-A2EcnYzpP_irRLuvK6rZAVkcueRnc9mCsjmKU6neQxXUFXJkJkHvOWb27MlwkdAKJSbQPcttLGI6ngMs/s400/swimming+pool+4+Water.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />I used to dream about those wires crashing down while I swam laps, and for a while, I refused to swim in Sal’s pool. But, now, I figure that I’m more likely to pick up an exotic disease there than have an electrified wire snap apart and fry me to death. Sometimes, you just have to narrow your fears down to a few major ones. Otherwise, life gets too damned complicated. I’ve got my fears narrowed down to the big three: flying, chiropractors, and Sheldon catching me in bed with Ian.<br /><br />“That’s why I decided to join the Board of Eminent Domain. That’ll look good in my obituary when the time comes.”<br /><br />“Well, what d’y’ll do on this board?” Ruby asks, taking a drag on the ever-lit cigarette.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8UCXpaX3rRErXuZfRB0vUAdN0v-s4U8M8LFxnIXJ7PyGPEr99DqU0KL-8NHb_4SRZ-id7cVSzXitVg7G3Xi6HJNy6lFhL8y7mQEwvsHFXAI_s1TReMs9oE4Or2EapP_bTl43IBWYp6is/s1600-h/woman+smoking+4--waterLensCropped.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203802319126178658" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8UCXpaX3rRErXuZfRB0vUAdN0v-s4U8M8LFxnIXJ7PyGPEr99DqU0KL-8NHb_4SRZ-id7cVSzXitVg7G3Xi6HJNy6lFhL8y7mQEwvsHFXAI_s1TReMs9oE4Or2EapP_bTl43IBWYp6is/s400/woman+smoking+4--waterLensCropped.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Sal shrugs. “I don’t know. I was just appointed. My first meeting’s next week.”<br /><br />“They condemn your property,” I say, “And then they snatch it from you for a song for government purposes.”<br /><br />“Over my dead body!” Sal says. “Not on MY board.”<br /><br />“That’s the general idea, your reason for being, Sally-baby.”<br /><br />Ruby leans her head back and closes her eyes. “Hardly seems fair government officials coming in willy-nilly and taking your land.”<br /><br />“Well, all I can say, I’m gonna be a watch dog. See that no one gets ripped off.”<br /><br />“Like the Winnehaha deal?”<br /><br />“Well, at least they built something fun, not just another old road!”<br /><br />Ruby sits up. “What’s ‘Winnehaha’?”<br /><br />“Long story. Indian tribe claimed some land and a lake out by the airport.” I tell her about the casino and theme park.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCN8RZYjYDKafHhQJHXclbk4KkAcVKGdqZwpe061vEJT-YR21tL10T4uMI1GBO6ywo5dwd1-VmXgAJsVnVWO8rkPlbmO6uzMNPwK0tUJNtreInJ8GRM3RFJ3TrD8LKlusssCrY7GkH65w/s1600-h/Mall+2+Dry+Brush.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203805510286879602" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCN8RZYjYDKafHhQJHXclbk4KkAcVKGdqZwpe061vEJT-YR21tL10T4uMI1GBO6ywo5dwd1-VmXgAJsVnVWO8rkPlbmO6uzMNPwK0tUJNtreInJ8GRM3RFJ3TrD8LKlusssCrY7GkH65w/s400/Mall+2+Dry+Brush.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />“Oh. Isn’t that where we’re going for the reunion?”<br /><br />“That’s it,” Sal says, rubbing her hands together. “Maybe we can get in a little slot action.”<br /><br />“I don’t gamble,” Ruby says. “Might as well throw money into the gutter.”<br /><br />Sal and I just look at each other.<br /><br />A person with Mallory blood who doesn’t gamble?<br /><br />No way!<br /><br />An awkward silence. What can the three of us possibly talk about? I could always rib Sal about something, but I don’t really want her getting started on the weight thing, not with Ruby around.<br /><br />“Well, it sure does sound like important work, this Eminent Domain stuff,” Ruby finally says.<br /><br />“I like that: E-m-i-n-e-n-t<span style="color:#ffffff;">--</span>D-o-m-a-i-n. Should look REAL good on the obit page.”<br /><br />“They always leave out the really interesting stuff,” I say.<br /><br />“Like what?” Sal asks.<br /><br />“Well, you know. Like old Charlie Simms having three wives at one time.”<br /><br />“That’s libel!” Sal says.<br /><br />“Not if it’s the truth.”<br /><br />“Well, it just isn’t right, airing someone’s dirty laundry out in public.”<br /><br />“But it’s interesting. God, can you imagine opening up the paper every day, just knowing that something juicy’s going to be printed, like when they dug up old Mrs. MacIntrye’s dead baby in the basement? Fifty-five-year-old corpse. Remember that?”<br /><br />“Ma was beside herself,” Sal says. “She still thinks the old bag should have gone straight to jail for murder.”<br /><br />“Except that Mrs. MacIntyre was in a coma, hooked up to a respirator.”<br /><br />Sal gives me the look. “Don’t get Ma started on that today.”<br /><br />“Not a chance. I’ve got better things to do.”<br /><br />“Well, good.”<br /><br />“The point is, when she died, there was nothing in her obituary about the dead baby. It was all very dry. She was born, she married, she had a surviving son, the husband died, was a homemaker for 65 years, blah, blah, blah. Not even a mention of a baby that died.”<br /><br />“Sam, you’re ill.”<br /><br />“I think it all sounds like a good idea,” Ruby says. “I mean, why not lay out the bad with the good stuff? Show life like it is.”<br /><br />“Because you gotta show respect for the survivors. Their last memories should be good ones. Say, I’m working hard on getting together an outstanding obituary. I’ll kill anyone who farts with it.”<br /><br />Ruby and I snicker.<br /><br />I rub my hands together. “I can see it now:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxcJSmL6o63D-74sWDp-d5W1Sqg6phonzDnyg4Q8tIH76ZtYDcaQjzcqlDX-lLsde5ogkDk7tFAqdIjW3FB7vQgc2KbD5GYRkZ1ADMUe2481ikaEWRs0jpnyG_LniqhWbcfMVShkyIlxE/s1600-h/Sally+Newspaper+obit.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203806480949488514" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxcJSmL6o63D-74sWDp-d5W1Sqg6phonzDnyg4Q8tIH76ZtYDcaQjzcqlDX-lLsde5ogkDk7tFAqdIjW3FB7vQgc2KbD5GYRkZ1ADMUe2481ikaEWRs0jpnyG_LniqhWbcfMVShkyIlxE/s400/Sally+Newspaper+obit.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#660000;">SALLY MALLORY MILLHOUSE</span></strong> </div><br /><blockquote><p align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color:#660000;"><em>Champion of the Oppressed<br />Board of Eminent Domain<br />Slot Players Association</em><strong></strong></span></p></span><p><span style="font-size:85%;color:#660000;"><strong></strong></span></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;color:#660000;"><strong>Sally Mallory Millhouse, 99, died at 12:01 a.m. Sunday morning just after hitting big at the Winnehaha casino. She hit quadruple sevens for a total of $150,000. Family members were slot-side and were helping to count out winnings when Mrs. Millhouse, widow of the late Phillip Millhouse, was stricken.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTnZVgV1iu993X2fL09JoLw2rPwh6mK7MXXTxLv1_KYKWgpf4XmtUNGNxdD1uoqQAHr7Och7Te2-TjGVfqkjOat3k7s43dr4rdhmD_NUZnIRvyFx5MC0s6N7ZCEZA4BEm9m1D41YZOmEQ/s1600-h/Slots+777+Poster.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203807533216476050" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTnZVgV1iu993X2fL09JoLw2rPwh6mK7MXXTxLv1_KYKWgpf4XmtUNGNxdD1uoqQAHr7Och7Te2-TjGVfqkjOat3k7s43dr4rdhmD_NUZnIRvyFx5MC0s6N7ZCEZA4BEm9m1D41YZOmEQ/s400/Slots+777+Poster.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Mrs. Millhouse was born on December 24, 1936, in Sioux City. She was the daughter of Charles Wickham Mallory, notorious bootlegger of the 1930s and local bookie before his death in 1974–”</strong></span></p></blockquote>Sal jumps up from her chair. “Where’d you hear that?”<br /><br />“I–”<br /><br />“You just strike that last bit right now–”<br /><br />“Lots of bootleggers where I come from,” Ruby adds.<br /><br />“Well, I want it out–NOW! I don’t want my kids knowin’ about all that old stuff.”<br /><br />“I used to go with Pappa when he collected his bets.”<br /><br />“So what. I tended bar when I was 10. Look, Samantha, long after you go back to Pennsylvania, I have to live here. Dad’s shenanigans might be cute to you, but I have to live with ‘em. So, cut it out.”<br /><br />“Okay, okay, we’ll edit that last piece–”<br /><br />“Forget it, Sam. Save it for your psychedelic wake. I’ll write my own obituary.”Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1697007331716837110.post-43925559192410650472008-05-13T18:30:00.005-04:002011-05-15T21:23:27.161-04:00Part I: Journeys (Chapter 27)<div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff6600;">Journeys</span></strong></div><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo3lO87CHZE5lpj9HitonMZhz9xRNSiO5g-bON93w2_M5eZDwdS-w62bEjq-W6fLoqLNTzkgiXLU2SnhtcBNSbdkLdkqprwzi6Mw0naXcoPJurG7pJ6_GYNBrR9_pNWJzvgPb1YvhrjgU/s1600-h/Woman+laughing+7.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203448143238048498" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo3lO87CHZE5lpj9HitonMZhz9xRNSiO5g-bON93w2_M5eZDwdS-w62bEjq-W6fLoqLNTzkgiXLU2SnhtcBNSbdkLdkqprwzi6Mw0naXcoPJurG7pJ6_GYNBrR9_pNWJzvgPb1YvhrjgU/s400/Woman+laughing+7.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />At Pappa’s funeral, I get this urge to laugh. I don’t know why, there’s nothing funny about my Pappa laid out in his casket, soon to be lowered into the ground. But I can’t help it. First, I begin to giggle; I try stopping, but that only makes it worse. Nana digs her elbow into my side, but that doesn’t help, either. But now, I’m holding my sides and laughing so hard that the entire congregation stares at me. Father Salvatore has just stopped the Requiem Mass, and I’m sure they’ll all be gossiping for the next 50 years, but who gives a fuck? I’m only 23 years old, and I’ve just lost my Pappa. A very funny man who did gross things with his false teeth, who told humorous stories about a curly-tailed dog that died long before I was born, a man who had taught me the fundamentals of booking bets at the dog track. I have lost that forever. I have the right to laugh however and whenever I want. It’s just that the absurdity of living and dying–or maybe it’s the echo of the eighth grade choir in the throes of their hormone war–has hit me in a way that I can’t ignore. The absurdity of finally figuring out what family is all about, only to have a significant part of it ripped away forever. I can’t stop the obscene guffawing. Guttural sounds rise up from my gut, and I’m gagging. Cousin Jimmy comes for me and says, “C’mon, Samantha, let’s go outside for some fresh air.”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv2DW6Cg7_jWywjL7cDVdtU3eV_sbYLc_VoH7KyQh38AGK35XC-NVodlt86a3vYdqom6sxq6BOVyFfXxzZG7IgMnyvQ0IHbmXLIG1IKXN20FadNKitbUK0NUupgiQqjWPKRXffShtj_4M/s1600-h/woman+crying+2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203452167622404866" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv2DW6Cg7_jWywjL7cDVdtU3eV_sbYLc_VoH7KyQh38AGK35XC-NVodlt86a3vYdqom6sxq6BOVyFfXxzZG7IgMnyvQ0IHbmXLIG1IKXN20FadNKitbUK0NUupgiQqjWPKRXffShtj_4M/s400/woman+crying+2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />As Jimmy leads me away, I look around the church, and I don’t see any strange children there. Not that my grandfather’s family would ever need to hire children to attend his funeral–the church is packed with mourners, most of whom I don’t even know–but, still, he was my grandfather, and I would have hired children anyway, just for good measure, for extra Indulgences, even if we had to stack the little brats in the vestibule or stuff them into the trapezoidal confessionals or make them stand outside on the icy steps.<br /><br />Outside on the landing, I feel nauseated; I lean over the wall and let loose of the bile and waste of the past 23 years, and it keeps on coming up, and I know it’ll never stop unless I make it stop, and even when the stuff is gone, my gut is still racking with spasms.<br /><br />Finally, I’m finished, I’m tired, and I’m ready to go back inside, to say goodbye, to mourn.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC3rSy1iTU17YctqNrxaLCRdXfB9S-mrHotlP-AlLr5zC2nAOngdT1XCWQxWhoJ9leuFBFYD5zuXNFDZB2MjavIHycopv4MeXZyHH-9HSNLD70PAZ5cx_U3PGh5kVKlzz_EU_imxuQGGw/s1600-h/Jennifercloseup--1969--Blue.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203452614299003666" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC3rSy1iTU17YctqNrxaLCRdXfB9S-mrHotlP-AlLr5zC2nAOngdT1XCWQxWhoJ9leuFBFYD5zuXNFDZB2MjavIHycopv4MeXZyHH-9HSNLD70PAZ5cx_U3PGh5kVKlzz_EU_imxuQGGw/s400/Jennifercloseup--1969--Blue.jpg" border="0" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1697007331716837110.post-70608837562707781052008-05-13T18:13:00.008-04:002011-05-15T21:25:56.687-04:00Part I: Journeys (Chapter 26)<div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff6600;">Journeys</span></strong></div><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoxTAm_tUXfHDkiYpAkOSoTpOnWfwtuYrwvDQ5XVizMdlYKoFk4BkDzpCnZD7FaszmPsoJHSD0CVhna6RveXiZC3LVow6xr9Kbm7VFUVEO7UFVEkHl6w8En8F3mVtSDzoA4fmDZ-Hdz7U/s1600-h/Dachshund+in+motion+accent+water.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoxTAm_tUXfHDkiYpAkOSoTpOnWfwtuYrwvDQ5XVizMdlYKoFk4BkDzpCnZD7FaszmPsoJHSD0CVhna6RveXiZC3LVow6xr9Kbm7VFUVEO7UFVEkHl6w8En8F3mVtSDzoA4fmDZ-Hdz7U/s400/Dachshund+in+motion+accent+water.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203435516034198178" /></a><br />Tess wanders around Sal’s living room, observing the happy chaos: Heidi, the dachshund, and her pup, Oscar Meany, barking and chasing each other around the house; the sounds of a steel guitar twanging from the TV; the telephone ringing constantly, which Sal ignores. Stevie has discovered the Tonka Truck and runs it across the carpet: “Rrrrrr-rrrrrr-rrrrr....”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUfX2AaLDq84jkC425jvVNCFWgaDbzO3c-BjvD2krPoTjXZ1NnQCw0jLhUnj8Rbt61qkKiiyQLNF6_iFyRASZ4h9HNPoxrtGSHTcbMsrIUB52SFVT06tasG8g-HPItW9wfxPae7PpmJcQ/s1600-h/Tonka+Truck+old+yellow+cutout+2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUfX2AaLDq84jkC425jvVNCFWgaDbzO3c-BjvD2krPoTjXZ1NnQCw0jLhUnj8Rbt61qkKiiyQLNF6_iFyRASZ4h9HNPoxrtGSHTcbMsrIUB52SFVT06tasG8g-HPItW9wfxPae7PpmJcQ/s400/Tonka+Truck+old+yellow+cutout+2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203435932646025906" /></a><br />Sal, Ruby, and I sit at the kitchen table, the same pink and gray Formica table Sal bought when I was a kid, just before Phil, Jr., now 31, was born. So much has happened here; I watched all five of Sal’s kids growing up around this table. It was here I drew pictures of “Bonnie Boo”–-an old woman with spiders and snot hanging out of her nose–for Ashley and Phil, Jr., telling them stories about the creepy old woman who stole kids from their beds at night.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3WluVYSFsv2pyuxRWuSliiBTIs_K_ZUV9EQ30R4lqp5TloWu2ZQziavf1qdju-Tahjhu2h04r6GcYA5ERX-Qrf8B-DWLLja-Pi2_4RMhup89o-dDm9BGWaYfFLMbm1-QWaWWo6rsLG7E/s1600-h/Pink+and+grey+Formica+Table+Poster.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3WluVYSFsv2pyuxRWuSliiBTIs_K_ZUV9EQ30R4lqp5TloWu2ZQziavf1qdju-Tahjhu2h04r6GcYA5ERX-Qrf8B-DWLLja-Pi2_4RMhup89o-dDm9BGWaYfFLMbm1-QWaWWo6rsLG7E/s400/Pink+and+grey+Formica+Table+Poster.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203436259063540418" /></a><br />I experienced my first orgasm at this table–-I was 12 and in love with Mark Ackermann, a love that would forever remain unrequited, a love so pure that Mark never even knew he was a target of my affections. That first orgasm happened early one morning. It was still dark, and my cousins weren’t up yet, and I’d just awakened, throbbing with lust–-only I didn’t know what lust was back then–that I ran downstairs for a drink of water. When I sat down at the table to drink, it happened, that first surprise between my legs. I knew right away that I wasn’t supposed to feel so good “down there,” that I might go to Hell for it. I was so ashamed I never told anyone about it.<br /><br />As a teenager, I drank beer at this table with my friends Chrissy and Kathy while watching Johnny Carson and playing Monopoly. Later, I hung out here with Sal, Phil, Shel, and Babe–Sal’s best friend who died of lung cancer last year.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe4fqzNf4ct-eZuR3niopiQWh65_V9AiGE6p_sZXIWq-MqgsEy6y0mRtgV9btQtfzL8Wtzkb4jph2zE8KLx4T69VHZFomYv3comw5pyhlEktfzwSFuKAWtOWEzAyoy3UuaUVLFwf5R2Lw/s1600-h/Red+hair+Poster+Film+2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe4fqzNf4ct-eZuR3niopiQWh65_V9AiGE6p_sZXIWq-MqgsEy6y0mRtgV9btQtfzL8Wtzkb4jph2zE8KLx4T69VHZFomYv3comw5pyhlEktfzwSFuKAWtOWEzAyoy3UuaUVLFwf5R2Lw/s400/Red+hair+Poster+Film+2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203438775914375906" /></a><br />And Ruby seems out of place at this table, a stranger who has no history in this family. She, too, seems to feel the strangeness of her presence; she drums her fingers on the nicked surface. I just wish I could get inside Ruby’s head, extract the years we missed being together, distill them into my experiences. Share them with her. I wish I could tease her like a sister should, even fight and snipe like Sal and I do. And like Sal’s table is just a table to Ruby, maybe to her I’m just someone who happens to share a few genes.<br /><br />Suddenly, I wish Nicole were here. I don’t care if she’s unmarried and pregnant by an old biker and living in a cult. I just want to see my daughter at this table–she spent many summers here, she even helped dig out the hole for the swimming pool–I want her to meet her Aunt Ruby. If only I could pick up the phone...But I can’t do it. And then I tell myself that this is about protecting Nana from a truth so awful that it might kill her. If only Nana were dead already, I could call my daughter and wire her the money for the next plane. Maybe she could still make it for the last part of the reunion....<br /><br />Ruby continues to drum her fingers on the table; maybe she just needs a cigarette. Since Babe’s death, Sal has thrown out all her ashtrays and tacked up “No Smoking, Lungs at Work” signs in every room.<br /><br />“You enjoy your swim?” Ruby asks.<br /><br />“It was okay,” I say, patting my red face. “I guess I stayed in too long.”<br /><br />“You need some Sea & Ski,” Sal says.<br /><br />“No, no. That’s okay.”<br /><br />“Suit yourself.”<br /><br />“Y’all mind if I go outside for a cigarette?”<br /><br />“I’ll go with you,” I say, relieved to be away from this table, from the voices that call for me here.<br /><br />As Ruby pushes herself up and heads for the backyard, Sal’s mouth drops open. “My God,” she says, breathless.<br /><br />I know exactly what she’s thinking: echoes of Mother, the drawl, the languor, the way the cigarette dangles from Ruby’s long, thin fingers, a body in slow motion, the sexy hip thrust. Mother without the baggage.<br /><br />“Genes are a funny thing. I could’ve almost sworn...” Sal shakes her head. “God, if only Dad was here, he’d never believe it. You know, your mama was his favorite.”<br /><br />I had always thought <em>I</em> was Pappa’s favorite.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdnumIbqS7-LezzQra34XBLFyndJHzGfehGdqvdfaMw8qOLGmzV4V67UxHhjPrBEpgQbAvvNng2dSUpPeNqYXiPMAmKNkxUwL82rgKZFd1oUW89IIjh-m1M3fdsdOzcNQSN1gmoiGjyFQ/s1600-h/woman+smoking+4--water+Blue.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdnumIbqS7-LezzQra34XBLFyndJHzGfehGdqvdfaMw8qOLGmzV4V67UxHhjPrBEpgQbAvvNng2dSUpPeNqYXiPMAmKNkxUwL82rgKZFd1oUW89IIjh-m1M3fdsdOzcNQSN1gmoiGjyFQ/s400/woman+smoking+4--water+Blue.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203436903308634834" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1697007331716837110.post-22213408734648386072008-05-13T18:12:00.010-04:002011-05-15T21:49:45.008-04:00Part I: Journeys (Chapter 25)<div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff6600;">Journeys</span></strong></div><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUcI-sFgz2H1_6a08h-QtfmKbN2AXJAP2yfcTcKjZZRteGc17WWnmTZ1-CexqJzr5uG62sZUHIn3vgwPltd4h07Jmc_xiJJND12qxLJYZcW-9yFhuHBhLN120ghUMGVzmV2bYAUdkCjsY/s1600-h/Fire+cropped+Fresco.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUcI-sFgz2H1_6a08h-QtfmKbN2AXJAP2yfcTcKjZZRteGc17WWnmTZ1-CexqJzr5uG62sZUHIn3vgwPltd4h07Jmc_xiJJND12qxLJYZcW-9yFhuHBhLN120ghUMGVzmV2bYAUdkCjsY/s400/Fire+cropped+Fresco.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203089225706023458" /></a><br />Fire! Fire! Flesh on fire! Ha! Gotcha! So I’m a liar, liar, pants on fire. So what? We COULD burn up, no one else’s here, and you can’t hide from fire. That’s a fact. My mom told me so. See this floor? Wooden, just like that school in Chicago that burned up last week. If I lit a match and dropped it, POOF! Crackle! Crackle!<br /><br />Ninety-nine dead kids. Fried flesh. Ya see their pictures in the paper? All 99, in rows. All dead. My Dad says some of those Chicago kids were still sitting at their desks, pencils in their hands, deader ‘n doornail.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy0NmcsSdPaAynUM69tRNRI8Dle5kTUroHHtG8Y0pPkaVlFLwIOZG90XVeIyxkwo56qLl4bAAfw7b9JMA5WMYsZ_IstlCahQRPSuFOgT-3DfazZKkltoRpEFJl8nVzz1RSn9K-eHw-yVE/s1600-h/Chicago+School+Fire+Victims.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy0NmcsSdPaAynUM69tRNRI8Dle5kTUroHHtG8Y0pPkaVlFLwIOZG90XVeIyxkwo56qLl4bAAfw7b9JMA5WMYsZ_IstlCahQRPSuFOgT-3DfazZKkltoRpEFJl8nVzz1RSn9K-eHw-yVE/s400/Chicago+School+Fire+Victims.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203089582188309042" /></a><br />I’m a cripple, can’t you see that? We’d never get out alive, me a cripple and you a girl. ‘Sides, we’re all locked up in this room. We’d hafta jump out the window. See how far down it is?<br /><br />At least I’m not a cripple forever. Broke this leg two weeks ago ridin’ my bike. And I can’t wait until I get this cast off. I got a brand new bike for Christmas, a boy’s bike, not some sissy thing like you have.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCsDAynfHhTxp9iSHIWU3Yb7CpFJTEm8yak_tDk0TXUekzeHPhaVW4hjL70-hx7kyBQ7oHbC4R4gHJTxO8aY_bmCKFoEWmQ4Sxa9uq0fUAW3zf4-RV6zzUn-dj4MGQ4Cce6veg7b2spGA/s1600-h/Boy+on+crutches+2+Film+Grain.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCsDAynfHhTxp9iSHIWU3Yb7CpFJTEm8yak_tDk0TXUekzeHPhaVW4hjL70-hx7kyBQ7oHbC4R4gHJTxO8aY_bmCKFoEWmQ4Sxa9uq0fUAW3zf4-RV6zzUn-dj4MGQ4Cce6veg7b2spGA/s400/Boy+on+crutches+2+Film+Grain.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203090183483730498" /></a><br />I already made my First Communion–that’s why I’m here with you and not at Communion practice. At St. Mary’s, we do it in first grade, not second grade like you babies here. I wish I could go back there, I hate it here. The nuns are mean, and the floor’s made outta wood, and you don’t got no library. And I don’t like being locked up in this here cloakroom.<br /><br />I know why YOU’RE here and not at practice. Everyone says you’re too dumb to make your First Communion, that you have to wait until next year. Third grade. Third grade. Third grade...<br /><br />And you can’t even borrow and carry yet. EVERYBODY knows how to borrow and carry, you just carry a number over and add it in to the left, and it’s not hard to do. But Kathy Erickson says you’re retarded and...<br /><br />She heard it from her mom, and her mom heard it from your grandma. Everybody knows it, that’s why we have to be nice to you and give you more time to come up with the right answers.<br /><br />Look! There’s a fire behind you!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8xBAKa08LfYDsIwQOmKY4aeBXNBJgzXAXsJx1_OfcdiYg-eTT_xcY2nLTgo2korGb1IGXYUKcHxc1KBWwDQxTzaDGLc2I6RVQsvO8sskSV_ZDEt8tqdRKB-TE_Am4ejT8Zw0aR94NLl4/s1600-h/Silhouette+smoke+red+accent.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8xBAKa08LfYDsIwQOmKY4aeBXNBJgzXAXsJx1_OfcdiYg-eTT_xcY2nLTgo2korGb1IGXYUKcHxc1KBWwDQxTzaDGLc2I6RVQsvO8sskSV_ZDEt8tqdRKB-TE_Am4ejT8Zw0aR94NLl4/s400/Silhouette+smoke+red+accent.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203091162736274018" /></a><br />Just kiddin’...<br /><br />Liar, liar, pants on fire...<br /><br />*<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi9-xm-9jpLRdxiPV1g_Phnl4CK90RuGr7j1FaUgV6lyu2-68WgN0js5nvDTHhAzOfe5Ov25Lr0J6ptabeO6m8wunohq6j0Kd7yzU8Xk2VvQqypqTaonGuKyOQNXoXG6pveIbzU0DPeR4/s1600-h/Boy+on+crutches+2+Solarize.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi9-xm-9jpLRdxiPV1g_Phnl4CK90RuGr7j1FaUgV6lyu2-68WgN0js5nvDTHhAzOfe5Ov25Lr0J6ptabeO6m8wunohq6j0Kd7yzU8Xk2VvQqypqTaonGuKyOQNXoXG6pveIbzU0DPeR4/s400/Boy+on+crutches+2+Solarize.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203090479836473938" /></a><br />Liar, liar, boys are liars, paint their faces ugly colors. Find my colors, find them now, hide them from the dumb little monsters. Color me happy, color me sad, just color me something, don’t leave me home, all alone...<br /><br />Color, color, the boys attack, color them blue, color them black, most of all, don’t let them back, far, far away from you. Boys, boys are Iowa dirt. Whistle while you work...<br /><br />Whistle while you work, Danny’s just a jerk; Danny-lini lost his weenie, now it doesn’t work. Har. Har.<br /><br />Swirl and swirl and swirl goes my crayon...Drat. My crayon broke. Damn, damn, damn, peel, peel, peel the paper away, color, color, color away...<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgigAj7KEKO_RUxd5exZriKBk2PwfjjiNz6HELzTgI2CHagY-y_y6rxaZ-vBZK4x3_e412mECNwIrc5fjB03UKHpcFwukoeo0hkL_ri6ndvcduf5FKP3gsfur99IocjWWpVN5IkniT2AEw/s1600-h/BIG+Family+Dry+Cutout.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgigAj7KEKO_RUxd5exZriKBk2PwfjjiNz6HELzTgI2CHagY-y_y6rxaZ-vBZK4x3_e412mECNwIrc5fjB03UKHpcFwukoeo0hkL_ri6ndvcduf5FKP3gsfur99IocjWWpVN5IkniT2AEw/s400/BIG+Family+Dry+Cutout.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203091618002807410" /></a><br />The Blue Family. That’s what I call the people in my drawing. Ha. They have funny heads, don’t they? Just like stop signs.<br /><br />Oct-ta-gon. Oct-ta-gon. Everyone’s left, and everyone’s gone. Oct-ta-gon. Oct-ta-gon. All day long.<br /><br />I don’t know why these people have such funny heads, but I do know why they’re blue. The Blue family’s sad because Baby Boy Blue died. He was run over by a big blue truck. Splat, splat, goes his guts, when he spurts, his blood runs blue.<br /><br />I don’t like circles. They’re too hard to draw, and my circles look like shi...they don’t look right. So if I don’t make circles, I can use a ruler, and my lines are ALL perfect. Why can’t I use a ruler for circles? Why can’t rulers bend into circles? Circles, circles, circles. All those circles go round and round, round and round, round and round. Octagons go bumpity, bump, bumpity bump, bumpity bump. Octagons go bumpity, bump, bumpity bump, bumpity bump. All day long.<br /><br />Mama Blue, Daddy Blue, they have so many children they don’t know what to do. Eight little children, all lined up, brush your teeth, brush your teeth, all shined up. If you don’t go to bed and if you don’t go now, I’ll whup your butt ‘til it’s bloody red raw.<br /><br />The Blues have LOTS of children. Daddy Blue, Mama Blue, and their eight little steps:<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">----------------------------------------</span><strong><span style="color:#003333;">Betty Blue</span></strong> (9)<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">-----------------------------------</span><strong><span style="color:#003300;">Bonny Blue</span></strong> (8)<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">------------------------------</span><strong><span style="color:#003300;">Becky Blue</span></strong> (7)<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">-------------------------</span><strong><span style="color:#003300;">Bobby Blue</span></strong> (6)<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">--------------------</span><span style="color:#003300;"><strong>Benny Blue</strong></span> (5)<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">---------------</span><strong><span style="color:#333300;">Betsy Blue</span></strong> (4)<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">----------</span><strong><span style="color:#003300;">Barby Blue</span></strong> (3)<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">-----</span><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">Baby Boy Blue</span></strong> (Disregard. He died. He was 2.)<br /><br />I want to be a Blue. I want to be Betty because she’s the oldest, and she gets to boss all the other kids around. Besides, she’s MY age. I don’t want older brothers because they’re too mean. The little ones are pesky little creeps, but I can disregard them, because this is MY drawing.<br /><br />I like blue. It’s a pretty color, and you can do all kinds of things with it. You can make it dark, you can make it light, you can give it wings and watch it fly. I have all kinds of blue crayons. Blue is my favorite color. I like dark blue the best. Black and Blue are my friends.<br /><br />I got a secret, you promise not to tell? I KILLED Baby Boy Blue, and I KILLED Benny Blue, and I KILLED Bobby Blue, deader than dead. I can kill anyone I want ‘cause it’s MY family, and I can do anything I want. ‘Sides, I don’t want no more brothers. Now I (Sammy Blue) just got sisters:<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#003300;"><span style="color:#ffffff;">-----</span>Sammy Blue, 9<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">----------</span>Bonny Blue, 8<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">---------------</span>Becky Blue, 7<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">--------------------</span>Bobby Blue, 6<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">-------------------------</span>Benny Blue, 5<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">------------------------------</span>Betsy Blue, 4<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">-----------------------------------</span>Barby Blue, 3<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">----------------------------------------</span>Ruby Blue, 2</span></strong><br /><br />See? I got Ruby back!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjw3B1ryiIrFRjLY29MizJ-fOmV0de1pJuzaDwiUYpoM0XliCwK6QZNQA92hDMVr-nhxzXJvxAY5Gl1jZzXkPB_lo4jZDLKN_GxCOOkSa3SFIRS70aq6dVPFb38KBto1bvbs00827unyk/s1600-h/Stop+Signs.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjw3B1ryiIrFRjLY29MizJ-fOmV0de1pJuzaDwiUYpoM0XliCwK6QZNQA92hDMVr-nhxzXJvxAY5Gl1jZzXkPB_lo4jZDLKN_GxCOOkSa3SFIRS70aq6dVPFb38KBto1bvbs00827unyk/s400/Stop+Signs.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203092021729733250" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1697007331716837110.post-13366064529800819632008-05-13T18:10:00.007-04:002011-05-15T23:19:38.552-04:00Part I: Journeys (Chapter 24)<div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff6600;">Journeys</span></strong></div><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyutkL1FmDSsXawarqCrACgOjf25dZ15mwidvtlU9HhoL5Z3Tp3PkYk7YHoJRKLS6-1lQwukrzFv17t8SSxo1Cv-fJVF269t5QVGh0eX6s6pPFjkxGPHXq60jx3yoPYLijxcnSdLkAI1k/s1600-h/feet+first+water+color.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyutkL1FmDSsXawarqCrACgOjf25dZ15mwidvtlU9HhoL5Z3Tp3PkYk7YHoJRKLS6-1lQwukrzFv17t8SSxo1Cv-fJVF269t5QVGh0eX6s6pPFjkxGPHXq60jx3yoPYLijxcnSdLkAI1k/s400/feet+first+water+color.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203051683396889074" /></a><br />I don’t want to get out of this pool, I just want to stay here all by myself, forget about this reunion, and live under water for the rest of my life. As I slip beneath the surface, I feel long and sleek as I propel myself across the length of the pool and reach for the side.<br /><br />As I come up for air, I see four pairs of bare feet at the edge of the pool.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrU4xazSUWgSCbDQxUKTpfdNt9gAGAuZ0-MuAyBbaRdKEss08WnzFlCJpcxz64tp65j_vnptya-3oQ9MobGIs-Y6Zqrsbj6KRhclM0Hqw8aQ0z47nO1vFA4871X7Jy997r-NVRlNP3ICw/s1600-h/poolside+feet+5+Poster.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrU4xazSUWgSCbDQxUKTpfdNt9gAGAuZ0-MuAyBbaRdKEss08WnzFlCJpcxz64tp65j_vnptya-3oQ9MobGIs-Y6Zqrsbj6KRhclM0Hqw8aQ0z47nO1vFA4871X7Jy997r-NVRlNP3ICw/s400/poolside+feet+5+Poster.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203052353411787266" /></a><br />Ruby, Ray, Tessie, and Stevie are here already.<br /><br />I wanted to be out of the water before they got here.<br /><br />There’s nothing more awkward than a fat woman, dripping wet, climbing out of a swimming pool. So I’ll stay in here until they leave to bring their suitcases into the house.<br /><br />“Just finishing up some laps.”<br /><br />“You better get out soon, or you’ll get burned,” Ruby says, firing up a Virginia Slims.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWTm3sdv4Ro8ySTpr5rek85YqLpYEx6WB6nRScs-NhP1VzywZFdX1c5yKtj8gSA9QvqIxwg7SiE-HNYR0T_AqQ92jvB8hDe6bLX1QFAwlt06myKaaQH2lUjh6JxuPtyhB8MLeo25O03QU/s1600-h/Virginia+Slims+Poster.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWTm3sdv4Ro8ySTpr5rek85YqLpYEx6WB6nRScs-NhP1VzywZFdX1c5yKtj8gSA9QvqIxwg7SiE-HNYR0T_AqQ92jvB8hDe6bLX1QFAwlt06myKaaQH2lUjh6JxuPtyhB8MLeo25O03QU/s400/Virginia+Slims+Poster.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203052791498451474" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1697007331716837110.post-2760840709926457662008-05-13T18:08:00.013-04:002011-05-15T23:22:05.511-04:00Part I: Journeys (Chapter 23)<div align="center"><strong><font color="#ff6600" size="5">Journeys</font></strong></div><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg4QahLRlK5goSx25dUiq2AdQikWM9KfGC2W1_Rd1sHQ6OYbgp5pZi_crTwArOPqo5VcFVJe_bqbU99G2t2fYROfGpHEf1VYlhmj2gGFIfNT9KlwU7Xo_hngp73zGCcDO7CwmWxQV6lQQ/s1600-h/Rock+House+Night.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg4QahLRlK5goSx25dUiq2AdQikWM9KfGC2W1_Rd1sHQ6OYbgp5pZi_crTwArOPqo5VcFVJe_bqbU99G2t2fYROfGpHEf1VYlhmj2gGFIfNT9KlwU7Xo_hngp73zGCcDO7CwmWxQV6lQQ/s400/Rock+House+Night.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5200835987074283090" /></a><br />Sheldon parks the car in front of the small rock house, just outside Timber City, Arkansas. There are no other houses in sight. The sun has just set, and the peepers and katydids are trying to out chirp each other. A tension–-maybe static–seems to crackle around us. Sheet lightning in the distance. It is a hot night, the humidity hanging in the air like a damp towel. I had heard about the humidity in these parts, how it seems to cling to you like a whiny kid, but I never realized how it could sit on you and make you want to beg for relief. Half moons of sweat drip under my armpits, and my skin feels hot and scratchy and raw. Later, I’ll find out about the chiggers, how they get on your skin and stick to you until they get what they need.<br /><br />My sister’s thin silhouette poses in the doorway, long cigarette in hand.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidqWJGL-wqcxnPRw3GhURv21_IDfVwqVUB2aDgiA35-nvEZcr-GNBJ8_SPBdelgq_R3A0yZ2nm0OI4pNu-YomL55vAF0MPCAa253dBmXGkJcnDs_1dKZ21iucxmwt9CQiZqSu6EK7E3I8/s1600-h/Silhouette+woman+cutout.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidqWJGL-wqcxnPRw3GhURv21_IDfVwqVUB2aDgiA35-nvEZcr-GNBJ8_SPBdelgq_R3A0yZ2nm0OI4pNu-YomL55vAF0MPCAa253dBmXGkJcnDs_1dKZ21iucxmwt9CQiZqSu6EK7E3I8/s400/Silhouette+woman+cutout.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5200836322081732194" /></a><br />My stomach suddenly aches; I don’t want her to see me like this, fat and bloated. I want to be thin like her, thin like the rest of the world. Why, for our first meeting, does she have to see me like this? Why couldn’t I lose this weight, at least for this first time? Why can’t I have willpower like other people?<br /><br />*<br /><br />I feel trapped in this body, a body I had never asked for or wanted. I’m a prisoner of my biology.<br /><br />I want to jump into the car and go back to Pennsylvania. Instead, Sheldon takes my hand and leads me toward the house.<br /><br />As we walk through the yard, I begin to see Ruby’s features better, her short auburn hair, high cheekbones, blue eyes. She wears a Razorback tee-shirt, faded baggy jeans, and sandals.<br /><br />“Come in,” Ruby says in a southern drawl. She takes a deep drag from her cigarette, a Virginia Slims 100, and blows the smoke toward the ceiling.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF-qh5anFypZMWLbg3V4ipNRk5e_b2Gg6DnLuh04krvQA2BMWnbfIFhFOr9IgZPqnaZtQ2mevDvn82G0hInGylt5ZC515zlz4uUVBw0jl62q5w0ro0GgH3srBHMNslgGO6_-gZ1TikIR0/s1600-h/woman+smoking+3+painting.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF-qh5anFypZMWLbg3V4ipNRk5e_b2Gg6DnLuh04krvQA2BMWnbfIFhFOr9IgZPqnaZtQ2mevDvn82G0hInGylt5ZC515zlz4uUVBw0jl62q5w0ro0GgH3srBHMNslgGO6_-gZ1TikIR0/s400/woman+smoking+3+painting.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5200837717946103410" /></a><br />Sheldon gives me “that” look when he sees the cigarette dangling from Ruby’s fingers. I want to tell him that I had no idea about the smoking. How was I supposed to know, anyway?<br /><br />A man, also with a cigarette in his hand, and two kids come into the living room.<br /><br />“This here’s Raymond, Tessie, and the baby, Stevie.”<br /><br />Raymond nods to me; he looks just like his photograph–longish brown hair, sharp blue eyes (perhaps a bit on the sardonic side), lopsided grin– except now, he’s in his work clothes, a green mechanic’s jump suit with “Ray” embossed on the pocket. In the picture I have at home, he and Ruby are dressed up in Sunday clothes, he in a striped Qiana shirt and she in a red sweater.<br /><br />“Hi,” I say.<br /><br />The kids hide their faces in his pant legs. If my Pappa were still alive, I might want to hide my face in his pant leg as well.<br /><br />The little girl peeks from behind her father; she looks just like her mother’s First Communion photograph.<br /><br />“They’ll come around,” Ruby says, steering us toward the dining room table. We all sit down and stare across the table at each other.<br /><br /><em>I don’t know these people!</em><br /><br />Ruby lights another cigarette. “I’ve got an idea,” she says, “let’s play some cards. You know Gin Rummy?”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh5nwgkUx5o88HWjjWWV85B_Ci2xU_cRUKdJbgJvHHtsp1xRFqKY4IMqsBA26Civ0fej6UZ-M0Z3lPLCUsaOZxGGZKsgks1xOSsKPE5nDcGhg4ZxyzTnbqXyQFUMuJpQXfhxiCNNa9UsM/s1600-h/woman+smoking+2+painting.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh5nwgkUx5o88HWjjWWV85B_Ci2xU_cRUKdJbgJvHHtsp1xRFqKY4IMqsBA26Civ0fej6UZ-M0Z3lPLCUsaOZxGGZKsgks1xOSsKPE5nDcGhg4ZxyzTnbqXyQFUMuJpQXfhxiCNNa9UsM/s400/woman+smoking+2+painting.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5200838173212636802" /></a><br />“Yeah,” I say. I figure it’s better than staring at each other, groping for something to say. Besides, you get to know people pretty fast when you play cards with them. Auntie had taught me that.<br /><br />While Ruby pours sodas all around–she doesn’t offer anything alcoholic–-I begin the deal.<br /><br />By the third or fourth hand, I have discovered that Ruby and Ray are casual players, which is a relief. They slap cards down willy-nilly and don’t pay attention to what has been played, laughing when someone, mostly Shel, “rums” them. I’m glad, because serious players can be a bore, taking just about everything in life, including themselves, a bit too seriously.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgulhEMLr6EZqA8lBkr2m2A4Wh99oCpH6YOXl4XZh9G2uKTk0NSFJBi3IvfaxKgA5AG1sPBGjmoT9fQBwUb-AvdXSZSGsdIDAyNQtt_THw92jBX1UfZ-bcVZEUmpZeznpBm6-ELL1roL8U/s1600-h/Card+players+diffuse.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgulhEMLr6EZqA8lBkr2m2A4Wh99oCpH6YOXl4XZh9G2uKTk0NSFJBi3IvfaxKgA5AG1sPBGjmoT9fQBwUb-AvdXSZSGsdIDAyNQtt_THw92jBX1UfZ-bcVZEUmpZeznpBm6-ELL1roL8U/s400/Card+players+diffuse.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5200838499630151314" /></a><br />Shel is one of those people; he plays cut-throat Rummy, swooping up piles of cards and imperiously slapping down books and runs. He gloats when he wins and sulks when he loses.<br /><br />Soon, Ruby and Ray grow bored, and we stop playing.<br /><br />I begin talking about our life together, those few months long, long ago. Ruby, of course, doesn’t remember anything from those days, and I keep thinking how silly I must sound going on and on about baby stuff, a one-way memoir about a time and people alien to my captive listeners.<br /><br />Even when Ruby yawns, I can’t seem to stop talking, I’m trapped in this loop, and my mouth won’t stop, I just need to talk through those times and hope that a hint of recognition passes on Ruby’s face.<br /><br />But nothing.<br /><br />The truth of the matter, I can’t relate to this grown-up Ruby, I just want to go back and start over, find my little sister again, make my Nana and Pappa listen to me, and if that doesn’t work--<br /><br /><em>We’ll just run away from L.A. and hitch a train to Sioux City, like old bums...</em><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAjJvJJErzbP3ZkL4Li3IAQOP8PYaqC61GOjFVtKyQRFgQdbU3PnTIP-jteYbaXXutcwu-2mfaUDFiILr-Cs1IIpcuF_PqC16tJ9oQBim52izsfV7nTW85Rv1-2uqCm_8vgbFhHQE5Pt8/s1600-h/Baby+Water+Color+Lens+3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAjJvJJErzbP3ZkL4Li3IAQOP8PYaqC61GOjFVtKyQRFgQdbU3PnTIP-jteYbaXXutcwu-2mfaUDFiILr-Cs1IIpcuF_PqC16tJ9oQBim52izsfV7nTW85Rv1-2uqCm_8vgbFhHQE5Pt8/s400/Baby+Water+Color+Lens+3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5200838929126880930" /></a><br />-–There’s no place in Ruby’s life for me anymore.<br /><br />In stages, the kids do come closer: first, Tessie peeks out from behind her father, and then hides again. Stevie mimics his big sister. Soon, both kids are sitting at my feet, staring up at me. Tessie even touches my pant leg and then tugs at my jeans. She giggles when I ruffle her strawberry hair.<br /><br />“They don’t see too many strangers,” Ruby says, flicking an ash into a crystal ashtray.<br /><br />For a second, I see echoes of Mother, the languor, even the drawl. Mother slurred her words when she was drunk, and I just hope Ruby hasn’t inherited the family problem. But, so far, I’ve seen no evidence of empty beer cans, no Hamms in the refrigerator, no hard liquor bottles in plain view.<br /><br />Sheldon clears his throat and coughs a little.<br /><br />I tap his shin under the table.<br /><br />“Ouch!” he yelps a little.<br /><br />“Sorry, honey,” I say sweetly. I nod toward Ruby and Ray. “Very sensitive bones.”<br /><br />“I’m allergic to cigarette smoke,” Shel says, batting away a puff.<br /><br />Now I kick him hard. “Sheldon!”<br /><br />“Oh,” Ruby says, stubbing out her butt, “I’m sorry.”<br /><br />Ray follows suit. Both swat at the air.<br /><br />“Wouldn’t want y’all to get sick,” she says, getting up to empty the ashtray.<br /><br />“I get very ill when I inhale the stuff. Can’t breathe.”<br />“Never knew anyone like that,” Ray says.<br /><br />“It’s getting more common,” Shel says, sniffling. “Environmental diseases.”<br /><br />Ray nods. “Environmental diseases,” he repeats.<br /><br />“Yes. That’s right.”<br /><br />“You Yankees sure do have some strange ailments.”<br /><br />“Raymond!”<br /><br />I can almost see Ruby kicking her husband under the table.<br /><br />“Sorry.”<br /><br />“It’s okay. But you know, some people are even allergic to perfume,” Shel says. “So I have a ‘no smoking’ and ‘no perfume’ practice. It’s the new thing now in therapy. Specializing. Clients know what to expect right from the start, and I don’t have to breathe pollutants.”<br /><br />I want him to stop this right now, I don’t want my sister mad at me for such silliness, so I kick him again.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7sax8T97dtwzu8CodYrwO-_cJ1jwKtrVnzpVSnSMRANEV6bWEiIdPa1LruvPqTdkFyG77i_4JfSGBgPOQXNSzfmmqhVAqvWB2iq6Fgr6iXx5xK6U7aOHLPOInTmFNabnB27G_Qg3rwJo/s1600-h/man+4+painting+cropped+2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7sax8T97dtwzu8CodYrwO-_cJ1jwKtrVnzpVSnSMRANEV6bWEiIdPa1LruvPqTdkFyG77i_4JfSGBgPOQXNSzfmmqhVAqvWB2iq6Fgr6iXx5xK6U7aOHLPOInTmFNabnB27G_Qg3rwJo/s400/man+4+painting+cropped+2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5200845199779133106" /></a><br />Shel sits up straight, but he can’t seem to stop once he’s gotten going: “Just means one less confrontation in therapy. Not that all confrontation’s all bad, it’s part of the Gestalt approach, but it’s got to be an important confrontation, not a silly one about smoking or perfume.”<br /><br />“Well, I’ll be,” Ray says, nodding his head.<br /><br />“Mind you, I’m not allergic to perfume–-in fact, I rather like it–-”<br /><br />“Wouldn’t know it,” Ray says, sniffing the air.<br /><br />“Please, Ray...”<br /><br />“Just makin’ a little joke, honey.”<br /><br />“It’s okay, folks,” Shel says, a nervous flutter in his voice. “Quite funny, Ray. Really.”<br /><br />Ray nods, gets up from the table, and rubs his stomach. “Well, I’m goin’ t’bed. Gotta get up early. Need help with your suitcases?”<br /><br />“That would be nice,” Shel says.<br /><br />We all troop out to the car to get some of the luggage. Then Ruby shows us our bedroom, a small room in the attic. The bed, covered with a homemade quilt, looks a little lumpy, but since we’re staying only three days....<br /><br />Shel yawns and says he’s going to bed too.<br /><br />Ruby and I go downstairs, where we sit up all night talking, drinking Cokes.<br /><br />I tell more stories about our short time together, my sister nodding politely.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1697007331716837110.post-20463529067939540482008-05-13T18:07:00.005-04:002011-05-16T00:01:32.140-04:00Part I: Journeys (Chapter 22)<div align="center"><strong><font color="#ff6600" size="5">Journeys</font></strong></div><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbqbEoEXx3wsTQJVQQCnFTniB4ISR34lmFKDnOLe5uosF_elqxbkShbv3eh5XPpVqU8ADgEWCk0QW-AdndLSAe3xCEpv28q0h6ak2gPDNNL8qdt3eGIm_Eq69XAeKVGEd3ljsDupYf3wY/s1600-h/fat+lady+7+water.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbqbEoEXx3wsTQJVQQCnFTniB4ISR34lmFKDnOLe5uosF_elqxbkShbv3eh5XPpVqU8ADgEWCk0QW-AdndLSAe3xCEpv28q0h6ak2gPDNNL8qdt3eGIm_Eq69XAeKVGEd3ljsDupYf3wY/s400/fat+lady+7+water.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5200494494224578034" /></a><br />“What time is Ruby coming?” I ask Sal as she drains the sauteed ground meat on a paper towel.<br /><br />I’m nervous about Ruby Platts, now Ruby Irwin, coming to the reunion, afraid that the family she has never met will drive her out of my life forever.<br /><br />“Sometime this afternoon. She called from Omaha this morning.” Sal takes a slotted spoon and squishes the meat against the towel. “Said something about taking the kids to the zoo before heading up.”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjER75Z-i2_nt0fT4HpsQUYAn5BULigaMVNjFm7E7J5McmZVtJQ4JRlodrLelmdIZyx6jJuTtG3EHFmwHHvS-1pXw9LebHcWTal__WUqUufdSRY-pAAHWEaH-pgNqT1-K7qOQv1gv9y8Jc/s1600-h/swimming+pool+water+2+Plastic.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjER75Z-i2_nt0fT4HpsQUYAn5BULigaMVNjFm7E7J5McmZVtJQ4JRlodrLelmdIZyx6jJuTtG3EHFmwHHvS-1pXw9LebHcWTal__WUqUufdSRY-pAAHWEaH-pgNqT1-K7qOQv1gv9y8Jc/s400/swimming+pool+water+2+Plastic.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5200492415460406754" /></a><br />I yawn and glance at the clock above the sink: only 10:00 a.m. “Maybe I’ll go for a dip, then.” I’m still in my nightie, having just shuffled through Sal’s living room and tripped over a dented Tonka Truck, most likely an acquisition from the Goodwill.<br /><br />“Well, good. Ash’s already been in. Says the water is perfect. Should be. Phil bought an old pump this year and fixed it up.” She looks me over from head to toe. “You bring a suit this year?”<br /><br />I feel my face turning red. Yes, I have gained weight in the past year, but I wish Sal wouldn’t be so obvious in her scrutiny. “Yeah, I brought one,” I say, with a bit of an edge in my voice.<br /><br />“No need to snap at me. Just checking to see if you wanted to borrow Katey’s old suit.”<br /><br />“I’m quite capable of buying my own.”<br /><br />“Well, I never know with you.”<br /><br />I just can’t believe how presumptuous she can be sometimes. I just want to tell her off, say something mean about the dog shit all over the back porch, but, instead, I go into the bedroom where I throw on my basic black bathing suit and an Orioles’ tee-shirt. I sling a beach towel over my shoulder.<br /><br />When I return, Sheldon is struggling through the front door with our bags, pillows, and other travel debris from the Jetta.<br /><br />I don’t offer to throw on my clothes to help clean out the car. I get a certain satisfaction from watching the long-suffering Sheldon carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, especially when he so willingly assumes it and then gets pissed when I refuse to suffer along beside him.<br /><br />Instead, I head straight for Aunt Sal’s swimming pool and jump in. Icy, shocking almost, at least for that first slice through the water–my moment of clarity. I feel light and buoyant in a forgiving environment–it doesn’t matter what I weigh here.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpFEMA-SV5daskya19y_DjroUskhj7sgFxqDhJGVYgLz2HKkAjr5j7ofWlY3YaS5BtbdxfzJYfzXT4RDq8OLpZdvczqK4l1gtoTXqxlqkWdrVcNIgsVCQtgOrG7tqJYzUuCiqLQAQJMkU/s1600-h/swimmingdiffusesmall.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpFEMA-SV5daskya19y_DjroUskhj7sgFxqDhJGVYgLz2HKkAjr5j7ofWlY3YaS5BtbdxfzJYfzXT4RDq8OLpZdvczqK4l1gtoTXqxlqkWdrVcNIgsVCQtgOrG7tqJYzUuCiqLQAQJMkU/s400/swimmingdiffusesmall.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5200498290975667714" /></a><br />I love being alone in the pool; it becomes my personal space and gives me time to think about the reunion and Ruby’s arrival.<br /><br />Will she like the family? Will they like her?<br /><br />As I swim laps, I think about the first time I met Ruby as an adult. We had been writing since 1977, ever since Nana tracked down her address and phone number through a detective agency and forwarded them to me with orders to “call your sister and get something going here.” I had been afraid that she would just want to be left alone.<br /><br />I was afraid she would reject me, just like Mother and Daddy Platts had rejected both of us. But she didn’t. She wrote back a long letter, a tentative piece of prose outlining sketchy details of her growing up years in Hot Springs, Arkansas. Years later, another letter would come, describing in specific, vivid detail what I can only imagine: that old psychopath aunt whipping my baby sister for no reason at all and calling her dirty names. I still have that letter, a letter that I’ve only read twice, once alone, and once...But I just can’t think of that right now, it’s just too hard.<br /><br />Three years ago, Shel and I drove to Arkansas to visit her, Raymond, and the kids in the little rock house they were renting at the time. I’ll never forget my first glimpse of the adult Ruby: her thin silhouette–a stream of smoke coming from her cigarette–framed in the doorway of the little rock house as we pulled up in her driveway. I don’t know what I had been expecting exactly; maybe I was still looking for that lost 22-month-old child.<br /><br />All I know is that when Ruby left my life, she took something important, something that really should have been saved for my Nicole.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1697007331716837110.post-52026619034241027552008-05-13T18:04:00.003-04:002011-05-15T23:59:21.075-04:00Part I: Journeys (Chapter 21)<div align="center"><strong><font color="#ff6600" size="5">Journeys</font></strong></div><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeOTQoArKXrYqucJAOnIbV9p9uH50QkELVhQfwKkFgVejRfYyRC-hEj8FYt65fnchvfZNQ401zfkx-GZKZleu4V9qK66my1ITX_mvRjdaQaXHxnoQOGyPpc56T4R83FZEQhfwt3hAuepU/s1600-h/SS+Card+Blue.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeOTQoArKXrYqucJAOnIbV9p9uH50QkELVhQfwKkFgVejRfYyRC-hEj8FYt65fnchvfZNQ401zfkx-GZKZleu4V9qK66my1ITX_mvRjdaQaXHxnoQOGyPpc56T4R83FZEQhfwt3hAuepU/s400/SS+Card+Blue.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5200474909173708242" /></a><br />We just thought it was for the best, Sammy. Pappa and me were 61 years old, what were we going to do with a two-year-old? We were tired, honey, signing papers for social security, and we wouldn’t make a whole lot on social security, don’t you know?<br /><br />You’ve got to understand how it was then. Pappa and me just wanted some time together to do things, maybe travel some–though, as it turned out, your Pap didn’t like to travel anyway, but that’s beside the point.<br /><br />We thought the aunt in Hot Springs would be a good mother to Ruby, she promised to be a good mother and raise the baby as a devout Catholic. She said Ruby’d be the daughter she never had.<br /><br />In my wildest dreams, I never imagined it’d turn out the way it did. When Vivian Platts wrote and said “don’t come,” I just assumed she meant it’d be rough on the child, you know, figuring out her people. It’s not good to confuse kids about family matters. I never thought she was beating on the kid.<br /><br />Sometimes I still wonder if Ruby’s not just imagining things a little.<br /><br />Don’t think it was an easy decision for us. We talked about it for days on end.<br /><br />If it’s any consolation, we almost took her, but when Dean told us about his sister, well, it changed things. Said she was divorced and couldn’t have kids and really wanted Ruby. It seemed selfish to deprive a woman of motherhood.<br /><br />Don’t all women want kids, even you, Samantha?<br /><br />We knew it’d be hard on you for a while, but I thought you’d get over it. I mean, you never really got to know her, did you?<br /><br />Still, if I’da known...<br /><br />But that’s all water under the bridge, isn’t it?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1697007331716837110.post-55190235940030262792008-05-08T23:02:00.003-04:002011-05-15T23:57:47.857-04:00Part I: Journeys (Chapter 20)<div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff6600;">Journeys</span></strong></div><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1ld6_vh7k4R1EwYRFI1BuAW2ZmSUd65V8axzUQIQKdtgdoodo2vBk10WMtmZaecQ6A6DOpIdAWEPZLiE2umztAdQZ7XxtoC1oNcRhJkp1ulF-wUfx3S6RjV5ts6sI95hc6njtJXL32Bo/s1600-h/Mo+Water+Color.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198260741478218354" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1ld6_vh7k4R1EwYRFI1BuAW2ZmSUd65V8axzUQIQKdtgdoodo2vBk10WMtmZaecQ6A6DOpIdAWEPZLiE2umztAdQZ7XxtoC1oNcRhJkp1ulF-wUfx3S6RjV5ts6sI95hc6njtJXL32Bo/s400/Mo+Water+Color.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />After Sal and Phil get home from the Happy Haven Nursing Home, where Nana now lives, we decide to go to North Sioux for a few beers, maybe play a few slots.<br /><br />“Think we should visit Nana first?” Shel asks.<br /><br />“When I left, Ma wasn’t feeling too good. They gave her a sleeping pill, so she’ll be out for the night.”<br /><br />“So she won’t get bent out of shape if we don’t stop tonight?”<br /><br />“I doubt it. Though she WAS a little worried about your getting here in time for the reunion.”<br /><br />“Wouldn’t miss this event for all the world,” Shel says.<br /><br />“Maybe I’ll call and leave a message at the desk,” Sal says, already dialing the number.<br /><br />“Nan asked about Ruby,” Phil says, cracking open a PBR. “I think she’s a little nervous about meeting her.”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_bC02txUQ-Pyhn7_t-8zR7qeGhXb0HjzuaZWZoRHjjOOE_frnH3flxVKfIhXGjf0NfhHke86OLc0SXErUZRB2Q4cVERpQkazOIOIQm6AgU4cA5GKIWMpHksO1SyqL7onh5y4TnUGgkUo/s1600-h/PBR+Poster.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_bC02txUQ-Pyhn7_t-8zR7qeGhXb0HjzuaZWZoRHjjOOE_frnH3flxVKfIhXGjf0NfhHke86OLc0SXErUZRB2Q4cVERpQkazOIOIQm6AgU4cA5GKIWMpHksO1SyqL7onh5y4TnUGgkUo/s400/PBR+Poster.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198263631991208578" /></a><br />“God knows I am,” Sal says, cupping her hand over the receiver.<br /><br />“It’ll be okay,” I say.<br /><br />Phil takes a swallow of beer. “Where’s that Nikki-girl, anyway?”<br /><br />I knew that, sooner or later, this question was coming. I’m just glad that Phil’s the one who asked it.<br /><br />“Nikki wanted to come,” I say. “But she just couldn’t get time off from her job.”<br /><br />*<br /><br />The Mallorys are good about leaving important things behind. I don’t understand why we have so much difficulty hanging onto our people. I mean, it’s not like misplacing a notebook or something else as equally replaceable. We’re talking about our flesh and blood.<br /><br />Take Ruby, for instance. I’ve always wanted to ask Nana why we left Ruby behind, why we couldn’t have brought her back to Sioux City with us. God knows we had enough family around here to help out with raising her. Now it’s too late. How can I ask a dying person such a question?<br /><br />Still, I need answers, lots of answers.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1697007331716837110.post-65542736826222482322008-05-08T18:02:00.002-04:002011-05-15T23:56:25.229-04:00Part I: Journeys (Chapter 19)<div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff6600;">Journeys</span></strong></div><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh17W15u7my1e0dnGpfKxH80bZfs5PM2UPcH0OPlMq4Dr4EyXVe-B9JvafOhixbxDj-9p11z0nBtMR2z86ztotybjZsrMUlwsQhteLBLtfO1ZLfBDBsWME6KqpoLZXXKLEajjmgsnib_T4/s1600-h/Princess+Dress+3+edges.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198254638329690706" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh17W15u7my1e0dnGpfKxH80bZfs5PM2UPcH0OPlMq4Dr4EyXVe-B9JvafOhixbxDj-9p11z0nBtMR2z86ztotybjZsrMUlwsQhteLBLtfO1ZLfBDBsWME6KqpoLZXXKLEajjmgsnib_T4/s400/Princess+Dress+3+edges.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />The house is dark and cold. Where’s Nana? She’s got to be somewhere here, don’t she?<br /><br />I walked home from school ALL BY MYSELF!!! I’m five years old, a BIG girl. I crossed West 7th Street and Otoe, too. Well, the crossing guard stopped the cars, but I wasn’t afraid, so there.<br /><br />I want some cookies. Where are you, Nana?<br /><br />It was my turn to be princess today. I got to wear the princess dress. Ronnie O’Hara got to wear the cowboy costume. He’s mean. Kept shooting me with his gun.<br /><br />Bang! Bang! He said I’d be dead if I didn’t leave him alone. I didn’t do nothin’ to him. I just wanted to play house.<br /><br />Nana?<br /><br />Miss Pritchard wouldn’t let me out to play, ‘cuz she said the dress might get dirty. Said I had to sit at my desk and fold my hands like a good girl. I couldn’t even color. But Ronnie got to go out. I told Miss Pritchard I wanted to wear the cowboy suit tomorrow.<br /><br />She said girls don’t wear cowboy suits.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcgD6uZgol7lo_rcJ9D-G2Ulj8G5BWb2R876KUx2DI8trF-WGnZ_3pwmfRM3EZ6rpyF49BS7r1l0hq3exl4e2gB2E4jqnTgmphyphenhyphenDEpyuEtzXh4aMSC_bTsC9u-CM7SC5O3VVUvXhvoB1w/s1600-h/Cowboy+Boots+Accent.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198255209560341090" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcgD6uZgol7lo_rcJ9D-G2Ulj8G5BWb2R876KUx2DI8trF-WGnZ_3pwmfRM3EZ6rpyF49BS7r1l0hq3exl4e2gB2E4jqnTgmphyphenhyphenDEpyuEtzXh4aMSC_bTsC9u-CM7SC5O3VVUvXhvoB1w/s400/Cowboy+Boots+Accent.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />I don’t want to be the princess no more.<br /><br />Nana????<br /><br />So I takes that stupid ‘ole dress off. I throws it away, and put my own clothes back on. Then I goes outside.<br /><br />“Where’s that pretty dress?” Miss Pritchard asked.<br /><br />“I threw it away! It’s ugly!”<br /><br />She made me go back inside and hang it up. Then I had to stand in the corner ALL DAY.<br /><br />Nana??? Nana??? Nana???<br /><br />I hate kindergarten. I don’t never wanna go back.<br /><br />Nana? Where are you? NANA!<br /><br /><em>NANA!!!!!!</em><br /><br />“What’s the matter, Samantha?” Nana whispers. “I’m right here.”<br /><br />“Please don’t go away!”<br /><br />“We’re going to California tomorrow.”<br /><br />“Why?”<br /><br />“Your mama wants you.”<br /><br />“You’re my mama.”<br /><br />“No, honey. I’m your Nana. Your mama lives in California with your new daddy.”<br /><br />“You’re my mama.”<br /><br />“You’re going to live with her and your new daddy.”<br /><br />“Pappa’s my daddy.”<br /><br />“Your new daddy is Dean Platts.”<br /><br />“Pappa’s my daddy.”<br /><br />“And your mama’s going to have a baby. You’re going to have a baby brother or sister.”<br /><br />“You’re my mama.”<br /><br />“You don’t have to go back to kindergarten.”<br /><br />“Where’s California?”Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1697007331716837110.post-56150707057642139062008-05-06T21:59:00.002-04:002011-05-15T23:54:37.971-04:00Part I: Journeys (Chapter 18)<div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff6600;">Journeys</span></strong></div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-XcK776Q87LLMk4G4rsSsrvFq5Z48ZoOC51mBN50v3Xig-sQOaf9HxHeMJC_S2eyIWBdrDZBXGmU99V2NYLLgE6WF0zaSnpP55Ng9ni9NneL9IfKgPGdxgCRdFphsHIHvhk3sKbLvClA/s1600-h/Sioux+City+Aalfs+Poster.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5197488397588500626" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-XcK776Q87LLMk4G4rsSsrvFq5Z48ZoOC51mBN50v3Xig-sQOaf9HxHeMJC_S2eyIWBdrDZBXGmU99V2NYLLgE6WF0zaSnpP55Ng9ni9NneL9IfKgPGdxgCRdFphsHIHvhk3sKbLvClA/s400/Sioux+City+Aalfs+Poster.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Visiting Sioux City once a year is a little bit like Christmas. The anticipation promises more than the reality. I know this, but every year, I think that things will be different, that all my relatives and old friends will drop their lives for the sole purpose of entertaining me.<br /><br />“Look who’s blown into town,” I imagine everyone saying as Shel and I swing onto the Hamilton Blvd. exit in our red Jetta with the blue Pennsylvania plate. The girl who moved east and married a big time psychologist and professor. If they only knew...<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfmeDlw7q1ia7REJH6GOLuEJ6rAKV_MW_m49O_4wtPKu7cX6if7oUnUWimSKDOjli0UHxR0Yf5wgaj07UOCa-CsUT2T6c9r7DK7rg9j3EfksGh47fTMr7Vww1tU1L1WmkrboUT6RIVlEs/s1600-h/Sioux+City+Hi-Vee+dry.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5197488754070786210" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfmeDlw7q1ia7REJH6GOLuEJ6rAKV_MW_m49O_4wtPKu7cX6if7oUnUWimSKDOjli0UHxR0Yf5wgaj07UOCa-CsUT2T6c9r7DK7rg9j3EfksGh47fTMr7Vww1tU1L1WmkrboUT6RIVlEs/s400/Sioux+City+Hi-Vee+dry.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />As we head for Sal’s via Hamilton Boulevard and West 14th Street, I’m disappointed when I see Sioux City people doing what people anywhere would do: shopping at the Hy-Vee, hanging out at the old Lippman’s store, walking their dogs along West 7th, hitting afternoon Bingo at the V.F.W.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj67dy3_YrzL2viarrYdsaMZ2DHZfs-L7aZFAyH0VU-32ROOOb-KHkQpU-e9MefEaLtfICjrJbf7vw-YQidLKMfSKFMdx4tpU8gyhlAZsnpYtZ_C1AaTJJ-zKyaFCg-jpPPN6H0YxdwlV4/s1600-h/VFW+Bingo+Water+Color.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5197489381136011442" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj67dy3_YrzL2viarrYdsaMZ2DHZfs-L7aZFAyH0VU-32ROOOb-KHkQpU-e9MefEaLtfICjrJbf7vw-YQidLKMfSKFMdx4tpU8gyhlAZsnpYtZ_C1AaTJJ-zKyaFCg-jpPPN6H0YxdwlV4/s400/VFW+Bingo+Water+Color.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />And I’m always surprised at how dirty and small the town seems: litter everywhere, empty lots overgrown with crabgrass, broken glass in the streets, old clapboard houses with peeling paint, the stench of the stockyards hanging in the air, the air heavy with wavering heat and humidity. I don’t remember these scenes and smells from my youth.<br /><br />Somehow, the visions and smells of way-back-when include foot-deep snow, the fog of my breath as I walked to school, the odor of the Wonder Bread factory distracting me during first period Algebra–maybe just a dirty world covered by a blanket of snow, after all.<br /><br />And when we arrive at Sal’s, tired and hungry, no one is home. Shel and I climb over the fence in the backyard and scrounge around on the back porch for the key that Sal has sworn is in the old dresser drawers. I take comfort in the fact that nothing here has changed: old rags, a torn bingo card, dog and kid toys, bones, auto parts, old pots and pans–-and even occasional piles of dried dog shit–-still litter the porch. When my cousins were young, Sal’s house always smelled like piss, shit, and sour milk, odors I have always associated with big, happy families.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2ojKo3d3k7p5ZjALfnvL6aN5DgEFNAsRr6t77uOW8EC_Lh0Q96pJ_rGhctKpwqzUgBEUrl-Ta1gNxKiJ1AwwLHlZy8ftj8oER2SpGkdiLCmC-Bpv0HHS40z-wpbP1p54MX73KU5M7DTQ/s1600-h/Bingo+card+cutout.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5197489720438427842" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2ojKo3d3k7p5ZjALfnvL6aN5DgEFNAsRr6t77uOW8EC_Lh0Q96pJ_rGhctKpwqzUgBEUrl-Ta1gNxKiJ1AwwLHlZy8ftj8oER2SpGkdiLCmC-Bpv0HHS40z-wpbP1p54MX73KU5M7DTQ/s400/Bingo+card+cutout.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />I don’t know what I would do if Sal suddenly became a cleaning freak. Probably flip out and go back to Pennsylvania. Sal’s sloppiness drives Sheldon nuts, but I find it comforting in a world that already places too much importance on the expected and the ordinary. I like the fact that Sal doesn’t give a damn what others think about her housekeeping and vow that I’ll work on caring less, too.<br /><br />By the time Shel and I find the key among the old, gray jockey underwear and tattered swimming trunks that Sal keeps for her grandkids, Ashley, my cousin, arrives home from work and, without breaking stride, sidesteps a pile of doggie-do.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitOA6HvOWCdnu-SHIrxs-Hsc26gOag3LPl_1nOsAebIu52oNyah0_hCfU2raYExymuqk1y2wra7NTEuam0MZ60cslCC3kpW60f0YE_NrkEUTxDvvXQ-qkEpUdlKpmMd3614PBx-3Fi4Us/s1600-h/Keys2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5197495647493296338" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitOA6HvOWCdnu-SHIrxs-Hsc26gOag3LPl_1nOsAebIu52oNyah0_hCfU2raYExymuqk1y2wra7NTEuam0MZ60cslCC3kpW60f0YE_NrkEUTxDvvXQ-qkEpUdlKpmMd3614PBx-3Fi4Us/s400/Keys2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />“Oh, good. You found the key,” she says as if she sees us every day instead of once a year. “Forgot mine this morning.”Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1697007331716837110.post-65465625863401044772008-05-06T17:59:00.002-04:002011-05-15T23:53:08.289-04:00Part I: Journeys (Chapter 17)<div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff6600;">Journeys</span></strong></div><br /><div align="center"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQLYx6CNaKUszzM8lSCGaiKqaTLSfrdA6zJAnZluz2PbfELGx8LWYTYIzKYchzB0iZear9wyyACvZNDkryfgV3KLyLW6M-1tpryLSVsFfB_szgezYwMnZAMZSSNvwWsxeqqEpg2X12VEA/s1600-h/Sioux+City+Street+Scene+2+Extrude+Sharpen.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5197477677350129778" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQLYx6CNaKUszzM8lSCGaiKqaTLSfrdA6zJAnZluz2PbfELGx8LWYTYIzKYchzB0iZear9wyyACvZNDkryfgV3KLyLW6M-1tpryLSVsFfB_szgezYwMnZAMZSSNvwWsxeqqEpg2X12VEA/s400/Sioux+City+Street+Scene+2+Extrude+Sharpen.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><strong>I-29 North–Passing by the Sioux City Auditorium</strong></div><br />Shel asks me why I’m so quiet all of a sudden. How can I tell him that we are too close to Aunt Sal’s, and I have nothing else to say?<br /><br />Besides, I’m still no closer to making a decision about the grant.<br /><br />Grant, grant, grant, grant, grant. The goddamn grant. In the past few days, I almost slipped up about the grant, but I know it’s best to keep quiet about it. What good would it do? Shel, the big time shrink, would never close up his practice for a year to go gallivanting around France while I paint indulgent self-portraits. His work is everything, it’s what defines him. Without prestige and the trappings that go with his title, Shel is just another scared little boy who wants his female figure around.<br /><br />So if I go, I go alone. And if I go alone, he’ll divorce me on general principle. I think he has this fear that if I go away, I won’t come back. He might be right, and I’m not yet ready to face that possibility.<br /><br />I’m more confused than ever, so what’s the point of saying anything else?<br /><br />*<br /><br />As we hit the periphery of town, I notice that Sioux City seems scruffy and low rent, its age lines cutting deeper into the texture of my youth. Even the auditorium looks run down now, the parking lot warped and cracked, crabgrass and weeds pushing through the concrete.<br /><br />Was it like this last year?<br /><br />The building looks like an overgrown yellow-brick hull now, the old curved vent pipes on the roof rusting out. But when I was in high school, the auditorium was the place to be, especially when the Caravan of Stars hit town with headliners like Chad and Jeremy, Gerry and the Pacemakers, Herman’s Hermits, Freddy and the Dreamers, Gary Lewis and the Playboys, and Peter and Gordon.<br /><br />I could sing then–pubescent screams drowned out my voice, so no one could hear how awful I sounded.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4MWseQrWs-xVnoW3U59_98jiq7g9p11_d468G6drShS52NHVow8ugwW-WahFQEIscAvNpvp6Qd7H7OtpXgDxu74AOTcrmi11P3eRkDArZ0u3qldltrVozkJxIe7J0BujUac_PWWkiK_I/s1600-h/Girl+Singing+Plastic.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5197476745342226530" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 310px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 348px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" height="98" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4MWseQrWs-xVnoW3U59_98jiq7g9p11_d468G6drShS52NHVow8ugwW-WahFQEIscAvNpvp6Qd7H7OtpXgDxu74AOTcrmi11P3eRkDArZ0u3qldltrVozkJxIe7J0BujUac_PWWkiK_I/s400/Girl+Singing+Plastic.jpg" width="101" border="0" /></a><br /><br />And I’d belt out lyrics like “So Ferry ‘cross the Mersey!” and no one would notice or even care how awful I sounded, my voice alternating between a squeak and a crack.<br /><br />Even before that, I remember our sixth grade choir–wearing red beanies, white blouses with red scarves, black skirts–belting out “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling” under the hot lights of KVTV Channel 9. And the auditorium would be filled with our families and friends, even though it was a school day.<br /><br />But now it looks as though nothing much goes on in there anymore.<br /><br />*<br /><br />As we approach the Hamilton Boulevard exit, I think about Nicole at the Circle of Love compound, waiting for her baby’s birth.<br /><br />My first grandchild.<br /><br />I wonder if she’s excited or scared. Maybe both.<br /><br />I’ll never forget the day Nicole was born, how strange it felt when she slid out of my body, wet and slippery. Like she’d been suctioned out by a vacuum cleaner. It all happened so fast, no pain. The pain would come later.<br /><br />And then I held her, this child with black hair and red skin. Blue eyes those first few weeks. That’s one thing Doug could never take away from me–the moment Nikki and I became mother and daughter. But what has happened since then? Am I really so awful as a mother?<br /><br />I almost tell Shel to pull over at the Amoco Station on Hamilton and West 8th so that I can call Nikki and tell her to come to Sioux City after all. That I miss her and want her here.<br /><br />Nana. I know how Nana would react, the things she would say to me when she’d see Nikki’s belly and no wedding ring.<br /><br />We pass by the station and turn onto West 14th Street.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsrMQsrJOI3qzX48scQljm1von3SmxS35fKYmIycLga7ufE6xcQA-XS6qpnmk2MBIg_DhiHQb6v7OhnmaJoVASICnsShMuZu3mBEvMpkFFeKm6nvupRUHQoykhPyJFO30he87ed5h_AGQ/s1600-h/Amoco+Station+Cutout.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5197480524913447042" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsrMQsrJOI3qzX48scQljm1von3SmxS35fKYmIycLga7ufE6xcQA-XS6qpnmk2MBIg_DhiHQb6v7OhnmaJoVASICnsShMuZu3mBEvMpkFFeKm6nvupRUHQoykhPyJFO30he87ed5h_AGQ/s400/Amoco+Station+Cutout.jpg" border="0" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1697007331716837110.post-82196594700909850712008-05-04T18:00:00.008-04:002011-05-15T23:51:38.597-04:00Part I: Journeys (Chapter 16)<div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff6600;">Journeys</span></strong></div><div align="center"><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU906frHPz7siYWUoXHa-VTWImVi15iBZgcxW6xHctrJ-L_U_egz8A-Fr8ZwsIy2lgGcMeOZPyMB51gXQcGRWjl8V7tq6xXhOB1sN56ukUEvnNLG8wssTwvQ-a382prS6irHQuxmMh-0A/s1600-h/Choir+3+lilac.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5196736297275363362" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU906frHPz7siYWUoXHa-VTWImVi15iBZgcxW6xHctrJ-L_U_egz8A-Fr8ZwsIy2lgGcMeOZPyMB51gXQcGRWjl8V7tq6xXhOB1sN56ukUEvnNLG8wssTwvQ-a382prS6irHQuxmMh-0A/s400/Choir+3+lilac.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><strong>I-29 & I-680–Northbound</strong><br /></div><br />You kid me now about being off key, but I used to have a pretty good voice. Did you know that? Well, it’s true. In seventh grade choir, I had this lilting soprano that bounced back and forth throughout the church, even during Requiem Mass.<br /><br />You’ve never really lived until you’ve heard “Dies Irae” belted out by a 12-year old soprano in the throes of a hormone war: <em>Dies Irae, dies illa</em>,/ <em>Solvet saecleum in favilla</em>:/ <em>Teste David cum Sybylla</em>./ <em>Quantus tremor est futurus</em>,/ <em>Quando Judex est venturus</em>,/ <em>Cuncta stricte discussurus!</em>/ <em>Tuba, mirum spargens sonum, Per sepulcra regionum</em>..../<br /><br />Who cares what it MEANS? Supposedly knocked off three years Purgatory time every time we sang it.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5E_w_g8h8G1JfjwrSr9ebR5SfTFQrcev-4nXJnU0vBBD41kAXjqrtLhpSrEyBzxQ-VzXKTbGeeXMAngeeMhQviimWZncz5LOph4qnjeyHZnxN2BXfyr0-41pmHUoWMJpwMxtGmATAYgk/s1600-h/singing+nun+5--dry+brush+red.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5196741322387099698" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5E_w_g8h8G1JfjwrSr9ebR5SfTFQrcev-4nXJnU0vBBD41kAXjqrtLhpSrEyBzxQ-VzXKTbGeeXMAngeeMhQviimWZncz5LOph4qnjeyHZnxN2BXfyr0-41pmHUoWMJpwMxtGmATAYgk/s400/singing+nun+5--dry+brush+red.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />“Remember, Samantha Anne,” the nun who directed the choir always warned before Requiem Mass, “no Indulgences if you sing too loud.”<br /><br />Then when I turned 13, my voice began to crack somewhere between a soprano and an alto, and I gained 15 pounds.<br /><br />So the voice went, but the hormones raged on–<br /><br />For the rest of the year, the fat child stopped singing, lip-synching her way through eighth grade choir. I lost a lot of Indulgences, I’m sure, maybe even backsliding a bit.<br /><br />And then high school and the unavoidable hootenannies and sing-alongs....More lip-synching.<br /><br />Even now, I don’t like singing in public. It’s just too down and dirty personal. You’re just too goddamn vulnerable when you open your mouth wide and sing from the gut like the choir nun wanted us to do. You never know what’s going to come out.<br /><br />Or go in.<br /><br />Besides, I’ve never been able to figure out what would REALLY happen if the fat lady sang.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC1NfhP3sHJ9u-C2DydJqK21q0BUCZjK_SX-wlveyCREmTIknNNP4oPp5y-cvllehUXRVSo_BGBRgxMqSmJ59huD8UAtwk2V-SvyScR2mulyx9fvv6W0-JlYfva-QXkzZRJqwhoLmiglY/s1600-h/fat+lady+sings+2--watercolor.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5196741803423436866" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC1NfhP3sHJ9u-C2DydJqK21q0BUCZjK_SX-wlveyCREmTIknNNP4oPp5y-cvllehUXRVSo_BGBRgxMqSmJ59huD8UAtwk2V-SvyScR2mulyx9fvv6W0-JlYfva-QXkzZRJqwhoLmiglY/s400/fat+lady+sings+2--watercolor.jpg" border="0" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1697007331716837110.post-63275259562411752852008-05-04T17:57:00.001-04:002011-05-15T23:45:45.397-04:00Part I: Journeys (Chapter 15)<div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff6600;">Journeys</span></strong></div><br /><div align="center"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAn2Xpimgp6KjH5UFsc4z5bS6A2Kj3CRVU5Tfhb_TpYo1ne0xolhthd3NjjIOAoYeBNUlTlllT5oSpFbe8kAiKun9q-0LEArYvvvrTlo5auIU3C2XPy8WMcwzoIMC4kDOB-D8W6m_SXhk/s1600-h/Altar+Boy+3+Dry+Brush+Bright.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5196686419820154818" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAn2Xpimgp6KjH5UFsc4z5bS6A2Kj3CRVU5Tfhb_TpYo1ne0xolhthd3NjjIOAoYeBNUlTlllT5oSpFbe8kAiKun9q-0LEArYvvvrTlo5auIU3C2XPy8WMcwzoIMC4kDOB-D8W6m_SXhk/s400/Altar+Boy+3+Dry+Brush+Bright.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><strong>Westbound on I-80–Council Bluffs, IA</strong></div><br />At 14, my cousin Danny decided to become a priest.<br /><br />“Don’t tell anyone,” he said when he first told me about his vocation.<br />It seems he was always swearing me to secrecy about one damn thing or another.<br /><br />Oh, never mind. I don’t know what I meant, I was just thinking aloud. Things just sort of happened in those days, and they never really meant anything.<br /><br />I don’t want to talk about it.<br /><br />Maybe another time.<br /><br />Now, where was I? Oh, yes.<br /><br />So I said I wouldn’t tell a soul. I didn’t know why he chose me as his confidante–that is, until he asked me to play his altar boy.<br /><br />It was the summer just before my 12th birthday. I was staying with Danny’s family that year, while Nana and Pappa took a cross-country trip.<br /><br />Danny practiced his calling by saying Mass in his backyard on a make-shift altar: an old door on two sawhorses, covered with a white sheet.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjyKSZoFiL9Ba4pyzaA11NWSB_y_C1jiai_NrEzZEltMPUA0__R3JDklTNkQz8LQnIkQYPO-R8tZQo2v9-ruIvhJgHjjIcoDqjXg4HY-r74VOwRpoKqHwJ3CL6a1FfYVaorVdZttSvuns/s1600-h/altar+boy+and+girl+negative+closeup.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5196686956691066834" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjyKSZoFiL9Ba4pyzaA11NWSB_y_C1jiai_NrEzZEltMPUA0__R3JDklTNkQz8LQnIkQYPO-R8tZQo2v9-ruIvhJgHjjIcoDqjXg4HY-r74VOwRpoKqHwJ3CL6a1FfYVaorVdZttSvuns/s400/altar+boy+and+girl+negative+closeup.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />I was his altar boy. Every day, rain or shine, we would rise at dawn, sneak downstairs, set up the altar, and begin, <em>In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen</em>. Then Danny would say, <em>Introibo ad altare Dei</em>. And I would answer, <em>Ad Deum qui laetificat juventutem meam</em>.<br /><br />I went along with all this because girls weren’t supposed to be altar boys–we weren’t even allowed behind the Communion rail, unless we were making our First Communion or helping the nuns to “tidy up” God’s space. The sanctuary was definitely off limits to girls.<br /><br />And I’ve always wanted to be doing what I wasn’t supposed to be doing.<br /><br />One day, Aunt Gwen caught us. I thought she was going to smack us for acting so sacrilegious, but, instead, she offered to whip up some vestments and a cloth for our make-shift altar.<br /><br />By summer’s end, Danny owned an Alb, a white linen inner garment; a set of Chasubles (outer vestments) in liturgical colors–white, red, purple, green, dusty rose, gold, and black; a Maniple for the left forearm; and several Stoles, long “scarves” for around the neck. For me, Aunt Gwen made a simple red Alb and a white outer smock.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGAbFPeD0SqX35-5yIJSv1ZdOBH595ej4Mq4ep6op0MErOFnoqtYE1Moz5JxO4j8aa4r24OjTCC5AtQC8WPPIyS39Fu4K-uTrzsuuSvrO5Gmi1_h3-NBAcDEycSHyKYXZ-faXFr7wQkww/s1600-h/Chalice+3+small.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5196692132126658546" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGAbFPeD0SqX35-5yIJSv1ZdOBH595ej4Mq4ep6op0MErOFnoqtYE1Moz5JxO4j8aa4r24OjTCC5AtQC8WPPIyS39Fu4K-uTrzsuuSvrO5Gmi1_h3-NBAcDEycSHyKYXZ-faXFr7wQkww/s400/Chalice+3+small.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Somehow, my aunt obtained a Chalice and a real Chalice cloth. And she figured out a way to bake Communion Hosts so that we no longer had to cut them out from slices of Wonder Bread with a bottle cap.<br /><br />I felt like a real altar boy. And I continued serving Mass for Danny–that is, until the weekend of President Kennedy’s funeral, the same weekend my friend P. J. Bert told me I would turn into a boy if I didn’t stop it.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhH2dr9rGMEqqQ1-irELA6CTKQJMsSSlz0UpYCn_QDDXyFxu1jPZtK-oH9Ve5q_07IrNTS95oV26KVIq2U5NlWpixx2yrSim7w_6u_ua9vvreVxE8XpJDHQ1JdpDwD_Ax3sKvUITs4FoU/s1600-h/Altar+Boy+Water+color.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5196693008299986962" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhH2dr9rGMEqqQ1-irELA6CTKQJMsSSlz0UpYCn_QDDXyFxu1jPZtK-oH9Ve5q_07IrNTS95oV26KVIq2U5NlWpixx2yrSim7w_6u_ua9vvreVxE8XpJDHQ1JdpDwD_Ax3sKvUITs4FoU/s400/Altar+Boy+Water+color.jpg" border="0" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1697007331716837110.post-26363937695457109282008-05-02T20:06:00.001-04:002011-05-15T23:43:47.046-04:00Part I: Journeys (Chapter 14)<div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff6600;">Journeys</span></strong></div><br /><br /><br /><p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFAnVpB-keYBlxWXvzAjZWCCtvzekgT2aiYVqqXHRwolJcauRzBHlHKctEwsOo777mxPP9_YlZXnI0cck5mQAYeVt6qLHe4XPh41lomNXgDjlB5ThB8rw7esTT1KFG7_-PaoyjYUFrrCw/s1600-h/ABCDEF.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195979975009374050" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFAnVpB-keYBlxWXvzAjZWCCtvzekgT2aiYVqqXHRwolJcauRzBHlHKctEwsOo777mxPP9_YlZXnI0cck5mQAYeVt6qLHe4XPh41lomNXgDjlB5ThB8rw7esTT1KFG7_-PaoyjYUFrrCw/s400/ABCDEF.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><strong>Westbound on I-80, Exit 142–Des Moines, IA</strong> </p><p></p><p>I have coded each number to a color: one is yellow; two, lilac blue; three, yellow orange; four, pinkish red; five, light blue; six, brownish gray; seven, green; eight, ivory; nine, grayish green; ten, yellow with a spot of orange; eleven, a really light blue, almost white; thirteen, orange; fourteen, pink; fifteen, bluish gray; sixteen, gray; seventeen, dark green; eighteen, ivory yellow; nineteen, dark grayish green; and twenty, dark blue. And these are not ordinary colors, but neon-like. I do the same with letters, words, and passages. How else does one enjoy language and color together?<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYu9njs9XYevCYhyzJzHJciID_gk-NvTFxl43L4Sq69oQRCbuTpr_jwq5xXo4fplRq4z6vSectIybpDXoyrJpNIgFpIdGYuLFouEqRqOUkU8yHaN4TzDrKP3dtVenPblZtjLVVbS6Zpto/s1600-h/ABCDEFBackwards.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195980421685972850" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYu9njs9XYevCYhyzJzHJciID_gk-NvTFxl43L4Sq69oQRCbuTpr_jwq5xXo4fplRq4z6vSectIybpDXoyrJpNIgFpIdGYuLFouEqRqOUkU8yHaN4TzDrKP3dtVenPblZtjLVVbS6Zpto/s400/ABCDEFBackwards.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Synesthesia. I’ve never met anyone else with this ability. I once read an article in <em>Psychology Today</em> about synesthesia, a word that literally means “to perceive simultaneously.” I’ve been perceiving simultaneously all my life, and I just assumed everyone else did. That is, until one day when I happened to mention it to Nikki. She just stared at me, the kind of opened-mouth stare crazy people get when they aggressively babble embarrassing things in public.<br /><br />I was shocked to find out that when the majority of people see numbers and letters on a page, they just see numbers and letters.<br /><br />“You mean you can’t see the colors?”<br /><br />Nikki just shook her head. Then she asked, “Are you sure it wasn’t all the acid you dropped way back when?”<br /><br />I wanted to smack her, but then, I have to decide what battles I want to fight. So I just told her that I’ve always had this ability–or curse, depending on how you look at it. “Curse” is probably the wrong word for my “condition”; after all, it’s never hindered me in any way.<br /><br />I began to wonder if I was suffering from some kind of psychosis or something, that is, until I saw the article. So, maybe I’m not such an oddball; others do experience this phenomenon–I just haven’t found any of them yet.<br /><br />I’ve always associated colors with letters–I think that’s how I learned to read–then whole words, sentences, whole passages, even themes have a dominant color.<br /><br />Shel, do you understand any of what I’m telling you? I thought shrinks were supposed to figure these things out, you know, dual perceptions and all.<br /><br />Oh, I forgot. You don’t go for all that Freud stuff, though I’m not sure this is a Freud sort of thing.<br /><br />Oliver Sachs, maybe.<br /><br />I still use this code, even though I don’t need it anymore. When I read a passage, I not only see the words in terms of their content, but I also see their colors, which is not necessarily the same as their content. Remember “Knowing,” that silly poem I wrote about a year ago? Well, it’s basically a blue-purple poem, because the title is blue-purple. Other colors will jump out at me, but blue-purple dominates. But its theme is a bright shining light, because knowledge is clarity.<br /><br />So as I read or write, I get a shimmering effect from the passage on a purely visual level–words literally become colors, which CAN be a major distraction at times, if I think about what I do consciously. As long as I don’t make a big deal out of it, I’m okay.<br /><br />I know you don’t understand any of this–I have yet to find anyone who does. But I don’t understand anything else.<br /><br />I’m not sure what this all means in terms of defining my life, though. Perhaps I’m smarter because of my ability, but, then again, maybe it scrambles my brain, distracting me from living a truly important life. Maybe if I didn’t see numbers and letters as colors, I’d be crunching statistics for million dollar projects, or maybe, at this very moment, I’d be doing delicate brain surgery. Maybe I’d be less scattered, less of a free spirit, more in step with the world.<br /><br />Maybe I’d be thin.<br /><br />I could ask you what it’s like not experiencing synesthesia. Would you be able to tell me?<br /><br />I think maybe my artistic ability comes from my synesthesia, my way of articulating color onto the palette and into the blank spaces of my life. If only I could fill them with color...<br /><br />I know. I seem to be stuck on Prussian Blue right now, but didn’t Picasso have a blue period? Not that I can match his talent or anything, but wasn’t I good enough....?<br /><br />Oh, it’s nothing. Stop being the shrink for once. Not every utterance has meaning. Save it for your patients.<br /><br />Okay, clients. It’s all the same to me. People go to you for help, I think of patient.<br /><br />Whatever. It’s all semantics.<br /><br />Now getting back: my synesthesia saved my butt from repeating fifth grade.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAy5mcBjUB51fvLnlk7rGag_XVc0uLfdGGO53oRQbM_8SfViTXm3518BY8nMzR7IBpkV3QtmTrnszkAmtGNQcbAeV7q4DQdbbSWdU6BnvXc8W9nsuJiA__KlYwGyauOk_Jj5d_43-85l8/s1600-h/nuns+5+Dark.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195981332219039618" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAy5mcBjUB51fvLnlk7rGag_XVc0uLfdGGO53oRQbM_8SfViTXm3518BY8nMzR7IBpkV3QtmTrnszkAmtGNQcbAeV7q4DQdbbSWdU6BnvXc8W9nsuJiA__KlYwGyauOk_Jj5d_43-85l8/s400/nuns+5+Dark.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />After talking to the principal about my poor math skills, Sister Rose of Lima, the fifth-grade teacher, demoted me, a big strapping girl even in those days, into fourth grade for one day because I didn’t know my times tables. But Mrs. Haverstock, the fourth-grade teacher, sent me back. She said, “This child’s too smart.” No one had ever called me smart before.<br /><br />Even now, I’m afraid that someone will uncover the awful truth about me, that I’m an intellectual fraud.<br /><br />“I am mortified,” Auntie wrote from California to Nana when she found out I was weak in arithmetic, “to think you’re raising such a foolish child.” I know that’s what she said because when no one was looking I sneaked a peek at the letter.<br /><br />To me, she wrote, “If you memorize your times tables by September 1, I’ll send you $100.”<br /><br />I knew I could do it.<br /><br />Besides, if I couldn’t learn my numbers, Nana might ship me back to California for being so stupid.<br /><br />Then I remembered my letters, how their colors had meaning for me.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidxIGL8MK9H4SSSbbuUEbRh-c9zTYqc65R_G1e5LUfbtKVCIIGx1x834TudUrZcyPkuonU4mAHYeEMhimM-3Nx7m84Qb_So7rEbcrYXjUuJIrI_BK7hgbUT8l5RcbiCON1ni5aCDgCxhE/s1600-h/times+tables+outline.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195982122493022114" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidxIGL8MK9H4SSSbbuUEbRh-c9zTYqc65R_G1e5LUfbtKVCIIGx1x834TudUrZcyPkuonU4mAHYeEMhimM-3Nx7m84Qb_So7rEbcrYXjUuJIrI_BK7hgbUT8l5RcbiCON1ni5aCDgCxhE/s400/times+tables+outline.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />It was then I knew I could do the same for numbers.<br /><br />And so, in September, 1961, I was promoted into sixth grade. That same week, Nana and Pappa signed the final adoption papers, and I officially became “Samantha Anne Mallory.”<br /><br />My mother was now legally my sister.<br /><br />Auntie sent me the promised $100 bill.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUvJoDqVOHj-32Ay3UxvhL-vDHzUg9WweF3gRyAKwsSXK6aj5rPFmjtaTeXqk19IGybsxjV0HL9VBzxSFLNa8p15tbWC5y5ef0Qw8bIjviHOJvCjtp_PUao-zucjoa3VVGqzzrAghpJ1o/s1600-h/100+dollar+bill--1966--emboss.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195981710176161682" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUvJoDqVOHj-32Ay3UxvhL-vDHzUg9WweF3gRyAKwsSXK6aj5rPFmjtaTeXqk19IGybsxjV0HL9VBzxSFLNa8p15tbWC5y5ef0Qw8bIjviHOJvCjtp_PUao-zucjoa3VVGqzzrAghpJ1o/s400/100+dollar+bill--1966--emboss.jpg" border="0" /></a> </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1697007331716837110.post-9312413632571857972008-05-02T16:30:00.003-04:002011-05-15T23:42:01.323-04:00Part I: Journeys (Chapter 13)<div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff6600;">Journeys</span></strong></div><br /><br /><p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKmCP-aGjnHVbqyyIL4iCIGYUVaQvcDjXO4Kp37SboLnidr9_jW7tn0l4BCwQBm-HfxI1G6rK9o4upFBQAn_ir7mS1Sl9zZxQjrxlx_xIZFzPN57oEqe5yb6O4E9H-I9o79oQt4mplYCA/s1600-h/funeral+5+water.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195917178292539122" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKmCP-aGjnHVbqyyIL4iCIGYUVaQvcDjXO4Kp37SboLnidr9_jW7tn0l4BCwQBm-HfxI1G6rK9o4upFBQAn_ir7mS1Sl9zZxQjrxlx_xIZFzPN57oEqe5yb6O4E9H-I9o79oQt4mplYCA/s400/funeral+5+water.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><strong>Westbound on I-80, Exit 132–Joliet, IL</strong><br /></p><p></p><p>When I was 10, Nana started dragging me to viewings and funerals. I dreaded going, especially when I couldn’t figure out why I was there. I mean, like knowing the corpse would have been helpful.<br /><br />It all seemed really pointless. I used to wonder if she just flipped through the obits every day to look for juicy prospects–ones that would most likely serve a major spread afterwards (I always thought in terms of food). We always did seem to eat well, my reward for paying my last respects.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmiGLzPICgZk_OaywohNOhnxdNk1d7GJ38iNt8Oze4AiUz0cGmr9JS2bJBNMLIsY1nJfUncYOt9Y6xpSefwnzhFBMOtdxHFBT4KlETEK_TUfvUZ5YK_VQu8vN7sEQH-usgwx2xU9plgcs/s1600-h/casket+2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195917796767829778" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmiGLzPICgZk_OaywohNOhnxdNk1d7GJ38iNt8Oze4AiUz0cGmr9JS2bJBNMLIsY1nJfUncYOt9Y6xpSefwnzhFBMOtdxHFBT4KlETEK_TUfvUZ5YK_VQu8vN7sEQH-usgwx2xU9plgcs/s400/casket+2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Funerals were bad enough, but the viewings were the worst. You had to kneel before the body and say prayers to help speed the dearly departed’s soul to heaven.<br /><br /><em>Attention all Catholic souls! Detour to Purgatory!</em><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHaCyObeJdRn4gA904KPXPiQQjBUB95PwjVJLC7ZzvLQgcnTIPt92gh7y_VmJAMhyphenhyphen5N3uCdqjKxvpvZ0TPKfnGmjc7DIe5TEwljXRMAwqdHze086pOXSHl3mGTjMAdJsYBs9i3m7KQwII/s1600-h/funeral+accent.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195923586383744818" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHaCyObeJdRn4gA904KPXPiQQjBUB95PwjVJLC7ZzvLQgcnTIPt92gh7y_VmJAMhyphenhyphen5N3uCdqjKxvpvZ0TPKfnGmjc7DIe5TEwljXRMAwqdHze086pOXSHl3mGTjMAdJsYBs9i3m7KQwII/s400/funeral+accent.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />I must’ve earned an eternity of Indulgences for hundreds of withered corpses.<br /><br />There was no getting out of going. After my inevitable protests, Nana would shake her head and say, “If you don’t obey, they’ll have to pay someone to go to YOUR funeral.” So I would clench my fists and allow her to lead me away to the funeral home and the church.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid6N1omNIzP4FxX8F7c0G4VrGN2cOs41nGcl0ymSJq3yNMBr3MMeW1VpicyB6ProLHMXx4OjmfEo0oCE1mqii8kc7G6HIrAvwgt8Qk7lqJy6kMfFBvgPGXX8qLpj9A844ERcqnlh6NbBQ/s1600-h/baby+4+Blue+accent.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195922521231855394" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid6N1omNIzP4FxX8F7c0G4VrGN2cOs41nGcl0ymSJq3yNMBr3MMeW1VpicyB6ProLHMXx4OjmfEo0oCE1mqii8kc7G6HIrAvwgt8Qk7lqJy6kMfFBvgPGXX8qLpj9A844ERcqnlh6NbBQ/s400/baby+4+Blue+accent.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Once, we went to the viewing of a baby who had died when his umbilical cord wrapped around his neck and strangled him. He was beautiful, a perfectly formed baby. As I knelt before his small wicker coffin, I couldn’t believe he was really dead–maybe he was just asleep; I reached out and touched his hand.<br /><br />Still and cold.<br /><br />It wasn’t the coldness that struck me so hard, but the absence of energy– the lack of life force running through his veins.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBuWv7xpv7bz8QLhDAktRoLG-NAUDhKoPmfiVP1Pc9zY6wmM4UeGapkdOyVNYPQ7GZWGhtk-NMN45hxfX5HDEypEaE_Wre1zSgfCqznn8RIL-4WQyGVFfOMFcWMbzOPf4_qSdlG1ha8Gc/s1600-h/funeral+home+crack.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195925282895826754" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBuWv7xpv7bz8QLhDAktRoLG-NAUDhKoPmfiVP1Pc9zY6wmM4UeGapkdOyVNYPQ7GZWGhtk-NMN45hxfX5HDEypEaE_Wre1zSgfCqznn8RIL-4WQyGVFfOMFcWMbzOPf4_qSdlG1ha8Gc/s400/funeral+home+crack.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />I jumped up and ran out of the funeral home, Nana running close behind me to drag me back. I don’t remember anything else about that funeral.<br /><br />Getting dragged to funerals continued throughout my early to mid-teens, and then, one day, I stood up to Nana and said I was no longer going to funerals of strangers, and Pappa backed me up, so the matter dropped, and I was excused from then on.<br /><br />Now I realize she was at an age when her friends were beginning to drop dead. And she always had a lot of friends. And I think she didn’t want to face her own mortality alone.<br /><br />Nana recruited my cousin Ashley, 10 years my junior, to take my place beside her. As far as I know, Ashley still accompanies Nana to funerals.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ6ufgf4EC5k4bPjtPElZLDB4cBqsK3zql4FTpt7L1rvBpR-zL1TW7uqx95wXFcLg6gC_5qMv_It0oszJiA-5vjoEwQKoadDA651xwbQ146WJTF37T1kLJqqSEqgtly_1xTlZjXsOYmMQ/s1600-h/funeral+6+accent.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195925836946607954" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ6ufgf4EC5k4bPjtPElZLDB4cBqsK3zql4FTpt7L1rvBpR-zL1TW7uqx95wXFcLg6gC_5qMv_It0oszJiA-5vjoEwQKoadDA651xwbQ146WJTF37T1kLJqqSEqgtly_1xTlZjXsOYmMQ/s400/funeral+6+accent.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />I know that when Nana dies–any time now–I’ll look around the funeral home for all the strange children who are offering up their Indulgences for the withered woman in the casket. They had just better be there, or I’ll grab them off the street.<br /><br />I’ll even pay them. </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0