The Myth

There is a myth.  A myth that women of my generation believed.

You can have it all.

We turned our backs on our house wife mothers.  The ones that stayed at home.  They cooked and they cleaned and they reared their children.  They kept a smile on their husband’s faces.  But, were they fulfilled?

My generation was the first to say “I think not!”.

We got an education.  We kicked doors open.  We worked and brought home a pay check.  We kicked up a fuss and got the laws changed.

No longer could a boss call us “Baby” and get away with it.

But…………….we women were exhausted.  We had it all.  But, we felt guilty when the house was a mess.  We felt remorse when we didn’t have an atom of energy in our bodies to help a third grader build a diorama.

We felt like failures.

That’s what is wrong with myths.

I never bought into this myth.  I got an education.  I chose to be a wife.  I chose to stay home with my children.  But, I didn’t look down on women trying to live out what I thought was an  unobtainable  dream.

But, somehow?  They looked down at me for staying home with my children and not working.

Weird.  Aren’t women supposed to hold each other up?  Support each other no matter what our hearts dream of?

My second child got on the school bus to go to kindergarten.  I wanted to make some money.  I sat and thought about it.  What did I possess?  What skill did I have that would put dollars into my wallet?

The answer came quickly.  I had what other women had given away.  And, what they missed most of all.  I now had the time to neaten up working women’s lives.

I could clean their houses.

Line things up in a row.  Take an old rag and knock the dust off of things.  Sweep up enough dog hair to build another dog.  Use a sponge mop and take the sticky off of a floor.

I could do that.

I put up a poster in the Teacher’s Lounge at the school that my children attended.  I was booked solid within three working days.

I was the teacher’s new secret weapon.  The one they barely mentioned.  Not because they were ashamed that they hired someone to neaten their houses. I was barely mentioned because they thought someone would steal me away from them.

I am a woman.  I love other women.  I believe in women.  I pick up other women when they fall.  I made a lot of money cleaning up after women that couldn’t find the time to do it for themselves.

I charged them three times an hour what they made teaching.  They didn’t care.  They could trust me.  They knew me from seeing me in the hallways of the school.  They could give me their house keys and not worry that I’d run away with their Grandmother’s silverware.

I couldn’t keep up with the demand.  Word spread fast.  Even when the ones that had already hired me tried to keep me a secret.  Even when my original poster got ripped off of the bulletin board.

I worked for a while.  I got picky.  I had a waiting list as long as my arm.  I was a hard worker and pretty meticulous.  I identified the hard to please right off the bat.   The ones that came from the management position of “Always find something to complain about to keep them on their toes.” school.

I dumped them the day they complained about one spider web I missed in the corner of the living room.  I didn’t dump them without telling them that their sister was getting my services instead.

Oh, I’m devious that way.

I did it for ten years.  I paid for karate lessons. Singing lessons.  Fencing lessons. Dancing shoes.  Leotards.   I helped pay off the mortgage years earlier than anticipated.

And , then?

I got sick of women.

Oh, I was held in high esteem by a few of them.  They’d throw their arms around me when they’d see me.  They’d thank me for easing their load.  “I love Tuesdays.  I come home and I don’t stick to the kitchen floor.  I love you.  I love you.  I can’t tell you how much I love you!” they’d say.

But, then there were the others.

Women!

The day I quit…………………I got a phone call from a woman.  I had been cleaning her toilets for five years.  I had cleaned through out her house doubling in side.  I cleaned up sheet rock dust without complaint.

I was helping a girl out ………………..without asking for more money.

She called me as part of her job in the PTA.  She asked me to make two dozen cupcakes before the next morning.  She knew it was short notice.  But, she figured I could do it because I “didn’t have a real job.”

She found herself cleaning her own house as of that moment.  And, the rest of them did too.

Because?  I am a woman.  I do love women.  I do support other women’s dream.  Some of them appreciated me.  But, the ones that didn’t collided with me getting tired.

Tired.  Big time.

I’ve lived a fulfilled life.  I’ve had lots of opportunities.  I’ve used what I have to be happy and even make money.  I’ve been able to pick and choose.  I know many haven’t had my ease in life.

I’ve tried to uplift women.  I really have.  It has never been easy.  I’ve tried to lighten their loads.  I’ve been a cheerleader when needed.

It’s never been enough.

I believe I’ve identified the problem.

It’s the myth.

The myth that women can have it all.

It will remain a myth until women actually believe it themselves. Or, until they can honestly identify what’s important to them and what is not.

Read that last sentence again.

Because, girlfriend?  Only you can decide.

 

The Spreadsheet of Life: For Kathleen

I have a very good hair dresser.  She is an artist.

Oh, you think that’s not important?

Well, just stop reading right now.  This one’s not for you.

My husband is thinking of retiring in a few years.  So, about a year ago?  He started paying attention to our money and how we spend it.

I’d been on my own for years.  He earned the paycheck.  I paid the bills.

Big deal?  Oh, it was a big deal.

During the college years.

Two kids in college at the same time.  There was tuition X 2.  Books cost money.  There were two apartments to pay for.  Two automobiles.  Insurance.  Cable bills.  Phone bills.  Oh, and these two inexperienced young adults wanted to eat while they studied. In London, England.

I figured it all out.  Believe me I learned to juggle.  I taught myself to keep all the people sending me bills happy.

My husband smiled and went to work and was totally oblivious.

Two diplomas later…………………the pressure eased up a bit.  We had two young adults out on their own.  Two young adults that felt like unicorns among their peers.  You ask why?  Because, they had no student debt.

I was a master juggler.  Our two children could start their lives debt free.

It didn’t take long for this to come to their attention.  They’ve both thanked us.

That’s all that we needed.

My husband started paying attention to the bottom line after it got easy.

His computer is behind mine in our little study.  He tippy taps away on his spread sheet.  He turns to me and says “How did you do it?  How did we put two kids through college? Apartments.  Cars. Food.  Books?  How did you do it?” he wants to know.

“I have no idea.” I respond.  “I paid the bills every two weeks.  I did a lot of deep breathing exercises.  I do remember praying.”

I was serious.

He’s looking forward to retirement.  I have my doubts.  Oh, I love my husband very much.  That’s not where the doubt lies.  I have no trouble picturing losing track of what day of the week it is with him.  I love his face.  He gets my jokes.  He completes me.

I worry that he might get bored because his job is so cerebral.

A sudoku every morning on the AARP page is not going to keep him fulfilled.

For now?  He has his spread sheets.

“We’re not going to be comfortable unless we can cut back somewhere.” he declares one morning.  I’m on my first cup of coffee and trying to adjust my eyes to my computer screen.

“Huh?” I reply.

“Something’s got to give.  I think that first of all we have to look at this cable bill.  Do we really have to pay more for TV viewing than we did on our first apartment every month?” he asks.

“I don’t give a crap about TV.” I reply.  “Give me Netflix and Acorn TV every month and you can keep the cable.  Though, I do know a grown man that will weep into his corn flakes if he can’t have his HBO and Game of Thrones every Sunday night.”

That shut him up long enough for me to get a second cup of coffee.

“Here’s another monthly bill.  I don’t get it.  Correct me if I’m wrong.  But, does it really take a hundred bucks a month for you to keep your hair looking like that?  Really?  Don’t women your age just give it up?  Let nature take it’s course.  Let the white come in.  Quit fighting it.  A hundred………….frigging……………..dollars ……………a month?” he asked without turning around.

Picture a National Geographic documentary…………….about wolves.  The prey never knows when the big bad wolf is about to spring………….and rip their throat out.

My second cup of coffee infused my body with caffeine just at the right moment.  That moment when I needed to defend myself and my beautiful artificial auburn tresses.

I turned around slowly.  My computer chair on wheels groaned just a little.

“What are you doing?  A break down of monthly bills?  For when you’re retired?  And, we start cutting out coupons?  For when we eat what’s on special?  For when our daughter has to come see us because we can’t afford airfares across the country?  Is that what you’re going on a Saturday morning?” I say in a low wolf like voice.

I may have growled.  Deep in my throat.

He should have gotten scared.  He should have shut down his spreadsheet and run for it.

But, he didn’t.

Silly.  Silly man.

“A hundred frigging dollars a month.  On hair.  I guess I’ll put it under miscellaneous.” he said as he sat there scratching his chin in confusion.

“Miscellaneous?  Miscellaneous?” I hissed quietly.

Don’t yell when you are seriously ticked off.  Get real, real quiet.  It makes your adversary almost piss themselves in fear.

“Turn around, Mister.  Take one look at me.  Do I look 60 years old?” I asked.  My husband looked.  He blinked his eyes in confusion.

“At company parties people think I’m your second wife.  You married me when I was barely twenty years old.  They think I’m your trophy wife.  Why?  Because, I have good skin.  Because I pay good money to have beautiful hair.  I go to the best hair dresser that ever was.  I found her young.  I have kept her because she’s that good.  She’s my friend now.  But, not just because I know her secrets and she knows mine.  It’s because she is the genius that came up with the chemical formula for this color.  Because, she is the genius that can cut my hair to look like this while our mouths talk a mile a minute.  She could cut my hair in her sleep.  Don’t you EVER, EVER call my hundred bucks a month at the hair dressers a miscellaneous expense.  Ever!” I said as I banged my empty coffee cup down.

“Do you understand me?” I asked.

“Crystal clear.” my wise husband responded.

“So, I should put your hair dresser bill right up there with car insurance and the electric bill.” he talked to himself as he tapped away on his spread sheet.

“I’d live by candle light and pump water by hand and walk to the store before I give up my hair dresser.  But, yeah.  I think you’ve got the point.” I answered.

 

 

 

Phone Zombies

Anonymous.

An anonymous kindness.  A good deed.  Without signing your name to it.  No credit needed.

There is power in anonymous kindness.  You get back so much more than you give.  Because, the receiver can not thank a stranger.  It sticks in the memory all the longer because of that.

Service with a smile.  It’s kind of old fashioned I know.  But, you know that cashier.  The one that asks you how your day has been and actually wants to know.  We all ignore the generic “Did you find everything you were looking for today?”

Because……………there is no sincerity behind it.  It has been learned by rote.  It is a kindness that is not sincere so it is batted away easily.  It is not memorable.  It is not appreciated.

I waited on a customer in the store today  He can’t eat sugar so he picked out one piece of sugar free candy for himself.  And, then he purchased a half a dozen expensive truffles for his family.  He didn’t need that many.  But, he just couldn’t remember what kind they liked.

He took joy in providing a treat for others.  Even though a treat for himself drew him through the door.

I thought the man was strangely intense.  It’s kind of hard to explain.  I do pick up on other’s moods.  I don’t read minds.  I don’t read auras.  But, I do pick up on when someone needs something that I’m not paid to provide.

I don’t just hand back change to this kind of personality.  I count it back.  The old fashioned way.  The way many a younger cashier doesn’t know how to do.  I don’t need a cash register to tell me the exact change.  I can count.

He didn’t need a bag.  But, I offered one.  Part of the service.  Part of the kind of service he expected.

I handed him his bag and made eye contact.

“Thanks for stopping in.  Hope you come back soon.” I said with as much sincerity as I could muster.

I don’t always say such things.

This seemed to please him.  He was in the mood to be hard to be pleased.  But, he couldn’t find fault in me.

I put him in a good mood.

It was temporary.

He went to leave just as another group was trying to enter.

He awkwardly held the very heavy door open and said “After you!”” to the group.

A family group of zombies entered.  Oh, they are often seen out and about.  They spend the day together without interacting with each other.  They’re all glued to their phones.

It’s a sickness.  And, it’s catching and becoming more and more prevalent.

It irks people like me.

It certainly irked the man that held the door open for this group.

The door holding gentleman left.  The zombies roamed around.  They looked up from their phones once in a while. The women still had room in their tummies for candy.  The men held up the end wall with their backs.

They centered the weight of their bodies on the balls of their feet and their phones.

Two minutes later…………….the door holding man came back in.

He looked around at the group but he aimed his comments at the Daddy of the group.

“I’m fed up.  I’m fed up to here.” he said as he made a motion to his chin.  “I hold the door open for you and your wife and whomever else is in this group.  And, did one of you look up from your phones?  Did one of you think to say “Thank you?” What the hell is the matter with you? Life is passing you by……..you bunch of freaking idiots.” he said as he dramatically left through the door he had come in by.

Daddy’s temper flared.

This was serious.  He actually stowed his phone into his pocket because he had decided to pursue the mouthy man.

He wanted to rumble.

He pushed through the door and went after the guy.

His wife called out after him.  “Kevin, don’t!  Let it go! Oh, God.  Go after your father.  Make sure he doesn’t touch him.” she said to her son.  He was only about sixteen.  But, he stood about 6’2″ tall.  He had a whole jewelry box full of earrings hanging off his face.

I noticed he stowed his phone in his pocket too.

This was getting hugely interesting to me.

Real life was slapping these people in the face.

I grabbed the store phone out of the cradle.  I walked towards the door and said excuse me to the remaining zombie women.

“Where are you going with that phone?” asked Zombie Mama.

“If your husband gets physical with the door holding man, I’m calling 911.  The cop shop is right around the corner.  They can be here in ninety seconds.  The police officer on the horse?  Can get here quicker than that.” I said.

The son came back in.  The three earrings in his eye brow were kind of fascinating.  They looked new.  And, like they hurt.

“Dad is coming.  He followed the guy for half a block and then he turned around.  No problem, Ma.” he reported.

The irritated father came into the store.

“Get what you want.  And, then get in that car.  I’ve had it.  I’ve had enough.” he said.

He was gloriously angry.  But, he couldn’t keep it up.  As soon as he had uttered those words he grabbed his phone out of his pocket.  He glanced at it.  He pushed at some buttons.

He was probably looking at his aunt’s latest photo of her poodle wearing a rain coat and galoshes.  And……………….he doesn’t care about his aunt……………and he frigging hates that spoiled poodle.

Then I decided.  If this situation had escalated I would have taken sides.  When the police man on the glorious chestnut horse had pulled up……………I would have sided with the door holding man.  Even though I think he is missing the point with his kindness.  Kindness needs to be anonymous.  No thanks needed.

But, thanks was obviously what he needed today.  I understand.  I am tired of waiting on phone Zombies myself.

I’d never bother holding a door open for one.  Ever.

 

 

 

 

The Cruel Loss of Memories

All diseases are cruel.  Doesn’t matter which one.  Heart disease takes away strength and the ability to walk across a room.  Rheumatoid arthritis takes away the use of the hands.  Cancer hits and is fought.  And, comes back.  Is beaten again. And, then takes us.

But, dementia is perhaps the cruelest of all.  It takes away our sweet memories.

We are made up of a multitude of cells.  We are DNA.  But most importantly?  We are our memories.

How cruel.  To have a disease that robs you of what you are made up of.  Oh, your heart beats on.  Your body lives on.  But, you don’t recognize the people that are dearest to your heart.  How cruel.

And, how deeply it affects all those that love you.

Someone from long ago……………..deep in my memories………….has died because of this cruel disease.  Her loved ones are left behind to grieve.  But, I know they’ve been grieving for years already.

This subject came up across my dinner table just a few days ago.  I mentioned to my husband that dementia and Alzheimer’s does not run in my family.  But, it is a fear.  A fear that I can only combat by writing.

I know memories are subjective.  I noticed this at a gathering of my cousins about a month ago.  We ate and chatted and enjoyed each other’s company.  I mentioned some crystal clear memories I had of our days together as kids.  They shook their heads.  They were there with me.  But, the moments I spoke of were not in their memory banks.

Those moments had been memorable only to me.  Not to them.  At all.

I found that to be kind of fascinating.

I am who I am because where I’ve been.  And, who I was with.  I didn’t make my memories all alone.

I am getting older.  Most of my life is behind me now.  I don’t want to lose who I was.  I don’t want to ever forget how I got here.  I know a multitude of moments have made me who I am now.

So, I mentioned this over the dinner table.

I said “I have got to print out my stories.  If I ever lose my memories I will be sad.  If they’re printed out someone can read them to me.  I may be confused.  I may forget ten minutes later.”

But, for those few moments…………….I can revisit who I was even if I can’t remember it.

And, I can say “I don’t know who this Darlene is.  But, she had a wonderful life.  She had such wonderful parents and husband and children.”

“Read that one to me again.”

My Itty Bitty Rant

You read one article from a certain source on Facebook and you find yourself getting similar articles all the time.  I scroll  by most of them.  But, once in a while one catches my attention.

I don’t mind learning how to clean hard to clean things with stuff I have in my house.  Like vinegar.  Baking soda.  I click on the photos.  I’ve always known vinegar and baking soda or perhaps even course salt can help you in the cleaning department.  I’m kind of fascinated though by how disgustingly dirty people have let their stoves get.  The grout in their bathrooms.  The insides of their refrigerators.

Let’s not talk about the toilets.

If you’re that much of a piggy I have advice for you.  And, I don’t need a dozen photos to prove my point.

Just throw it out and start again.  Be a little more vigilant on a weekly basis.

Don’t be such a piggy.

I’ve clicked on the article and photos of how to improve your house’s curb appeal.  Even though I’m not selling my house.  The real brick that makes up half my house is now passe?  Well, kiss my sweet patootie.

That brick is paid for.  I like it very much.

Today I came across an article with lots of photos.  This lady was giving us twenty examples of the decorating mistakes we’re making.  The kind of mistakes that betray our age.  Our backgrounds.

We need to stay young folks.  We need to stay generic.

How did we ever survive before Ikea?

I got insulted after the first three photos and stopped reading.  I would love to respond to the writer but there was no way.  And, I also know that I don’t stay pissed off for more than ten minutes.  Tops.

The fake plant on my friend’s porch that makes her happy?  Has got to go.  It’s passe.  It’s so 2007.  She will be judged harshly by everyone that asks her if that beautiful geranium is real.  They won’t want to eat free food at her house.  Drink free wine.  Swim in her pristine in ground pool.

All because she has a fake geranium that is pretending to be real.

I’ll have to remember to tell her that this is the reason she only has a hundred friends swimming in her pool each season.

And, then………next up?  I am an old feeble lady showing my decrepitude.  I should just give up covering my gray hair……………..every one is going to figure out how old fashioned and ancient I am………………because of the white doily on my fireplace.

Hey!  I like that doily!  My mother in law made that for me herself.  Because, I asked her to.  On top of that doily rest photos of people that are gone.  Some of the loves of my life.  My parents.  My father in law.

Get your attitude away from my doily.

And, then on to the kitchen.  My kitchen cupboards are giving me away.  I am no longer young and with it.  Neither is my house.  Because my kitchen cabinets are solid oak.  I’ve been told by some young writer that probably sleeps on friend’s couches…………that I’m showing my house’s age.  My cupboards are screaming 1990.

That’s alright.  1990 was a very good year for cupboards.

I’m again itching to reach out to this judgmental little twerp that wrote this article.  That took these majorly aggravating photos on her phone.  But, I don’t.  I just imagine the conversation we’d have.

“You’re young.  You’re just starting out.  Let’s not insult journalism by calling the stuff you write journalism.  You’ve got to eat.  You get paid fifty bucks an article.  You lie on your back doing deep breathing exercises on the day the rent is due.  You’re lying there trying to come up with something to write about five times a week.  You know when you insult your elders there is an extra twenty five bucks in it for you.  That’s because your editor is nineteen years old.”

I imagine this person’s reaction. They don’t seem to care.  So, I say some more.

“I’m insulted because you’ve disparaged the bricks on my house.  The house that is totally paid for.  The house that is now mortgage free.” I dig my elbow into their underfed ribs.

I’d like to ask the writer………………how is that going for you? The whole getting a mortgage thing?  The whole paying it off before you’re a hundred years old?

I’d add……….. no, I won’t co-sign a loan for you.

And, then I back off.  Because I realize that this writer probably is in her/his first apartment.  They’re trying to make it in the big city.  Their apartment is the size of a closet with a suitcase attached for a kitchen.

They make fun of my doilies and my oak furniture.  While they live with a futon and a bookcase that holds their books, hotplate, coffee pot and the six mismatched dishes they own.

I’d say that some day I hope your hard work spouting off about stuff you don’t know anything about pays off.

I hope all your dreams come true.

But, hands off of my doily.

Mom and Dad Make Friends

The best thing about owning a camp in Vermont versus renting?  My parents made friends.

Oh, my mother had lots of lady friends at home on Columbus Street.  One or two of them spent an hour a day in our kitchen chatting and drinking tea.  But, as soon as my father walked in the door?  They’d scatter.

He wouldn’t have minded a chat.  He liked ladies just fine.  But, poof.  They’d be gone.

“Do I smell funny or something?” he’d say to me.

“No, Daddy.  but you can’t talk girl talk with a man in the room.  And, that’s what they come here for.  Girl talk.” I explained to him.

“What exactly does Girl Talk entail, Little Girl?” he asked.

“Oh, like how long someone labors to give birth.  Did you know it could take days and days, Daddy?” I asked with a little giggle behind my hand.

“Oh, dear God.” he said as his face got white.  He disappeared down the basement steps.

My father was a friendly man but he didn’t seem to have any friends.  Oh, I heard the same few names of guys he was friendly with during work hours.  He’d hang out with them at a company function.  But, as soon as they got a few hours off of work they didn’t want to look at each other’s faces or hear each other’s voice.

The men in the neighborhood all liked Daddy just fine.  When their lawn mower wouldn’t start.  When they couldn’t figure out what was wrong with their car.  When they needed to know where to buy a snow blower belt.  Our door bell would ring.

But the men on Columbus Street never just asked “Hey, Ralph!  Want to go fishing this weekend?”

I thought to ask him about this once after he had spent half of his Saturday with his head under the hood of someone else’s car.

“Don’t worry about it, Little Girl.  I have your mother.  That’s all I need. ” he assured me.

In hindsight……………he could have done the asking.  He could asked some other overworked man with a wife and kids…………to come over and shoot some hoops and have a beer.  Their eyes would have flown open wide.  Their jaws would have dropped but I bet you they would have come over to shoot some hoops and drink some beer.

But, I suppose there is only so much energy in a male human body.  By the time they got home from a long day at work they’d had enough of other people’s company.

All they wanted or needed was a wife with a smile on her face.  A nice warm dinner.  An hour in a favorite recliner.  Kiss a kid or two rosy from a bath.  And, bed.  So, they could start it all over again.

My father bought us a camp on Lake Champlain after many years of renting cottages up there.  The camp came furnished.  A lady had lost her husband and she never wanted to walk through the door again.  I remember my mother cleaning out dressers.  She was even throwing out bottles of this dead man’s prescriptions.

The camp also came with some major structural problems.  Like, what?  Oh, like the whole porch falling off the front of the camp into Lake Champlain before we’d ever spent a night there.

Daddy took weeks off of work for years to do what?  To work at the camp.

I worked right alongside of him.  He apologized over and over for working me “like a boy.”  My mother kept us fed and hydrated.

This is where regular readers of my stories are asking themselves………”Didn’t you have two older brothers?  Where were they when all this was going on?”

They were adults.  They were working for a living.  They were new to jobs and got very little vacation.  They came and helped when they could.  It was an awfully long ride for just a weekend.

I realized early on that my father might work me to death by mistake.  I knew that my mother would lose interest in this money pit with no porch if she didn’t get to go somewhere.  Do anything.  See some sights.

So, I had to intervene.

I nailed shingles.  I cut tar paper.  I used a shovel and hauled wheel barrows full of gravel.  I dug flower beds.  I was swinging a machete to clear weeds that looked like small trees when I had an epiphany.

The work up here in Vermont was never ever going to end.  Never.  Ever.

My parents needed friends.

So, I walked down the road and found them some.  I knocked on a few doors and invited a few couples their age in for drinks and to play cards on a Saturday night.  These nice people were excited at the idea of getting to know the hard workers down at the end of the dirt road.

“We wanted to stop and say Hi.  But, we didn’t want to interrupt you all while you were working so hard.”  they’d say.

Oh, dear God!  Please, interrupt us once in a while I said out loud.

I went back to the cottage.  I took an exceptionally long hot shower.  I bandaged blisters on my hands.  I cut my finger nails as short as I could get them.  I took three not two Tylenol for my aches and pains.

And, then I broke the news.

My father had an inkling of what I was up to when I went to visit the neighbors.  My mother did not.

“So, Saturday night.  7 pm.  You’re having a little party here.  I invited two couples to come and have snacks and drinks and play cards.  Turns out the four of them are related.  Brothers?  Sister in laws.  Something like that.  They’re bringing chips and dips.  Strawberry Shortcake.  Gin and tonic.  They must know how to play poker because they asked me if we have poker chips or should they bring their own.” I said as I drank half of my father’s beer in one go.

You don’t sneak beer when you’re slightly under age.  You do it right in front of their eyes.  After you’ve been “worked like a boy” all day.

My father harrumphed.  My mother ignored the beer guzzling.  She fastened onto the fact that I had invited people she hardly knew in for a party.

“What in the hell are you talking about?” she said in a high squeaky voice.

I repeated it all again.  Just slower.  I said Gin and Tonic quicker and quieter.

Her knees got weak.  She sat down.  My father looked at the ceiling.  He was about to pretend that he didn’t understand English.  I fully expected him to say goodnight in Swedish and then go hide in the back bedroom.

“Mom!  You’ve waved at these people for twenty years.  They’ve waved back.  You live here now.  At least for most of the summer.  It is time for you two to make friends.  You can have people to play cards with.  Someone to go for a swim with.  Go for a walk.  Go out to lunch.  Cook dinner for.  These people are all semi retired.  They’re looking for someone to hang out with.  To go sight seeing with.  Just go for a ride in the car and look at the countryside.  Don’t you want friends?” I asked her.

She got quiet.  My father sat and waited for her reaction.

“Saturday night……………..here?  Start again.  Tell me exactly who these people are that you’ve invited here.” my mother said.

So, I told her.  Again.

My mother’s eyes flew all around the camp.  She had been shining.  She had been washing and rehanging curtains.  The windows glowed.  She had even been making silk flower arrangements.  She had been that bored.

“Well!  Well!  You plan a party without asking me, Little Girl.  You may get up first thing in the morning and scrub that bathroom.  If we’re going to have company……………” my mother sputtered.

“No.  No I won’t, Ma.  That bathroom is gleaming.  I am not cleaning an already clean bathroom with a toothbrush because you’re aggravated at me.” I said as I finished my father’s beer.

I figured I’d stop at one since I had just taken Tylenol.

Saturday night arrived.  My mother changed her shorts and tee shirt three times.  She fanned out paper napkins.  She checked the freezer over and over again for ice cubes.  She cut cheese into shapes.  She rearranged glistening grapes in a bowl.

Mom and Dad heard feet coming up the wooden stairs.  People came through the door.  Backs were slapped.  Ladies hugged.  The same ladies went on a tour to see all the changes my mother had made to the camp.  They oohed.  They aahed.  Beer cans popped open.  My mother had her first sip of Gin and Tonic.

The cards came out.  The poker chips hit the table.  People roared with laughter.  They ate.  They drank.  They chatted.

They became friends.  Every week the group got larger.  My father bought a book of card games.  He had to figure out a game that they could play with that many people.  The summer flew by.

Back in Connecticut………..their new Vermont friends didn’t forget about them.  They called with news.  They called to wish each other Happy Birthday.  They called at Christmas.  Letters arrived.  Birthday cards.  Christmas cards.  And, when my mother was the first to die all those years later?  They called.  They cried.  They told stories about my mother’s kindness.  Her sense of humor.  They would miss her chocolate chocolate cherry cake………………they told me on the phone through their tears.

I didn’t have the heart to tell those dear ladies that I was the one that had baked those cakes.  I was always my mother’s secret baking weapon.  It had been an honor.

By the time I turned eighteen…………the camp had been truly claimed by my parents.  The hard hard work was over.  My father puttered in the mornings.  He let me sleep in.  He stopped working me like a boy.  I swam.  I lie on a lounge chair and read books.  I lie under a leafy tree eating a bag full of bing cherries.  I spent many a happy hour finding out how far I could spit a cherry pit.

Quite often……..my parents would run away for a day of fun with their friends.  It might be two couples or two car loads.  I wasn’t invited.  No kids allowed even though I was now an adult.  I understood.  I never complained even though they looked like they felt guilty about leaving me behind.

They would come down the back deck stairs wearing their little matching shorts and shirts outfits.  White shorts with ironed seams down the front.  Little white ankle socks to match their new white deck shoes.

God, they were cute.

“We’re going for a ride over to the sand bar, Little Girl.” my father might say.  “The ladies have packed a picnic lunch.  We’re just going to drive until we find a nice spot to eat lunch.  We might go to a few gift stores for the ladies.  We’re going to stop and get some worms for fishing in the morning.  Although, I think minnows is a better choice. ” my father would say gently to me as I lie on a lounge chair propping a paper back book on my chest.

“Will you be alright, here all alone?” he would say with guilt in his voice.

“Are you leaving the car here?” I’d ask.

“Yes, I’m not driving today.” he answered.  My mother’s ears perked up.

“I’ll be fine , Daddy.  I might go for a ride in a little bit.  I haven’t left this camp in a few days.” was my answer.

“And, where do you think you’re going all alone?” my mother wanted to know.

“Oh, I thought I’d go into Burlington.  Do a little pole dancing.  Join the circus.” I answered nonchalantly.

My mother’s muscles tightened up.  She flung her arm out.  She was about to point her finger towards the house.  My father stopped her arm.

“You may borrow my car, Little Girl.  But, I would like to have some idea of what your plans are.” he said reasonably to me.  So, my mother wouldn’t self combust.  So she wouldn’t be worried that my wild side was all of a sudden going to become apparent when she wasn’t looking.

“Well, let’s see.  I am going to the drug store to buy a few more books.  I am almost out of shampoo.  Then I’m going to the IGA and buy myself a six pack of blackberry wine coolers.  I am of legal drinking age now, Ma.  They are about six percent alcohol.  You may count the empties when you come home.  Then, I”m going to order myself a pepperoni pizza and take it home and pig out.  Sound good to you?” I asked as I shielded my eyes from the sun.

My mother went to open her mouth to say something.  Daddy gave her a look.  She clamped her mouth shut and bit her bottom lip.  I knew the pole dancing and wine coolers had gotten to her.

“Sounds like a party for one, Little Girl.  You have fun, now.  But, maybe you should walk up the hill to the green camp.  There are some young people your age there.  Maybe you should go on up there and make yourself some friends.” Daddy said as he messed up my hair as he passed me by.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Days of Heaven on Earth

I forced my father to relax on vacation.

He had bought us a camp on Lake Champlain.  He had six weeks of vacation that he spread out over the summer.  Most of his time up in Vermont was spent working.  He mowed.  He weed whacked.  He worked on the roof.  He touched up paint.  He built a shed.

I helped here and there.  But, I was a teenager.  I also worked at home.  I’d had a paper route since the age of twelve.  I worked tobacco when I was fourteen.  When I was sixteen a got a regular job.

I never lost track of the thought that when I was in Vermont?  I was supposed to be relaxing.

I’d hand him nails to build a shed.  I handed him lumber.  I’d tote and I’d lift.  I would deliver cold drinks.  I’d put sandwiches into his hands.

I’d point to the lake and make him go swimming with me.  I’d throw a towel over his shoulder and I’d start to walk down the dirt road to the beach.  He’d throw his hammer and follow me.

I’d spend the next day shoveling gravel into a wheel barrow.  I’d try to keep control of the weight that was too heavy for me.  I’d dump the gravel almost where he wanted it while he was contouring the driveway.

I’d bang into the house.  I’d come out with two Popsicles.  I’d stick one into his mouth and one into my own.  I’d put on a sprinkler and I’d run through it.  I’d pick it up after I was good and wet and I’d aim it at him.  He whoop and he’d holler.  He’d laugh and run away from the spray.  Until he was good and wet.  And, then he’d just throw his head back and enjoy the cold water.

One morning he grabbed the wheel barrow and asked me to follow him.  I did.  He started down the dirt road that led to the beach.  I ran around him and sang a silly song.  I jumped in front of him and sat down in the wheel barrow and made him give me a ride.

Something tells me that he didn’t mind at all.

I had to get out and walk when we got to the rocky beach.  Our beach wasn’t made of sand.  It was made out of small slate rocks and pebbles.  He headed past Big Rock.  He went right up to the face of the cliffs.

He banged his fist on the cliff.  The rocks were like scales there.  Like the back of a dragon that is molting.

“Go for the big ones, Little Girl.  Your mother wants rocks to make a flower garden at the edge of the driveway we just put in.  One load should do it.  But, they can’t be small.  Go for the big ones.” he said.

I took off my sandals.  They had a good heel on them.  He pointed and I smacked the cliff.  He used his big hands that picked potatoes as a boy to dislodge them.

We filled up the wheel barrow in no time at all.

We got back to the driveway.  He handed me a shovel and pointed to the edge of the driveway.  It was a shady spot.  My mother was going to have to plant begonias or some other shade loving plant.

I jumped on the shovel and nothing happened.  The dirt was hard.  The lake covered this area every winter and receded in the spring.  It was like cement.  I jumped again.  Nothing happened.

My father took the shovel away from me.

“I’m sorry, Little Girl.  Sometimes I forget.  I work you like a boy.  Why don’t you do into the house and bring me a cup of coffee.  Maybe a cookie.” he said

I grabbed the shovel back.

“I don’t think so.” I said.  I used the edge of the shovel like a pick.  Instead of digging I started banging away at the hard soil.  Daddy disappeared and came back from his new shed with a pick.  He handed that to me.  I dug about half of the bed and let him finish the rest.

I thought we were done.

He handed me the shovel as he wiped his face with an old handkerchief.  He nodded to the wall of rock behind the camp.

“You know where the spring is?  The soil under neath it is rich.  It’s black with nutrients.  Shovel some of it up and put it in the wheel barrow.  We’ll mix it up with the soil that is already here.  This stuff is too sandy.  One load of the dark stuff from under the spring should do it.” he said.

I was almost out of steam.  But, I did it.  I said hello to the mosquitoes and filled up the wheel barrow quickly with black soil.

It was only 11 a.m. and I was pooped out.

“Daddy?  We’re on vacation.” I said.

“Yes…………….we are.  What’s your point, Little Girl?” he asked.

“Well, Mom hasn’t left that camp since we got here.  She’s in there polishing silver ware.  Because she can’t handle mosquitoes and spiders and bats.  She won’t go to the beach because she’s ten pounds heavier than last year.  And, God forbid the neighbors should notice a dimple on her thigh.  There’s a lake out there and she ignores it because someone might see her in a swim suit and get judging.  She tells me all the time “Oh, who the hell is looking at you?” when I spend too much time in the mirror.  Well, who the hell is looking at her?” I petered out.

“I’m waiting.  I still don’t know where you’re going with this.” my father said.

“It’s her vacation too, Daddy.  You’ve got to get her out of that camp.  You’ve got to give her a change of view.  I don’t know what or how.  But, she deserves a break too.” I said as I got up and slapped the dirt off of the bottom of my short shorts.

“Well, we do have to go into town for supplies.  Maybe we could stop for an ice cream cone.” my father tried.

“Oh, God, Daddy.  You have got to do better than that.  You keep this up?  With the roof repairs.  The shed building.  The new driveways.  The mowing.  The weed whacking.  Someday she’s just going to refuse to come up here.” I explained.

He sat down on the stairs to think.  The poor man did nothing but work.  He worked for fun.  He was never going to come up with an idea on his own.

I grabbed the stack of mail that he had collected from down the hill.  The mail box in Vermont gave us circulars.  It was kind of a treat for my Dad…………that mail box in Vermont.  No one sent him bills to that address.

I looked at a penny saver circular while we sat on the stairs.  He sat there thinking.  I sat there letting the breeze off of the lake dry the sweat under my hair.

“Here we go, Daddy.  There is a Farmer’s Market in St. Albans tomorrow.  It’s in that park right across from that old fashioned department store.  You know.  The park with the flowers and the cannons?  We can take Mom to the Farmer’s Market.” I said in triumph.

“What’s a Farmer’s Market?” my Daddy asked.

“A beautiful park.  Under the big maple trees.  People rent a table.  They sell their stuff.  Fresh fruits.  Tomatoes picked that day.  Green beans right off of the vines.  Maple syrup.  Home made jellies and jams.  Cakes.  Pastries.  Donuts. Mom can also buy the plants she needs for her flower bed.    It says here that there are tables full of antiques.  They have a Bring and Buy sale right next to the Farmer’s Market.   Just think, Daddy.  Plants.  Fruits.  Vegetables.  Crap we don’t need.  And!  Silver Queen corn on the cob.”  I ended with.

I always knew how to sweet talk my Daddy.  I always knew to save the best for last.

“Silver Queen Corn?  I thought that wasn’t ready until August?” he whispered.

I had him.

“And we need a party Daddy.  You need to throw a little Welcome To the Neighborhood party for yourself.  Cheese.  Crackers.  Grapes. Beer.  Wine.  Cards.  You need to invite a few couples that love to play cards.” I said.

My mother lived to play cards.

“A party?  We don’t know anyone here!” he exclaimed.

“Oh, Daddy.  We walk to the beach.  Everyone comes out of their camps to wave to us.  They yell hello.  We see them sitting on their porches playing cards.  They’re looking to be your friends.  You just won’t stop working long enough to notice.  Give me five minutes and I can get you guests for a card party.  Saturday night.”  I said as I got up and whipped my messy hair up into a neat ponytail.

“What will your mother say?” he asked quietly as he still stared at the Farmer’s Market advertisement in the paper.

“Oh, God, Daddy.  She’ll go into a five minute panic.  Then she’ll realize the camp has never looked better.  She can’t get it any cleaner.  Give her five minutes with these people and she’ll be their new best friend.  She just pretends to be shy.  She’s going to love it. ” I assured him.

“Well, I’ll think about it.” he said as he eyed his wheel barrow again.

“Nope!  No time like the present.” I said as I walked down the dirt road towards the neighbor’s camps.

He didn’t follow me.

I knocked on the blue camp’s door.  A nice lady came out and called me by name.  I looked up the stairs and smiled at her.

“We were wondering if you and your husband are doing anything Saturday night?  Around 7 pm?  It’s time my parents stopped working and had some fun.  I noticed you all like to play cards.  My parents love to play cards.  Are you free?” I asked.

“This Saturday night at 7pm?  Yes.  We’d love to come over and get to know your parents better.  We do love to play cards.  Tell your mother that I’ll bring a dip and chips.  And, a strawberry shortcake.  I’ve got beautiful strawberries in the freezer.  Will it just be us?” she asked.

“Well, I was about to go across the road to the green trailer and ask that couple also.  I’ve noticed them playing cards on their porch a lot.” I said to the friendly lady that was going to bring me strawberry shortcake.

“Oh!  Good!  That’s my brother and sister in law.  I’m sure they’d love to get to know your parents too.  And, they do love to play cards.  This sounds like so much fun! ” she said.  I’d never seen a fifty year old lady clap her hands together before.

I went across to the green trailer and got a similar reception.  That couple was itching to play poker and they told me they would provide the gin and tonic.

I wouldn’t tell my mother about that…………………gin sounded too wild for the Ellie I knew.

The next morning found the three of us in the station wagon headed for St. Albans.

My mother sat in the front seat.  She was wearing red capri pants and a red and white checked shirt.  I don’t know why I remember that, but I do.  She was just so beautiful.

We drove down different dirt roads than we were used to.  She noticed we weren’t going down the regular path to town.

“Where are we going, Ralph?” she asked as she clutched her purse.

My mother wasn’t a fan of change.

“We’re going to a Farmer’s Market in St. Albans.” my Daddy replied.

My mother turned around and stared at me.

“What is a Farmer’s Market?” she asked me.

“That park with the flowers and the cannons, Mom.  Across from the department store.  And that little brick church?  People rent tables and sell their stuff.  Fruit.  Vegetables.  Pastries.  Plants for your flower bed.  Syrup.  Jam.  Junk.  Quilts.  Handmade pillows.  Doilies.  Dolls.  Lemonade.  Candy.  Cupcakes.  Stuff I can only imagine.  You’re going to love it.” I told her.

“Silver Queen Corn.” said my father as he put on his blinker and took a left.

It was a beautiful day under the shade of ancient trees.  I took out a paper back book and leaned against one of those ancient trees.  It was home base.  I had a fresh lemonade and a still warm blueberry muffin.  My parents bought box upon box of stuff and sat it next to me under the tree while I read a bodice ripper romance novel.

There were begonias.  Tomatoes.  Green beans.  A red white and blue quilt.  Hand crocheted pillows.

My father was out hunting down his Silver Queen Corn when my mother paused next to me under the tree.

I looked up to find her just smiling and gazing around her.

She sighed.

“This is Vermont.” she said.  “Oh, how beautiful.  Look, Darlene.  It’s just like a Norman Rockwell painting.”

I looked and knew she was right.  The church at the edge of the park looked busy.  The church bells chimed.  People flowed into the door of the perfect white entry way.  From where we were sitting we could see a white rock path lined with geraniums leading to the door way.

My mother caught her breath as she listened to the bells chime.

“Why, don’t you go to church, Ma?  I’ll sit with the stuff.  Daddy and I will wait here for you.  Why don’t you go to church?” I asked her the question she wanted to hear.

She looked at the summer perfection all around her.  She looked down at me.

“Go, Ma.  Go say your prayers in that church in the middle of a Norman Rockwell painting.  You may never get this chance again.” I said quietly to her.

She left me.  She walked across the park.  A few dancing children bumped into her.  She patted heads and intently walked towards the white walk way surrounded by the red and pink of perfect geraniums.

And, that’s the way I think of my parents now.  My beautiful mother dressed in red and white walking into the perfect New England Church to thank God for the blessings in her life.  My father that worked so hard ……………and only took days of rest to entertain the woman he loved……………in search of Silver Queen Corn.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Don’t Know What You Got Til’ It’s Gone

Okay.  I’m going to get preachy.  Oh, don’t stop reading.  I am not going to berate you.  Too badly.  I have enough charm that I’m going to get away with it.

And, really?  I’m preaching to the choir.  The ones that need to read this story just aren’t among my fan base.

But, I’ll try anyway.

Fathers.  They are underappreciated these days.  I see it.  I see children ignoring their fathers and I want to reach out and…………………..preach.

I’m a fan of Facebook.  I have loads of “friends”.  Some I know personally.  Some I’ve never met in person.  I get a kick out of all of your hobbies.  One lady loves geodes and rock formations.  One is into long distance running.  One is into spelunking into hidden caves.  Not in a million years for me.  But, I check it out because it’s what you’re interested in.

Facebook was deluged with photos of Daddies for Father’s Day.  Most of these Dads are gone.  They’re a wonderful memory with just a few photos left to represent them.  Is it just the older generation that venerate their fathers?

Or, is it a case of “You don’t know what you’ve got til’ it’s gone?”

Some Dads have it rough.  They’ve chosen to be the primary bread winner.  And, they work too much.  They’ve fallen for the “Keeping Up With the Jonses” bullshit.  They’re never home because they want to earn that extra money to pay for dance lessons, and singing lessons, and karate lessons and summer camps.

They work over time to pay for children’s summer camps for the month of July.  The month they have off from work.

There is no planning going on here.  Just consumerism.  When did Daddies lose the will to say “No!”  Enough is enough.  You’re becoming a frigging spoiled brat!”

Because, they have.  And, they are the losers.  They’re the ones left sitting at home during their time off with no one to talk to.  And, even worse?  When they are with their kids?  The kids stare at the screens of their family plan phones.  Dads have to repeat themselves constantly to be heard over the vision of some almost stranger’s text message.

Life doesn’t last forever.  You’ve got such a little amount of time to imprint yourself on your children.  Quit giving them everything.  Make them work for some of it.  Say no and mean it.  Insist on family time.  Eat dinner together.  Shut those Gosh Damn cell phones off when you’re together as a family!

I worked today at a candy store.  It was miserable hot outside.  People flung themselves through the door.  They felt the air conditioning that was keeping me and the candy cold.  They lingered.

There were a lot of fathers herding their kids around.

I saw it over and over again today.  I’ll just give you one prime example……………because it’s too so sad to tell more than one of these tales.

Dad got talked into taking his three teens to a concert in town. It must have been his turn.  His wife probably planned the weekend and then told him about it later.  He was being a good sport.  It was time to start a long car ride home.  He was hot.  He was sweaty.  He was tired and he hadn’t really enjoyed the head liner of the concert he’d just attended.

He talked those kids into going into a candy store because HE wanted some candy for the ride.

The kids couldn’t be bothered to look up from their phones.

“It’s too hot to buy much.” the Daddy said to me.  “But, could you give me one of each from the top row in the case?  Do you want anything kids?  Because, I’m not sharing.”

They ignored him.

“Anyone?  Anything?  I’m buying!” he said again.

I flashed back.  I imagined my reaction if my father had offered to buy me gourmet chocolate on an outing.

I have an aversion to cell phones.  I think the world has gone to hell since they’ve been invented.  At least people’s manners have.

Daddy looked disappointed that he was being ignored yet again.

I looked at those three teenagers dressed in fake hippie clothing.  That he had paid for.  I looked at their shiny white faces with the faux Bob Marley braids in their hair.

They ignored their precious father while I was missing mine so much.  They ignored him to check out a youtube video.  To read a message from someone they don’t even care about.

I kinda lost it………….

“Hey!  Your father is talking to you!  Cell phones are not allowed in this store.  Your father asked you a question.  Now, answer him.” I said loudly enough to be heard over the two churning air conditioners.

The young people obeyed me.  The father looked just a tad surprised.  He bought them each something that they then thoughtfully picked out for themselves.

They turned to leave the store.  I said to him “I hope you have a nice Father’s Day.”

He wasn’t going to say anything because the young people were actually paying attention to us now.  He was going to skip it.  I gave him a look.  Like his wife might.  My look said “Open your mouth.  Say something now, you poor underappreciated man.”

He stopped and he looked at the three young people.  He looked at them each in turn.  And, then he said to me “Thank you.  You’re the first person to say Happy Father’s Day to me today.  It means a lot.”

The kids crowded around Dad to find their candy in his bag.  But, really?  To get close to him.  To make up to him.  Because, they were ashamed.

They should be.

“Daddy.  I’m half way through writing a poem about you.  I can send it to you tonight.  You still have the same email address, don’t you?” said the pretty girl in the dirty tee shirt.

“I’d prefer it if you read it to me yourself.” he said.

“Hey, Dad.  I figured I’d help you clean the pool next weekend.  And, then maybe we could grill some hot dogs and hamburgers.  I’m buying.” said the oldest boy.  “Thanks for taking us to this concert on Father’s Day weekend.”

The youngest girl about age 13 said “Daddy?  Can I sit up in front with you on the way home?  We can talk.  You know those two are just going to fall asleep.”

They headed towards the door as one.

Dad turned to me and said “Thanks!  We’ll stop in again next time we’re in town.”

“Stop in and see us again, soon.  Glad I could help.” I replied.

I watched other children ignore their parents. While I was missing mine so badly.  I couldn’t rip cell phones of their hands.  I couldn’t get in their face like some wild lady and say “Do you know how lucky you are?  Do you realize that these people won’t be around forever?  Do you know that some day they’ll leave you?  You are wasting so much time.  You are frittering away moments because you think they are infinite.  Wake the hell up!”

I couldn’t do that.

So, I closed the store.  I walked out into a sweltering early evening.  I pressed the button and threw a bag of trash into the compactor just as the bells from the beautiful church across the way started chiming the hour.

I watched another family pull on the door of the closed candy store.

I got in my car and went home.  I hoped that my son was doing something special for his father on Father’s Day.

I walked into the kitchen and a wonderful smell hit me in the face.  My son was placing something into the oven.  He turned to me and said “This cookware can go into the oven, right?  It’s only 350 degrees.  I figure it’s alright.  It is, right?”

“Yes, it’s alright.  What are you cooking?” I asked.

“I’m making Daddy Coq au Vin with artisanal egg noodles.  He’s outside finishing up the air conditioning unit.  Could you go and tell him that dinner will be ready at seven?  Maybe he wants to quit working and take a shower.  So, he can relax and eat this dinner I’ve made him.  Maybe you could bring him a glass of iced tea while you’re at it?” he said as he stacked more dirty dishes into the sink.

“Coq au Vin!” I said.  “What’s the occasion?” I asked knowing the answer.

“It’s Father’s Day.” he answered like I was a little slow. “After you deliver the message and the iced tea……………..could you soften three tablespoons of butter for me?”

“Yes.  I think I can do that.”  I answered.

My day at the candy store had left me weary.  Now, somehow…………….I felt rejuvenated.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Rocks and Crushes

I had my first crush when I was three years old.  I had a deep and abiding infatuation.  I could only feed my crush on Saturday mornings.  During cartoon hours.  Because, I had a crush on Mighty Mouse.

Oh, quit laughing.

That mouse filled out that spandex suit very well.  He wore a cape.  He put his hands on his mousy hips and he meant business.  He saved damsels in distress.

Sigh…………he was something special.

My second crush was at age four.  I told my father he was very handsome and that I loved him.  I told him that I would marry him someday.

He smiled and straightened me out.  He already had a wife.  He loved me very much too.  But, I would have to find someone similar to him.  He was already taken.

I had been thwarted once again.

Sigh…………he was something special.

And, then I had a crush on my Uncle Bobby.  He was special too.  He was small and compact and had dark hair and an easy smile.  He was known to wink at the ladies and tell a joke or two.  He didn’t have to try very hard, really.  He was that handsome.

We’d all go to Vermont and fill up a cottage for a few weeks.  We were packed to the rafters on our cots.  Four adults and seven kids sharing one bathroom.  I know.  I don’t know how the hell we did it.  I don’t know how we did it and still came away with such great memories.

Auntie Betty probably saw me at age seven mooning over her husband.  She didn’t seem to mind.  She figured she could share him with me.  She figured I had very good taste.  She’d walk by and mess up my hair and give me a laugh while I glanced at her husband.

She was my god mother after all.  What was hers was mine………….up to a point.

I eventually got to an age where realism sunk in.  I no longer crushed on my Uncle.  I giggled when I thought of Mighty Mouse swooping in to save me.  But, I could still appreciate what had drawn me to them in the first place.

Uncle Bobby treated me like one of his own.

He didn’t see me three times a year and ask me “How’s school?”  He actually talked to me.  We had discussions.  He’d ask me how I felt about things.  He liked the way I think he told me.  He told me to watch out for sweet talking boys.  He told me to demand respect.

We were a pack of boys in Vermont.  A pack of girls.  And, the adults who were there to pay for everything.

One time on the rocky beach things got out of control.  For some reason the boys were throwing the sharp rocks that made up the beach.  They were throwing them at the girls.  A few of these boys had wicked good aim.  They could throw hard.  The girls dived behind a large rock formation and kept their heads low.

Of course I couldn’t keep that up for long.  I had to stick my head out to see if they’d left.  If we were safe to run for the camp.

That’s when I got hit.  Hard.  In the temple.  With a good sized sharp rock.

I saw stars.  There was blood.  My female cousins screamed.

“You’d better run for your lives you little shits!  You’ve killed Darlene!” one of them yelled.   They boys ran for it.  They scaled the watery cliffs and went further than they had ever gone before to get away from the wrath that was surely coming their way.

The girls dramatically stumbled back to camp.  I felt my forehead.  Mostly to make sure the blood was still flowing dramatically.  I was willing to mix a little lake water in if I needed it to drip a little more lavishly onto my white tee shirt.  But, no,  I’d been hit in the head.  I was bleeding like a stuck pig.

My mother took one look and almost swooned.  My father clapped a face cloth to my temple and told my mother to sit down and breathe.  Head wounds always bleed a lot.  My Auntie said “Where are those little shits.  I’m going to kick the crap out of them.”  My Uncle Bobby stayed calm

“Blondie!  Look at me.  Can you follow my finger?  Good.  Your pupils aren’t dilated.” he said.

Pupils dilate, I thought.  Hmmm, Uncle Bobby knows everything.

“Put some ice on her forehead.” he said as he kissed me on the top of my head.  “I’m going to find those boys.  Those little shits are going to pay for this.”

Do you wonder why I had a crush on him?

He didn’t wear a cape.  He didn’t need it.

The girls swarmed around him and told him which way to go.  He nodded his head in understanding.  He was going to get his feet wet climbing around those cliffs.  He waved my father off with an “I’ve got this Ralph.  If it was my little girl I’d kill them on the spot.  I won’t touch them.  I’ll bring them back before dinner time.” he said.   And, he went off.

Like I said.  No cape needed.

My Auntie clucked at me.  She looked at my wound and assured me there would be no scar that close to my hair line.  My mother plunked a bag of ice on my face.  My father sat at my feet and petted my ankles.

I poked at the wound under the bag of ice and was disappointed to see that the blood had stopped.  The blood had been so dramatic.  My mother noticed this and shook her head at me.  She stuck a popsicle in my mouth and threw a blanket over my body.

My girl cousins lost interest in me and watched the Three Stooges on the little black and white television set.  My Aunt and my mother started making hamburger patties.  My father patted me on the shoulder and started shucking corn.

They all lost interest in the wounding and possible killing of Darlene.

A few minutes later the three boys were marched into the camp.  Uncle Bobby followed right behind.  He pulled three chairs up to right in front of my camp cot.  I gave them all a little moan.

He pointed his finger to the chairs.  Each boy sat down in one of them.

He marched in front of them.  I sat up a little in the cot.  With a moan of course.  I didn’t want to miss the action, though.

He talked as he marched.  The other adults continued preparing dinner.  They knew he had this covered.  It must have been his specialty.

“This is your sister.  This is your cousin.  She is precious.  She is to be protected and not abused.  You pick up rocks and throw them at a girl?  Do you think that is what a man does?  Well, then you’re WRONG!” he said into a boy’s face as he stopped dramatically in front of them.

“A real man protects his women.  He cherishes them.  He stands up for them.  A real man never raises a hand against a woman.  He would rather chop off his own hand than raise it against a woman.  Especially, one he loves.” he burst into one of the other boy’s faces.

“You hit her in the temple.  She’s alright and there probably won’t be a scar.  But, were you proud of yourselves when you saw her bleeding?  Were you proud of yourselves when you ran away like a bunch of cowards?  When you should have turned around to see if she was alright?  You could have killed her with that rock.  The three of you make me sick.  I’m going outside right now so I can be sick in peace.  You get your asses off of those chairs and you apologize.  And, you mean it.  You make me sick!” he said as he banged the door on the springs shut.

The boys started to rise from their chairs when Uncle Bobby stuck his head back in the door.

“You boys show some God Damned Respect!” he yelled.

Phew!  So, much better than Mighty Mouse.  Right?

The boys mumbled apologies at me.  My father narrowed his eyes at them all.  He nodded his head for them to sit at the table and await dinner.

I kicked off the blanket.  I threw the popsicle stick under the cot and I left the camp.  I was in search of Uncle Bobby.

I found him outside.  He was pacing back and forth in front of the camp.

“I’m alright , Uncle Bobby.  I’ve stopped bleeding.  I’m alright.” I said.

He stopped pacing to give me a hug.  He checked out the cut on my head.  He lifted my hair to see how far it went up.

“Well, that could have been worse.  They could have hit you in the eye, Blondie.  What a stupid thing to do.  Pick up rocks and throw them at someone for fun.  It’s got to be their age.  They’re good boys.  But, what a stupid thing to do.”  he said as he paced some more.

“Why do you call me Blondie, Uncle Bobby?  I’ve always wondered.” I said quietly.  The man was so upset.  I loved a little drama.  But, I didn’t mean for him to be so upset.

He stopped pacing and looked at me.

‘Because, all my girls had dark hair.  And, when you were born?  You were all blonde curls.  You were my little Blondie until you turned five years old I guess.  But, you’ll always be Blondie to me.” he said as he stopped pacing.  He sucked in some air and tried to calm himself.

This man had loved me since I was a little baby with blonde curls.

This was my god father.

“Uncles don’t have a lot of time with their nieces, Blondie.  I see you a few times a year and I tell you how much you’ve grown.  I ask you what’s new.  You always try to answer me.  You always take a few minutes to talk to me.  That’s nice.  That’s really nice.  But, I want you to listen.  Because, I don’t know if I’ll ever get another chance.  That’s how fast life goes.  That’s how seldom I see you.  You pick a man that will cherish you.  You find a man that would lay down his life for you.  You don’t settle for anything less.  Ever.  You find a man that doesn’t run away when you’re hurt.” he said.

He was out of steam.  He sat down on the wooden step to the camp with a whoosh.

“You demand respect, Blondie.  That’s what it comes down to.  You demand respect.” he said as he looked up at me.

I was awfully young for this talk.  But, my throbbing head made it memorable.  His words made it memorable.

“I promise, Uncle Bobby.” I said quietly.  “I promise.”

“I’ll remember.” I added because I thought that was important for him to hear.

And, I indeed did remember.

And, Uncle Bobby?  You were something special.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Daddy’s Little Girl Dance

Mother’s Day.  Father’s Day.

These holidays were quite hard on me for a few years after my parent’s deaths.

I’d find myself smiling at the big container of annuals I would have bought my mother for her porch.  Instead of crying……I’d concentrate on the memories that came to me on her big day instead of bemoaning the fact that she was no longer with me.

I’d thank God that I had such a mother.

Father’s Day was a hard one for the past few years.  I’d find myself checking out men’s shirts on a rack.  I’d be looking for those hard to find summer shirts………….the ones with two pockets.  One pocket for near sighted glasses.  One pocket for far sighted.  I’d rub my eyes and eventually walk away.

That blue shirt would have really brought out the blue of Daddy’s eyes I’d think.

Now, I smile and I remember the little things.

I thank God that I had such a father.

Small memories of small instances slip in that make me smile.

I remember taking forever in the bathroom.  I’d be checking out each hair to make sure it was in place before I got in the car to go to church.

My mother would lose patience.  She’d yell through the door.  “Who is looking at you?” she’d say.

Well, everyone right?  I was thirteen years old and that’s the way thirteen year old’s think.

She’d feel mean in the car for what she’d yelled through the door.

She’d sigh.

“Oh, just put a smile on your almost perfect face.  That’s all you need.  Just smile at people and they won’t notice your hair.  And, while we’re on this subject.  What the hell did you do to your hair?  You look like a wild woman.” she’d say in the front seat of the station wagon that was headed towards church.

While she checked out her lipstick in the mirror to make sure she hadn’t gotten any on her teeth.

That memory slipped in today.  It made me smile.  She was right as usual.  Put a smile on your face.  That’s all that counts.

It’s almost Father’s Day.  My Daddy isn’t around any more.  But, I still honor him with my stories.  With my memories.  The memories flash pretty quickly at me the day before Father’s Day.

They’re short.  They’re sweet.  They’re not big enough for a story of their own.  But, they are precious.

Like the memory of me teaching him how to waltz.  My wedding was coming up in two days.  Daddy got awfully quiet.  My mother dug around in his psyche to find out what was up with him.  She got no where.

“Your father has gone all weird and quiet on me.  I think he’s having a hard time with you leaving.  To get married.  Thank God you’re not pregnant.  That would have killed him dead.  Dead.  On the floor.  No heart beat.” my mother declared at the kitchen table while we fought over the last jelly doughnut.

My response?

“Jesus, Ma.”

I went out and found my father in the garage.  He was buffing at the wax on his station wagon.  He was going to be carrying a bride to church in that car in two days.  I had said no to the idea of a limo.  Daddy’s station wagon was the ride for me.

I grabbed an old soft cloth from his bucket full of them.  I quietly shined along side of him.  I shut up on purpose.  I was going to force him to talk.

It didn’t take long.

“I don’t know how to dance.” he said quietly as he pounded down the lid of the can of wax with the big heel of his hand.

I felt a rush of relief.  Like the rush of relief my parents had felt time after time when they finally pried what was the bother out of me.

Oh, is that all?

He was worried about the Father and Daughter dance at the reception.

“Give me your hands, Daddy.”  I said as I stood in front of him in the driveway.

I put one of his hands on my waist.  I held his other.  I started humming some obscure song.

“Take me right first.  Or, left.  It doesn’t matter.  I will follow you.  Do a one, two, three, four with your feet.  Walk around in a square.  Slow it down.  Don’t stare over my head like I’m a sack of potatoes.  Look down at me.  Talk to me.  It doesn’t matter what this dance looks like.  Just that we’re doing it together.” I advised.

The man was so stiff his muscles were screaming.  He was shaking.

“What if I step on you?” he asked meekly.

“I won’t scream ouch.  I’ll whisper it, Daddy.  I won’t be like you when you opened the last Master Card bill.  You actually screamed Ouch!”  I said.

I made him laugh.

“You weren’t supposed to hear that, Little Girl.” he murmured.

“Daddy!  It was nine a.m. on a Saturday morning.  You woke me up yelling ouch!”  I replied.

“I need a little break.” said my Daddy.

He stopped in the driveway.  He leaned over and touched his toes.  He rolled his shoulders to loosen them up.  He walked in big circles while he rolled the cricks out of his neck.

My big, bad, scary Marine.

My mother of course…………….was watching all of this out of the kitchen window.

“Okay, one more try, Daddy.  That wasn’t half bad.” I whispered to him as I re-adjusted his hands.  He was getting it a little backwards.

I raised my voice quite a bit so my mother could hear me through the screened window.

“Daddy!  There is nothing to worry about.  They are going to play “Daddy’s Little Girl.”  Mom is going to be a weeping mess.  She won’t be able to see a thing.” I started out.

He nodded his head up and down like he was memorizing instructions.

“Do you know how she’s always trying to hurry me by yelling “Who is looking at you?” through the bathroom door?  You do remember that, right?” I asked as I pulled him away from leading me into the hemlocks.

“Yes, I remember that.” he said as he bit his bottom lip in concentration.  At least he wasn’t shaking anymore.

“Well, Daddy.  I am the bride.  I am going to look beautiful.  They’re all going to be looking at me during this dance.  So, think about it and don’t be nervous Daddy.  Who the hell is going to be looking at you?”  I asked as I twirled out of his embrace.

Daddy stopped dancing and roared with laughter.  Mom joined in from the kitchen window.