Drunks, Wolves, and Clara

Nutcracker try-out announcements were posted on Monday. Amilia, my nine-year-old granddaughter was cast as Clara. Our family went a little crazy with plans. My very important step-sister, a senior partner in her large law firm in Baltimore booked a flight. Other’s arranged small work vacations.  We will board our dogs for the first time ever as there will be no available family member to dog-sit. The first weekend in December will be historical for our family.

“Mama, how you feelin’?” Trying to control the tremor in my voice, I’m pretty sure I sound perfectly normal.

“Oh you know, the usual, can’t sleep, my eyes sting, and I just cain’t seem to find my appetite.” My seventy-six-year-old mother begins most conversations with the same complaints.

“I’m sorry Mama.” No use offering suggestions anymore.

More chit-chat leads to the crux of the phone call. “Y’all going up to Charlotte for the Nutcracker?” She asks so sweetly and I want to scream, of course, what the fuck do you think? An extreme reaction you may think, but that is just because you may not be familiar with  “southern mama guilt.”

She is really on a fishing expedition. Exploring the waters to make sure she will be the center of attention and not some other usurping fish. Her list of infringers is long as it includes anyone who commands attraction away from her. My husband is the Supreme King of her list. They no longer co-exist in any situation. His attendance at any event demands her retreat. He is more popular in her mind.

A comparison of two people: One, a female, raised by drunks. One, a male, raised by human wolves. The female learns to attract love by gaining attention, she craves the love of her unconcerned parents and so seeks it in other places. She discovers boys; coyness and sticky sweetness win them. She has a female child.  At last, an object who returns love in just the way she desperately needs. The male seeks approval from his parents, finds none. He turns inward with self-loathing and outward with braggadocious behaviour. He is put out on his own far too early for a human child, he seeks approval through hard work. If no approval is forthcoming he will bare his teeth. He finds a mate who soothes his wounds and loves him as he is.

“Yes, I think my mother plans to attend.” My husband has begun his quizzing, I try to keep it casual.

“Fine, but I don’t have to make nice do I?”

“Well, I was hoping to avoid any unease at least for Amilia’s sake. It’s her night after all. This isn’t about you or my mother, this is about our granddaughter dancing the lead role.” I am bolder with my retort to my husband.

“Is she sitting near us?” He puts it plainly out there.

“Likely, I spoke to Katherine (our daughter, Amilia’s mom), and she says she has gotten a block of seat tickets.”  My stomach starts the standard flip-flop.

In two months, two rows of twenty related people will be sitting together for the first time in several years. We will watch Amilia perform the role of Clara. It will be the season of Christmas for us. The season of goodwill toward men, (and women). We as a family will watch our darling girl.

I am nervous as a cat,caught between guilt/mother and loyalty/husband. This and that have led to years of separation between my husband and mother. Well, really, between my mother and a few others. Before December arrives, I want to put everyone into a deep sleep so that they will dream of sugarplums, snowflakes, and battles where right wins; then, wake to find Christmas has arrived in the form of one tiny dancer who can unite us all. Damn the wolves, the drunks, the guilt, the subtle and the bold intentions. Let January be full of happy family history.

Mama Ciele

Rangy, rows of Pecan trees drip over my rural route,
sweeping me along in a direction there about.
A blush of red peeks just ahead,
my destination marked by roses, memories from my head.
A tiny clapboard washed in hints of green,
the crowning glory a porch now seen.
Delighted wings take my heart I am home, I am home.

Wrapped in the comfort of a time-worn chair,
She gently combs and plaits my hair.
Joining the buzz of night bug, cicada, and katy-did,
comes the rain on tin answering prayers most bid.
She hums a tune without words ’bout leavin’
‘If we never meet again this side of heaven…”
Peaceful wings take my heart I sing, I sing.

Work-worn hands yet easy and fine,
smoothing  cool sheets  on the line.
Flashing blue eyes twinkle and spark,
with tales of fantasy, I hate when it gets dark.
Time for bed, falling asleep counting knots on pine walls,
her soft snoring just down the hall.
Shining wings take my heart I dream, I dream.

 

Epilogue:
Gone now, an emptiness left in time and space,
progress stands in her home’s place.
I hum a song with no words, a little blonde boy,
snuggles close with his toy.
I look at my own hands, work-worn, nails torn,
I am content yet I mourn.
Gentle wings took her home, took her home.

The One That Got Away

I got home late from work, hot, sticky and hungry. My phone lit up when I pulled it out of my apron pocket. The need for a brisk and clean shower was more powerful than the pull of the vibrating phone. I threw on my coolest cotton p.j.s, made some nachos and settled on the couch with my latest Prey novel by John Sandford. This is one of my favorite times of the day. My husband is asleep, work is over and I can stay up late, with nowhere to go in the morning.

The renewed vibrating of my phone reminded me I needed to check in; a little alarmed because no one texts me after eleven pm. It’s an old friend from high school- both times. He is letting me know that he will be in my area on vacation with his family. They will be here in a few weeks, maybe we could get together. I have not seen Joe for over twenty years, could be fun.

Texting about three times a week, I find out that he does not love his wife. He has two children, a boy, and a girl, grown. The daughter lives in the same house with Joe and his wife. The daughter, a single mom, also has her ten-year-old daughter living in the family home. He does not mention his son. He works nights and would like to call me on the way to work. For the first time, a faint, almost not there alarm goes off. Why can’t he call me during the day on a day off?

The first phone call came about nine o’clock one night, my husband was home and I cajoled him into talking too. See we all went to the same high-school. It was awkward, my old high-school buddy referred to his wife alternately as the “old battle-ax,” and “the old ball and chain.” Who talks like that? He made a point of telling us that his wife would not join us for dinner but that he would like to meet up for some seafood. After a bit of bragging about the famous people he rubs elbows with through his work we hung up.

He called me three more times, I answered the first and dodged the last two. The first call was enough. It began innocently enough remembering old times. We had several classes together our senior year. It ended with him telling me that I was “the one that got away.” Nervously laughing I pointed out that we never even went on a date. I don’t know this guy anymore. He said he never had enough nerve to ask me out, but if he did and now I quote, “It would not have been our last date you wouldn’t have wanted to date anyone else ever again if you know what I mean.” No, I don’t know what you mean. I hung up soon after.

For the next week, I could not stop thinking that I was “the one that got away.” Even if I might have got away from a jerk, I decided I was flattered. I imagined showing up for dinner looking pretty hot for a fifty-four-year-old. I also imagined wearing a mu-mu and no make-up. I debated cutting my hair, what color would I paint my nails? Should I tell my husband that he said I was the one who got away? I imagined being terribly witty and extremely interesting. I thought about what it would feel like to sit across the table from someone besides my husband who might like me “that way.” I was giddy and disgusted.

The day of the dinner date arrived. My husband and I were looking forward to a night out with grown-ups that weren’t our family. I never shared my private musings with my husband or what Joe had told me. I was a little nervous, but I had decided it would be fun to go out on a date with another man, my husband in tow. Really what is wrong with me? I was on a big high. Three hours before our dinner, I received this text from Joe, “Change of plans we are heading home now, hope to see you next time, will call soon.” Well huh!

My husband and I went to dinner anyway. I was terribly witty and extremely interesting. My husband was thoughtful, laughed at the right times, and he held my hand. I gave a little thanks that we did not get away from each other.

OCD Part Two

 

Wound healing powder by Johnson and Johnson works pretty well for wounds that can’t be stitched but won’t stop bleeding. Trouble is I can’t seem to find my supply. Sweat is pouring off my brow and I have a rib cramp blooming on my side as I try to reach into the depths of my medicine cabinet. The cabinet takes up two shelves in my kitchen cupboard, it is deep and loaded with bottles, syringes, test strips, gauze, vitamins, band-aids, and assorted medical must-haves. Meanwhile, my husband sits softly crying at the table applying pressure to his wound. Ahh ha! Found it!

The following is a warning for those weak of heart or stomach: graphic blood details coming up.

My husband lives with OCD, Anxiety, Severe Depression, Bi-Polar II, Agoraphobia, and PTSD. Right now his anxiety is ramping up his OCD causing him to pick his skin until he bleeds. His arms are covered in constellations of scabs – some are oozing, some are scabs, and some are actively bleeding. He picks with such aggression that on six occasions he has opened  tiny blood vessels which pump blood out in alarming quantities.

A close look with my magnified reading glasses reveals the source. A perfectly round yet small as a pin-head vessel shows itself with a slow eruption of blood in sync with a heart beat. I know from experience it needs advanced attention. I hope the powder will work. The ER doc said to try it before we made another visit to his domain, it will be a lot cheaper.

In minutes the bleeding stops, clotted by the magic powder. I’m relieved that we do not have to make a trip to urgent care. He says it burns, I reassure him that the directions say it might burn and remind him that stitches really really sting.

I cover his arms in tube socks adapted for just this purpose. His crying has stopped, he is full of remorse. He hates himself right now. The balance beam has been set up for the day. We both will try not to fall off.

OCD

Hazy daylight filters unhurried over the sodden sheets of my bed. Another sultry day promised by the fogged window. I sit up to drag the damp ends of my hair from the creases of my neck. Free from the muffling pillow I hear his crying. Again.

The need to pee stops me from attending to him quickly. I am not worried about this so much now because it is familiar. I know what’s waiting for me. I linger a bit while washing my hands and stare at my face in the mirror. I look tired. I make a few practice faces trying to find the sparkle in my eyes that tells me I am me. The creaking floor snaps me out of trying on faces, he is on the move.

We meet up in the living room that separates our bedrooms. His face is red.

Yawning, I ask, “What’s wrong? Didn’t you sleep well?”

He lifts his arm and I am less shocked than grossed out by the amount of blood. Blood is dripping, staining the already weathered pine floors. I think about how hard it is to clean blood stains from this floor before I think about cleaning his arm.

“What the hell?” I sound  mad to my own ears.

Moving quickly across the room, I embrace him, standing on my tip-toes to kiss his teary face. My husband of thirty-five years looks sad and ashamed. He has done this to himself. Again.

Royal Rose

The bar-b-ques were one of the few chances Lucy had to glimpse a tangible piece of her past – her grandmother’s dishes. One of her cousins could always be counted on to flounce in flourishing one of the coveted dishes laden with corn bread or freshly sliced tomatoes. The dish would claim a prime location on the table in spite of its humble holdings. A whole set of Royal Rose china belonged to their beloved grandmother. Every time Lucy saw them tender memories of her grandmother and her own dear mama engulfed her heart.

The last memory of both her grandmother and mother together was Christmas day when she was five. The glow of the candle-lit table provided the perfect backdrop in her mind. Nine places were set. Her grandparents sat at each end of the large oak table, her mother to the left of her grand-dad and her father to the left of her grandmother, she and her siblings filling in the rest. The table was covered in finely embroidered white cotton cloth. She was given the honor of carrying the gravy dish to the table, she remembered carefully placing one foot in front of the other in an effort to not spill a drop. Her mother and grandmother smiled quietly as she successfully placed the dish on the table. The memory ends there. Her sweet mother would be dead by Valentine’s Day and both her grandparents would be claimed by influenza Christmas Eve four years later.

When her grandparents passed, her uncle – her mother’s brother – a dentist and only surviving child of her grandparents swooped in and packed up “the good stuff.” This included the lovely set of pre-depression china. After her mother’s death her father, a farmer, had sent her and her only sister to live with her grandparents. This arrangement lasted for two years until her father found another wife. Those two years turned the five-year-old Lucy into a stoic and mature almost woman. She was the one who had lovingly washed the china each Sunday after dinner for the last year. Now her silly, childish, spoiled cousins, one a year older, one a year younger than Lucy would possess the precious dishes.

At age thirteen Lucy gave birth for the first time to a son, she was unwed, her father forced her to give the baby away. Lucy had been raped by the neighboring farmer, who was married with children of his own. At fifteen she was married for the first time. She quickly gave birth to a son and a daughter all before her third wedding anniversary and her nineteenth birthday. The bar-b-que was scheduled for the day after her 20th birthday. Already showing with her next child she did not really feel like going; but, she could not miss the opportunity to see which dish would appear on the table in a mocking gesture made by her ninny cousins. They could never know that what they thought of as a stab to her heart was really a gift. A gift filled with the shimmering glow of candles on a table abundant with love and food.

She stopped cold when she saw the chipped edge of the square moss rose serving bowl. Over her shoulder, she heard the grating whisper of her cousin. She learned that many of the dishes had been broken during their recent move to a bigger house. This was the last bar-b-que with her mother’s relations she ever attended.

She told me this story  when I asked why her oddly matched serving bowl had a chip in it. She also told about her quest to collect rose patterned dishes; over the years collecting two different sets of rose patterned china, each called Royal Rose, one from Japan, one from Germany. She never did find any to completely match the original china made in Poland. As for the chipped dish, she stole it at that last bar-b-que, unable to bear the thought of any more harm befalling all that the dish represented.

I am Lucy’s granddaughter and I have just passed on sixteen place settings complete with three serving bowls, one with a chip; two serving platters; salt and pepper shakers; and a gravy bowl to my daughter along with this story. While telling the story my four-year-old granddaughter wandered over, sat down and listened with wide eyes.

A Slight Tilt of the Head

The color enhanced black and white photograph remained on her bureau more than thirty years after the subject’s death. A smooth man’s face with kind eyes stared out from the photo. His head slightly tilted with a subtle wry smile faintly playing around his mouth. A stranger to this man might mistakenly guess this to be a handsome man with a good joke to tell. Those who knew him and his life knew the cocked angle hid a secret. And the not quite smiling eyes spoke of pain rather than joy.
His name Walter Greek Daniel, my paternal grandfather. I loved to examine his picture as a child. His violent death occurred about ten months before I was born. I learned his story slowly and secretly over the years. My grandmother loved him and never allowed a negative word about him to pass her lips. She also did not tolerate it from others. The very first story I heard led to my fascination with his photo.

I was about five when I overheard my dad tell someone, “The best thing that ever happened was when my father got pushed down some stairs in a bar fight where he lay dead drunk  They got him to the hospital too late. My old man managed to survive but not for long, he died a few days later in the hospital. I knew Mother would be safe.”
This little snippet of information grew in my mind to legend with a more romantic flair. You see my dad was somewhat of drunk also. Handsome and charming but a drunk none the less. So I took the secret words, considered the source and reinvented it as I gazed at my grandfather’s photo.
“Dashing family man risks his own life in the effort to save a mysterious stranger from the perils of a dimly lit stairwell after a night of dancing and drinking. Sadly, our hero survived only hours after his fall. Wife and daughter were beside his bed as he passed into glory.” This would be the headline story if my musings came true.

I needed a hero. Even a generation old hero was better than the non-hero dad I thought I had. Turns out my dad would be a hero, but I would not know that until his death nearly thirty-five years after my early fascination with the photo on the bureau. As a child, I lived varying miles from grandmother’s house but every summer we visited. Every summer included a meditation-like visit with my grandfather’s photo.

As the years passed I heard more secret stories. My grandfather did drink to excess and laid very rough hands on my grandmother, my dad, and my aunt. Two younger children, both boys, my uncles escaped most of the abuse. At a young age, he was involved in a serious car accident, this would have been in early 1930’s. The accident left him with a crushed check bone that left his face sunken under one eye. It caused him a lot of pain and he was known to grimace quite often with the sharpness of the pain.

Now I look at that same photo and know that he hated the crushed side of his face and always tilted his head to minimize the effect. His slight smile more of a sneer. I also know that my aunt forgave him and looks forward to being reunited with him in heaven. She prays every day that he found a way back to God in those last hours of his life. I know that if it weren’t for him there would be no me. One more thing, sometimes a slight tilt of the head is just that but sometimes it hides a secret.

My grandfather really was found at the bottom of the stairs in a popular bar. He did drink. He did abuse. He also taught school. He told good stories. He was not happy. He loved my grandmother a lot. She loved him. This is all I know for sure.

Vera’s Last Night

Y’all know that spooky look faces take on when sitting around a fire at night? Well I guess as good as I can recall that’s how we all looked. Maybe it reckoned in what happened that night, maybe it didn’t. I do know what I’m about to relay is best told around a fire just like the night we all remember as Vera’s last.
They was three brothers born to the same mother and one brother born to the second wife of their daddy. Born Georgia farmers during the great depression little coin passed through any of their hands. Food was what they grew or killed or traded for. They worked hard and early on their daddy included the scarcely bearded boys in is his nightly liberation. Weren’t much to do after dark but drink a drink and play a tune in the firelight.
Daddy always called it liberation, “heah them croakers? Gettin’ on ta liberation, lawd, lawd, I’m a ready.”
Now is the time I think I should name these folks, else you won’t know who is who. Raiford was the oldest, followed by Eugene, EB and Clarence. Their daddy, Ezekiel Boston, was knowed by most folks as Boss. Boss had a sweet young wife who gave him six children before she was 25. Four of ’em made it to be grown but by that time their mama, Annabelle, had joined her two little angels. Next Boss chose a coarser, sturdier wife, she gave him nine more young un’s. Her name was Gussie. She liked to dip snuff with a pretty spoon, I cain’t never forget that. The only naming left is the wives, Vera went with Raiford, Gladys went with Eugene, EB didn’t have no wife then and Clarence had Nell. Oh and me, I am the baby sister of Raiford, Eugene and EB. Clarence is my baby, Gussie had him but gave him to me cause I cried over how pretty he was.
On that night, my brother’s was full grown men. They had took to selling corn liquor across the state line up in South Carolina and had just came back from a real good run. Daddy had the fire lit and he were just getting his old banjo turned up. Vera was a little put out because the boys (they got called boys till our Daddy was gone from this earth.) was late and missed supper. So she and Gladys was back in the kitchen cleaning. They wanted me to help, but I didn’t. Though I was mostly grown none had picked me as a bride yet. Daddy said I was too pretty for pawin’ at.

Daddy was red-faced and singing a tune I ain’t never heard. I  could see Vera bent over the sink through the little window on the front side of the house. She looked like she was singing along, I remember thinking how she knew the words. Mostly Daddy sang songs we all knew, my favorite, Keep on the Sunny Side, that Carter family just made me so happy ever-time I got to listen in. Our uncle had a radio at his house, he was a dentist, not a dirt farmer.
Back to that last night…
In the middle of that new song a sharp crack rang out, it echoed in my head for a good bit after. My brother’s and my daddy tore off into the woods, shouting for us to get back in the house.

Daddy hollered, “Make sure Vera is alright.”

Nell, me and Gussie run up on the porch just as Gladys was running out the door. She looked white as a ghost and the cat had got her tongue. She fell into a faint right then.
Gussie screamed out, “Gladyses been shot!”
But it weren’t Gladys, it were Vera.
Nell told us the news,”Vera’s dead, shot right through the head!”
Never did know what happened, my brother’s reckon some revenuers was trying to send them a message. Maybe they followed ’em back after the run. I keep thinking about that song, I never heard it again, but ever time I hear a love song it reminds me of Vera’s last night. Daddy died a few months later after a bout of melancholy. Raiford ain’t ever been right since. I take care of him now.  I never did find no husband.

The narrator is my grandmother, she was actually married four times. My great-aunt really did got shot in her kitchen.  The rest…?

 

Phoebe Jane

My Darling Daughter-in-Law,
By now you will have heard that I have took ill. Many come up to my porch to see the contrary old lady finally getting her justice. Just last week I had to toss biled water on a few of them. Gave me a laugh and did feel some better for a piece. I count myself lucky to make it out to my ol rocker and take the air for a good spell. However, I do find the breath in me comes harder at night and believe my time to be nigh.

I write to you now dear one some advice as I can’t be assured of seeing your sweet face again.

As you know my “dear” son’s father was reported dead of fever soon after leaving with his regiment. That rank smelling excuse for a commander came by not too long ago to chaw a bit with me. He again recollected how that May of 1861 my husband took sick at the first camp they set to. Fearing a spread of disease, he was forced to set him up on some folks eager to help our loyal sons. The commander tells me again the queerness of it being just the one fella to up and die and having left those at home in a state of well being. That first-rate raskal’s eye gleamed with knowledge, but for now he ain’t told my secret.

I have ever regretted that my son took so much after his daddy and their people. The devil does hide behind all that charm. If I had knowed it sooner I believe I would have warned you off. I reckon the devilment comes too late to be seen or we both would have turned out differn. The truth of it is, even the war came too late for me else I would not be setting here about to tell you the thing I did.

I woke up one bleak winter day just knowing it was him or me. I was much wearied of the pain that would split my head as the great ignorant hand would strike it. The laudanum dulled my caring but not my pain. Misery was no longer welcome in my house. Even the good Lord must see a thing must be done. Fasting from gravy on my plate I spilled it generously over your father-in-law’s meat. He was happy enough to eat it night after night, too greedy to figure it the source of pains that gripped him of a night. I stopped for awhile, guilt giving me a gripping.

War news was spreading and the 45th Infantry from our county was formed up. They were set to head east towards Richmond. I thanked the sweet Lord and his blessed Mama that I would be waving goodbye to my torment. His last night he come in, liquor on his breath. He left me with a shut up eye that stayed swolled up for weeks after he left out. I made him a heaping plate of his favorite biscuits and gravy.

I know you will find in my words some of your own plight. This is my advice to you…take yourself to church, pray some. Love up on your girls, praise God you ain’t got no boys. Then go out on the porch and call up all the sorrow you have in your heart, weigh it out. Toss that grief to the wind. Go on in the house and make you all some supper. I have enclosed my recipe for gravy.

Your ever loving and not long for this world mother-in-law,
Phoebe Jane

It is true that my great-great grandmother was Phoebe Jane Ward, born Dec. 10, 1838 and died on Christmas day 1916. Her first husband Mr. Cox died of fever soon after heading off with his regiment. She later married my great-great grandfather Mr. Sheppard Lee Daniel, civil war veteran. The photo is the home of my great – grandfather Benjamin Ward Daniel, the son of Phoebe and Sheppard, Phoebe died in this home. I made the rest up.

Change What You Are Looking For

I am a devotee of signs. Sometimes the sign is revealed in the typical fashion of letters and words on a placard. Cosmic signs are mostly what I subscribe to. I have been lucky enough to see them at various crossroads pointing me in the way I should go. On occasion the signs appear as confirmation of decisions already made. Largely, the signs bring with them simple comfort and nothing more. I confess to looking for endorsement signs only. If there is no yay sign, I pursue the hunt.

I have felt suspended in my life of late. I am neither moving forward nor backward. My signs have abandoned me for the moment I think. I am a grandmother who is just now trying to cut the mothering apron strings. The grandmother role came easily to me, but the mother role to grown women is confounding. To offer advice or not to offer advice is indeed the question. I am damned either way. My post raising children life is self interrupted by poor judgement on the phone and by proximity to my children. I want to have my life while maintaining a healthy connection to my children. They wobble between needing my help and blessed independence. We have had a delayed mother child fly be free I will give you roots stage in our relationship. Limbo is not limited to this changing tide however.

My husband of 34 years is unwell. Forced into early retirement.  We have sold our home and are living in an RV. The last eight months have seemed like some long Salvador Dali vacation. Guilt creeps quietly through our devotion to health. Dreams of retirement and traveling have become reality too soon. This new freedom should be enjoyed, but our time together is shadowed by mortality. I have some traitorous thoughts, I’m not sick; I could be working; I want my house back. Yet I know we are a unit, he needs me and I need him. Nothing is as it seems and nothing is rightly placed. I feel I am on a path with no end because I don’t know where I am going.

Could I have a sign please? Nothing echoes from my beloved elements. Is that my answer? No peace for this season of life.

Yesterday, I heard the tide and the moon phase were just right for finding the coveted large whelk and conch shells gifted by the sea. I have combed the beaches for these prizes since we began our camping odyssey. Frustrations mounted each time I saw another striding back from the beach, buckets laden with fossilized beauties. My husband went with me on my trek this time. We walked for more than an hour; we were empty-handed. And then…my husband said, “Maybe we should change what we are looking for.” A moment later he held up a lovely bit of sea glass.

A mere day has passed since our sea glass moment. I cannot get his simple statement out of my overworked mind. I recognize it and embrace it fully as only a sign dogmatist can! Looking for a thing to happen in a prescribed finite way has kept me pinned down; stalled by my own seeking. How many signs have I walked right by while looking for something else? Looking for, is out. Looking at, is in. I hope. Maybe. Could I have just one small sign?

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