Barefoot Down Stoney Memory Lane

…So my son and I are coming back from his dentist appointment the other day, after finding out that he has a few cavities, much to my horror. (At his age, I’m sure I should have been watching him brush more closely. He didn’t always pay as much attention as we would have liked to his upper molars.) Right when we walked in the door, the phone rang, and it was a voice I had only heard a few times in the past twenty-seven years—that of my biological paternal grandmother.

Now unlike my biological father, I had some pretty good memories about Gramma Jan’s house. My mother always said that she had treated her well, and had even helped us out when we were down on our luck, so I’ve never harbored any animosity towards her. Apparently she was going through a hellish marriage at that time as well, and didn’t really know the specifics of the deterioration between Bart and my mom until it was way too late to try and intervene.

And so here she was, on the other end of the phone line, telling me she was about an hour away in driving time, and asking if we could get together somewhere to have an early dinner. I accepted, feeling slightly excited but also just numb with surprise.

We met at a location that was easy for her to get to, considering she didn’t know exactly where she was. She was traveling down to Florida from New York and had a friend with her. As I waited for her to call and tell me when she reached a certain point, my mind kept rewinding back to my childhood, back to this woman I had not seen in so very long. The more I thought about it, the more anxious I became, and not in a bad way…just, nerves, I guess. It smacked of those shows on the Lifetime Channel where two family members have been separated for so long for whatever reasons and were finally going to be reunited. I’m not one for an inordinate amount of cheesiness in my life. My jokes are a whole other entity, but generally I’m pretty matter-of-fact, or as close as an artistic person can get. Still, my throat was tightening by the time I was driving down the highway to meet them.

She looked like what I thought she would. Still had red hair, though I’m pretty sure she must have been dying it by now, strong German/Irish stock, pale skin like mine, glasses and a quick smile. We all hugged and stood around to pose for pictures for a few minutes before going to eat. Her friend was a very nice fellow, and was very kind to my son as she and I caught up on all sorts of things, like family members I hadn’t seen since leaving New York, who had had kids, who’s living life at large and who’s barely hanging on. It was very emotional, and intensely interesting since it was my family, even though I didn’t talk to most of them anymore.

I went into a trance about three-quarters into dinner, and started telling her about all the very specific things I recalled about her home, and my visits there. It was so strange to feel all the old memories come back, as though my brain was laying these little crystalline eggs that kept popping out of my mouth. Her garden, us picking fresh asparagus and strawberries that were so sweet, and blackberries that stained our teeth; the huge (to me, any way. I was six …) stack-stone fireplace, with the long sofa across from it where I used to sleep when we spent the night; the adults playing poker, which I was privileged enough to stay up and watch as I was a rather well-behaved little girl, the color of the chips and the cards and the jokes that were told; the old cuckoo clock with the pinecones dangling beneath it, the cuckoo being a kind of magical thing to me, as it always knew when the hour or half-hour was up and heralded it to the house at large; and the Indian at the top of her flag pole, who, by my mother’s account, had come alive when I was born and had shot me in my tummy with an arrow which explained where my bellybutton had come from. (No, with me being so young, she was NOT ready to have ‘the talk’ with me while we were unloading Christmas presents, thankyouverymuch.)

I could barely remember how to chew while I was reciting these memories to her, as bits and pieces of the pain of how stressful life was back then came sneaking through the newly made opening along with the good stuff. Though I shut them out while we were together, on the drive back home I started to realize that I had lived with such incredible stress ALL my life, until a few years back when my husband and I started to live together. Every day stress— How drunk was daddy, and was he in a good mood or a dark mood today? Were his friends good people who could be trusted even though they were loud and drunk too? What was wrong with mommy? Why was she always so quiet and angry at dad? Why did he speak to her like that? If they can’t stay together, what’s going to happen to my brother and I? Why would anyone want to toss my mom across the room like a rag doll—isn’t daddy supposed to love her? Why does my uncle want me to get naked with him— is that normal for babysitters? (Only happened once, but still.)

ALL MY LIFE.

And my stepfather, when he came on the scene, was just as much a threat to me as anyone before him. Why wouldn’t he be? He was a man, and that was how men were, right?? Oh yes, believe me, he was much much better than the previous man that stood there beside my mom and looked at me, the third wheel. I still didn’t trust him. And I didn’t love him for a long time. I knew my mom loved him, and I loved her with every fiber of my being, and so for her sake, seeing her happier than she had been since before I could remember, I made peace with him. He started to shape me, to mold me into what he thought a young girl should be. Sometimes he was right on the mark and did me a tremendous boon, but sometimes…just occasionally, he missed. And a few times, he missed badly. I would work with him and he would yell at me, hurting my feelings. Among other slights. Eventually I came to see that he was very smart, and did seem to care for me, and was crazy about my mother, so I walked on eggshells and tried to fit his mold. Hell, I’d done it up to then before, what was so difficult about doing it some more? Maybe that was just how it always was…

Anyway. Enough for now. More later, after I think a bit.

Found Sisters

It is amazing to me how life can hand you exactly what you need sometimes, if you can only learn to recognize it. A woman whom I've known since I was fourteen has become like a sister to me during the past 20 years, and I just don't know how I would have made it all this way without her there beside me.

It's a friendship that has stood the tests of time, literally. We had a couple of falling-outs, though never the screeching, saying-things-that-will-make-you-regret-it-thrity-minutes-later kind, just... I see your life going in that direction, and mine is going down this road right now, but keep in touch and maybe they will converge again...

And they ALWAYS did, much to our mutual delight. We always reached out to one another again, and there we would find that same solid, knowing friendship which never faltered even with the distance of time and space. When we met, we felt so familiar to each other that we gushed on a daily basis about things so private NO one else had ever heard them- most secrets had not even been uttered out loud to ourselves. Though not related by blood, it was as if we had lived parallel lives and had come up with parallel conclusions, which fortified and strengthened us in our resolve to survive past the painful truths in our lives. And our joys were equal as well, some of the same things delighting us, our differences only serving to compliment each other.

We became joined at the hip for several years, until teenageritis hit around our senior year of high school and we came to the first fork in the road. It was touch-n-go for some time after that, with me living my life out of my house for the first time, and she trying to cope with college and living with her single mother. Every time we came back together, though, it was solid, pure love and never weighted down with vengeance. Regret over lost time, almost always, but never accusatory. She was married long before I was- married during a time in my life when I could not have been more lonely- and that distanced us for a little while. Then she had a son and sought me out, and a year later I was giving birth to mine own son then, and through new motherhood we stoked the old flame of our closeness and it has blazed ever since. Life is less like a roller coaster now, for both of us, so the valleys don't run as deep as they used to (so deep that you cannot see the sunlight anymore). And the hills are not as treacherous to climb.

The time we spend together is, I know, priceless. She understands me and my nature better than anyone I know, and oftentimes better than myself. She has a way of telling me things I'm afraid to tell myself; like forgiveness is the key to release the heavy burden of revenge and regret, and that life is too short to wallow in guilt and self-pity. Things I logically know are true but are afraid to actually believe.

This entry is for her, for the challenges we both face now and will face in the future; challenges and dark places and happiness, always facing them together. Two rocking chairs on the front porch of Shady Pines Retirement Home for the Hopelessly Ancient await us...