Tuesday, August 30, 2011
I Wish I Had a Fish That Died
Several years ago a guest musician performed at my church. In the program, it said he was performing a song he’d written for his late wife. Although it’s been five or six years since I’ve heard him, I still remember the title of the song: “Marilyn’s Garden.” I watched his face as he played the guitar; his eyes had a faraway look and he appeared to be in a world of his own—or perhaps in a world of their own. I remember thinking at the time how wonderful it would be to have someone love me the way he loved her—enough to write a song for me—and perform it in public. And then I had a reality check. She had to die to have a song written for her.
She was dead—and I was alive.
Fast forward a couple of years. My grandson, who was about 6 at the time, told Karsten, his 4 ½ year old buddy that his goldfish had died. Next to my grandson, Karsten is probably the cutest little boy—ever. He has piercing blue eyes, a mop of brown hair, and a sprinkle of freckles on his nose. For such a young boy, he seems much older—he has an old soul I suspect. When Alex told him about the demise of his fish, Karsten replied, “Oooooh, that’s so sad. I wish I had a fish that died.
I’m not a mind reader, but I think he probably meant he wished he had a live fish.
That brings us to now. For the past few months I’ve been “keeping company” with a man whose wife died several years ago. They were social friends of mine. He talked about Carolyn a great deal on our first few dates. I like to say the three of us are dating. As he’s shared more about their relationship over the past few months—day-to-day events, as well as more intimate details—I’ve inserted myself into the scene. I’ve wanted that kind of relationship for many years. He knows about “the fish that died,” so when I have those moments of longing, I’ll say, “I wish I had a fish that died” and he understands how I feel.
Our relationship of three has grown and blossomed, although not without some bumps and obstacles along the way. Walling myself off emotionally for most of my life is not the best formula for a successful relationship, but I’m slowly letting go of old fears and anxieties and he’s slowly moving forward. Carolyn will always be a part of our relationship, and I’m perfectly o.k. with that. I’ve called on her many times for advice and have considered having a bracelet engraved, “WWCD”—what would Carolyn do?
This isn’t the way I planned my life, but this is the unplanned life I have. It’s ironic that I “had” to wait until age 65 to find what I didn’t know I wanted. I’ve finally found what truly makes me happy—and I finally have a fish that….lives.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Fatherless Day
So, I write this on Father’s Day.
I never had a dad. (For the record, I had a biological father--and a stepfather.) I never knew what it was like to sit on my dad’s lap, be thrown in the air, and share hugs and kisses. My fatherless-ness has twisted and shaped my life, almost beyond repair.
The first memory I had of my dad was when I was about four or five. One summer night, he came to the screen door of the bedroom my brother, mother, and I shared at my grandma’s house. He whispered my brother’s name to get his attention. I wondered then, as now, why he didn’t call my name, because I was in direct view of the door. He must have gone around to the other door, because I remember my grandma yelling at him through the front door. My grandma never raised her voice except to call us for supper-- but she raised it that night. I heard her yelling at him to go away. I lay in bed, frightened. My mother must have been at work at the glass factory, where she worked a swing shift. I have a vague memory of my grandma calling the sheriff. My father was, of course, drunk, as he was most of his early adult life
Fast forward to age 15, when I almost met my father again. I was working my first summer job at the Dairy Queen. My father drove down from Detroit to party with my brother, who’d just gotten out of Navy boot camp. Allegedly they hit every bar in Montgomery County. My dad thought it would be a good thing to come to the DQ and visit his long lost daughter—twice. I wasn’t working either time, but the boss’s daughter (we called her Little Lobster) took great delight in relaying to me his drunken condition. I was humiliated but I wasn’t about to let her know that. I laughed along with her. My stepfather had him thrown in jail. My grandma had to take the train down from Chicago to bail him out. It was around that time my dad got sober.
I was 24 when I met my dad for the first time, since I was a toddler. I didn’t want to meet him but I had to go through him to see my grandma, whom I hadn’t seen for nine years. They lived together in what used to be a filling station, in an industrial part of Detroit. I was a wreck. He ran out to greet my ex-husband and I and, horror or all horrors, hugged me! I thought “How dare he?!“ I don’t remember much about the visit, except it was a hot day, I was on my period, I’d made the dress I was wearing, and my ex commented we had the same long fingers.
I saw him two other times; once was when my grandma was bedridden. On that visit, he met my daughter, who was almost three, for the first time. And again, about four years later when he took the bus to Peoria and stayed with my daughter and me for 2 ½ days. I mostly remember his chain smoking. My apartment reeked. We had no history—nothing to talk about. I could hardly wait for him to leave.
After that reality check, I wrote him only sporadically. Father’s Day was one of those communication “opportunities” when I would pore over all of the Father’s Day cards until I found one that didn’t make any false claims—that wasn’t easy. I wasn’t going to lie.
He died in the summer heat wave of ’88 from complications of emphysema. He didn’t have air conditioning. I got a collect call at work one day, from him, the operator said. But it was the Detroit Police Department saying he was dead—he’d been dead for two or three days. I fell over on my desk and sobbed uncontrollably. I remember wondering at the time, why I was mourning someone who had never been a part of my life. It didn’t take me long to figure out that I was grieving because I would never—ever—have the father I wanted and needed.
I’ve forgiven him, as much as I can, for choosing alcohol over me. I understand addictions as much as I can. I know AA was just in its infancy when he was drinking, and he didn’t have access to the tools he needed, but maybe he wouldn’t have used them anyhow. I live with the legacy that my father was a falling down, out-of-control drunk who never fathered his children and never paid a dime of child support. After he stopped drinking, he still played the horses, and would occasionally send me a money order if he won. It didn’t compensate, but it meant something.
I suspect my father started drinking because of an anxiety disorder. I think this because of information my aunt told me around the time of his death. I have inherited his anxiety and fully understand why he might have turned to alcohol.
So this is why I hate Father’s Day. And this is, in large part, why I am the way I am. It is much easier to forgive than to forget. But if I could send a message to the great beyond, I’d say “I forgive you, Dad—and I know you’ll do a better job in your next life.” And I’ll keep looking for a dad, even though I’m 65. Hope springs eternal
I never had a dad. (For the record, I had a biological father--and a stepfather.) I never knew what it was like to sit on my dad’s lap, be thrown in the air, and share hugs and kisses. My fatherless-ness has twisted and shaped my life, almost beyond repair.
The first memory I had of my dad was when I was about four or five. One summer night, he came to the screen door of the bedroom my brother, mother, and I shared at my grandma’s house. He whispered my brother’s name to get his attention. I wondered then, as now, why he didn’t call my name, because I was in direct view of the door. He must have gone around to the other door, because I remember my grandma yelling at him through the front door. My grandma never raised her voice except to call us for supper-- but she raised it that night. I heard her yelling at him to go away. I lay in bed, frightened. My mother must have been at work at the glass factory, where she worked a swing shift. I have a vague memory of my grandma calling the sheriff. My father was, of course, drunk, as he was most of his early adult life
Fast forward to age 15, when I almost met my father again. I was working my first summer job at the Dairy Queen. My father drove down from Detroit to party with my brother, who’d just gotten out of Navy boot camp. Allegedly they hit every bar in Montgomery County. My dad thought it would be a good thing to come to the DQ and visit his long lost daughter—twice. I wasn’t working either time, but the boss’s daughter (we called her Little Lobster) took great delight in relaying to me his drunken condition. I was humiliated but I wasn’t about to let her know that. I laughed along with her. My stepfather had him thrown in jail. My grandma had to take the train down from Chicago to bail him out. It was around that time my dad got sober.
I was 24 when I met my dad for the first time, since I was a toddler. I didn’t want to meet him but I had to go through him to see my grandma, whom I hadn’t seen for nine years. They lived together in what used to be a filling station, in an industrial part of Detroit. I was a wreck. He ran out to greet my ex-husband and I and, horror or all horrors, hugged me! I thought “How dare he?!“ I don’t remember much about the visit, except it was a hot day, I was on my period, I’d made the dress I was wearing, and my ex commented we had the same long fingers.
I saw him two other times; once was when my grandma was bedridden. On that visit, he met my daughter, who was almost three, for the first time. And again, about four years later when he took the bus to Peoria and stayed with my daughter and me for 2 ½ days. I mostly remember his chain smoking. My apartment reeked. We had no history—nothing to talk about. I could hardly wait for him to leave.
After that reality check, I wrote him only sporadically. Father’s Day was one of those communication “opportunities” when I would pore over all of the Father’s Day cards until I found one that didn’t make any false claims—that wasn’t easy. I wasn’t going to lie.
He died in the summer heat wave of ’88 from complications of emphysema. He didn’t have air conditioning. I got a collect call at work one day, from him, the operator said. But it was the Detroit Police Department saying he was dead—he’d been dead for two or three days. I fell over on my desk and sobbed uncontrollably. I remember wondering at the time, why I was mourning someone who had never been a part of my life. It didn’t take me long to figure out that I was grieving because I would never—ever—have the father I wanted and needed.
I’ve forgiven him, as much as I can, for choosing alcohol over me. I understand addictions as much as I can. I know AA was just in its infancy when he was drinking, and he didn’t have access to the tools he needed, but maybe he wouldn’t have used them anyhow. I live with the legacy that my father was a falling down, out-of-control drunk who never fathered his children and never paid a dime of child support. After he stopped drinking, he still played the horses, and would occasionally send me a money order if he won. It didn’t compensate, but it meant something.
I suspect my father started drinking because of an anxiety disorder. I think this because of information my aunt told me around the time of his death. I have inherited his anxiety and fully understand why he might have turned to alcohol.
So this is why I hate Father’s Day. And this is, in large part, why I am the way I am. It is much easier to forgive than to forget. But if I could send a message to the great beyond, I’d say “I forgive you, Dad—and I know you’ll do a better job in your next life.” And I’ll keep looking for a dad, even though I’m 65. Hope springs eternal
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Dear Mr. Roe,
It’s past time I thanked you, dear sixth grade teacher, for being there for me, during a time when my life was starting to spin out of control. You were my first male teacher, and boy, did I need a positive male role model in my life. You weren’t much to look at— big nose, receding hairline (a redhead) and you were OLD. I mean, my God, you were 36 and I was 11—too old to be my boyfriend, but not too old to be my father figure.
You didn’t play favorites–it wasn’t like I was your pet or anything—but you seemed to intuitively know to treat me a little differently. Like the phase we girls went through, signing our homework and our blackboard work with our boyfriends’ names, as if we were married to them. For instance, I was Mrs. Roger Cole. Now I’m sure that was news to Mr. Roger Cole. We had a “thing” in fourth grade, but I suspect he had moved on by the sixth grade. But I hadn’t, and he was the only husband I had. I had to keep up with the Jones’s—Mrs. Jones that is.
Well, you got tired of trying to figure out who Mrs. So-and-So was, so you told us girls we had to use our real names on the blackboard and on homework. No problem. The next time I used the blackboard, I wrote “Terri Sue Hickman.” My real name was Maureen Hickman, but I absolutely didn’t like, or own, any part of that name. Terri Sue was who I was. Of course, some of the other girls narced on me, pointing out I didn’t use my own name, but you spared me any further humiliation and let it stand. Fifty-four years later, I still remember that. You seemed to understand I couldn’t handle being myself.
Remember the time you praised me in front of the class? I’m not real clear on the details, but you commended me for getting one of the highest test scores or maybe report cards—can’t remember—doesn’t matter. Because you made me feel special when you pointed out that I had twice missed two weeks of school in as many consecutive six-week grading periods, and still managed to (fill in the blank.) The details are sketchy but I remember distinctly how I felt.
And that grammar contest I won. (You’d never believe it now!) It was a six-week period when you kept a chart of how many grammatical errors we made. I was a shoo-in, or so I thought. My mom had drilled proper grammar into my head from the day I was born. But I hadn’t factored in Joyce Stokes. Joyce had a much worse life than I did, and never talked, so how could I EVER catch her making a grammatical error?! I complained to you. It wasn’t fair, I said. I had one checkmark on the chart and Joyce had none. You smiled benignly, but didn’t discipline her for not talking more. Sigh. But I got her. I GOT her. I confronted her and asked her why she didn’t talk—probably told her it wasn’t fair. Well, here’s the best part! She said, “Because I don’t want to say any of them words.” She said “them”! Bingo! We were even! I rushed over to you and gleefully told you about Joyce’s error and you promptly put a checkmark by her name. Sweet! Joyce and I won some kind of pencil set, I believe. But it didn’t matter what the prize was—I won! You praised me. And that’s all that mattered.
Do you remember the time (or possibly times) when my cousin, Mark, and I threw dirt clods at you while you were gardening?! I was so excited to find out you were a neighbor to my aunt and uncle in Coffeen. You had a huge garden and we had to really hurl them far to hit you. Actually, I’m not sure we ever hit you, but it’s the thought that counts. And the thought was I adored you and desperately wanted your attention, and if it took throwing dirt at you to get it, then by God, it was worth it. I suspect I annoyed you more than endeared myself to you, but you never let on.
So, even though there’s a good chance you’re dead, I hope you get this message—and know how you made a difference in my life. You probably didn’t even realize it. I’m sorry I waited so late to tell you. And I hope you forgive me for throwing dirt at you. You always dirt the one you love… (Forgive me for that also.)
Your favorite student,
Maureen
You didn’t play favorites–it wasn’t like I was your pet or anything—but you seemed to intuitively know to treat me a little differently. Like the phase we girls went through, signing our homework and our blackboard work with our boyfriends’ names, as if we were married to them. For instance, I was Mrs. Roger Cole. Now I’m sure that was news to Mr. Roger Cole. We had a “thing” in fourth grade, but I suspect he had moved on by the sixth grade. But I hadn’t, and he was the only husband I had. I had to keep up with the Jones’s—Mrs. Jones that is.
Well, you got tired of trying to figure out who Mrs. So-and-So was, so you told us girls we had to use our real names on the blackboard and on homework. No problem. The next time I used the blackboard, I wrote “Terri Sue Hickman.” My real name was Maureen Hickman, but I absolutely didn’t like, or own, any part of that name. Terri Sue was who I was. Of course, some of the other girls narced on me, pointing out I didn’t use my own name, but you spared me any further humiliation and let it stand. Fifty-four years later, I still remember that. You seemed to understand I couldn’t handle being myself.
Remember the time you praised me in front of the class? I’m not real clear on the details, but you commended me for getting one of the highest test scores or maybe report cards—can’t remember—doesn’t matter. Because you made me feel special when you pointed out that I had twice missed two weeks of school in as many consecutive six-week grading periods, and still managed to (fill in the blank.) The details are sketchy but I remember distinctly how I felt.
And that grammar contest I won. (You’d never believe it now!) It was a six-week period when you kept a chart of how many grammatical errors we made. I was a shoo-in, or so I thought. My mom had drilled proper grammar into my head from the day I was born. But I hadn’t factored in Joyce Stokes. Joyce had a much worse life than I did, and never talked, so how could I EVER catch her making a grammatical error?! I complained to you. It wasn’t fair, I said. I had one checkmark on the chart and Joyce had none. You smiled benignly, but didn’t discipline her for not talking more. Sigh. But I got her. I GOT her. I confronted her and asked her why she didn’t talk—probably told her it wasn’t fair. Well, here’s the best part! She said, “Because I don’t want to say any of them words.” She said “them”! Bingo! We were even! I rushed over to you and gleefully told you about Joyce’s error and you promptly put a checkmark by her name. Sweet! Joyce and I won some kind of pencil set, I believe. But it didn’t matter what the prize was—I won! You praised me. And that’s all that mattered.
Do you remember the time (or possibly times) when my cousin, Mark, and I threw dirt clods at you while you were gardening?! I was so excited to find out you were a neighbor to my aunt and uncle in Coffeen. You had a huge garden and we had to really hurl them far to hit you. Actually, I’m not sure we ever hit you, but it’s the thought that counts. And the thought was I adored you and desperately wanted your attention, and if it took throwing dirt at you to get it, then by God, it was worth it. I suspect I annoyed you more than endeared myself to you, but you never let on.
So, even though there’s a good chance you’re dead, I hope you get this message—and know how you made a difference in my life. You probably didn’t even realize it. I’m sorry I waited so late to tell you. And I hope you forgive me for throwing dirt at you. You always dirt the one you love… (Forgive me for that also.)
Your favorite student,
Maureen
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