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
Monday, May 2, 2011
Flying Household Appliances, Holes in the Wall, and Other Fun Stuff
(Marriage Part Deux – from “My Marriage” Series)
I knew from the get-go my ex had a temper. Oh, boy, did he have a temper! (And here I thought I’d blocked out all the unpleasant memories---hah!) I learned about his temper near the beginning of our courtship, when I attempted to step out with a gentleman caller I’d met at a weekend fallout shelter “retreat.” My ex and I had made no promises to each other—nothing in writing—but I had the good sense to know he might be pissed at the thought of my stepping out with another guy. So, that’s why I didn’t tell him. I didn’t have a phone back then, and since my ex never committed to the next date when we were together, I gambled and told Ray to come over on a Wednesday night (I think). As luck would have it, my ex showed up shortly before Ray and quickly picked up on the situation. The blood draining from my face, and my stammering and babbling must have cued him.
Long story short, I didn’t go out with Ray that night—probably just as well because the name Ray conjures up images of bowling leagues, tattoos, scratching and farting—you get the picture. In spite of a good deal of yelling and hollering, Ray managed to avoid a physical altercation with my ex. (Coincidentally, I never saw him again…) The wall in the hallway wasn’t so fortunate however; it got a fist through it, just for trying to give some structure to the building. But I digress. The point is, I knew about his temper and married him anyway. Sigh.
Fast forward to our first year of marriage. We lived in an efficiency apartment with a Murphy Bed. For you whippersnappers, that’s a bed that pulls out of the wall. Our refrigerator was an under-the-counter deal like you might find in a dorm room. Vinyl tile floor throughout. Luxury. But one of the bright spots was our black and white TV that we watched from bed (Do you know you can buy a Murphy Beds over the Internet??) Since the furniture came with the place, the TV was one of the few things we owned. (When you’re married in the courthouse, you don’t get a lot of nice stuff—something Will and Kate apparently figured out.) Toward the end of year one, we were splitsville and I moved into the YWCA (That’s a blog for another day!). When I returned three weeks later, I learned he’d thrown the TV off the balcony in a fit of anger. Not sure what the TV ever did to him, but whatever it was, it didn’t do it again.
Another fast forward. We now had a 3-year old daughter and were in our first house, which came with a stove. The stove wasn’t much--didn’t have a working oven, which didn’t bother him. But it irked him that the burners didn’t turn on right away—sometimes there was a delay. So, for nine months, I went without an oven. One sunny Saturday in June, I came home from my part-time job at the S & L to find I no longer had an oven or a stove. It seems the burners didn’t come on fast enough for him that day, so he threw the stove out the back door. (He was strong when he was angry!) As he tells it, the neighbors on both sides were talking across the fence to each other when the stove went flying out the back door. That must have been quite a sight — and sound; I’m sure the air was blue from swear words lingering in the air.
So, we — actually, I — went a month without a stove. I made do with a little outdoor grill, a crockpot, and an electric frying pan. What more could a gal want? Well, apparently I wanted a 1930’s model stove that he surprised me with one day. He liked it a lot. I’ll have to admit it was cool looking and a pretty color of green. The oven was about big enough to bake a TV dinner. It didn’t have any temperature markings on the dial—you just had to guess how hot it was. Fun!
He got custody of the stove when we divorced, as well as the house (he bought me out), and most of the contents. We’d never had a sofa (a cut-out bathtub was our sofa—his idea, of course) and I was hot to buy a waterbed and start my new life. So I left with the rocking chair I’d rocked my daughter in, the kitchen table and chairs, my daughter’s bed and dresser (that we’d paid $15 for), some burlap shelves and cement blocks, my clothes, and half of my six-year-old daughter.
So, what’s the point of telling you all this? I’m really not sure. So you’ll appreciate your lives/marriage more? Dunno. But I have come up with the perfect moral to the story: “People who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stoves.”
Bah dump!
I knew from the get-go my ex had a temper. Oh, boy, did he have a temper! (And here I thought I’d blocked out all the unpleasant memories---hah!) I learned about his temper near the beginning of our courtship, when I attempted to step out with a gentleman caller I’d met at a weekend fallout shelter “retreat.” My ex and I had made no promises to each other—nothing in writing—but I had the good sense to know he might be pissed at the thought of my stepping out with another guy. So, that’s why I didn’t tell him. I didn’t have a phone back then, and since my ex never committed to the next date when we were together, I gambled and told Ray to come over on a Wednesday night (I think). As luck would have it, my ex showed up shortly before Ray and quickly picked up on the situation. The blood draining from my face, and my stammering and babbling must have cued him.
Long story short, I didn’t go out with Ray that night—probably just as well because the name Ray conjures up images of bowling leagues, tattoos, scratching and farting—you get the picture. In spite of a good deal of yelling and hollering, Ray managed to avoid a physical altercation with my ex. (Coincidentally, I never saw him again…) The wall in the hallway wasn’t so fortunate however; it got a fist through it, just for trying to give some structure to the building. But I digress. The point is, I knew about his temper and married him anyway. Sigh.
Fast forward to our first year of marriage. We lived in an efficiency apartment with a Murphy Bed. For you whippersnappers, that’s a bed that pulls out of the wall. Our refrigerator was an under-the-counter deal like you might find in a dorm room. Vinyl tile floor throughout. Luxury. But one of the bright spots was our black and white TV that we watched from bed (Do you know you can buy a Murphy Beds over the Internet??) Since the furniture came with the place, the TV was one of the few things we owned. (When you’re married in the courthouse, you don’t get a lot of nice stuff—something Will and Kate apparently figured out.) Toward the end of year one, we were splitsville and I moved into the YWCA (That’s a blog for another day!). When I returned three weeks later, I learned he’d thrown the TV off the balcony in a fit of anger. Not sure what the TV ever did to him, but whatever it was, it didn’t do it again.
Another fast forward. We now had a 3-year old daughter and were in our first house, which came with a stove. The stove wasn’t much--didn’t have a working oven, which didn’t bother him. But it irked him that the burners didn’t turn on right away—sometimes there was a delay. So, for nine months, I went without an oven. One sunny Saturday in June, I came home from my part-time job at the S & L to find I no longer had an oven or a stove. It seems the burners didn’t come on fast enough for him that day, so he threw the stove out the back door. (He was strong when he was angry!) As he tells it, the neighbors on both sides were talking across the fence to each other when the stove went flying out the back door. That must have been quite a sight — and sound; I’m sure the air was blue from swear words lingering in the air.
So, we — actually, I — went a month without a stove. I made do with a little outdoor grill, a crockpot, and an electric frying pan. What more could a gal want? Well, apparently I wanted a 1930’s model stove that he surprised me with one day. He liked it a lot. I’ll have to admit it was cool looking and a pretty color of green. The oven was about big enough to bake a TV dinner. It didn’t have any temperature markings on the dial—you just had to guess how hot it was. Fun!
He got custody of the stove when we divorced, as well as the house (he bought me out), and most of the contents. We’d never had a sofa (a cut-out bathtub was our sofa—his idea, of course) and I was hot to buy a waterbed and start my new life. So I left with the rocking chair I’d rocked my daughter in, the kitchen table and chairs, my daughter’s bed and dresser (that we’d paid $15 for), some burlap shelves and cement blocks, my clothes, and half of my six-year-old daughter.
So, what’s the point of telling you all this? I’m really not sure. So you’ll appreciate your lives/marriage more? Dunno. But I have come up with the perfect moral to the story: “People who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stoves.”
Bah dump!
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Nancy
All I really needed to know I learned, not in kindergarten, but from my childhood friend, Nancy. Nancy, who had the good sense to invite me to accompany her to the outhouse one eventful spring day (before cell phones...) so I could run and tell her grandma she had a “poop stuck halfway in and halfway out!” Friends were created for such emergencies.
I’ve been thinking about Nancy lately, perhaps because spring is allegedly here. On those days when spring is teasing me like a child with a feather, I find myself daydreaming about Nancy, who lost her life at 20. Nancy – who inspired me when I was a kid and who continues to inspire me.
Nancy Clotfelter lived across the street from me when we were little girls. Her May birthday made her a month older than me, a big deal when you’re five or six years old. Nancy and I lived with our grandparents in Coffeen, Illinois. Her folks ran the grocery store until her dad died when she was about six. I didn’t have a dad for all practical purposes – a common bond.
We played together nearly every day. I can picture her blond hair, blue eyes and turned up nose, even though I don’t have a single photograph of her. She was perpetually cheerful– always smiling, never complaining. Most kids don’t really have much to complain about, but Nancy did. Both of her legs had been amputated above the knee because of a birth defect. At least that’s what I think happened. As I child, I wasn’t too concerned about the details. As an adult, I concluded her disfigured legs were amputated so she could be fitted with prostheses. I used to watch in fascination as she sat on the bed and strapped on her bulky, unwieldy legs. Dragging those heavy legs around all day must have worn her out – but they didn’t slow her down.
Nancy had no trouble keeping up with me as I rode my tricycle down the street. She loped along behind, blond hair flying, with a big smile on her face. I picture us from the perspective of someone watching from across the street rather than someone who was peddling the tricycle. Nancy’s summer wardrobe consisted of little ruffled midriff tops and cotton slacks. She wore wide-legged pants to hide her legs when other little girls wore sundresses.
I moved away from Coffeen when I was seven, after my mother remarried. I saw her occasionally after that, and then her mother remarried and they moved to the Chicago suburbs. We were 12 when we last got together. It was an awkward meeting. Several years had passed since we’d seen each other, but we eased back into a familiar groove and hugged when we said good-bye.
A commuter train killed Nancy when she was 20. Her legs buckled as she crossed the railroad tracks. A young father and businessman came to her rescue, but he was also killed. They were no match for the 60-mile-an-hour train. The yellowed newspaper account holds a special place in my scrapbook.
Even though she was only 20, Nancy was on her second marriage. She didn’t let any grass grow under her artificial feet. She drove a car with hand controls. She was a fast mover, but she was not fast enough to escape the train. I shudder to think what her last moments must have been like.
I wonder if I’ll see her again someday–and if we’ll pick up where we left off.
Frank Sinatra nailed it when he recorded a song about his daughter, Nancy: “No angel could replace Nancy, with the laughing face.”
I’ve been thinking about Nancy lately, perhaps because spring is allegedly here. On those days when spring is teasing me like a child with a feather, I find myself daydreaming about Nancy, who lost her life at 20. Nancy – who inspired me when I was a kid and who continues to inspire me.
Nancy Clotfelter lived across the street from me when we were little girls. Her May birthday made her a month older than me, a big deal when you’re five or six years old. Nancy and I lived with our grandparents in Coffeen, Illinois. Her folks ran the grocery store until her dad died when she was about six. I didn’t have a dad for all practical purposes – a common bond.
We played together nearly every day. I can picture her blond hair, blue eyes and turned up nose, even though I don’t have a single photograph of her. She was perpetually cheerful– always smiling, never complaining. Most kids don’t really have much to complain about, but Nancy did. Both of her legs had been amputated above the knee because of a birth defect. At least that’s what I think happened. As I child, I wasn’t too concerned about the details. As an adult, I concluded her disfigured legs were amputated so she could be fitted with prostheses. I used to watch in fascination as she sat on the bed and strapped on her bulky, unwieldy legs. Dragging those heavy legs around all day must have worn her out – but they didn’t slow her down.
Nancy had no trouble keeping up with me as I rode my tricycle down the street. She loped along behind, blond hair flying, with a big smile on her face. I picture us from the perspective of someone watching from across the street rather than someone who was peddling the tricycle. Nancy’s summer wardrobe consisted of little ruffled midriff tops and cotton slacks. She wore wide-legged pants to hide her legs when other little girls wore sundresses.
I moved away from Coffeen when I was seven, after my mother remarried. I saw her occasionally after that, and then her mother remarried and they moved to the Chicago suburbs. We were 12 when we last got together. It was an awkward meeting. Several years had passed since we’d seen each other, but we eased back into a familiar groove and hugged when we said good-bye.
A commuter train killed Nancy when she was 20. Her legs buckled as she crossed the railroad tracks. A young father and businessman came to her rescue, but he was also killed. They were no match for the 60-mile-an-hour train. The yellowed newspaper account holds a special place in my scrapbook.
Even though she was only 20, Nancy was on her second marriage. She didn’t let any grass grow under her artificial feet. She drove a car with hand controls. She was a fast mover, but she was not fast enough to escape the train. I shudder to think what her last moments must have been like.
I wonder if I’ll see her again someday–and if we’ll pick up where we left off.
Frank Sinatra nailed it when he recorded a song about his daughter, Nancy: “No angel could replace Nancy, with the laughing face.”
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
A Marriage Made in Heaven
(I realized while writing this, the subject of my marriage will have to be a series of postings. It’s impossible to capture 10 years of bliss in one posting. Gives you— and me— something to look forward to.)
As I lay in bed the other night mulling over the day’s activities, I was hit by a “divine” inspiration for the subject of my second blog posting: my marriage. My 9-year and 11- month marriage that began in 1968 and ended in 1978. A marriage made in heaven—or perhaps not. And on this, the anniversary of our wedding day, I’m getting misty-eyed and sentimental.
We got married on a typically cold winter day—Thursday, February 29, 1968. (It was his idea to get married on Leap Year—“Only have to celebrate every four years.” Ha!) The day started with my being in an absolute panic because I couldn’t find the marriage license. I was in the process of moving and I was sure I’d accidentally packed it away in one of the boxes. I called my ex in tears, practically hysterical. He must have felt sorry for me, because he told me where he’d hid it. It’s always nice to begin a marriage with humor.
We were married at 10:00 in the morning at the courthouse in downtown Springfield. Our witnesses were the judge’s secretary and her friend. A janitor stood in the back doorway leaning on his broom or mop (I’m not making this stuff up, folks!) I was wearing a sleeveless white lace dress I’d made, which nicely showcased the bruises on my arms from the three times they had to stick me to draw blood. Back then, no stickee, no marriage license-ee. Our reception was held at my in-laws house; lunch was tuna salad sandwiches. The attendees were my in-laws, and us—the happy couple. My ex had a long-standing policy of not having his picture taken, (He’d spent the night in jail during the Kennedy campaign when he created a disturbance trying to confiscate the film of the photographer who’d taken his picture. But I digress.) so a few wedding pictures were taken of me in my wedding dress using a Polaroid Swinger Camera. (My yellowed dress still hangs in my closet—I’ll bet the feng shui folks would have a hissy fit if they knew that!)
We left that afternoon for a short honeymoon trip to New Orleans. Since we had time before our flight, we stopped by the aircraft hangar, where my ex had recently worked. One of the mechanics said, “What’s new, Henry?” to which he replied… “Nothing.” He didn’t introduce me or mention we’d gotten married that morning. Bless his heart; it must have slipped his mind.
The rest of our wedding day was equally romantic. When we got to our hotel, he spotted a coin-operated copy machine in the lobby. He sold copy machines but had never seen a coin-operated one before, so he threw the suitcase in the room and headed back down to the lobby to find out about coin-operated copiers, while I cooled my heels in the room.
That night, his best friend called at 11:00, apparently thinking he would “interrupt” us. To the best of my recollection, he didn’t. (My ex was probably poring over brochures on coin-operated copy machines.)
The end of a perfect wedding day. And the beginning of a perfect marriage. Stay tuned. It gets better!
(So I get home from work last night (2/28) and find a vase of roses and a box of fudge on my doorstep, a gift from my ex, commemorating our anniversary. He apparently experienced our marriage differently than I did—or he feels very guilty. I’m guessing the latter!)
As I lay in bed the other night mulling over the day’s activities, I was hit by a “divine” inspiration for the subject of my second blog posting: my marriage. My 9-year and 11- month marriage that began in 1968 and ended in 1978. A marriage made in heaven—or perhaps not. And on this, the anniversary of our wedding day, I’m getting misty-eyed and sentimental.
We got married on a typically cold winter day—Thursday, February 29, 1968. (It was his idea to get married on Leap Year—“Only have to celebrate every four years.” Ha!) The day started with my being in an absolute panic because I couldn’t find the marriage license. I was in the process of moving and I was sure I’d accidentally packed it away in one of the boxes. I called my ex in tears, practically hysterical. He must have felt sorry for me, because he told me where he’d hid it. It’s always nice to begin a marriage with humor.
We were married at 10:00 in the morning at the courthouse in downtown Springfield. Our witnesses were the judge’s secretary and her friend. A janitor stood in the back doorway leaning on his broom or mop (I’m not making this stuff up, folks!) I was wearing a sleeveless white lace dress I’d made, which nicely showcased the bruises on my arms from the three times they had to stick me to draw blood. Back then, no stickee, no marriage license-ee. Our reception was held at my in-laws house; lunch was tuna salad sandwiches. The attendees were my in-laws, and us—the happy couple. My ex had a long-standing policy of not having his picture taken, (He’d spent the night in jail during the Kennedy campaign when he created a disturbance trying to confiscate the film of the photographer who’d taken his picture. But I digress.) so a few wedding pictures were taken of me in my wedding dress using a Polaroid Swinger Camera. (My yellowed dress still hangs in my closet—I’ll bet the feng shui folks would have a hissy fit if they knew that!)
We left that afternoon for a short honeymoon trip to New Orleans. Since we had time before our flight, we stopped by the aircraft hangar, where my ex had recently worked. One of the mechanics said, “What’s new, Henry?” to which he replied… “Nothing.” He didn’t introduce me or mention we’d gotten married that morning. Bless his heart; it must have slipped his mind.
The rest of our wedding day was equally romantic. When we got to our hotel, he spotted a coin-operated copy machine in the lobby. He sold copy machines but had never seen a coin-operated one before, so he threw the suitcase in the room and headed back down to the lobby to find out about coin-operated copiers, while I cooled my heels in the room.
That night, his best friend called at 11:00, apparently thinking he would “interrupt” us. To the best of my recollection, he didn’t. (My ex was probably poring over brochures on coin-operated copy machines.)
The end of a perfect wedding day. And the beginning of a perfect marriage. Stay tuned. It gets better!
(So I get home from work last night (2/28) and find a vase of roses and a box of fudge on my doorstep, a gift from my ex, commemorating our anniversary. He apparently experienced our marriage differently than I did—or he feels very guilty. I’m guessing the latter!)
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Do These Depends® Make My Butt Look Fat?
The past couple of years I’ve spend a fair amount of time around old people—or, I guess to be politically correct, senior citizens. Enough time to be scared stiff. As I ease into old age (or have I already arrived?), I’m trying to figure out what kind of old person I’ll be. Will I be active and feisty? Will I be depressed and defeated? Or will I be lucky enough to have any control over what kind of person I am?
I’ve been hanging around the nursing home lately. As a result, I’ve spent a fair amount of time wondering if I’ll end up in one someday. Not my goal, mind you, but my fear. A possibility. My friend landed in one over a year ago. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t her first choice of where to spend her golden years.
I’ve become acquainted with some of the residents as a result of my visits. There’s Tony, whom I’ve nicknamed “K.K,” because that’s pretty much all he says. Constantly. “K, K, K, K, K” (repeat). One day I thought I’d see if I could get him to say something else. (His chanting was driving me crazy.) As Tony sat in his wheelchair chanting his mantra, I said “Howya doin’, Tony?” He paused and said, “You’re right.” A man acknowledged I’m right. Go figure!
Margaret carries her doll around, anxiously inquiring whether I’ve seen the baby’s mother. I admire the baby, but that doesn’t calm her. She’s apparently tired of taking care of someone else’s baby. Can’t blame her.
Then there’s the old couple that sit together on the loveseat. I’ve never seen her face because she’s always slumped over with her face buried in her husband’s chest. He strokes her hair tenderly. It sets my mind to wandering — if I would be lucky enough to have someone stroke my hair if I’m ever in that position. No need to dwell on that.
I’ve decided that, if I ever end up in a nursing home, I will be the one with the hot pink stretch pants, the wild, flowered top and the bright orange house slippers. I’ll have cotton candy pink hair—or cotton candy blue---or maybe streaks of both. My walker will have chartreuse tennis balls at the end of the legs to help me slide along. I’ll be the first to arrive for bingo and the last to leave. And I’ll be the one admiring myself in front of reflective surfaces, asking passersby, “Do these Depends® make my butt look fat?”
Old age. Bring it!
(A postscript: Margararet's obituary was in today's paper. She was 91. I wish her a peaceful journey.)
I’ve been hanging around the nursing home lately. As a result, I’ve spent a fair amount of time wondering if I’ll end up in one someday. Not my goal, mind you, but my fear. A possibility. My friend landed in one over a year ago. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t her first choice of where to spend her golden years.
I’ve become acquainted with some of the residents as a result of my visits. There’s Tony, whom I’ve nicknamed “K.K,” because that’s pretty much all he says. Constantly. “K, K, K, K, K” (repeat). One day I thought I’d see if I could get him to say something else. (His chanting was driving me crazy.) As Tony sat in his wheelchair chanting his mantra, I said “Howya doin’, Tony?” He paused and said, “You’re right.” A man acknowledged I’m right. Go figure!
Margaret carries her doll around, anxiously inquiring whether I’ve seen the baby’s mother. I admire the baby, but that doesn’t calm her. She’s apparently tired of taking care of someone else’s baby. Can’t blame her.
Then there’s the old couple that sit together on the loveseat. I’ve never seen her face because she’s always slumped over with her face buried in her husband’s chest. He strokes her hair tenderly. It sets my mind to wandering — if I would be lucky enough to have someone stroke my hair if I’m ever in that position. No need to dwell on that.
I’ve decided that, if I ever end up in a nursing home, I will be the one with the hot pink stretch pants, the wild, flowered top and the bright orange house slippers. I’ll have cotton candy pink hair—or cotton candy blue---or maybe streaks of both. My walker will have chartreuse tennis balls at the end of the legs to help me slide along. I’ll be the first to arrive for bingo and the last to leave. And I’ll be the one admiring myself in front of reflective surfaces, asking passersby, “Do these Depends® make my butt look fat?”
Old age. Bring it!
(A postscript: Margararet's obituary was in today's paper. She was 91. I wish her a peaceful journey.)
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