Too quiet, perhaps, for my two faithful readers. It's not just the fact that I am back at work, scrambling to stay afloat in a sea of new faces, standards, routines, behavior management techniques, and what have you. I continue to struggle to want to say ANYTHING about "the house" and what happened there.
The house is on the market and I've looked at the photos of a house that is repaired, freshly painted, all spruced up looking shiny and new, and...empty. Every room, empty. The basement, empty. Weird, weird, weird.
Mom continues to live on, such as it is, in a dream world filled only with worrying the seams and hems of her bed clothes, all the while listing to her left side. You can't get her to sit up straight. Haven't been able to for years. I joke with my students about being "lumps" and "potatoes" when they are totally spacy but Mom really is both. I'll never forget the first day at the nursing home, in the "dining room," trying to feed her. She was slumped down in her chair and I was trying to get her to sit up. I got behind her and put my hands under her arms to pull her up, as I was saying, "Sit up, Mom." Instead, she sunk down lower, confused and stubborn.
Of course, there was also the time we were all together in a community room, having Christmas dinner. Jeckle was giving Mom some Poppycock, which she kept dribbling onto the table. Finally, Jeckle had had enough messiness and she picked up a piece and flicked it across the room. Mom's head whipped around and she looked at Jeckle wide-eyed and startled and said, clear as a bell, "Why, I never expected that from you!"
It's weird, looking back and thinking about when she first started showing signs of Alzheimer's. It was really quite a long time ago, but it wasn't until things had reached a crisis point that anyone other than me was willing to really accept what was happening. The really sucky thing is, Mom always had a bad memory and she worried a lot about getting Alzheimer's. I would try to make light of her fears by saying, "Mom, how would we even know?" Ha ha.
Jeckle and I do take some comfort in the fact that Mom no longer has to take care of the men in her life, that she is completely carefree. It just seems a shitty and unfair way to get to that point.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Thursday, September 11, 2008
The End of an Era
My earliest memory of the phenomenon I am about to describe began when I moved to North Berkeley in 1995. Beginning then (earlier? not sure), EVERY SINGLE TIME Jeckle and I talked on the phone, at some point a few minutes into the conversation, we would hear a beep, usually just once. Or maybe always just once. For a long time, we were simply surprised and would ask each other, "What was that?" to which neither of us had an answer. After a certain point, however, we began to joke that Hyde was listening in on our conversations. This happened consistently, no matter where I was living, as long as she was on her home phone and I was on mine.
Last night I was talking to Mariposa when we both heard a beep albeit not the same kind. However, it caused me to have a sudden and disturbing realization: The "beep" has not happened ONE SINGLE TIME while Jeckle and I have been talking (and we have talked a lot these past few months) since Hyde died.
Last night I was talking to Mariposa when we both heard a beep albeit not the same kind. However, it caused me to have a sudden and disturbing realization: The "beep" has not happened ONE SINGLE TIME while Jeckle and I have been talking (and we have talked a lot these past few months) since Hyde died.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Haunted House
(Or "hunted," as some of my students like to say.)
The Antique Milking Stool: Soon after Jeckle and Mr. Wizard had cleaned out and become familiar with the contents of every nook and cranny of the house, in readiness for the estate sale, Jeckle walked into the kitchen to find an antique milking stool sitting all by itself in the middle of the floor. This was definitely an item that had not been in the house before. She asked one of the contractors. He thought one of his people had found it in a closet. Uh, no. As stated above, she knew everything that was in the house by that point. Perhaps the estate sale people had brought it? No.
Now, our grandparents did live in there and it was once a working farm. Granddaddy had cows and horses when we were growing up. And granddaddy once kept a goat for its milk.
Have I mentioned that grandmother died in her sleep in the house?
So, a message from her? From granddaddy?
The Broken Rocker: One of the items in the house that was mother's was a rocking chair, which Jeckle eyed and considered keeping. It was sturdy and just the right size for her (oh, this is going to sound like Goldilocks!). It was in fine condition.
But when she arrived on the second day of the estate sale, it was sitting outside, one of the rockers sheared clean off, like it had been sawn. She asked about it, but no one seemed to know what had happened. "Someone sat in it?" ventured one person.
As Jeckle said, though, there was NOTHING wrong with that rocker; solid as a rock(er) and it wasn't "broken," meaning, no jagged edges.
When she told me this story I was reminded of the time Hyde picked up mother's rocker (a different one) and slammed it down in a fit of anger and broke off the rocker.
The Antique Milking Stool: Soon after Jeckle and Mr. Wizard had cleaned out and become familiar with the contents of every nook and cranny of the house, in readiness for the estate sale, Jeckle walked into the kitchen to find an antique milking stool sitting all by itself in the middle of the floor. This was definitely an item that had not been in the house before. She asked one of the contractors. He thought one of his people had found it in a closet. Uh, no. As stated above, she knew everything that was in the house by that point. Perhaps the estate sale people had brought it? No.
Now, our grandparents did live in there and it was once a working farm. Granddaddy had cows and horses when we were growing up. And granddaddy once kept a goat for its milk.
Have I mentioned that grandmother died in her sleep in the house?
So, a message from her? From granddaddy?
The Broken Rocker: One of the items in the house that was mother's was a rocking chair, which Jeckle eyed and considered keeping. It was sturdy and just the right size for her (oh, this is going to sound like Goldilocks!). It was in fine condition.
But when she arrived on the second day of the estate sale, it was sitting outside, one of the rockers sheared clean off, like it had been sawn. She asked about it, but no one seemed to know what had happened. "Someone sat in it?" ventured one person.
As Jeckle said, though, there was NOTHING wrong with that rocker; solid as a rock(er) and it wasn't "broken," meaning, no jagged edges.
When she told me this story I was reminded of the time Hyde picked up mother's rocker (a different one) and slammed it down in a fit of anger and broke off the rocker.
Monday, September 1, 2008
La Verdad y Una Historia
(Translation: The Truth and a Story)
I miss my mom. It's been over five years since I lost her, since she turned to me in the car, during a drive along the Old Walland Highway next to the river, and asked, "Now, who are you? Who are your parents?" A knife through the heart, for sure. I still wake up on Sundays and think, "I need to call mom," or "I wonder if mom will call today." It is true that she is still alive, but she is unreachable. Seeing her is heart breaking.
I miss my daddy. It's been just over a year since I last saw him. He'd just had hip surgery and was clearly not doing well. I said, "The next time I see you, I expect you'll be up and walking around," and he gave a sarcastic, confused little laugh. The day I was leaving to drive back to Nashville and catch my plane, the nursing home called to say they'd had to suction out his throat (he had Parkinson's and had increasing difficulty swallowing). Basically, I was being told he was dying, but I chose to continue on my way home. One week later, I was back on a plane to Nashville. He died the same time my plane touched down.
I miss my brother. It's true, our relationship was extremely difficult, but I did love him. After daddy died he went off the deep end again, which always included nastiness directed at me, and I made a choice to "take a break" from him. I hadn't talked to him for six months before he died. That just totally sucks. I REALLY can't believe he is dead.
So, I am hereby officially acknowledging that I am in mourning. Maybe that's why I had to re-paper my classroom, all black, except for two purple "accents" (to, I suppose, remind myself that I will come out of mourning, if I allow myself to fully grieve).
All this being said, I find I need to branch out in this blog; I can't write now about the more immediate events. Instead, I think I'll start telling some stories that will eventually find their place in the larger memoir that this will become. So I begin with a story from the annals of my relationship with Joyce.
I met Joyce in a "Jesus People" group. Years later I realized this was loosely affiliated with Jim and Tammy Faye but at the time all I cared about was that there was a coffeehouse, hippies, guitar playing and singing, bonfires, and Mikki, with whom I was in love. I was 12 or 13. I also met Courtney (a boy) and pretended to be into boys because he was "cool" (he let me plait his hair once!). But it was Joyce who would capture my attention in a totally sick and obsessive way for the next couple of years. She was 19, female, black, had a baby, was an alcoholic, and was a drug user. In other words, she was pretty much every forbidden and alluring thing I could think of, all rolled into one. And she had absolutely no business whatsoever getting involved with me. But involved she did get. I fell "in love" with her, and she encouraged me every step of the way. Encouraged me, and tortured me (emotionally). Even at that young age, I'd already found my girlfriend template!
There are many stories to tell, but what I want to get to in this blog is a revelation I recently had about a particular chapter in that relationship.
Once my parents realized what was going on, they were justifiably horrified, mad, and worried. She was an ADULT, for God's sake. An adult, messing with a kid.
So, my parents forbade me from seeing her. As I'm sure you can guess, that didn't go over well with me. I ran away from home to be with Joyce. Now that's a whole story in and of itself, but I'll save it. I ran away and after a day or two, mom and daddy came to get me. I was in the house with Joyce and her baby; her mother was out talking with my parents. They made it clear that if I didn't come home, they would call the police. I guess Joyce's mom told her to tell me to get my ass outta her house. 1973, the South, Black woman "kidnaps" white girl. Not good.
Soon after this, Joyce was shot. In the stomach, if I remember correctly. And my mom took me to see her in the hospital, which I always thought was really strange. And Joyce took the opportunity to tell me, in front of her friends, that my daddy's car was seen leaving the scene.
Up until two days ago I always thought that was just Joyce, pulling her manipulative bullshit on me, trying to scare me (which she did very well). But I was telling this story to a friend the other day and she looked at me like "how dense can you be?" and said, "Your daddy DID shoot her! Hell, I would have shot her, too, some adult woman messing with my daughter!"
And all of the sudden I realized, HE REALLY DID SHOOT HER.
I miss my mom. It's been over five years since I lost her, since she turned to me in the car, during a drive along the Old Walland Highway next to the river, and asked, "Now, who are you? Who are your parents?" A knife through the heart, for sure. I still wake up on Sundays and think, "I need to call mom," or "I wonder if mom will call today." It is true that she is still alive, but she is unreachable. Seeing her is heart breaking.
I miss my daddy. It's been just over a year since I last saw him. He'd just had hip surgery and was clearly not doing well. I said, "The next time I see you, I expect you'll be up and walking around," and he gave a sarcastic, confused little laugh. The day I was leaving to drive back to Nashville and catch my plane, the nursing home called to say they'd had to suction out his throat (he had Parkinson's and had increasing difficulty swallowing). Basically, I was being told he was dying, but I chose to continue on my way home. One week later, I was back on a plane to Nashville. He died the same time my plane touched down.
I miss my brother. It's true, our relationship was extremely difficult, but I did love him. After daddy died he went off the deep end again, which always included nastiness directed at me, and I made a choice to "take a break" from him. I hadn't talked to him for six months before he died. That just totally sucks. I REALLY can't believe he is dead.
So, I am hereby officially acknowledging that I am in mourning. Maybe that's why I had to re-paper my classroom, all black, except for two purple "accents" (to, I suppose, remind myself that I will come out of mourning, if I allow myself to fully grieve).
All this being said, I find I need to branch out in this blog; I can't write now about the more immediate events. Instead, I think I'll start telling some stories that will eventually find their place in the larger memoir that this will become. So I begin with a story from the annals of my relationship with Joyce.
I met Joyce in a "Jesus People" group. Years later I realized this was loosely affiliated with Jim and Tammy Faye but at the time all I cared about was that there was a coffeehouse, hippies, guitar playing and singing, bonfires, and Mikki, with whom I was in love. I was 12 or 13. I also met Courtney (a boy) and pretended to be into boys because he was "cool" (he let me plait his hair once!). But it was Joyce who would capture my attention in a totally sick and obsessive way for the next couple of years. She was 19, female, black, had a baby, was an alcoholic, and was a drug user. In other words, she was pretty much every forbidden and alluring thing I could think of, all rolled into one. And she had absolutely no business whatsoever getting involved with me. But involved she did get. I fell "in love" with her, and she encouraged me every step of the way. Encouraged me, and tortured me (emotionally). Even at that young age, I'd already found my girlfriend template!
There are many stories to tell, but what I want to get to in this blog is a revelation I recently had about a particular chapter in that relationship.
Once my parents realized what was going on, they were justifiably horrified, mad, and worried. She was an ADULT, for God's sake. An adult, messing with a kid.
So, my parents forbade me from seeing her. As I'm sure you can guess, that didn't go over well with me. I ran away from home to be with Joyce. Now that's a whole story in and of itself, but I'll save it. I ran away and after a day or two, mom and daddy came to get me. I was in the house with Joyce and her baby; her mother was out talking with my parents. They made it clear that if I didn't come home, they would call the police. I guess Joyce's mom told her to tell me to get my ass outta her house. 1973, the South, Black woman "kidnaps" white girl. Not good.
Soon after this, Joyce was shot. In the stomach, if I remember correctly. And my mom took me to see her in the hospital, which I always thought was really strange. And Joyce took the opportunity to tell me, in front of her friends, that my daddy's car was seen leaving the scene.
Up until two days ago I always thought that was just Joyce, pulling her manipulative bullshit on me, trying to scare me (which she did very well). But I was telling this story to a friend the other day and she looked at me like "how dense can you be?" and said, "Your daddy DID shoot her! Hell, I would have shot her, too, some adult woman messing with my daughter!"
And all of the sudden I realized, HE REALLY DID SHOOT HER.
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