I Remember Her

I remember the moment clearly in a hazy kinda way. I was with a large group of girls lingering in a small gas station bathroom. Or was it just Margo Grutzmacker, Karen Bergman and me? The floor was made of concrete. Or was it dark vinyl tile. The track meet was over. Or were we on our way there? Karen was anxiously opening and closing the door, watching in case our Coach showed up. Or was that Linda Labee?

I remember the feeling of being trapped. Peer pressure pushing down, crushing my fragile sense of Self. There was a voice in my head screaming “NO!” but no sound came out. A deer in headlights had more ability to walk out that door than I did. No matter what I thought or felt, I was paralyzed.

I remember glancing at my watch. I looked down at its flat face and it stared back at me blankly. In that moment, I knew I was in this alone. Then the hand moved and I was startled and closed my eyes but I could not get away.

I even remember the name of the town: Wahoo, Nebraska. I knew my name and who I was before that day. She felt as though she was someone I might have known a long time ago. She was seventeen. Or was she sixty? Or sixteen?

I remember her as someone I would recognize in a 1968 high school yearbook. The black and white marbled background gives her a sense of place. Her hair is teased and curled up at the ends and the white crisp collar on her blouse is freshly starched and ironed. The irony between how she looks and how she actually feels is imperceptible at first viewing. But her eyes. Oh, you wouldn’t believe the sadness in her eyes. The grief of growing up wounded stares back at me with hollow emptiness.

I remember the rage behind those eyes. Childhood split in two by adults simultaneously too overly protective and too lax. I was extraordinarily immature and ill equipped for adulthood, which was just around the next unknown corner. I had no skills to deal with Vietnam War protests, street drugs, sexless faces found the next morning in dorm beds and across the room unprotected feelings breaking the heart of whoever I was becoming.

Oh, yes! I remember that girl. She was the one who broke into a run in front of the high school boy’s track team. They were all sitting in the bleachers listening to their coach’s instructions and watching me run. I took one extra lap after I’d put on my sweat pants and all the other girls had gone back to the school. For some reason I was craving attention and feeling powerful. My new leather cleats securely gripped the cinder track and I felt long lean legs under me pounding the ground rhythmically with self-confident strength. Suddenly I was flying. I was suspended, senses heightened yet too far away, as in all accidents when time stops. Feet groundless—accelerating forward movement, unstoppable as my right foot caught the edge of my grey sweat pants and pain seared my hands and pride.

I remember it took my dad a long time to pick the cinders out of my chin, knees and hands when I got home. I don’t remember much other than his annoyance and obligatory irritation with the task, really. Pain had a way, even then to lift me up above the room and stop the tears from flowing.

I distinctly remember Karen saying it would be okay. But, there was nothing in me that believed her. A quick click of a Bic, the tip lit...  I inhaled, and the rancid, repulsive heat filled my mouth. My throat closed quickly in self-defense trying to block the putrid, pungent explosion. I choked—then gagged—then felt shame and was embarrassed in front of the girls who were all older than me.

I remember each year after that trying to stop. Trying to quit. Trying to fight off the nicotine creature that ruled my life.  She lay silently lurking, watching my every move. She was cunning and crafty, a calculating, sly master of illusion. She embodied the trickster and seemed to have no feelings at all—just dangerously corrupt, sneaky deception. She loved to exaggerate and contort every feeling I had with insidious lies and a mischievous smile. She had her devious ways to easily convince me I could not live without another and another and another cigarette to cope and simply to be okay.

It hurts to remember how unconscious I was as a smoker. I didn’t care that I was hurting myself. I didn’t care that I was separating myself from the people I loved most. I painfully and desperately yearned to connect with them. But smoking was more important, more urgent. I did not notice when I threw my butts on the ground or when non-smokers were around me when I smoked. Secondhand smoke was no concern to me. No. I didn’t care about anything... except smoking. I always kept track to make sure I had enough cigarettes. I knew where my lighter was at all times. I lived for and could not wait until I could light up and feel that warm calming sensation being sucked into my lungs—even standing outside in weather 17 degrees below zero. Smoking was always at the back my mind. I knew when I would have my next cigarette. I did whatever I needed to smoke because I loved smoking more that I loved anything or anyone. I loved smoking more than myself.

I remember the last cigarette I smoked. Actually I had many last cigarettes...and honestly, the absolute last one is as vague and obscure in my mind as the first. But five, maybe six years ago, smoking stopped. One day her grip on me loosened and slipped completely away taking the addictive behaviors along with her.

I remember feeling lost without her at first. I had lots of extra time to think. Struggle. Feel. I shouted out for her to come back. I didn’t think I could live without her emotionally abusive, toxic companionship. But when she didn’t show up that day or the next I began to live my life.

I remember one day a year or so after I stopped smoking realizing I was relating to my life as an adult for what seemed like the first time. No longer a scared teenager hiding in a gas station restroom—I had real opinions, thoughts that were my own and lots of ways to express my feelings. I had a voice. I knew myself pretty well or at least I was open to learning.

I remember the struggle that young woman endured because I stayed away, crippled without the skills or support to make the leap from adolescence to adulthood. Her life lost it’s light and was clouded with overshadowing anguish. She masqueraded for years as an adult. Shrouded by hurt, as eclipsed as she was, she fought for survival with anyone or anything she could grasp onto. I am grateful to that tenacious teen for her willingness to persevere and triumph, even when life seemed insurmountable and overwhelming. Could I have made it without her sassy attitude, her tenacious drive, and her will to live? I think not.

Every day now I remember the courage in her reckless abandon, her lousy judgment, and her catastrophic mistakes. I remember the agony that weighed her down, the burdens she shouldered. I remember her potential that would never come to be. I remember how severe she was on herself and the choice she made over and over and over every day to live.

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Now I am aware of longing for the essence of her boundless energy, her enthralling imagination and the endless joy she felt when she turned everything in her life into a work of creation. At times, I remember that even though I abandoned her then, now I celebrate us both. And, that makes all the difference.

She Makes Me Laugh

Yellow petals with deep brown centers turn their faces toward the sun. One after another they smile at me as the car moves past them. I am piled in the back seat of my Grandpa’s car with my siblings and cousins. The flowers stretch along the country road like a golden ribbon as far as I can see. We stick our hands out the window and touch them as we pass.

We are going to Wamego to play at the park. I love the large slides that are so steep it is impossible to stop once I’ve let go of the railings at the top. And the swings!  They go so high! When I am swinging and look up toward the sky it feels like I could touch the white fluffy clouds with my well-worn sneakers. I would never tell anybody that my tummy feels a little funny on the way down when I’m flying backwards. I like going up better.

My two aunts and mother and Grandmother are setting out a picnic lunch on a long splintery wooden picnic table. It takes two red and white checked vinyl tablecloths for us to all sit around. All of my favorite foods are there: Grandma’s county-fair-award-winning fried chicken, Aunt Loreen’s potato salad, Mom’s deviled eggs, Auntie Lou’s homegrown vegetable platter. My dad has churned homemade ice cream and put strawberries from his garden in it. It is hidden in a large wooden tub by an old colorful rag rug thrown over the top. I know it is there, though, because Dad’s been talking about it all week. I’m going to save some room for the ice cream because it is my favorite food in the whole world. I don’t want to stop playing when the adults call me to eat because I am having too much fun. I can’t resist my favorite foods, though, so I come running to the table.

The chicken has a coating on it that is crispy and I really love it. I overhear my grandmother tell my mother she got up early to fry it up. I don’t know how she does it but my Aunt Loreen’s potato salad always has the same yummy taste! The potatoes are soft and hard at the same time. I will ask her someday when I’m bigger just how she does that. My mom has told me the secret to making her deviled eggs but I am not going to tell anyone that she puts sugar in the yolks. I love to put a whole half an egg in my mouth and squeeze out the yellow part before one of the adults tells me to bit it into small pieces and eat more slowly. Auntie Lou’s vegetables are great. Her tomatoes are “outstanding” this year, she tells everyone. Carrots, cucumbers, and celery with peanut butter and raisons are laid out on lettuce in the shape of a face. She is a 5th grade teacher and always makes food fun for us kids.

As soon as I am done eating, including the ice cream, I ask to be excused from the table. The hot summer sun blazes down on us.  I hear my grandpa say the air is so thick he can taste it. I open my mouth and shut my eyes, trying to taste the heavy air, too. When I don’t taste anything I run like a deer to a free swing. My cousins and siblings and I play hard. We run back and forth between swings and slides, teeter-totters and monkey bars.

When I am too tired to play another minute we pile in the car and ride the 20 minutes home. The sun is low in the sky now. It is quickly becoming that in-between time when the light changes and then gives way to pink. The bugs loud chirping becomes part of the evening. I put my head back and rest it against the cool crinkle of the clear plastic seat cover. My eyes are heavy and I am full of being part of the comfort that feels like love in this family. My five-year-old feet do not touch the floor. Next to me is my cousin LouAnn. She is three and cuddles up to me as we fall asleep.

I have no memories of my life without LouAnn. In my mind, she is the hot summer air, the wind blowing on my cheeks, the seat cover, swings high up in the sky. But most of all—she is a sunflower. Being with her reminds me to turn my face to the sun.

LouAnn is my Aunt Loreen and Uncle Tommy’s daughter. Their son, Paul is twelve years older than LouAnn. He is a star. He is dark and handsome and is still young enough to comply with and play out all of his parent’s dreams. He is a really good football player—with the promise of going to college on a scholarship, beating state records, placing in the country’s standings, and playing professionally someday. This is what the adults are always talking about. I don’t know exactly what they mean. All I know is that the girls really like Paul. His mom and dad bought him a convertible. He drives up and down Main Street, his car full of girls—with his arm around the one who has his large class ring dangling by a chain around her neck.

LouAnn and I don’t understand why the whole family treats Paul like he is so special. We know Uncle Tommy must be happy because he is a high school football coach. Years of throwing the ball back and forth for hours with Paul have paid off. Uncle Tommy is always smiling and everyone knows it is because of Paul. My Grandpa, who likes boys better than girls, treats Paul like a prince in my fairy storybooks. Nothing is too good for Paul and if he needs anything Grandpa gets it for him, if his parents don’t beat him to it. My Aunt Loreen holds onto her hopes for Paul like when she is playing bridge and doesn’t want anyone to see her hand. She looks like she is happy with Paul, but I think she has lots of hopes for him she isn’t talking about. It seems to me that everyone in the family is only paying attention to Paul.

LouAnn can find no place for herself in her house. She is invisible to everyone. She tries to get noticed by practicing football and baseball, too. No one pays attention because those are games for boys. She turns to food. I think she eats to feel better. She eats to feel loved. She eats to stuff how angry she is at being overlooked again and again. She eats to be noticed. She eats to hide. She eats for comfort. She eats and eats and eats and by early grade school does not even fit into the husky clothes at JC Pennys. Aunt Loreen sews clothes for her but is angry about it. LouAnn has finally found a way to be seen. Even negative attention is better than none.

I am only in grade school but I know LouAnn is unhappy. We don’t talk about it because we both have been drilled to not talk to anyone, even family. We make up a secret way to communicate with each other without using words. She knows I care about her. We play outside whenever we are together. When there is a family dinner we eat fast so that we can run and change into old clothes to go outside! She likes to play sports and so do I. We shoot baskets and play catch with my new softball, bat and glove. She likes to climb trees, too. She is fun.

LouAnn is not sad and angry all the time. Sometimes she cracks jokes. She is the funniest person I have ever known. She is funnier than the class clown at school. She is funnier than the people who try to make you laugh on the Ed Sullivan show. She makes everyone in my family, except maybe Grandpa laugh. She gets us laughing at ourselves, at each other, at her. When she is around we can’t help but laugh out right out loud.

She can make a joke out of anything. I remember a funny time at one of our family dinners. Auntie Lou and Uncle Glen and their two kids, Aunt Loreen and Uncle Tommy, Paul and LouAnn, my parents, my brother and sister and me and our grandparents are all sitting around the big dining room table at my grandparents’. Sparkly glasses, shiny silverware and special plates with blue flowers are sitting on a tatted tablecloth my grandmother just finished. Like always, there is too much food and our plates are heaped high. LouAnn is sitting on my left and the mashed potatoes are coming around to her. She gets a good hold on my grandmother’s special dish. As she hands it to me pushes the dish down and says, “be careful, it’s heavy.” I luckily get a quick grip on the dish just as she suddenly releases the pressure and the potatoes fly across the table into my sister, Susanne’s, plate.

LouAnn and I burst out laughing after we see that no dishes are broken. We cannot stop laughing. The more we try to stop, the more other people laugh and pretty soon, everyone, even grandma and grandpa are laughing out loud. I fall off my chair I am laughing so hard and so does LouAnn. I wonder why my family has never all laughed together before? My family talks about that day for years. No dinner ever goes by without someone adding a little extra weight to a dish as they pass it while saying the same words LouAnn said about the dish being heavy. She always keeps us laughing.

When we get into high school LouAnn excels in track and field with the shot put. She shows promise for the Olympics, but by this time, Paul has broken free from their parents. This really upsets Aunt Loreen and Uncle Tommy. They act like they don’t want to leave their house or be at family get-togethers anymore. They are quiet and withdrawn. For years they are pale and don’t talk to me--ever. LouAnn knows that there is no way, even with her humor, to help lift them up. She has two years of high school before she can leave home and go to college.  LouAnn becomes invisible again. I watch as she retreats from the world to survive her downhearted, despondent, gloomy life at home.

After we go our separate ways and are living in different parts of the country, I find myself missing LouAnn. We begin talking on the phone. We talk and talk about our hopes and dreams, our lives. At some point it becomes clear that our deep connection is a treasured friendship that began in childhood. As a young adult, I find myself valuing this meaningful friendship in spite of the fact that we are related. She always makes me laugh. All I need to do is to think about LouAnn and I laugh and remember to turn my face to the sun.

Forever Friends

“We’ll be Friends Forever, won’t we Pooh?” ask Piglet. Even longer, ‘ Pooh answered.

Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind. “Pooh?” he whispered, “Yes, Piglet?” “Nothing, “said Piglet, taking Pooh’s hand. “I just wanted to be sure of you.”        From Winnie the Pooh by A.A.Milne

My best friend came into my life when I was 4. I don’t actually remember meeting Becky but she is in many of my first memories. We had a very special and unusual bond. In all honesty, I would have to say ours was the most stable, respectful, healthy partnership I ever experienced in my life.

When we first met, Becky lived 2 blocks down the hill from me. When I went there to play, my mother would let me walk all by myself. I loved going to Becky’s house! The downstairs rooms were laid out with the kitchen backed up to a long hall with doors at each end. When the doors were open it made a huge circle, which we often took advantage of by roller-skating round and round until we fell down from exhaustion. We would laugh so hard and even scream when we got rolling too fast.

It felt completely different in her home than in mine. There, I was encouraged to play and have fun and I was allowed to be me. We were 5 when we learned her parents were building a house directly behind mine. We were thrilled! Now our lives were seamless.

Her mother, Wanda, couldn’t have been more different from my mommy. She was thin and wore black leggings and low-cut tight knit shirts of various vivid colors like orange, yellow and chartreuse. Her died hair was cropped short. Her sad eyes were hopeful but were always upstaged by red lipstick. Every time I saw her she was sitting in a large beige recliner watching soap operas and drinking coffee. She chain-smoked and kept the windows open year round to air out the house. It felt like she kind of ignored us, although I know now as a parent, she knew every move we made. At first when I went there I didn’t know how to act without being micromanaged, like with my mommy. After a while I came to appreciate Wanda’s lackadaisical trust in us and found I was careful not to do anything bad simply because I didn’t want to.

Everyone called her dad “Coach”, because he coached the boys’ high school football team. He was completely opposite from my father. He was friendly and outgoing and was loved by everyone. He was involved with his kids and was protective and attentive in a sincere way. He was always inclusive and encouraging of me, and would even engage in short spurts of imaginary play with Becky and me. My love for her dad grew over the years, especially when I got into high school and took his science classes. His teaching ignited my curiosity about how things worked in general science, biology, physics and chemistry. He was a delightful and engaging teacher, and his classes were the favorites of everyone in the school.

After Becky moved into her new house, our world expanded beyond the indoors. Nature did not need to coax us out to play. We couldn’t stay away! Sometimes we’d climb the huge trees in my yard. We helped the neighborhood boys build a gigantic tree house in the secret forest across the large field and down the hill from where we lived. Becky and I were both athletic and enjoyed playing softball, football, and soccer with the boys. We made mud pies, played with our dogs, blew bubbles, spent hours with my Aunt Leonie, roller-skated and always, always, always had a blast.

I was happiest when we were engaged in imaginary play. Becky was totally patient with my need to work out personal issues by becoming “Scott The Cowboy”. She would play this as often as I wanted for as long as I needed. Scott’s life was all about helping people in distress and going out of his way to save the day. Becky was content to play along, embodying “Miss Beverly the Bar Maid” who would wait long periods of time while Scott rode his horse out into the world to do what he needed to do. She was always there waiting for me when I got back—gunuienly happy to see me.

One day we were at her house playing and decided to pretend something new. Her dad’s jeep was sitting under the carport. He had acquired it at a military surplus sale. It was his trademark around town and his pride and joy, although it was old and battered with no top. The idea came to us at the same time to play gasoline station. First we went into the store where you pay, looking at all the candy. Once we had made our choices, we came out to the jeep and sat in it pretending to be going on a trip. We didn’t touch any gears or anything as we had promised but we did turn the wheel and pretend there was wind blowing through our hair.

After a while we realized we were getting low on gas so we returned to the gas station. First we had to figure out how to work the pumps. We each had a number of ideas about that. Because gas was pumped for you then, we had never even paid attention to how it worked. After we had talked it out and come to an agreement, we were ready to pump the gas. We went inside the little store and paid for $5 worth of ethyl. Then we went back to the jeep, opened the gas cap and filled the tank with sand from the driveway. We had no idea that we had done something horrible.

I had gone home for lunch when Coach came out and got in his jeep. He started it up and after some frightful noises the engine froze up. He went into his house, puzzled by what was going on and started talking with Wanda about it within earshot of Becky. She came in and proudly told him he didn’t need to worry about getting gasoline in his jeep because we had filled the tank with sand. Becky told me later that her dad’s face turned red and she had never seen him so ANGRY!

With Becky following closely behind him, he knocked on our back door. I opened it and he commanded me to come with him. He sat us down in my back yard on a railroad tie and asked us why we had put sand in his gas tank. He was fuming! I was afraid. We told him we had gone on a long road trip and when we got back the jeep needed gas. He told us that what we had done was very, very bad and that as a consequence he felt he needed to spank us and not allow us to play in his yard for 30 days. Then he turned us over his knee (me first) and gave a couple of light symbolic swats. He left us crying and feeling awful about his jeep and him.

My mother came out to see why we were crying. When she found out Coach had spanked me she became visibly distressed. She called my dad at work and about 10 minutes later he showed up livid with anger, too. By this time Becky and I had slinked unnoticed into the old log building in my back yard we used as a playhouse. We were still crying as we watched my parents yelling at each other back and forth. Then my dad stomped over to Becky’s house and knocked loudly on their door.

Coach came out and he was still FURIOUS! Immediately they started yelling at each other. My father kept repeating, “No one will ever spank my kids but Alice or me”. Coach was yelling about his jeep engine being ruined. Neither was listening to or hearing the other. As the argument escalated Becky and I moved further back into a corner and huddled down where we could still see our dads out the back window.

Suddenly my dad threw a punch at Coach who blocked it, grabbed his wrist, wrestled him to the ground and sat on him holding down his arms. After several minutes of more screaming and threats from both of them, Coach let my dad up. Daddy turned around and left quickly in a huff. He stomped into our house and slammed the door behind him.

Becky and I were really upset. Through our tears we decided we would have to meet at the fairy forest between our houses and play in my yard. Neither of us knew how long “30 days” was but we decided to wait for a better time to ask. We didn’t have any understanding of the extent of the damage we had done to the jeep or why everyone was so upset. We were clear, however, we were never going to put sand in a gas tank ever again!

For years Becky was my refuge–my ground. She, as much as a child can, kept me from going over the edge with all the tension and pressure that dominated my life. We never talked about that because she already seemed to know how it was for me. She was patient, caring and fun, delighted and inspired by my creativity.  She was honest always, and respected and loved me no matter what. The experiences I had being with her gave way to the idea that not every place is the same. This provided me with the hope I desperately needed—that someday I could leave and be
appreciated for being me. Becky has a very special place in my heart. After all, she gave me the world.

To The Curb

The thing I found when I opened the first tub is the only dress I ever liked in my entire life. Pink with a Peter Pan collar—just like my mother always dressed me in. Size 4T. Embroidered on the front are 4 small chefs – the two on the top are spilling food on the two below. I remember liking the faces on the lower ones, clearly expressing their surprise (and dismay).

I carefully take the dress out of the gigantic zippered plastic bag I had used for safe storage. The bag is filled with tatted doilies, crocheted table runners, quilts – hours and hours of women’s handiwork. The women of my family. The Grandmothers of my tribe.

As I take the dress out my nose is hit with the cool dank smell of mildew. I turn the dress this way and that – letting memories wash over me. I am flooded with little girl memories of long ago.

Before I put the dress back in the bag I take my phone out of my pocket and snap a quick picture. Then I reinsert the dress, re-zip and lift the entire bag, carefully dropping it into a heavy black plastic garbage bag. I pull it to the out into the weak sunlight to the curb. Gone...

The garage is poorly lit. Natural light from a cloudy day is filtering through the open double door. The structure is more like a cave than a garage. The back end is dirt and dirt covers the top in a low mound. It is filthy here as well as damp. Cobwebs are delicately woven between the old stonewalls and random objects that have been left here through the years: a rusty old exercise bike, a green fertilizer spreader, and parts of an almost unrecognizable electric foot bath.

Seven portable air conditioners are resting all around the floor on 2 by 4s, looking like tombstones in the faded light. When I first entered the garage I thought the floor was made of dirt but now as my eyes have adjusted I see it is concrete. My memory of the concrete floor comes back to me. I vaguely remember it on another damp and cloudy day when I left my eight rubber tubs here ten years ago.

The tubs are packed with sentimental items that belonged to my mother and her family dating back to the 1800s when my grandfather and grandmother’s families arrived in Kansas from Switzerland. I never heard any stories about how they ended up in Neuchatel, Kansas or why they left their homes? Those stories of my history, of my life, are lost forever. My mother ended up with all these objects – things I do not know about, filled with memories that are not mine.

In the second tub are lots of books. I had put some of them in zip lock bags while others had been haphazardly left in the tub. All are ruined. Without emotions I fill another black plastic bag and drag it to the curb.

I open the 3rd tub and begin sorting through glassware. I recognize some of the hand painted flowers on plates my mother had hanging in our kitchen when I was growing up. I know nothing about the pink or purple candy dishes, the cut glass vase, or the crystal dessert or sherbet dishes. I state at them blankly with only the memory that my mother had loved them.

I still feel the pain of my mother dying too young. She was only 62 and the cancer spread quickly through her body. I was 27 and not ready to be orphaned, lacking both life skills and the maturity to be in the world without her.

From my birth until her death I was convinced I had ruined her life. Then after she died I began to realize that she had chosen her life. She had chosen her time to die – to die when we were all out of the hospital room, alone – a way out of her disappointing and guilt-ridden life. I realized it had nothing to do with me.

When she was dying I was angry, scared and lost. The life choices I made after her death reflected my confusion for decades. When my father hastily re-married he did not want my brother, sister or me to have anything of our mother’s. We insisted with an urgency we didn’t understand and took whatever he would allow of my mother’s family heirlooms.

I moved the many treasures around for years, from house to house, through relationship after relationship – yearning for her. If I had them out in view she would not be as gone. The items weighed me down, grounding me in the past but they did not make me happy.

Out of all the tubs I pick a milk glass swan as my memento. I remember it being around when I was growing up. I do not know how it made it into my parent’s house, or if it came from Switzerland. I do not care. I like it.

Now, at 66, I let it all go. I unburden myself of my mother’s “things” that fill these tubs with forgotten memories and untold stories. I tote garbage bags to the curb, shut the door and do not look back.