Insatiable

I guess food surrounded (or was surrounded by) a lot of poignant moments in my life with Monga. She'd buy bunches of bananas (even though she didn't like them) because they were one sale, then force anyone she could to eat them, saying, "Well, I don't like 'em, so somebody better eat 'em". But, mostly, she was known for cooking too much of something and then feeling rejected when it all didn't get eaten (rice and pineapple with whipped cream, stuffing, roast, goulash). So, we all ate way too much even of things we didn't enjoy (beets, lima beans) just to appease Monga.

Not even german potato pancakes, a recipe passed down from Monga's mom (Grandma Struck), were liked by everyone. Potato pancake nights were loaded with their own unique ingredients: pounds of potatoes, bushels of parsley, sliced tomatoes, links of sausage, cubes of butter, suppressed anger, sarcasm, laughter, tantrums...The lovers of potato pancakes devoured 4 to 25 of them with sides of tomato and sausage. The haters of them took a half hour to swallow down 1 to 2, drowned in butter and chased with milk. But there was always, in someone, an undertone of something pent up that needed spoken. You could see it in the hard way they spread their butter, the way they asked if there was more tomato, set their plate on the table or cut a pancake and delivered it to their mouth. Eventually, someone would eat not enough to too much, triggering a comment from Monga that would domino people's defenses. Pretty soon, the kids would be off playing in another room as a few adults cleaned up, or filtered into the living room to watch TV, because someone yelled and stormed out of the house. It always felt like everyone thought a newly cleaned kitchen represented a fresh slate. We'd play a game afterwards, or return to our own homes (with an armful of leftovers).



But there was a time in my life when I could no longer temper Monga by eating her food. When I moved into her basement, I didn't just have the cold that'd caused me to sneeze all over my furniture and boxes of books. I had a full-fledged eating disorder. 5'6" and 100 pounds. The only way in which food was a priority was in my focus on keeping it away from me.

So you can maybe see, knowing Monga's manipulations of people's loyalties using food, how difficult living with her was, under the circumstances. All my life I'd enabled Monga's ploys by eating what I didn't want, more than I wanted, when I didn't want to. Now I was exercising (albeit in extreme) my rights as an eater.
Starving and purging are generally easier when done alone (I'm still surprised by how much of what people do is food-centered). Obviously, it was Monga's dual needs for isolation and control that complicated my life with her in my early 30's...

I'd come in the side door and try to sneak the basement door open, but Monga (who couldn't hear you ask for five dollars or a ride to the store) would always hear me.

"Jodie, is that you?"
I'd ball my hands into fists, grind my teeth.

"Yeah."
"Where've you been? It's 7 o'clock."
"At work, grandma." (Still standing by the basement door where she couldn't see me from her spot at the dining room table.)
"This late?"
"Yes. This late."
"Oh. Well, I saved you some dinner. I made it for you, but you didn't come home."
"No. I was at work."

(Silent pause in which Monga clinked her rings and I came around the corner where I could see her.)

"It's in the fridge," Monga said, "in the tupperware".
"I'm not really hungry."
"It's good."

Monga got up from her seat at the dining room table where she'd been playing Solitaire with a used deck of casino playing cards. She took the tupperware from the fridge and popped it into the microwave.

"You want to play me a game of Gin Rummy?" Monga asked. "We can play while you eat."

The smell of the roast and mashed potatoes with gravy made my nutrition-hungry brain swim.

"Sure," I said.

We sat down. Monga shuffled and dealt the cards. The microwave beeped.

"There's your supper," Monga said.

I went and got a fork and took my steaming plate to the table. The plate holding more food than I'd eaten in a week. I poked the roast with my fork.

"It's good," Monga said, organizing her hand.

I took a bite, chewing gingerly, as if this morsel of meat might become 10 pounds while still in my mouth. It really was good. I took another bite in spite of myself. We played our cards, Monga and I, until I'd eaten half my plate of food.

"I need to go at the bathroom," Monga said, rising from her seat. When I heard the click of the lock on the bathroom door, I quickly took my plate to the garbage where I buried the remainder of my meal beneath a milk container and a loaf of moldy bread. As Monga came out of the bathroom, I was rinsing off my plate.

"Good, wasn't it?" Monga said, sitting back down to the game.

"Yeah," I answered. I sat down, looked at my cards for a minute. "Gin," I said.



Monga's appetite for attention was insatiable.



One morning, I was heading out the door to work...

"Jodie!" Monga yelled.
"What? I have to go. I'm heading to work."
"Oh, you can stop for a minute. Here. Have a doughnut with me."
"Monga, I don't have-"
"-Yes, you do. Here. They're powdered doughnuts."

I took the doughnut from her and started to leave. I was just going to throw it somewhere when I got outside (over the neighbor's fence or something)--and soon--before I caved under the pressure of that sweet powdered sugar.

"Can't you just sit with me and have just one doughnut with me? I made fresh coffee."

I sighed heavily, took my doughnut to the dining room table, and sat staring at the elephant in the room.

"Aren't you going to have any coffee? I just made it. Someone needs to drink it," Monga asked, already pouring me a cup. "You take anything in yours?"
"No, Monga. Just black."
"Ick."
"Well, you don't have to drink it."
"No. I like mine with cream and sugar."

(Silent pause consisting of me dipping my licked finger into the powdered sugar and sucking it from my fingertip; Monga sipping her coffee.)

"You're just playing with that," Monga said disgusted, "Eat it."

I broke the doughnut in half, and ate a quarter of a half.

"I like mine dipped in my coffee," Monga said, watching me.
"I like it plain."
"Oh, not me. I like to dip it in my coffee. It's good that way."
"Then, dip yours in your coffee."
"Oh, I already had mine." She watched my every swallow.
"I have to go," I said, getting up; leaving the doughnut on the table.
"Take your doughnut with you!"

I left for work. Outside by my car, I stuck my finger down my throat and threw up the quarter of a half of the powdered doughnut and half a cup of black coffee. "You have it," I said as I started my car, "You can dip it in your coffee."

Somebody Better Eat It

Monga's need to have family around her at all times was well-displayed during holidays.


At Christmastime, her house was fully decorated with lights, garlands, Santas that sang when you pushed buttons or pulled strings, and a tree that'd been decorated by us grandkids, complete with old-fashioned bulbs, bubble lights, and tinsel. But, how she really pulled us all in was through her cooking.

Walking into her house on Christmas Eve was like having your own personal Willy Wonka chocolate factory. When you opened the door, you became overwhelmed by the cacophony of smells wafting from the kitchen: sugar, yeast, ham, turkey, pie crust, fruit...Set out on doilies and Christmas-colored tablecloths were crystal dishes spilling over with fresh divinity, fudge, sugar cookies, homemade peanut brittle, Chex mix, nuts, butter mints...In the windowsills you'd see pie tins covered with towels; you'd peek to see still-warm pies: apple, cherry, pumpkin...Also on the counter would be two pans of homemade rolls, a veggie plate of black and green olives, carrots, and celery stuffed with peanut butter and cheese; a row of chips and crackers next to dishes of dips (dill and french onion), sausage and cheeses.

The adults would drink homemade Tom & Jerries, us kids-- pop. Monga'd drink her cream soda on ice. Well, she'd allow herself to be coerced into drinking one Tom & Jerry-- taking that first sip with a reaction like it was repulsive poison-- and then sip after sip more until it was gone.

"The food is ready," Monga would announce. The family would be strewn around the house talking, playing board games, watching TV, so no one would come right away when called. "The food is ready. You better come and get it. There's enough to feed an army." A few would pull themselves away and dish up their food. "Isn't anyone else gonna eat? I made enough for an army. It's gonna get cold." We'd all get up and go have dinner. Everyone overate with fancy dishes and real silver. The kids had their own table. I ate olives off my fingers and dipped my roll in turkey gravy.

As soon as everyone had finished, Monga would ask, "Does anyone want dessert?" No one ever did, because they were stuffed. Offended, she'd take her glass of cream soda into the living room, sit in her recliner and sulk. A handful of adults would wash the dishes, while us kids begged to be allowed to open just one present. Then, the kids would be lined up in front of the Christmas tree for a photograph, and to sing carols. Finally, us grandkids would be allowed to open one gift. We'd spend the rest of the night playing with whatever we got and eating the cookies, pies, and candies that Monga had made from scratch.

Christmas morning, I'd call to tell Monga that Santa Claus had come. She'd walk through the backyards to our house and watch me open my presents (with her coat on). Then, her eyes would light up and she'd tell me that Santa had come to her house, too. Mom, Monga, and I (and later Jessi and Dani) walked through the backyards to Monga's in our pajamas and boots.

Like magic, there were stockings hung across the fireplace mantle for each grandkid. A heap of presents enveloped the Christmas tree-- some were even placed in its branches. After we'd unwrapped all the presents, the adults would make breakfast-- bacon, scrambled eggs, toast. After we'd hauled our loot back home and taken a nap, we'd head back up to Monga's for Christmas Eve leftovers. Spend the day eating, playing games and looking at photo albums.


Thanksgiving was much the same, but with desserts on a smaller scale-- just six homemade pies. We'd eat until we were sick, then play games or let our food comas lull us to sleep with the drone of conversation and TV in the background. Eventually, we'd head out the back door towards home, only to come knocking on the door a few hours later for more pie (or turkey, or stuffing, or rolls, or...). After a year or two of this, Monga said one Thanksgiving as we were leaving, "I'll leave the back door unlocked." And she did, too, then and every year after that.

While I'd be rummaging through the fridge, Monga would come down the hall in her blue robe,

"What're you after?"
"More pie."
"Oh. Well, there's plenty there. Somebody better eat it."

I'd load up (with special orders from whoever couldn't pull themselves off the couch at home) and head back out into the cold.

"Thanks, Monga."
"Mmm hmmm. See you tomorrow."

She'd lock the door behind me and watch me trek through the yard until I got inside, when I'd see her kitchen light go out.


Romantic moments with desserts were gradually removed and replaced by cookies made without sugar that I ate with Monga's eager-to-please eyes on my every bite. She'd always baked without a recipe-- her mind held the ingredients. This index card with the recipe for peanut butter cookies had been cruelly edited by dementia, omitting sugar.

"Good?" Monga asked, leaning in for my answer.
"It's good, Monga. I'm just not too hungry right now."
"Oh. Well, I'll send some home with you, then."
"That'd be good."

As I was leaving,

"Don't forget your cookies."
"I won't, Monga. Thank you."

I can still remember the sound those cookies made as they tumbled into my garbage can.

Looking at Old Photos

A glass of cream soda with ice sets on the glass end table-- it's probably Monga's. She is across the room from it, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the Christmas tree, smiling at Andreya, who thinks she's being clever by putting a red package bow on her 8-year-old head. I'm sitting on my knees on the floor, hands in my lap, smiling at the camera-- it's one of those generic smiles with eyes that don't say much. Baby Jessi is reaching out for a just-unwrapped Baby Cuddles doll still in its box. Mom sits next to Jessi, holding her upright. I remember this thick, tri-toned brown carpet. I can feel its fibers on the palms of my hands. I don't remember the TV (which seems small for Monga's standards) or the stand it sets on. But, I recognize the orange and brown wooden owls decorating the top of the TV. I can feel the soft smooth of the brown sofa that was later handed down to mom when Monga got new furniture. Mom is wearing what was then one of my favorite shirts of hers: a white, red, and black plaid...But, it's also interesting what I don't recall in this photo: I get no feelings from it. No experiences or moments return to me, no matter how long or hard I stare.


In another picture, Monga sits on the lawn swing out by the pool with baby Jessi sitting on her lap. Monga's sharing a drink with her out of a plastic cup. Linda sits next to them on the swing, sipping a drink through a straw, looking off at someone/something in the pool. I remember the lawn swing. I remember how the green-with-white-daisies cushion crunched when you sat on it. I can hear, too, the creaking the swing made when you swung in it (no matter how much DW40 was applied). It had a canopy over it, which made it nice for napping, or a place to sit that wasn't a towel on the cement in the sun, after you were sunburned from playing in the pool all day. I remember hitting the bottom of the canopy to dump all the water from the top of it after there'd been rain...


Another poolside picture is of me in a blue bathing suit, my long blonde hair sun-dried. I'm carrying a plate of barbecue in one hand; I'm rubbing my face with the other. This reminds me of how I was always getting sunburned, how I learned to tell I was burnt by the level of sting my face felt when I applied sunscreen to it...But, things I find it harder and harder to recall are in the picture, too...The rock wall that marigolds were planted in-- there were always a lot of bees or butterflies around the pool...The blue and green metal chairs with thin floral cushions to keep the seats from getting too hot to sit on (How many times did I burn my butt cheeks?!)Sometimes, after a storm, we'd come out the next day and find these chairs in the pool...They rusted over the years, along with the lawn swing. I don't remember when they all went missing.


There are two photographs of Monga sitting in a brown and orange floral rocking chair in what we all call "the brown house": the second house Cecil built. Monga has her puffy red coat on (she rarely removed her coat at other people's homes). Baby Jessi sits on her lap, Monga's left arm around her. Monga's right hand is up by her mouth-- she's absently chewing on her perfectly manicured, red-to-match-her-coat fingers. The other picture is from a few moments before or after this. Jessi is smiling (you can hear her mischievous baby laughter) as she reaches for a Rubik's cube keychain that Monga's dangling in front of her. This second photo shows off Monga's fingers loaded down with diamonds, and her smile...I remember the texture of the chair she and Jessi are sitting in. The flowers stuck out a little from the rest of the fabric. I used to like to trace my finger around the edges of the flowers. Something that catches my eye, though, for seeming unordinary, are Monga's shoes. They're blue sneakers with white stripes. I don't remember her ever wearing anything but moccasins or plain white Keds.


Looking at old photos and really trying to climb inside them makes me tired. I really want to explore their frozen worlds because those places were once alive. But, it's difficult with all those decades of being held still, to ignite the vibrancy the air held in those moments. I can't access emotions, inflections, subtle nuances of movements. I want to slow down time; climb in and smell the rooms; feel the textures; taste the drinks; see from my eyes again (or someone else's)...I want to look at my Monga and see a dynamic being instead of the waxy shell I cried over as it lay in a coffin.

Buckets, Rags, Mops, Toothbrushes, Butts

We weren't always locked out of the house, obviously, or someone would've called CPS. We watched a lot of TV: whatever Monga was watching: "Murder She Wrote", "$1,000 Pyramid", "Little House on the Prairie". If we begged, we got to see "Fraggle Rock" or "Double Dare" on Nickelodeon. Other things we did to occupy our time were: 1)steal Snickers bars from Cecil's top drawer in his bedroom, 2)put on Monga's thick glasses and try to walk around, 3)climb up the walls in the hallway (literally-- one foot and hand on each wall and crabwalk up to the ceiling), 4)get into Monga's purse and count her dollar bills-- all those 20's and 50's. This particular activity usually led us into wanting money of our own. So, we'd find Monga and ask her what we could do to earn some money.

In the summer, we got out buckets, rags, and soap and washed Monga's car out on the front lawn. She'd usually rap on the window and point, asking us to also water the flowers and shrubs. If we had to stay indoors, we got assigned the task of scouring either the kitchen or bathroom. We usually chose the bathroom; it's smaller.

We'd gather the buckets, rags, and mop and lug it all into the bathroom, trying to sneak the mop past Monga--holding it lengthwise behind us. But, she'd always spy it.

"You kids aren't using a mop."

She'd jump up and head ambassador-like into the kitchen. Opening the cabinet under the sink, she'd bend over and start taking out bottles of cleaners until she found the ammonia. Frustrated with us, she'd quickly replace the bottles in the cabinet and slam its door.

"You know better than that!" she'd say as she dropped the bottle of ammonia into a bucket I was holding. Then, we'd follow her into the bathroom.

One particular time, we all stood in the hallway in awkward silence, holding the cleaning supplies.

"I couldn't find the toothbrush I usually use," Monga said.

I looked at Andreya.

"Here. Use Cecil's." She handed me his toothbrush and left the bathroom.

"Hot water and ammonia. Get on your hands and knees and scrub. Get all the cracks. I don't know what his problem is. He lives like a pig."

Andreya cracked open the bathroom window as I poured the potent cleaner into the bucket and used the bathtub faucet to fill it with water. The fumes went directly into my nose and made my eyes water.

Decades later, during one of Aunt Vickie's visits...Mom and Vicki searched for something to use to clean up a mess. Monga stood there confused.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"We're trying to clean up this mess, mom. There's sugar all over the floor," Vickie replied.

"Sugar?" she asked, as if it were a cuss word in a foreign language.

"Yes, mom. Where's your towels?" asked Kathy.

They expected to hear Monga's usual reply: The same place they've always been.

Instead, she shook her head as if asking for a towel was asking for something disgusting, unfathomable and said,

"Just wipe it up with your butt."

Vickie and mom stood in the kitchen laughing. Monga joined in, sensing she'd missed a joke.

"Parking Lots are the Worst Places to Park"

Monga, if she'd had her mind when she took her last breath, would've died proud of her reputation for evading police. Her eyes lit up a special way when she told stories of cop chases in Spokane with her brother Jack (who was Wanted and later spent time in Walla Walla State Penitentiary for grand theft auto). She'd get this wild look and become animated rehashing hairy turns. Her countenance got especially lively as she concluded her tales of escapes.

Riding in the car with Monga was never just a jaunt to the store; it was an Experience. She was a professional tailgater. She'd stop at the last second, then turn to see your pale complexion and hand gripping the door. She'd laugh and say, "I was stopping." Monga was a great weaver. If cloth or baskets could be made out of traffic patterns, Monga's work would be in museums. In an out, across and up. And she was not slow at her craft. Monga was also a street racer, and so became anyone else who stopped beside her at a stoplight. That light would turn green, Monga's foot would gun down on the gas pedal, and that '78 Caddy (or 80's Caddy, or 90s Honda...) would squeal and haul! In the winter, she'd pull into an icy, empty parking lot with that wild look in her eye and spin cookies. The more we squealed, the tighter she turned. And once we became used to the ride and yelled, "More!" she'd stop and head home.


Sometimes, she got pulled over.

"Do you know how fast you were going ma'am?" the officer would say.

Monga would chuckle and say, "Yeah".

And somewhere between that and a citation, Monga would make a new friend of the policeman and she'd be sent on her way, Elvis and burning rubber as her exit music.

So, it was difficult to watch Monga lose her ability to drive. It started with barely noticeable dents and scratches. These became larger, more conspicuous, and came with iffy explanations. One day, her car came home with a very injured left side. Monga's explanation?

"Parking lots are just the worst places to park".

Another time, while driving down a well-trafficked street, I saw my Monga driving down the middle of the road. She'd created a lane for herself. People honked as they passed her, but she neither turned to notice the noise nor diverted from her path. On another occasion she was witnessed parking on the sidewalk.

I don't know how or when she eventually relinquished her keys. But one day, grandpa Cecil was behind the wheel. And once he took that position, nothing was ever the same. The '78 Cadillac was sold, the lawn grew tall, wilted flowers were pulled and never replaced--the ground was left dry and naked.

BUT...

ALSO...

When Monga would ask him to take her down the street to Jessi's house, he'd do it.

And when, on their return home, she'd say, "Take me to Jessi's", he'd turn around and take her again...5 or 6 times a day, wearing a U-turn path in Airway Avenue.

This went on until Monga tried to move home in the middle of the night, carrying a stack of framed photos and Elvis plates in her arms.

"What're you doing?" Cecil asked.

"We're getting out of here. We're moving back home." she said.

Cecil had a friend dump Monga off at a nursing home. She had nothing but the clothes on her back and the diamonds on her fingers.

I've sat in the parking lot at Life Care, trying to get the nerve to go in and face my depleting Monga or trying to cry away the pain given my stomach from visiting her there. I'd have to say, I agree with her fortune cookie statement about parking lots...

Ice Cream Lady

We could hear the carnival-like music from blocks away. The ice cream lady! My two cousins Andreya and Aaron, and I, dumped our bikes in the street and ran up to the porch. I rang the doorbell dingdingdingding! Monga opened the main door and talked through the screen.

"I told you kids to stay outside!"

"The ice cream lady is coming!" Andreya announced.

Our feet practically danced on the scratchy brown turf. Monga never wanted to spend money on anything fun, but we never quit trying. Monga stood staring stoic behind the screen door. With every second she spent like this, the ice cream lady got closer and closer. Her music crescendoed with our anxious hope that Monga would be moved by our antsy youth and pleading eyes.

"She's getting closer! Hurry up, Monga! She's gonna go by us!" Andreya insisted.

The ice cream lady turned onto our street and was heading our way. Her music at full forte, picking up tempo with our anticipating hearts.

Monga turned and walked away.

The three of us stood on the turf. I curled my toes in on it and felt its roughness. Aaron, resigned, went to the street, hopped on his bike and rode away past the ice cream lady. Andreya rang the doorbell again. One hard ding.

Monga returned to the screen door. I thought she'd come to kill us for ringing the doorbell again, and I shot Andreya a look that said so. Monga had her wallet! She fumbled a bit for change she dug out with her fingers. Disbelief expanded my eyeballs.

Andreya said, "Now Aaron's not gonna get anything. He shouldn't have ran off." This made me feel bad (not bad enough to turn down the money).

The ice cream lady rounded the corner, her music in a slow, steady decrescendo. Monga opened the door a crack and held out the money.

"Well, hurry up and get me a fudgesicle. She's getting away."

I took the coins and turned towards the ice cream lady. I heard the door lock behind me. Felt Monga staring at my back, awaiting her frozen treat. I wanted to lose the money, or take the fudgesicle and run. But, I was the good kid. So, I bought the fudgesicle and delivered it to Monga through a crack she made in the open door. Then, she shut and locked it. I stood there with my toes crunching the turf.

On Her Terms

Playing outside is what Monga called locking us out for the day.

In the winter we'd have to beg, with the doorbell, to be let in for minutes. And we had to be good and frozen enough to justify ringing the doorbell. So, by the time Monga decided to unlock the door for us, we were stiff and teeth-chattery. We'd remove our boots outside, then go into the dining room to lay our gloves, hats, and socks over floor vents to dry. Sometimes, I'd run my hands under lukewarm water in the kitchen sink as my mom had taught me to do.

In the summer, we'd leave the house in the morning to play by the pool, run through the sprinkler, hit walnuts into the fence with a stick, ride bikes...We never lacked for things to do outdoors. Still, there were certain things we had to rely on Monga for, like food and a bathroom. So, we'd put down our stick (or bike, dirt clod, army guy) and go around to the front of the house to ring the doorbell. Most of the time, we never got an answer (there were several times when we got in trouble for our poop being found under a pile of walnut leaves).

But, on her terms, she'd open up the sliding glass door in back and yell,

"You kids want some watermelon?"

And we'd come running. We'd sit on the back patio in those orange vinyl swivel chairs and spin around until Monga came out with our slices of watermelon. We'd sit there, legs spread, holding the watermelon and taking huge sloppy bites out of, letting the juice run down our chins and hands, and watch it splatter on the concrete. Spit black seeds out into the grass (or at each other). When we were done, we threw the rinds into the garbage out there, hosed off the patio ("I don't want any damned ants on the patio!"), and ran off to play--all of the being locked out forgotten and forgiven.

One day, she opened the sliding glass door and yelled,

"You kids want lunch?"

We ran up to the house.

"Not in here. I'll bring it to you in the front yard...You can have a picnic." She said "picnic" like it would be next to Disneyland in fun.

We walked around to the front of the house and found some shade beneath one of the purple lilac trees. I'm sure we did things like poke each other with grass and pluck lilacs from their trees.

Monga came out with egg salad sandwiches and watermelon. The sandwiches were on Wonder bread, each cut into four perfect pieces. All three of us had an equal-sized slice of watermelon. We bit into our egg salad sandwich or our watermelon, while Monga turned and walked back into the house without a word.

"Thank you, Monga." I said.

With the smacking of our lips and the spitting out of seeds, we couldn't hear Monga locking the door behind her.