During one of my rounds in the rink with borderline personality disorder, I found myself sitting in a couched circle of complete strangers. We were the kind of strangers that I believe Jim Morrison sings about, "People are strange when you're a stranger/Faces look ugly when you're alone/Women seem wicked when you're unwanted/Streets are uneven when you're down". On the psych ward of a hospital, I sat sipping my makeshift mocha: fat free, sugar free hot chocolate and coffee. I used the awkward silence to barely lift my eyes and scan the room as I blew steam from the top of my paper cup.
Everyone was intensely interested in anything other than being the first to speak. One girl was concerned with a fray in the little-toe area of her left slipper. She worried over it with her ungraceful fingers even when her oily bangs feel over her eyes. She blew at them and kept at her slipper. A thick, tall woman with thin hair wearing a light blue robe sat stiffly, and kept asking where she was and what she was doing here. She'd just come out of electroshock yesterday and couldn't stop crying. Tears dripped off her nose and cheekbones and dried on the breast of her baby blue terra cloth robe. The man who sat next to me shook, and wrung his hands. His hands were bulky, callused and dry. You could hear them scratch together. He kept his hands between his legs that hit together at the knees every two seconds like clockwork. There were others in the group, but I can't picture them. They're flickering Poe-like silhouettes.
The facilitator of the group sat not on a sofa with the rest of us, but in the corner on a folding chair. Other than the badge pinned to her chest identifying her as someone who was sane enough to leave here whenever she wanted, and the pile of papers on a clipboard she'd tucked between her and the arm of her chair, she could've been one of us.
Where am I going with this? I could easily get sidetracked by the surrealism of trying to get well. I started on this because it was here in this room that I came to know Joe: the man who would, two weeks later, call me from a pay phone to tell me he's at the bus station in Lewiston. He'll tell me he's staying the weekend with me, ask me to pick him up. I will allow this because our hours-long phone conversations (against psych ward staff advice not to give out our numbers) have made me trust him (and because I was desperate for the streets to feel a little more even). Still, I was surprised that he'd come down from Spokane, and I was alarmed at his forcefulness (though not enough to hang up on him, or tell him to go home).
When I got out of the car to greet him, like Santa he handed me a full giant Hefty bag.
"Open it," he said.
"What is it?" I asked, opening the sack. There were about ten stuffed animals in there: tiny beanie babies, an oversized elephant, a teddy bear holding an I love you heart..."How sweet," I said, giving Joe a hug, "My sister's kids will love these."
"No, Jodie. They're for you. I love you so damn much.
I'm not sure why I did it, but I let Joe visit me off and on all that summer. I let him believe I was in love with him.
Monga talked about Joe all the time. How sweet he was, and how helpful (he'd installed new brakes on my Oldsmobile, made Monga some wooden lawn ornaments, washed her Cadillac and her and my dishes, and would visit for hours).
If you wanted to score points with Monga you could 1)spend money on her (or not allow her to spend any), 2)do her housework, and/or 3)talk, talk, talk. *
So, even after the night I'd gone upstairs and knocked on Monga's bedroom door, sat on her bed and told her Joe'd triewd to rape me, she remained friends with him. Not long after the night that left me locked in the bathroom, laying in a sobbing mass on the cold linoleum floor with self-inflicted cuts on my arms and legs, Joe knocking on the door every two seconds like clockwork, I walked out to my car after work and found a note tucked under the windshield wiper. It was Monga's handwriting.
Joe came down. He's staying on your couch, so you may not want to come home tonight.
Stunned, I drove to my sister Jessi's house and asked if I could stay the night there. I couldn't stay with Mom because she lived in the green house behind Monga. All Joe'd need to do to find me would be to walk through Monga's back yard. As I lay on Jessi's couch, I could hear Joe a block away out on the street yelling my name. He was walking the midnight streets looking for me!
Yes, I'd told him to stay away from me, not send me mail, and not to call me. Nevertheless, I changed my number and kept it from Monga. I didn't trust her to keep it from Joe. I thought he had finally stopped sending me mail until one day I saw a stack of mail on Monga's kitchen counter all addressed to me, in Joe's handwriting.
"What's this?" I said.
"They're not all for you," Monga replied as she stirred a pile of corned beef hash on the griddle. "There's a bunch there for me."
"He writes to you?"
"Yes. I like Joe. He's nice. He's funny."
*or 4)make her laugh
I stormed out and found myself a low-income apartment. I moved that week, withholding my address from Monga. For at least a year, I didn't speak to her except on holidays. After arguing a few times about why I shouldn't give her my address and phone number, I decided I trusted her. She never did give my information to Joe.
Though, once in a while over a meal or during a TV commercial, she'd say something like,
"I know you don't want to hear anything about Joe, but--"
"--This sausage casserole is good. Just the right amount of peas. I don't really like cooked peas."
"Oh, I do."
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Smooth Ride
After college and still living up in Moscow, working three jobs, I found myself without a car. The Subaru I'd purchased two to three years prior had finally decided it was through with the strain of pistons, injections, shocks, and sudden stops. Its control panel on the left side of the steering wheel was tied to the wheel by an old shoelace. It overheated, so in the summer, I drove with the heater up full blast and the window down. One morning, I turned the key and my decrepit Subaru clicked an apathetic click: the last sound it ever made.
"I told you not to buy that Subaru," Monga reprimanded through the phone when I called to tell her my stranded-in-the-desert story. She had, in face, warned me. I didn't listen because the Subaru had headlights that flipped up when you turned them on, and a gear shift that looked right out a spaceship.
I knew better than to not listen to her. Monga took annual jaunts to the Cadillac dealership and paid cash for a brand new crowning emblem to announce her arrivals. She talked the dealers down, down, down and left lifted up. She'd pull in the driveway beaming, her rings and eyes in a contest to out-shimmer each other.
"I talked them down 5,000. They tried to sell me a coupe for a lower price, but I don't want that little hunk of junk. I talked them into this for the price of the coupe." There'd be an allotted pause designed for us to soak up the glory that was Monga's. "Who wants a ride?" she'd ask, jingling her keys. We'd run to the car and fill up the Cadillac, the leather seats squeaking under our denim jeans.
I sighed on the phone with her; I sighed the next morning as I walked twenty blocks in the Palouse wind to Wendy's Restaurant. To distract myself from the cold, I counted my steps and thought about Monga taking me down to the DMV.
She showed me how to register my Subaru and paid to get my insurance started. I told her I'd pay her back. "When you can," she said.
For over a week, I walked more than the average Moscowvite, and floundered for rides.
One afternoon, hot and sweaty from working the grill, I re-tied my apron and approached a customer at the counter, who I'd noticed out of the corner of my eye.
"Can I help you?" I asked without looking up.
"I don't know. Can you?" a familiar voice fired back. Monga.
I looked up, smiled. "What're you doing up here?"
"Some grocery shopping," Monga answered, "When you get a second, come out with me to the parking lot. I wanna show you something."
To be honest, I was a bit annoyed. When I got a second? We'd been swamped all day, and I was the only person covering the front of the store for the next hour, until shift change.
"I'll see what I can do," I said, "Want to sit down? I'll get you a root beer. I need to clean all these table."
"I suppose. But no ice in my root beer. You don't get-"
"-As much pop that way. I know."
I handed her the lukewarm root beer and went around the counter to do tables. Monga followed me around to each one.
"You have to do all this?"
"Yep."
She made her yuck face. "I wouldn't like that."
"I don't like it, Monga. It's my job."
As I scraped gum from the bottom of a table, I remembered Monga telling me she'd once held a job at a candy factory...for one day. She stood there watching chocolates pass her on that belt, and just couldn't do it another second. She said all that circular motion made her sick.
"I'm gonna go see if I can take my break," I told Monga. When I returned without my apron, Monga's eyes lit up. I followed her to the parking lot, where she stopped next to a white Oldsmobile.
"Yes?" I said. She just pointed at the white car. "What?" I said.
"I bought it for you this morning. It's got a brand new engine, new tires and brakes. I drove it up here. Smooooth." She said smooth like she was talking about a tall, handsome cowboy.
I was shocked. "You drove it? Then, how will you get back home?"
"Cecil's here. He's out in the car." He'd been sitting out there by himself this whole time. I looked around. There he was, sitting in the passenger side of Monga's maroon Cadillac. We waved at each other.
"Take it for a drive," Monga said.
"I can't. I'm still on the clock."
"Oh, pooh. Just around the block. They'll never know." Monga raised her eyebrows. I looked around. The manager wasn't outside smoking. Monga handed me the keys and we fled salt and grease, feeling like bandits. It was a smooth ride.
After work, she went with me to the DMV (Cecil in the back seat) and signed over the car, then to the insurance place where she again paid to get me started. I drove Monga back to the Wendy's parking lot, walked her and Cecil to the Cadillac.
"Well, I'd better get back. I've got groceries in the trunk," Monga said. She unlocked the car and stood in the open door, clinking her rings.
"Well, thank you, Monga. This is amazing. I don't know what to say."
We both stood there looking at the ground. Cecil got in the car and sat looking straight ahead with hands folded neatly in his lap. I don't remember a hug or I love you. She backed out of her parking spot, her car beeping with an installed beep like semi trucks have for safety reasons when they're in reverse.
I sighed.
As she signaled left, I could hear like I still can now, the tinny Elvis song Love me Tender, installed to play when a blinker was flipped. It wouldn't stop until she was half a block down the road.
"I told you not to buy that Subaru," Monga reprimanded through the phone when I called to tell her my stranded-in-the-desert story. She had, in face, warned me. I didn't listen because the Subaru had headlights that flipped up when you turned them on, and a gear shift that looked right out a spaceship.
I knew better than to not listen to her. Monga took annual jaunts to the Cadillac dealership and paid cash for a brand new crowning emblem to announce her arrivals. She talked the dealers down, down, down and left lifted up. She'd pull in the driveway beaming, her rings and eyes in a contest to out-shimmer each other.
"I talked them down 5,000. They tried to sell me a coupe for a lower price, but I don't want that little hunk of junk. I talked them into this for the price of the coupe." There'd be an allotted pause designed for us to soak up the glory that was Monga's. "Who wants a ride?" she'd ask, jingling her keys. We'd run to the car and fill up the Cadillac, the leather seats squeaking under our denim jeans.
I sighed on the phone with her; I sighed the next morning as I walked twenty blocks in the Palouse wind to Wendy's Restaurant. To distract myself from the cold, I counted my steps and thought about Monga taking me down to the DMV.
She showed me how to register my Subaru and paid to get my insurance started. I told her I'd pay her back. "When you can," she said.
For over a week, I walked more than the average Moscowvite, and floundered for rides.
One afternoon, hot and sweaty from working the grill, I re-tied my apron and approached a customer at the counter, who I'd noticed out of the corner of my eye.
"Can I help you?" I asked without looking up.
"I don't know. Can you?" a familiar voice fired back. Monga.
I looked up, smiled. "What're you doing up here?"
"Some grocery shopping," Monga answered, "When you get a second, come out with me to the parking lot. I wanna show you something."
To be honest, I was a bit annoyed. When I got a second? We'd been swamped all day, and I was the only person covering the front of the store for the next hour, until shift change.
"I'll see what I can do," I said, "Want to sit down? I'll get you a root beer. I need to clean all these table."
"I suppose. But no ice in my root beer. You don't get-"
"-As much pop that way. I know."
I handed her the lukewarm root beer and went around the counter to do tables. Monga followed me around to each one.
"You have to do all this?"
"Yep."
She made her yuck face. "I wouldn't like that."
"I don't like it, Monga. It's my job."
As I scraped gum from the bottom of a table, I remembered Monga telling me she'd once held a job at a candy factory...for one day. She stood there watching chocolates pass her on that belt, and just couldn't do it another second. She said all that circular motion made her sick.
"I'm gonna go see if I can take my break," I told Monga. When I returned without my apron, Monga's eyes lit up. I followed her to the parking lot, where she stopped next to a white Oldsmobile.
"Yes?" I said. She just pointed at the white car. "What?" I said.
"I bought it for you this morning. It's got a brand new engine, new tires and brakes. I drove it up here. Smooooth." She said smooth like she was talking about a tall, handsome cowboy.
I was shocked. "You drove it? Then, how will you get back home?"
"Cecil's here. He's out in the car." He'd been sitting out there by himself this whole time. I looked around. There he was, sitting in the passenger side of Monga's maroon Cadillac. We waved at each other.
"Take it for a drive," Monga said.
"I can't. I'm still on the clock."
"Oh, pooh. Just around the block. They'll never know." Monga raised her eyebrows. I looked around. The manager wasn't outside smoking. Monga handed me the keys and we fled salt and grease, feeling like bandits. It was a smooth ride.
After work, she went with me to the DMV (Cecil in the back seat) and signed over the car, then to the insurance place where she again paid to get me started. I drove Monga back to the Wendy's parking lot, walked her and Cecil to the Cadillac.
"Well, I'd better get back. I've got groceries in the trunk," Monga said. She unlocked the car and stood in the open door, clinking her rings.
"Well, thank you, Monga. This is amazing. I don't know what to say."
We both stood there looking at the ground. Cecil got in the car and sat looking straight ahead with hands folded neatly in his lap. I don't remember a hug or I love you. She backed out of her parking spot, her car beeping with an installed beep like semi trucks have for safety reasons when they're in reverse.
I sighed.
As she signaled left, I could hear like I still can now, the tinny Elvis song Love me Tender, installed to play when a blinker was flipped. It wouldn't stop until she was half a block down the road.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Reiterating Monga
just a mention of her or seeing her
name in print is enough to evoke
a dream with her in it
i wake up, hands clenched (fingernails making crescent moons in my palms) and sweating, but when i
open my eyes all i
see is the dark of 3 in the morning
name in print is enough to evoke
a dream with her in it
i wake up, hands clenched (fingernails making crescent moons in my palms) and sweating, but when i
open my eyes all i
see is the dark of 3 in the morning
Monday, October 10, 2011
Little Pictures Everywhere
There are little pictures everywhere...
A single red wildflower framed by
rocks & dead pine cones
Acres of deep-rooted trees still standing,
ghostly and smoky,
masterfully lit by a sun who hasn't been able to
spotlight much for days: a quilt of dense
clouds has kept all heat to themselves; but
this sun: glows w/a blue backdrop, silhouettes a hawk circling for supper & the waves of mt.tops in the horizon, exaggerates
the stark crystals of new snow on the
summits, & evokes the steam from Burgdendorf
that cleanses my skin and deflects trailing
evidence of the cold I've had for the
last 2 weeks...
The angle at which an old stump juts from the
wild earth
The arc of a clearing
A cacophony of colors created by seasonal change
How moisture glistens on a loved-one's lips that are
smiling beneath the chatter of a chipmunk
Night & day trading shifts
& how Payette Lake apparently feels quite serene about
both sun & moon at once reflecting on its surface
No camera does these little pictures justice
Which is why you must see them first
Know these artistic miracles existed before you ever saw--
they are, for the sake of being
You're being honored--the guest of honor--for a moment,
to Creation
No camera does these little pictures justice;
but if you don't capture them,
even superficially,
you'll forget them...
the same way you do: an electric glance
revelations on forgiveness
or to take your vitamins
You return to the photos
minutes
months
years later
& the intensities aren't right,
but you still sigh when
you see & remember
that there are little pictures everywhere
Little pictures made so small by the vastness of
the Universe
& so vivid for existing in
that eternity...
If those little pictures exist (as they do) everywhere,
can't then we as people
be as rugged, fragile, resistant,
honoring each other...
Can't we, too, be indicative of our Creator,
be, in fact,
little pictures everywhere
of
love?
A single red wildflower framed by
rocks & dead pine cones
Acres of deep-rooted trees still standing,
ghostly and smoky,
masterfully lit by a sun who hasn't been able to
spotlight much for days: a quilt of dense
clouds has kept all heat to themselves; but
this sun: glows w/a blue backdrop, silhouettes a hawk circling for supper & the waves of mt.tops in the horizon, exaggerates
the stark crystals of new snow on the
summits, & evokes the steam from Burgdendorf
that cleanses my skin and deflects trailing
evidence of the cold I've had for the
last 2 weeks...
The angle at which an old stump juts from the
wild earth
The arc of a clearing
A cacophony of colors created by seasonal change
How moisture glistens on a loved-one's lips that are
smiling beneath the chatter of a chipmunk
Night & day trading shifts
& how Payette Lake apparently feels quite serene about
both sun & moon at once reflecting on its surface
No camera does these little pictures justice
Which is why you must see them first
Know these artistic miracles existed before you ever saw--
they are, for the sake of being
You're being honored--the guest of honor--for a moment,
to Creation
No camera does these little pictures justice;
but if you don't capture them,
even superficially,
you'll forget them...
the same way you do: an electric glance
revelations on forgiveness
or to take your vitamins
You return to the photos
minutes
months
years later
& the intensities aren't right,
but you still sigh when
you see & remember
that there are little pictures everywhere
Little pictures made so small by the vastness of
the Universe
& so vivid for existing in
that eternity...
If those little pictures exist (as they do) everywhere,
can't then we as people
be as rugged, fragile, resistant,
honoring each other...
Can't we, too, be indicative of our Creator,
be, in fact,
little pictures everywhere
of
love?
Marking Time
Heel up, ball of foot pressed down
Knees straight ahead, bending slightly
Marking time
Eyes and nose directed by the knees
No looking around, no diagonals
Hold your instrument at ready
Keep that tune in your mind: no cheats
Marking time
There's a cadence you can feel
It rumbles up between your toes
Let this drive you
Marking time
Listen for that whistle: 1 long, 4 short
Then, little by little, with focus and
Deliberate heel-to-toe steps
You'll march
Knees straight ahead, bending slightly
Marking time
Eyes and nose directed by the knees
No looking around, no diagonals
Hold your instrument at ready
Keep that tune in your mind: no cheats
Marking time
There's a cadence you can feel
It rumbles up between your toes
Let this drive you
Marking time
Listen for that whistle: 1 long, 4 short
Then, little by little, with focus and
Deliberate heel-to-toe steps
You'll march
Observant
O scillating fan that
B lows to every corner, over every
S urface: cooling frustration & testing
E ach inch of space for
R oom to breathe, and believing in a
V ision for themselves
A nd I'm this not just for them, but them for each other &
N ot just us for this community, but
T he world for the world
.
B lows to every corner, over every
S urface: cooling frustration & testing
E ach inch of space for
R oom to breathe, and believing in a
V ision for themselves
A nd I'm this not just for them, but them for each other &
N ot just us for this community, but
T he world for the world
.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
A Newer Model
Last night, the television set Monga bought for me almost twenty years ago started to hiccup. It had never before even so much as blinked.
Now it sits patiently by the door, waiting to be tossed into a dumpster, its blank face staring at me.
Technically, it hasn't flat-lined. There's still a little life left in it. When I turn it on, it lights up and shows a picture for about ten seconds. Then, it turns itself off. That's all the energy it has: all the juice it can muster sustains the few seconds it takes to awaken and look at you. Then, it is done.
I remember going to visit Monga at Life Care and wondering what was keeping her alive. No longer able to walk, speak, eat, swallow, she sat in her wheelchair or lay in her bed moaning and drooling. Those moans could almost make me believe she was about to say something. "What?" I'd say anxiously. I'd take her hand in mine and caress it gently. "Monga. Did you say something?" But she'd look at me with a stare I'd only before seen from a wax sculpture, and then close her eyes. I'd sit there with her on the edge of the bed (or in the chair next to hers)holding her hand, staring at the cold, hard linoleum floor. Monga was always afraid of death. Was that what was keeping her alive? She was also very stubborn. Was it that? Was there something more she wanted to say, percolating inside her: that rattle in her breathing the sound of all her hopes and fears bubbling away now? I hated seeing Monga like this: alive but not really living, and thought If I ever get like this, don't let me get like this. Pull the plug.
So, last night, as I could only get the TV to stay on for ten seconds at a time, I did just that. I pulled the plug.
Well, not right away.
First, I tried forcing it to stay on by holding my finger on the Power button, thinking that if I kept it held in, the TV would stay on against its will. Guess what? It clicked off. I told it to come back on about ten times. Flick/Click. Flick/Click. Flick/Click. It's no use. She's gone.
There was still a little life left in it, but it was clearly finished. I pulled the plug while it still had a little dignity. It was still able to awaken and shed a little light on things.
So, as I write this, the TV set Monga bought for me almost twenty years ago has been replaced already by a newer model. It's sleeker, brighter, has more definition. I'm still a little skeptical. Monga's gift was bulky and heavy, but it had a built-in VCR and has entertained me through a lot of illnesses. It had a friendly green light when you turned it on; this new one, even Off, stares at me with one red eye. I'm skeptical. And I feel a little guilty.
I could put it outside so I don't have to look at this symbol of my loss of Monga staring blankly at me by the door (like she did so many times as I left her behind at Life Care). But, it seems rather harsh to punt it that way. She certainly never kicked me to the curb. I'm sick with a cold right now (as I was when I moved into Monga's basement all those years ago) and don't have the energy to take it to the dumpster for its proper departure. Who knows how long it will sit out there! And it's Fall, so it could rain. I don't want Monga's gift to sit for days out in the cold wet of early dying. At least it's warm and dry in here...At Monga's viewing, my 9-year-old niece said Monga was cold and needed a blanket. We all agreed; before she was sealed in the coffin, she was covered with an Elvis blanket...It doesn't seem right that the TV should get such flip treatment as being dropped into a public dumpster with all the soggy pizza, used tissues, and coffee grounds. But, the TV isn't her, after all. However I rid myself of it is not indicative of my love for Monga. At least, that's what I've told myself.
In the meantime, I have a serious chest cold and ear infection. I'd love nothing more than to lay under a pile of blankies and watch a movie. This new television set and I have some serious ground to break...
Now it sits patiently by the door, waiting to be tossed into a dumpster, its blank face staring at me.
Technically, it hasn't flat-lined. There's still a little life left in it. When I turn it on, it lights up and shows a picture for about ten seconds. Then, it turns itself off. That's all the energy it has: all the juice it can muster sustains the few seconds it takes to awaken and look at you. Then, it is done.
I remember going to visit Monga at Life Care and wondering what was keeping her alive. No longer able to walk, speak, eat, swallow, she sat in her wheelchair or lay in her bed moaning and drooling. Those moans could almost make me believe she was about to say something. "What?" I'd say anxiously. I'd take her hand in mine and caress it gently. "Monga. Did you say something?" But she'd look at me with a stare I'd only before seen from a wax sculpture, and then close her eyes. I'd sit there with her on the edge of the bed (or in the chair next to hers)holding her hand, staring at the cold, hard linoleum floor. Monga was always afraid of death. Was that what was keeping her alive? She was also very stubborn. Was it that? Was there something more she wanted to say, percolating inside her: that rattle in her breathing the sound of all her hopes and fears bubbling away now? I hated seeing Monga like this: alive but not really living, and thought If I ever get like this, don't let me get like this. Pull the plug.
So, last night, as I could only get the TV to stay on for ten seconds at a time, I did just that. I pulled the plug.
Well, not right away.
First, I tried forcing it to stay on by holding my finger on the Power button, thinking that if I kept it held in, the TV would stay on against its will. Guess what? It clicked off. I told it to come back on about ten times. Flick/Click. Flick/Click. Flick/Click. It's no use. She's gone.
There was still a little life left in it, but it was clearly finished. I pulled the plug while it still had a little dignity. It was still able to awaken and shed a little light on things.
So, as I write this, the TV set Monga bought for me almost twenty years ago has been replaced already by a newer model. It's sleeker, brighter, has more definition. I'm still a little skeptical. Monga's gift was bulky and heavy, but it had a built-in VCR and has entertained me through a lot of illnesses. It had a friendly green light when you turned it on; this new one, even Off, stares at me with one red eye. I'm skeptical. And I feel a little guilty.
I could put it outside so I don't have to look at this symbol of my loss of Monga staring blankly at me by the door (like she did so many times as I left her behind at Life Care). But, it seems rather harsh to punt it that way. She certainly never kicked me to the curb. I'm sick with a cold right now (as I was when I moved into Monga's basement all those years ago) and don't have the energy to take it to the dumpster for its proper departure. Who knows how long it will sit out there! And it's Fall, so it could rain. I don't want Monga's gift to sit for days out in the cold wet of early dying. At least it's warm and dry in here...At Monga's viewing, my 9-year-old niece said Monga was cold and needed a blanket. We all agreed; before she was sealed in the coffin, she was covered with an Elvis blanket...It doesn't seem right that the TV should get such flip treatment as being dropped into a public dumpster with all the soggy pizza, used tissues, and coffee grounds. But, the TV isn't her, after all. However I rid myself of it is not indicative of my love for Monga. At least, that's what I've told myself.
In the meantime, I have a serious chest cold and ear infection. I'd love nothing more than to lay under a pile of blankies and watch a movie. This new television set and I have some serious ground to break...
Sunday, September 18, 2011
When Nature Develops Your Moment
Our kiss was captured thru the lens of a
water
fall
so it didn't stay
it won't
be printed and framed
or
posted for likes & comments on Facebook;
the connection we
made first with a
squeeze of hands to hips
and then soft meeting of moistened lips
was lit by the moon and
stopped by the shutter of
water
over
rocks
what a waterfall knows of
constancy and crisp, bold movement
it captioned our moment with and
rolled it under ground
developed it with delicate strength and is
sharing it still,
now,
with the cycles of the universe
Without the privacy of rocks and waterfalls
love is vulnerable under
stark parking lot lights and the hardness of
asphalt
where a couple: embracing, slow-stepping a circle
to the rhythm of their kissing
gets a literal flat-handed slap to the side of their faces
by jealousy
where midnight and booze are what
develops their moment and
runs it over with a spiked heel and
"You cunt!" threats and no one does a damn thing but to
watch
I am thankful,
eternally grateful
for
waterfalls
water
fall
so it didn't stay
it won't
be printed and framed
or
posted for likes & comments on Facebook;
the connection we
made first with a
squeeze of hands to hips
and then soft meeting of moistened lips
was lit by the moon and
stopped by the shutter of
water
over
rocks
what a waterfall knows of
constancy and crisp, bold movement
it captioned our moment with and
rolled it under ground
developed it with delicate strength and is
sharing it still,
now,
with the cycles of the universe
Without the privacy of rocks and waterfalls
love is vulnerable under
stark parking lot lights and the hardness of
asphalt
where a couple: embracing, slow-stepping a circle
to the rhythm of their kissing
gets a literal flat-handed slap to the side of their faces
by jealousy
where midnight and booze are what
develops their moment and
runs it over with a spiked heel and
"You cunt!" threats and no one does a damn thing but to
watch
I am thankful,
eternally grateful
for
waterfalls
Monday, September 12, 2011
Trip to Remember
"I went up to Spokane and saw mom the other day," Monga said.
My mom and I looked at each other, then turned and smiled at Monga. We hoped our smiles hid the forgotten fact that Grandma Struck had been dead since 1986.
"Have any of you talked to Jack?"
Mom and I looked at each other, then turned to Monga and shook our heads.
"Hmm. I wonder what he's been up to?" she asked.
"I don't know, mom, " my mom said. I looked down at the floor, sighed.
Jack hadn't been up to much ever since he and his cat were found dead in his car. Monga used to re-hash this horrible scene multiple times a day, unable, ironically, to wrap her mind around the terrible, lonely death of her wild brother. And her brother Bill, who she'd talk about at the dinner table: "He blew his brains out," she'd say, buttering a homemade roll, even him she drove up to visit while sitting in a chair at Life Care...
It was actually nice that she was still going to see them. In a strange way, it softened the stark reality of her being locked up for something unkown eating holes into her brain.
There was an actual trip my mom and I tried to take Monga on.
My mom and I looked at each other, then turned and smiled at Monga. We hoped our smiles hid the forgotten fact that Grandma Struck had been dead since 1986.
"Have any of you talked to Jack?"
Mom and I looked at each other, then turned to Monga and shook our heads.
"Hmm. I wonder what he's been up to?" she asked.
"I don't know, mom, " my mom said. I looked down at the floor, sighed.
Jack hadn't been up to much ever since he and his cat were found dead in his car. Monga used to re-hash this horrible scene multiple times a day, unable, ironically, to wrap her mind around the terrible, lonely death of her wild brother. And her brother Bill, who she'd talk about at the dinner table: "He blew his brains out," she'd say, buttering a homemade roll, even him she drove up to visit while sitting in a chair at Life Care...
It was actually nice that she was still going to see them. In a strange way, it softened the stark reality of her being locked up for something unkown eating holes into her brain.
There was an actual trip my mom and I tried to take Monga on.
It made us sick, in those early weeks, that we had to always leave her at Life Care. I can still hear the decisive gavel-click of the heavy door locking shut behind us. I can still see Monga's desperate, clouding eyes pleading at us through the glass window of that door.
One day, Mom got permission to take Monga to McDonald's for a milkshake. It was about the only thing she'd eat, saying "Yum!" and slurping it into her mouth like a toddler having her first taste of ice cream. So, we went and got her.
She was still able to walk at this time, but she was growing rigid. Sometimes you'd have to touch the back of her knee and say, "Bend this, Monga". You'd tap it a couple of times. Push in gently. "Move this, Monga". And she'd be truckin' again.
This procedure worked fine for walking, but climbing into a Jeep required a lot of complicated physical mechanics. All those body parts with nonsense names: arms, legs, back, neck, hands, feet...I don't know why we didn't ask for help, or why no one offered their assistance.
Anyway...
We got Monga seat-belted into the Jeep and were off and running!
Except, Monga kept playing with the buttons and latch on her door. If my mom hadn't locked the car from her side, Monga would've had the passenger side door open. And she kept pushing the button for the window. Open, close. Open, close. Like a bored kid in the car on a long road trip. A bored, sobbing kid in the car on a long road trip: she cried the entire time.
The ordeal of getting her into the Jeep made us realize there was no way we were going to get her out and back in again. So, we decided to just use the drive-thru. Mom handed Monga a strawberry milkshake.
"What is it?" Monga asked.
"It's a milkshake, mom. You like them," my mom answered.
Monga squeezed the cup, popping off its lid. Strawberry milkshake went all down the front of her. Monga just looked at it--like a toddler who's working on being potty trained who's just had an accident.
"It's okay, mom," my mom said, giving me an exasperated look and wiping up the mess.
I put the lid back on (because Monga was dipping four fingers into her milkshake) and put in the straw. It made that squeaky sound that straws always make.
"Drink it. Like this," I showed her.
"What?" she said, removing the straw.
Strawberry milkshake dripped from the bottom of ther straw onto my arm.
"You're getting it all over. Put the straw back in your cup," I said, re-inserting the straw.
By now, my mom'd given up trying to drive and had parked in the McDonald's parking lot. I showed Monga again how to suck on the straw. She managed a sip.
"Ick," she said.
"You don't like it?" my mom asked, "You used to love strawberry milkshakes. You had two of them yesterday."
"Ick," Monga said.
We drove a sobbing her back to Life Care. Struggled again with the nuisance of limbs and muscles. Walked her back to the Alzheimer's unit, tapping the backs of her knees, escorting her at the elbow.
Learning to walk and forgetting how looked awfully similar.
My mom or I pushed the square button that opened the heavy, militant door. The nurse at the nurse's station greeted us.
"You're back! Did you enjoy your milkshake, Rae?"
"What?" Monga said.
"Did you have a nice trip?"
"Where'd I go?"
"You went to McDonald's. To have a milkshake."
"I did?"
"Was it good?"
"I'd like to have a milkshake. I like milkshakes."
"What's your favorite kind?"
"What?"
"What kind of milkshake do you like?"
"Strawberry," Monga said. Her eyes lit up anticipating the treat.
My mom and I exchanged a look.
It's a Puzzle
Mom and I sat with Monga at a table covered by puzzle pieces. We were trying to organize them by edges and colors. Monga was helping by picking up pieces and putting them in her mouth. Then, she'd spit them onto the table and stare at the soggy cumulus cardboard.
"You don't eat it, Monga," I said.
"It's a puzzle," Mom added, "You used to love doing puzzles".
"I did?" Monga asked. Mom and I nodded.
A few minutes passed. Mom and I sorted puzzle pieces. Monga stared far away, unblinking.
"What's this?" she asked finally.
"It's a puzzle," I answered.
"You used to love doing puzzles," Mom added.
"I did?" Monga asked, putting the puzzle in her mouth.
"You don't eat it, Monga," I said.
"It's a puzzle," Mom added, "You used to love doing puzzles".
"I did?" Monga asked. Mom and I nodded.
A few minutes passed. Mom and I sorted puzzle pieces. Monga stared far away, unblinking.
"What's this?" she asked finally.
"It's a puzzle," I answered.
"You used to love doing puzzles," Mom added.
"I did?" Monga asked, putting the puzzle in her mouth.
Monday, August 29, 2011
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."
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."
Friday, August 19, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
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.
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.
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.
Saturday, August 6, 2011
"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...
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...
Thursday, August 4, 2011
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.
"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.
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.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
zest
zest
a hint of it
flavors a cupcake
so moist it melts in your mouth;
having another
would taint the moment:
w/o that citrus, you'd have 2:
not enough of a good thing
a hint of it
flavors a cupcake
so moist it melts in your mouth;
having another
would taint the moment:
w/o that citrus, you'd have 2:
not enough of a good thing
lemon 2
i bit into a lemon today
and found my reflection...
thick-skinned
scarred
labeled
Lemon : Woman
#4053 : statistic
Chile : Alleyway
shocking
layered
and found my reflection...
thick-skinned
scarred
labeled
Lemon : Woman
#4053 : statistic
Chile : Alleyway
shocking
layered
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Words
3-dimensional: they peek out thru walls
bring out miraculous shapes from (non)ordinary things
solidify the average man as Hero
look lovelier w/age
permit viewers to be honorary guests
paint just enough: there's music in blends & morphemes, in syllables & lines
elate, enrapture just by being made
bring out miraculous shapes from (non)ordinary things
solidify the average man as Hero
look lovelier w/age
permit viewers to be honorary guests
paint just enough: there's music in blends & morphemes, in syllables & lines
elate, enrapture just by being made
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