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
Sunday, September 18, 2011
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.
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