Saturday Afternoon 1982

I am nine years old and getting ready for a special occasion. I stand in front of the only full length mirror in the house, taking one last look at my clothes. I have chosen my favorite skirt, my only skirt, the pink one with the little flowers on it. My blouse is white with the buttons fastened all the way up to the Peter Pan collar. I brush my hair one final time, admiring the way it hangs all the way down my back, almost reaching my bottom. Having been told that vanity is a sin, I try not to get caught.

My Daddy is getting ready in the kitchen, rinsing out the empty glass milk bottles and placing them into the cardboard container designed to hold four. This is an important step because when you bring your bottles back with you they’re worth 5 cents each, 20 cents total, which was a lot of money when Daddy was a boy.

We go out the side door together. Daddy wears his London Fog trench coat, I, my white cardigan sweater. It is about eight blocks to Senn’s, the drive thru dairy, but we walk instead of taking the car.

Daddy bought his car especially for family vacations and church, which is four blocks away. The car sits patiently in the driveway all week waiting for Sunday morning while Daddy takes the bus to and from work.

The bottles aren’t very heavy when they’re empty. I swing them a little bit while I walk, talking on and on about this and about that to fill in the silence.

To reach Senn’s we have to cross Powell Blvd. which is five lanes wide and always thick with traffic. The corner where we cross offers no crosswalk, but there is an island to stand on in the middle lane. I always envision I am playing a real life version of Frogger when I cross this street.

After managing the five lane obstacle we walk up to the drive thru. My Daddy goes up to the man in the white uniform and tells him his order. I watch carefully as the man removes the four empty bottles and slips four full bottles into the cardboard carrier. Sometimes for a special treat Daddy will get one chocolate milk. Today is not one of those days. The man hands Daddy a white sack, folded twice at the top. Daddy pays, then carefully places the bills returned to him in his wallet, making sure they are in numerical order. The coins go into a little rubber coin holder that always reminds me of a mouth when Daddy squeezes it. I am not curious about the white sack. It will most definitely hold one half gallon of ice cream, chocolate chip mint. That is Daddy’s favorite and the only kind he buys.

My Dad hands me the milk, he carries the sack and off we go. Powell Blvd. is soon upon us again and so the game of trying to get across the street begins. Halfway across at last we pause on the island waiting to make it the rest of the way.

Before I am aware of what is happening, my Dad is crossing without me. I run after him and soon feel my self slipping, falling. A car is screeching to a halt nearby. I am in the street bleeding, little rocks stuck in my knees, face and elbows. I look up to see my Daddy running back toward me as I cry and hold my arms out to him. Standing in front of me now he quickly picks up the milk holder and stops to examine each bottle for cracks as cars honk all around. Satisfied that no damage has been done to the glass bottles he takes my hand and pulls me across the street.

Now I carry the white paper bag, my Dad has the four bottles of milk and the silence swirls around us, whispering of my failure, as the blood runs down my legs, reaching my sandals.

First, a huge thank you to Jane for linking to me yesterday and sending some readers my way. Also, for being so helpful and kind to me via e-mail. I really appreciate it.

Second, this entry might come off as a bitchy rant about the price of my children’s school supplies. It is not. My husband Alex and I budget for back to school supplies and clothes every year so it isn’t a big shock. It is however a bitchy rant of another kind.

Nathan and Polly go back to school on the same day, Sept.6th. I just got their school supply lists, making it difficult for me to shop in advance during the actual sales that go on throughout August, but I did pick up some things I knew they would need, paper, pens, pencils, etc.

When I finally received their lists I was shocked by both of them for different reasons. Polly is staring middle school at a new school; Nathan is starting high school for the first time.

Polly’s list was a full page long, and no, the type wasn’t large. It included all the regular things, in huge quantities i.e. 24 glue sticks. I can’t imagine why she’ll need so many, but I bought them, instructing her to keep some at home.

Some other notable items on her list: a first aid kit, two boxes of Band-Aids, an extension cord, a power strip, a sharp pair of large scissors and four boxes of Kleenex. I am not sure why each child needs their own first aid kit, but maybe when you mix the power strip with the extension cord, 24 glue sticks and a sharp pair of large scissors that equals one first aid kit.

I also fail to comprehend why each child needs 200 band aids. Let’s say there are 30 kids per class, 200 Band-Aids per child, which means they are planning for 6000 cuts and scrapes in a 180 day school year, or approximately 33 per day, per classroom. Also the Kleenex. There are 150 tissues in each box multiplied by four equals 600 tissues per kid. Multiply that number by 30 kids and that means they expect to have 18,000 occasions for the kids to blow their noses in 180 days, or 1000 Kleenex needed per classroom each day. That’s a lot of snot.

Some other notables, a soccer ball or basketball, a native plant ID book, oil paint, water color paint, acrylic paint and 2000 sheets of copy paper for the Xerox machine in the office. Now that one I believe because I know from day one I will be hit with an onslaught of paper that must be read and signed by the next day.

Polly eyed her list, looked at my face to test my reaction, and then said, “Well, I guess I am going to learn a lot at my school.”

If that’s the case, that the quantity of school supplies needed directly reflects the amount of learning by any one child at any given school then Nate’s list is the one I should be worried about. Here it is, in its entirety.

2 pencils

2 pens

Notebook paper

1 pencil pouch

WTF? This is high school? He read his list, rolled his eyes, said the by now obligatory “Whatever” and walked off to worry about more important things, like having the right Adidas.

Several months ago I noticed some mouse shit in the places in my kitchen that don’t get cleaned as often as they should, i.e. under the fridge, underneath the chest freezer, and under the sink. I can’t even begin to express how sickening the thought of having rodents in my house is to me, just let it suffice to say that I am not a vegetarian because I am an animal lover, I can’t stomach the thought of eating a dead animal.

I discussed the various options with Alex and he honestly really didn’t seem to care until I mentioned sprinkling the pellet poison everywhere mice might go. “We can’t do that because the cats might eat a poisoned mouse and die!” When I responded that might be fair payback for the cat barf stains I still can’t get out of the carpets as well as the fact that one of our cats, Hazel, likes nothing more than to pee on our laundry and he gave me the evil eye I knew I’d have to find another way.

I went to the store in search of other alternatives. They had the snap traps, or whatever the hell they’re called, but I envisioned a scream from one of my kids and a trip to the ER with an unfortunately mangled toe or finger. Or one of our cats with their paw caught and the yowling and the 3000 dollar vet bill. I looked at the glue traps, but the thought of waking up in the morning and stumbling to my coffee maker to make coffee only to be greeted by a still alive mouse trying to escape with his little feet stuck on the glue pad, oh no. I almost considered the humane traps, where you catch them and then let them free, but where would I let them out? I thought of my next door neighbor’s front yard, in payback for all of the nights he has awakened me by revving his engine, but there is always someone awake at that house and the momentary glee at releasing rodents in his front yard would no doubt dissipate quickly when Johnny Bad neighbor caught me.

I settled for the Victor Electronic Mouse Trap and bought three of them even though they were around 20 bucks a piece plus the price of batteries. When a mouse is caught a little light flashes and then you dump it (the mouse) in the trash and set it again.

I brought them home and baited them with peanut butter and waited. For a long time I checked every single day to see if the light was flashing, but it never was. A couple of times I thought that maybe there was a mouse in there, dead, and that maybe the batteries were defective or something and so I held my breath in anticipation and opened the things. Nothing.

Of course you all know by now the rest of the story, am I right? I continued to clean the kitchen, diligently wiping down the counters and sweeping the floor. I happily noticed that there were no more mouse droppings anywhere, and so by pooping elsewhere those little fuckers tricked me. I believed they were gone.

This morning, after coffee and before dishes I smelled a funny smell in the kitchen. I thought perhaps one of the kids had placed a dirty dish somewhere stupid that I hadn’t noticed and it had rotted or maybe a banana past its prime was hiding behind my cookbooks. Those of you with kids know that these were real possibilities but alas, nothing.

The whole time I was denying the fact that I recognized the smell. It was eerily similar to that day I’ve tried to forget, the day my Mom sent me under the crawl space of her house to “see what that smell is”, and I found a dead squirrel. I promptly tucked my mouth into my shirt and all bent over like the hunchback from Notre Dame tried to back my way out only to see her standing there blocking the entrance, holding a shovel out to me and smiling. Meany. She knew what the smell was; she was just trying to get me back for the rotten teenage years.

Anyway, back to the kitchen. I held my breath and checked the first two traps, nothing. Third trap, bingo was his name oh! I went into the kitchen drawer looking for rubber gloves, realized my kids had probably used them all up filling them with water and throwing them outside so I wrapped my hands with plastic bags and unlocked the front door so that nothing would slow down the mad dash I planned on making to the outside garbage. Only thing is, when the mouse went plop, I noticed there were some larvae like remains still in the trap, and so I threw the whole thing in the garbage bag, tied a knot in it and ran it outside.

After I had washed my hands, opened all of the windows, sprayed air freshener so that now my kitchen smells like papaya citrus scented dead mouse, my kids emerged from their rooms with sitcom ready perfect timing. They both had a good laugh at my expense because they didn’t have to deal with it!

The frugal woman in me realizes that I just tossed a reusable 20 dollar trap away in addition to four batteries that could have gone in my walkman, my remote, hell even my vibrator, but my squeamish stomach has decided to call it a day.

I can’t explain the why
and the what
of falling in love with you
but I can definitely

describe the moment it
hit me
you turned your head to the side
laughing

I noticed your soul
in your eyes for the first time
it was a sight straight from the heaven
I’d envisioned as a child

I wanted to reach out and
touch you
but I was frozen in
my emotions

I touched you instead
with my words
and you caressed me with yours
hours of talking, you

left me quite breathless
for that was the most
incredible foreplay
I have ever experienced

neither of us moving
trapped in the moment
I leaned in closer to breathe
in your words

I felt you enter me
and rest in that special place
reserved in my heart
so long left vacant and longing

the clock said that seven hours was too long
to have stayed there
I rose and moved toward the door
you got up to open it

always the gentleman
our eyes locked for
a second or an eternity
whichever is longer

the first kiss came later
as I held onto my pillow and
closing the windows to my soul
I began to dream

I am willing to bet that if they would have let Pluto talk instead of Goofy, we would have found this out years ago. Also, on a plus note, all of those out of date textbooks we have in our children’s schools are now more accurate. We only need to find out that the Apollo Landings really were faked and we’ll be on our way. I was flipping through one of my daughter’s textbooks and it said, “Maybe one day man will walk on the moon.” Maybe.

Bring me the severed head of the Tammy of old. The girl of two decades ago, with eyes that saw little on the surface and much of the inner workings of this façade we call life. Bring me the fearless persona that jumped at the chance to travel anywhere, without thought to the panic that now arises without warning.

The pills that I swallowed back then were all nameless, faceless strangers; lifted from some bottle I came across on my way through life. Today I bear the burden of the addiction to a substance that brings the promise of a panic free existence in twenty minutes or less. Save me. Shedding the old drug dealer, I had no idea that I was merely trading him in for a psychiatrist.

I wonder where the old face that I wore went? Rubbed off on my pillow, or washed down the drain?  Even my eyes have been changed, from green to blue, and I see nothing in my reflection that resembles the me that I once knew.

In my youth a thousand lines went up my nose, a million or more bong hits inhaled into my lungs. Searching for some sense of truth and reality, I thought for maybe a year or so that I had found it in ACID, only to have those taken from me in a split second when I wet my pants at a friend’s house while high. And so ended the LSD story.

Why the quest for a meaning to it all? Can’t it all just be, without any answers? I am tired of the long walks with futile destinations. The imagery that I find is lost on the way, as I have never carried a pen with me to catch it all. Why can’t I be among the many whom raise their heads to the day with a smile, and go about their business like sheep lead by a brainless leader? It is true, perhaps, that ignorance is bliss. How could I have ever thought otherwise? Smiles come so easily for other folk. I want to see the you inside of you, and not the painted on face that you apply each morning as you head for the door. Let us all be our naked selves, with flaws and pain and scary thoughts. Each of us is longing for something that we can’t seem to put into words.

Can you find something in a touch from a stranger that you’ve known for years, but never got to know inside, although you tried desperately? Let me just feel the calm of lying in the arms of a loved one without the constant restlessness that has plagued me for so long that I no longer know life without it.

Why must I feel so deeply the pain of the world on my shoulders? Have tears ever flowed from your eyes at the sight of the cover of the newspaper, waiting silently for you in the yellow box, ready for you to feed in your quarters so that you can hear what is going on in the fucking world? I don’ t even know what is going on within me, why should I know what is going on elsewhere? Turn off the news and turn on your lover. Ask the children around you about their dreams and thoughts and feelings. The history lessons that have stuck in my head have come from the elders that once surrounded me. Lessons on how to be true to myself have come from the children that have graced my life with their presence.

Let me sleep, it is my refuge. Let me write, it is my release.

Some people go through their whole lives looking for that special best friend. I was fortunate enough to have been born with her 3 years ahead of me. From my earliest memories I can still hear the story as my sister Maria told it to me. Growing up in my house was rough. I know this from experience. With an alcoholic father and a mother who was forced to spend all of her time trying to keep him calm and happy, there was little time for childhood. I am my mother’s fourth and last child. One son was born, then two girls, so when she became pregnant with me they wanted another boy. My sister was excited about this new baby coming. She got down on her knees and prayed to God, “Please, send me an angel.” My mom was working the graveyard shift while pregnant with me. Her job was to pop sliding glass doors in to frames, one every three seconds. My dad was unemployed at this time, turning down job after job because they weren’t good enough for him, with his college education and all. So he stayed home and looked over the three kids. All stories that I’ve heard seem to suggest that this consisted of locking them outside to fend for themselves, eating dog food and wild berries while my mother slept, oblivious to it all, with a belly full of me. When I was born, my dad brought his three oldest children to the hospital to see their new sister that was supposed to be a brother. Maria tells the story of looking through that glass, seeing me for the first time, with my golden hair and blue eyes, and knowing that god had answered her prayer. Her angel had arrived. My mother went back to work and my sisters cared for me. They tell the tale of learning how to put a diaper on, one little girl four, the other three. My mom recounts riding home on her bicycle as fast as she could during her lunch breaks, her breasts full and leaking of milk. My brother tells me of the crying that wouldn’t stop sometimes, until my dad, screaming in anger at my hunger, would fill a bottle with beer or whiskey and hand it to me. My brother still recalls the horrifying thud of my head hitting the floor after falling from my high chair,drunk.

We moved from that house to Australia, then after 11 months to Washington State. This is where my memories begin. In the deep forest behind the house we ran and played with our St. Bernard, Bruno. We buried the few toys that we had deep in the ground because the next door neighbors would steal them, busting the heads off our dolls and the wheels off of our cars. Maria would mix together butter and sugar for me as we would sit and play afternoon tea with water. When the beatings came she would often take mine as well as hers. Anything to protect her angel.

Always moving, when I was three we ended up in Portland. I remember the first time I entered our new house, eating McDonalds on the living room floor and marveling at the blood red shag carpeting. Maria was off to school then, and I would play in the backyard of the house alone, carefully making mud pies for her that I decorated with flower petals. When she came home from school I would run for her, and she would eat my pies, declaring them the best that she had ever had. I would sit in her lap and she would read my favorite book “Puss in Boots” to me again and again. At night my mom would stick the four of us in the shower together, or bathe us one after another, using the same bath water. Everything always went according to age, so I got the last bath. By this time it would be brown and sometimes I would cry to my mom, “It’s pee mommy, they all peed in the water.” She would say, “it’s only dirt.” I never believed her. I longed for clear water with bubbles and dresses that were mine, not handed down from two sisters with the rips poorly sewn and the stains a glaring reminder of our poverty.

It was at four that I discovered sex. Saturday mornings my mom and dad would lock us outside bright and early. The four of us would play in the tree house, which had a cup and string telephone that went to the garden shed .I remember shouting back and both to each other, then declaring our phones a hit. In my mind it was always raining on these Saturday mornings, and knowing Portland the way that I do now, it probably was. When the rain got particularly heavy, we would all pile in to the shed for cover. I hated being in that shed. It was right next to my parent’s bedroom window, and I could hear the disgusting sounds that they made. I was confused as to how my mom could be beaten bloody one day, and then be in bed with that man with the evil hands the next. It gave me a fucked up view of love, let me tell you. My mother preached at her girls, “Being a housewife is just glorified prostitution.” And her favorite, “Girls, stay away from all men. They each carry a loaded weapon.” That one scared me, I thought every man had a gun, and it was awhile before I understood.

My hair was long now, down my back. Maria would brush it carefully and put it in rollers at night. I remember the soft words that she would whisper to me as she brushed my hair, making me feel beautiful and special. She taught me how to brush my teeth, wear my clothes with the tags in the back, ride a bike, and tie my shoes and jump rope. She showed me the meaning of love, every day. We are now as close as ever, if not closer. We have one of those bonds that transcends time and space. When we are apart we are still together, because she is always with me. I don’t even have to talk and she knows. Sometimes she calls me and we talk for hours and I’ll hear her husband yelling in the background, “What the hell do you have to say that can’t be said in 5 minutes?” We laugh at him, because he will never understand. When we do see one another we pick up right where we left off. She still calls me “her little angel” or “Boo Boo Bear” a nickname she found for me as children watching the Yogi Bear cartoons. “You’re better than the average bear, Boo Boo,” she would say to me in her best Yogi voice. I could tell her now, how my mom gave me life, but she kept me alive. I can’t count the times she stopped me from suicide when I was really at the end. Sometimes when I feel like shit, I remember, “Maria loves me.” Then I can breathe again. I have an angel too.

Over the years I have watched the many different rituals families have for dealing with the dishes after a meal. As a child, when we were little my mother washed the dishes alone. As we got older, my two elder sisters and I would take turns doing the dishes after dinner. I always greeted my mother’s requests with a certain amount of resentment, as my mother never asked my brother, the oldest child, to do any housework. I certainly couldn’t define sexism way back then, but I remember wishing that I too had been born a boy, so that after dinner I could spend my free time as I pleased. When the housework was delegated, my mom would assign rooms to each of us girls. “Monica, clean the living room, Maria, clean the kitchen, Tammy, clean the bathroom, and Matthew, feed the dog,” she would say. Since the rooms rotated among us girls, I assumed that eventually it would be my turn to feed the dog. After weeks of watching my brother dumping dry dog food into a dish and filling up the dog’s water dish only to return to the couch in seconds flat, I asked my mom why he never had to clean. “Because he’s a boy.” was her reply. My brother stuck his tongue out at me.

In 1983 we took the trip of my dreams. My mom and we four kids spent three months in Australia with her family. There were so many things to like, the aunts and uncles and cousins to kiss and cuddle us. The accent so like my mother’s that it made us, “the yanks” as they called us, the different ones for a change. My uncle had a house near the beach, and my grandparents had a tiny little house with a barn and animals. I loved the way that the table was always the center of activity at any given time of day, during meal times, of course, but also after dinner for long sits with tea and cookies, or custard with sliced bananas. Lively card games went on at the table, and hours of conversation. A child approaching one of the many tables we ate at that summer were never shushed and sent away. I can remember being lifted into many a lap as they kissed and cuddled me, passing me around the table so that everyone could have a turn. I have never felt so loved before or since.

Certain differences were apparent from the start. After a meal at my grandmother’s house, she would say, “Time to wash up.” Volunteers would rise and head for the sink. After about a week of this, she looked around the table with her piercing blue eyes and said, “Time to wash up. This week will be boy’s week. Matthew and Lawrence (my uncle who also shared a disdain for the sink duty) it’s your turn.” I almost laughed out loud, I was so happy to see my brother wearing an apron.

One of the things that I have realized in my life is that some of the greatest gifts come during the simple moments we tend to take for granted. With two, or three, or sometimes even four of us in the kitchen (one to wash, one to rinse, one to dry, and one to put away) the conversations were always lively. I have had many a heart to heart talk while doing chores with someone. I miss those times now. Tonight as I eye the dinner dishes with dread, I am longing for a volunteer to rise from the table to join me at the sink, making it more of a moment to be enjoyed than a moment that fills me with dread and loneliness. Perhaps in time while my children stand beside me at the sink, we can laugh and talk about things big and small. Right now they argue over whose day it is to help me at the sink.

At times, I seriously question this world we are living in. And I wonder what I can do to make this world a better place, one free from stories such as these.
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Yesterday was the day my Mom, me, Nate and Polly piled into her car and drove to a small town in Washington to look at a few houses for my Mom. She has a realtor here who is working on the sale of her house, but he is not licensed to work in Washington so we found a nice woman who works and lives there. We ended up looking at three houses with the realtor, the first one being a total fixer, built in 1902. I could see that it had tremendous potential but I also could see that it had no walls, severe dry rot throughout, no flooring or plumbing fixtures, nothing. My Mom, having a soft spot in her heart for old houses in need of rehabilitation absolutely loved it, and the realtor estimated the remodel at $50,000. I was afraid my Mom would make an offer on it, so I pulled her outside alone for a second and pointed out the tarp covering an area on the roof and the fact that the back porch was falling down it was so rotten. “Not $50,000”, I whispered to my Mom, “more like $150,000.”

We just got finished rehabilitating my Mom’s house here, and it took three times the money we thought it would and twice as long. I asked my Mom, “Do you really want to do that again?” I thought she wanted to settle into a lovely little move in ready home. I reminded her that I would not be able to pop in everyday to help her. Also, it was in such a state of disrepair that there was no way she could have lived in it while it was being fixed up. In fact, I am surprised it wasn’t condemned by the city.

My Mom pouted a little bit at me, but I reminded her that this was why she had brought me along, so she wouldn’t do something stupid.

The next home we looked at was nice, three bedrooms, 2 bathrooms, ranch style, open floor plan with an attached garage. It was more to her liking, but it was right across the street from the train tracks and in the time we were there eight trains ran by. The noise inside the house was a huge turn off.

The next house we went to was nice, but seeing how it was across the street from the fairgrounds my Mom decided to skip viewing the interior.

At this point we parted ways with the realtor, who said she would go back to her office and look to see what else was out there. I suggested to my Mom that we have some lunch and then drive around a little bit. With two kids happily full of pizza in the back seat we slowly drove around looking. As we came up one street I saw a cute little white bungalow with a beautiful garden and a metal roof. Before my Mom even saw the sign I said, “There it is.”

My Mom turned to me beaming, “That’s it, that’s my new house.”

I jumped out of the car to get the sheet on it and it was $30,000 under her budget. I called the realtor on my cell and couldn’t get a hold of her so I left a message. Noting that there was no lockbox, time was ticking and at that price we didn’t figure it would last long I called the seller’s agent and told her we were parked outside and ready to make an offer. She drove from a wedding to let us in and it was perfect. All on one level (except for a basement for storage) three bedrooms 1 ½ bathrooms, a large open floor plan and lots of storage. An unusual amount of storage for a house built in the 20s, now that I think about it. We walked around the beautiful garden and my Mom was beaming from ear to ear.

The seller’s realtor told us that the owner was widow who was eager to sell because she was moving to Virginia to be with her sister. The house had a large carport that could easily be converted into a garage and I noticed a counter in there with an electric skillet and a dirty spatula sitting nearby. The realtor saw me looking and said that the seller’s husband hated the smell of the fish she cooked, and so he made her cook it outside. Even though he was dead it looked as if she was still cooking her fish outside and looking at that skillet made me feel sad.

My Mom’s Washington realtor finally called us back and we told her we had found a place on our own and that we wanted to draw up an offer right away. She gave us directions to her office. I thanked the seller’s agent for leaving a wedding! and coming so quickly to show us the house and she just sort of waved it away, saying it was a friend of a friend type of wedding and she wasn’t that worried about it.

My Mom placed an offer at full price, contingent upon an inspection, even though the house is listed “sold as is”. Just a safety net in case there’s anything we didn’t see with our eyes. As we headed back to Portland my Mom was in the happiest mood and I knew that I could see her there in that house, tending to the garden and sipping her tea on the back deck. I know it’s exactly what she wanted but as I started to think about things; the fact that I don’t drive, the fact that no buses or trains stop in that little town, I got a little teary and looked out the window blinking my eyes and hoping that no one would see me. My Mom placed her hand on my arm and assured me that she would still come to visit, and that I would be driving soon. I am not sure about the driving part. I really want to learn but I am afraid.

I know that this is the best thing for her right now. She can relax and enjoy her life, instead of stressing over the remodel of the one she just sold. Oh, and as I was getting out of the car, she looked at me with a twinkle in her eyes and said, “Tammy, thanks for talking me out of making an offer on that first one. It was a mess.”

We both laughed.