A Dream Has Power To Poison Sleep

As a child, my parents always tucked me in, read me a story, sang "I See the Moon,” and helped me recite my prayers before retiring to bed. I had to have all of my stuffed animals with me lined up one by one, Kimberly the mouse, Murdoch the kitty, King Kong the monkey, and Susie Katie, the bald baby. The shades had to be drawn so the Boogie Man could not see in my room; a night light on so if he did decide to come I could see him and scream for help. My closet was kept closed so he would be able to enter my room from there; and I would not even knowingly let my legs out of the covers. For if they slipped one little bit he would see them and try to eat me.

As the first memories of one’s life are blurred by age, I assume, because I deem that night as my first vivid memory, that these ceremonial bed habits immediately trailed the dream.

I was three years young, my parents and I were living in a two-story log cabin on the outskirts of Grifton, North Carolina. I’m sure it was a normal night much like any other. I ate my usual mayonnaise sandwich for supper, Mom gave me a bath, Dad and I watched the A-Team, and hit the sack. Nothing special had occurred until the wee hours of the morning.

Lying directly in the middle of my bed enclosed by the Dutch Girl quilt my nana had made me. I opened my eyes only to find that the shade for the window facing my right side had drawn up. I remembered how hard they were to pull down so I disregarded it. I prayed to the man in the moon that the Boogie Man would be harassing some other kid that night and ignore my naked window. Slowly I drifted off to sleep. A few moments pass, I opened my eyes yet again to find the same incident had occurred with the window shade that faced my bed. At this point, I was scared stiff. I was thinking to myself, “There is NO WAY that the Boogie Man is going to be able to ignore not one…but, TWO exposed windows peering directly into my room!” He must have heard me. In the next instant, I saw WITH MY OWN EYES, a tall, dark, and bald figure enter my room from the door. He halted at the foot of my bed and turned to face me. Then, with an uncanny gentleness, he elevated my quilt and scratched my legs with his razor-sharp fingernails never making a sound.

I awoke especially early the next morning anxious to tell my mom about the dream. I remember telling every detail with her crouched down clutching my hands as I stared at her red acrylic fingernails. She simply replied, “It was me.” Even at three years old I was smart. I knew that my mommy loved me and she would never do that, after all, he was bald and she had pouffy blonde hair. I made my mom take the quilt off my bed because it “has monsters in it.” Then, I am sure, is when my nightly ceremony was born.

Several years passed. I was in the fourth grade and we had relocated to Carolina Beach. I was still refusing to sleep under the quilt, and I required the same bedroom agenda—minus a few stories. I was talking with my mother around that time about dreams and I told her about my dream. She was shocked that not only had I remembered every detail, right down to the color of her polish, but after five years my story had not changed. Hers had; of course, she did not come into my room that night. When I questioned her about her response she replied, “What are you supposed to tell a three-year-old? I don’t know who came in your room…some strange monster.”

Suspicions were indeed raised. We have dabbled with the idea of maybe me being abducted (that would explain a lot J or it simply being the figment of a young imaginative mind. Either way, I still refuse to sleep under the quilt, all of the windows have to be covered, and I cannot have my legs knowingly exposed. Who knows next time he could be hungry.

The Furry Possum

Our band had been playing together for a couple of years so we figured we better get out there and see what it was like on the road. I guess “the road” is a little strong. We were only gone for five days and we played two shows, one in Washington, D.C., and one in Pittsburgh. But we thought we were on the verge of changing the world—our music would spark revolutionary ideas, shaking America from its miserable glazed stare. We were fresh red paint. We were brash. We were Minor Threat in ’81; we were Stravinsky’s spring, Sandinistas. As it turned out, we were actually just two crappy bands in one rented Chevy van pulling a trailer full of cracked cymbals and scratchy amps.

The problem with the trip was not that we were ill rehearsed. We knew our songs as well as anyone knew the streets of their hometown - and were just as tired of them. It wasn’t that we didn’t get along. We were all good friends, some better than others, but basically well adjusted people who could give and take appropriately in the cramped conditions. The problem was that we didn’t have anywhere to sleep and we didn’t really have any money for a room.

We got to D.C. an hour late. It was December 30^th and cold. The club was about to cancel the show until we begged them to let us play. So we went on. And then our friends went on. The crowd was stale and smoky. A few zombie-eyed girls and their dirty, skinny boyfriends bought us some drinks. Mike and a few others decided to get drunk and then we left.

Brad had been working in DC on and off, helping a friend remodel town homes. He thought we might be able to stay with him: sleep on the floor, wherever, it didn’t matter. We found ourselves in a fresh neighborhood, houses close together, but sharp and clean—handcrafted iron gates, ivy and BMW's. The van stopped and Brad ran inside telling us to stay put until he gave the signal. We were all excited about the prospect. Stories began to circulate: “This guy has a heated floor in his bathroom.” “Brad said there might be a few extra beds.” “He might let us take showers.” There was no signal. Brad returned with a key and said we couldn’t stay.

“His girlfriend’s over. Let’s go. I think I know where this place is.”

The frozen trees and streetlamps flashed by the windows, each one of us longing for the warmth of the passing bedroom lamps. We all knew where we were headed. Brad said they’d been working on this one for a couple of weeks. “It’s pretty raw.”

The streets began to crack and crumble. Liquor stores were decorated with graffiti. Iron gates turned to sagging chain link fences. People appeared on the sidewalks. Faces followed our van as we made our way around a few corners. “This is it.”

We walked up the steps and Brad opened the door. We all just stood there, looking at each other. Someone finally pushed through, flicking the switch on the wall. The light flashed a few times before it stayed on. Brad was right; the house was raw. It was bare and it smelled like caulk and paint, but it was better than we expected--better than it looked from the outside. A few guys settled into the basement while the others continued drinking in the kitchen. Mike, Ben and I headed upstairs. “Heat rises, right?” Our breath was visible.

We found a little bedroom with a door. The walls were stripped of their paint which lay in piles on the floor. We brushed it aside and unrolled our sleeping bags. Mike is a big man. Not only is he tall, but he is big. He pulled his sleeping bag on and worked the zipper up and around himself, rolling around on the floor, still drunk. Someone turned the light off. Ben snored for a while until someone came in and threw their shoe at him. It was cold and we pulled our sleeping bags up over our heads and slept.

“Oh my god! Oh my god! It was a possum! It was a possum, man!” I opened my eyes and peeled the sleeping bag back. It was morning and Mike was somehow standing straight up in his bag, dancing around the room, yelling. With his legs constricted he was balancing like a circus bear. “What are you talking about?” asked Ben, still completely covered and half asleep. “There was a fucking furry possum that crawled up my arm into my sleeping bag!” Mike was wide awake now, out of his bag and pacing the room. He could not stop saying the word possum. Possum... possum... furry possum...

We left for Pittsburgh as soon as everyone was awake. No running water. No shower. No brushing teeth. As we drove away we discussed the natural habitat of the possum. Did they make their homes in the middle of big cities? There were absolutely no wooded areas anywhere near the house we slept in. Was it possible that a family of possums had infiltrated our nation's capital? Mike refused to admit that his possum-sized friend was a rat.

Distress Signal

The circular saw could cut through elephant bones, but today it just cuts wood. The spinning teeth scream and spit out sawdust as they chew through stacks of pre-marked planks, plywood, two-by-fours, and trusses. Jim operates the silver tool. He’s an ex-marine with a barrel-chest and two barrel-arms, and he knows jackshit about framing houses since today is his third day. But he’s my boss’s best friend, so that makes him more qualified to do the cutting than me, apparently. I never knew working for my dad’s construction company would be so political.

Even though I’m just fourteen, I’ve been on my dad’s sites since I was big enough to hold a box of screws. I’ve seen his workers measure and cut, use the nail guns, snap lines, and set windows, but I still do the dumb labor. Picking up little pieces of rubbish around the jobsite is the only task I have today, just like all the rest of the days this summer, and the summer before that. So much for gaining experience. Empty McDonald’s bags, Mountain Dew bottles, cigarette boxes, broken boards and rusty nails are the tools of my trade. At the end of the day, though, I love to see them in a big pile awaiting gallons of gasoline and one well-placed match. The best part of construction is destruction.

“Josh,” calls my dad, “come here and hold this tape measure.” He’s been designing an attic for a good half-hour, but he’s come to a rough spot he can’t measure alone because the wall is too long. In other words, my expertise as the workplace grunt is needed.

“Ok. I’m coming,” I say.

“Hurry up. My arm’s about to fall off.” He’s dramatic when he gives commands, expecting me to run like an eager rabbit to wherever he is. But I know full well his arm will still be hanging from his shoulder regardless of my pace.

“Quit jacking off and get your butt over here! It’s gonna be dark soon, and I gotta get this shit laid out before we get home.” He says that every night, always trying to make me scramble for nothing. “If I wasn’t your dad, I’d fire your ass right now.” He always says that too.

Eventually, I arrive on the scene of the soon-to-be-built attic and grab the end of the tape measure.

“Ok,” he mutters, “six and quarter, plus three-eighths is—” As his voice trails off, he scribbles down some ugly-looking numbers on a piece of scrap wood. To me they look like characters from a lost language, either alien or pre-historic, or maybe both. I’ll bet Jim the ex-marine knows how to interpret them, since comprehension of the boss’s chicken-scratch, or so I've heard, is a major prerequisite for operating the saw.

After an extended period of head-scratching, my dad looks at his wooden document with confusion and asks, “What were those numbers I just said? Those numbers? Did you hear the numbers I said?”

“Nope. Sorry.” I’m the site’s garbage man, but my memory is twice as good as the boss’s.

“Ahh, shit. I’ll have to re-measure. Here hold the tape again.”

“Wait,” I interrupt, “I think you had six and a quarter, plus three-eighths. I’m pretty sure that’s what you said.” My arm is getting tired and I’m not ready for another round of scribbling.

“Oh yeah. That’s it.” He doodles again, this time a tad more legibly. The numbers are definitely leaning towards pre-historic now.

“You’re welcome, Dad,” I cough.

“What? Welcome for what?”

“Never mind.” He can’t even remember my birthday, so it’d be dumb to think he’d remember the last pivotal ten seconds of his own life, the life in which my adolescent brain remembered his crucial measurements.

“Ok,” he says as he drops the tape into his belt, “I guess I’m all set with you here. Why don’t you go around back and get all the trash and burn it. I think Jim’s got some scraps for you. And don’t get crazy with the fire.”

“Whatever you say, boss.”

As I collect Styrofoam cups stained with coffee and retrieve Jim’s wasteful scraps, I kick up little clouds of red dust. After finding the gas can, I unscrew the nozzle and pour. Yellow liquid-magic soaks the trash and beads onto the ground in tiny rivulets; the rivulets become little puddles, which become flowing streams, which eventually develop into reservoirs of astronomical potential energy. Maybe this match will show the boss how I feel.

Toilet Paper Misery

I can't remember who came up with the idea to vandalize the house, but it seemed like a great one at the time. The neighbor's dog had chewed up our basketball, and retaliation was the only thing on our minds that summer night. After planning our intricate escape route, complete with climbing out a window for excitement's sake, we stood in the backyard trembling. Planning such a feat was the easy part. Actually going through with it on the other hand, now that was the real hurdle. After giving ourselves a pep-talk, we headed out into the night with our minds set on criminal acts.

As we ran through the back yard, the smell of fear and face-paint flooded our nostrils. The grass was wet with dew and our sneakers screamed warnings at us. The night was young and alive with noises that filled our imaginations with fear, and I began to sweat nervously. This was to be my first time breaking the law. High on adrenaline and fear, and carrying our pillowcases full of loot, we made our way into the front yard of the house.

All around us people slept, safely and unknowingly, in their beds. We had control and we felt like kings but the air was startlingly heavy. It was hard to breathe, choking us as our hearts began to beat fast with anticipation. I took a deep breath and stepped forward. The roll of toilet paper in my hand felt like a brick, but up it went as we held our breath, waiting for the collision.

It was eerily quiet as the toilet paper glided through the night sky and landed with a soft thud next to me. Our anxiety fading, we began to throw the toilet paper into the imposing pine trees surrounding us. It began to look beautiful, like a fresh fallen snow in mid-July. Clouds of the soft toilet paper shined in the midnight moon, glowing.

After several intense minutes of toilet papering, my younger sister decided to take things to the next level. She had secretly been carrying a single egg in her pocket. Before I could whisper a protest, I saw the little white bomb glide through the velvet sky and crack violently against a second floor window. A light flew on in one of the upstairs windows.

We were gone in a flash. Like shooting starts in the night sky, we took off down the street. After several minutes, we stopped in the middle of the street, panting and laughing at our narrow escape. Mid chuckle I turned behind me, hands on my knees, and saw a strange figure running towards us. "Weird," I thought. "Why is someone jogging this late at night?"

Before I could open my mouth, I heard the heart-stopping sound of a shotgun being cocked. Like the bullet coming out of the gun, I was off, vaguely aware of knocking my cousin to the ground. As I ran through the yards, I stopped only once, face-planting onto the hard ground courtesy of a croquet set. Bleeding and covered in mud, I broke into our screen door, breaking a finger on the way down. My sister and cousin fell on top of me in a trembling heap. We were safe but shell-shocked. The man had shot at us! We were convinced that we had only narrowly escaped death that night and our pounding hearts were near explosion.

We cried together that night in the basement, with our tears carving trails through the mixture of our leftover face-paint and fresh blood. The next day, between the Sheriff knocking on our door and having to clean up hundreds of pieces of wet toilet paper on the yard, we knew it was the end of our t.p.ing days.

One Afternoon

The living room was my favorite room in the house. Not because we had an amazing TV, or any special feature, but because it had tall ceilings. I was eight years old and was just beginning my long obsession with gymnastics. My older sister Sara and I had recently begun gymnastics classes at a local gym, and our coaches' excitement about our talent only fueled our fire. We decided we could flip faster and higher. We also had a special talent of using any piece of furniture as a beam or vault.

Our other sister Julia was never very athletic and was a little envious of our new hobby. One afternoon, she decided to get in on the fun and let us teach her how to do a back handspring. Since our parents were gone, we quickly converted the living room into a gym, complete with couch cushions as mats.

A half hour later, Julia had worked up the confidence to try a backhandspring on her own and successfully jumped over and backwards until she crashed on her knees. Sara and I high fived and congratulated each other on being the best coaches ever. "C'mon! Do it again!". With our encouragement, she got back up, swung her arms over her head, and flipped to her head. This time there was no high five's as she immediately began crying and screaming. Sara, as she always did, told Julia to "C'mon, quite being a baby. Gymnasts get hurt all the time." Besides, she flipped on cushions, how bad could it be?

She continued her crying while holding her left arm, and I constantly checked the clock to see how much longer till our parents got home. I wouldn't admit it, but I was a little scared. I was proud of myself though, because I knew that we should put ice on her arm, like my coaches put ice on my injuries. I went to the kitchen, but couldn't find an ice bag, so I simply grabbed the ice bin, took it to the living room and expertly instructed her to stick her arm in it.

Three hours later, our parents arrived to the same scene: Sara and I nervously biting our nails, and Julia with her arm still in the ice bin. I was even smart enough to fill it back up with ice as it melted, not allowing her to remove her arm. "It's not broken!" Sara and I insisted to our parents. And of course "We weren't doing gymnastics in the living room! She fell...." went our lame excuses.

We received punishment enough by sitting in the emergency room for four hours as we waited for her to receive her cast. We also had to explain to the doctor why her arm was red, irritated and frozen through. My mom told the story to the coaches at our gym, and I'm pretty sure I saw her cover a laugh. We were then given a stern warning: "Ice should be twenty minutes on, twenty minutes off...and never teach a back handspring until you're a coach!"

My Favorite Thing To Do

Danielle was traveling alone in York, England, looking for interesting people to meet on a balmy summer night. She had gone into a very loud, crowded club, but felt out of place being the only girl without breasts spilling out of her shirt. She ended up leaving that place and asked the bouncer for a better, quieter place. She walked to the other pub and led herself off the drunken streets of late night York into the yellow and red bar. It was really nice inside, but she could tell right away that it was better to be in places like these with friends. The only person she ended up talking to was the bar tender, but he seemed pretty nice. So when he invited her back later, after the bar closes, she agreed. When she came back, she noticed many of his friends were there so she was happy to meet them. She ended up talking to one of the bar tenders friends, Charlie. He was very nice and was easy to talk to. Although, she could tell the bar tender was interested in her as well, she continued to chat with Charlie in hopes of making a real friend, instead of making meaningless small talk. He was really keen on the idea of leading her around York the next day because he knows the area so well, so she agreed.

The next day, both Danielle and Charlie met up in the city square, although Danielle was a little late. Charlie didn’t seem to mind at all, much to Danielle’s surprise and they continued to walk around the city, only stopping to meet Charlie’s friends. Almost all of them were in bands, and Danielle was curious why this was. She eventually found out Charlie is in a band himself, but she decided he didn’t seem like the type. They ended up going on a quite a pub crawl. Charlie was interested in getting to know Danielle. Danielle was interested more in the sights, sounds, and smells of York through the eyes of a native. Far into the evening, Danielle decided Charlie was gentlemanly enough to walk her home. They had a nice chat on the way and he invited her back to York anytime. Although he tried to kiss her, Danielle simply hugged him goodbye and left with nothing but a smile and a wave.

My One and Only Halloween Story

“No,” my father replied simply. “You know we don’t celebrate Halloween.”

I sat on the dryer, watching him casually destroy what was surely my last chance for happiness ever. I had been rooting through the endless laundry baskets in search of a goofy hat or a funky scarf that I could somehow transform into a costume that would impress all of my new friends. I knew tears always helped, so I began to ease each droplet downward, one by one.

“But Dad, I have to go. I’m-- the middle angel,” I lied. “Kate and Ali will hate me. I already promised them.” He was right; we didn’t celebrate Halloween, at least not like most of the general public. The idea of celebrating “the devil’s day,” as my mother always called it, was appalling; so instead, whenever the 31^st of October came around, she would invite over some family friends from church. The kids would spend the evening playing games and devouring bowl after bowl of candy; our parents’ peace offering for not allowing us to participate in the sacred trick-or-treating ritual.

I don’t remember ever begging my parents to let me go. Halloween was always something that I told myself was stupid, maybe even scary. I put it out of my mind. It wasn’t until that year that I had any interest in the supposed holiday.

Somewhere in the mix of pulling me out of the school system I had attended for most of my life with the only friends I had and throwing me into our rival school, a private institution in the wealthy part of town, my mom became rather lenient when it came to me. I think an ounce of her believed all my threats that she was ruining my life and that I would hate her forever for it. She figured, if she let me do what it took to finally fit in at the new school, some of the bitterness I harbored for her would evaporate in my newfound happiness.

“Ariel, I don’t see why we can’t make an exception,” she said slowly. “She’s been through a lot this year.” He didn’t want to budge, but somehow, I got him to. And so, I fell into place as the third, middle and tallest of Charlie’s Angels that year. “You’re definitely Jaclyn Smith,” my mom kept repeating as she made the final adjustments to my all-white ensemble and continued to drench my dark ringlets in hair-spray. My jacket resembled an eighties-favorite, Members Only jacket with an array of crooked, gold puff-painted letters spelling out Charlie’s Angels across my back. My friends and I had decided to go door-to-door in Ali’s neighborhood because all the houses were huge; her dad was a local urologist.

Sitting in the backseat, I was so excited and nervous that I was drenched in sweat as we made our way to the mouth of the cul-de-sac. We stepped out of the maroon suburban and into the cool night, each of us glad that the Angel’s had worn jackets. “Bye girls,” Ali’s mom called after us frantically. “I’ll be back to pick you up, right here, at nine o’clock.” She had one of those motherly voices that told you “I love you so much. Please be careful!” with every word she spoke. The three of us set off down the side-walk as the seven-thirty sun slid down the sky, disappearing behind the Blue Ridge Mountains.

I found that the bigger the house, the larger the candy-bar. After the twelfth house or so, the weight of our pillow-cases started to impede our progress and our already wind-burned cheeks stung like our frozen fingers. Finding a deserted patch of grass, we plopped down and began an anything but thorough investigation of our treats. I, being the fruit-candy lover that I am, eyed the miniature yellow box of JuJy-Fruits and decided that it would be the first real piece of Halloween candy I would ever eat. As I slid my fingernail between the cardboard flaps I could hear my teacher’s voice lovingly reminding each of us to be sure to have a grown-up check our candy before we ate any of it. But, she would understand. This was my first glorious, trick-or-treating earned piece! I tossed the green gummy into my mouth and upon the first meeting of my upper and lower teeth, knew something was horribly wrong.

The small shard of glass was the length of a staple and felt very much like one being projected out of a staple-gun as it dug into the inside of my cheek.

Palpitations of the heart...

A beautiful 17-year-old girl cascading into womanhood much like the reddish brown locks of hair that had fallen ever so gracefully on the black and white button up shirt of her boyfriend, George. Doris seemed safe as they rest their eyes in his '44 Mercury.

She sighed, and seemed to wake from her simulated slumber quicker than he did. She kissed him again. Then she slowly pulled his arm from her shoulder. She took his hand, and his heart dropped when she drew away from his breast. Why did she draw away from him? If something is wrong, why was she still holding his hand?

"I want to go home," she said, as she looked at him in a way that he couldn't possibly comprehend.

He held her hand tighter, and was dazed by her bold statement. She leaned further towards the cracked window and looked at the bank of river where they had parked that night. Then suddenly he said, as if the simple solution stated itself to him:
"We'll get married Doris."

She sat in a silence that only the ripples of the quiet moving river could break.

"We'll go to Myrtle Beach right now, do you want to?"

She pushed away his hand and laid her hands on the brawny muscles of his upper arms. His hair still short, still short from his last military-mandated haircut. It made an almost unheard raking sound as he ran his fingers through his hair, almost in frustration. But as the inner monologue that she had running in her head, got to her, she clung to him passionately, again in a way that he could not understand. But he left it all now, to marriage. The solution would be to just get married. He did love her, and he wanted her. He wanted to be married to her, he wanted to have her to himself, as his own forever. And now he waited for the response that she had already decided upon in her own mind. But there was a time between her response that made an unnamely amount of tension, a pure irritation.

How could they tell her parents that she was pregnant? Being pregnant out of wedlock in 1947 was not something that was to be tolerated.

"George, where will you stay? You don't have any money," said Doris' mother in frustration.

The young man went pale, as he hated to hear these words. He had gone back to Doris' house the next morning, but he didn't need her to tell him that he was poor. George always had been poor. Being tossed around from house to house, as if no one had a place for him in such a big world. But he swallowed what little pride remained, and shown through the moment like the few shiny coins he had in his pocket. His spirit was bright and inalterable. His love for Doris was almost as strong as his will.

"Wherever we can, ma'am," he says with a hopefully reassuring smile.

There was along pause.

"You can stay here son. I know you love her and you have always treated us with respect. You were man enough to come to us. You come work here after you get done on the base to help fill in for what money ya'll need," Doris' father strongly stated from the kitchen table of his small farm house.

He had remained quiet throughout the exchange, since that was his way.

George again went pale, as if his spirit again, had to be contained. Tears filled his eyes as he realized that he could not provide all that he needed for Doris, himself, and their unborn child. He knew that the money that the Army paid him for being a painter was not going to be enough. He had served oversees until he got hurt. He had taken a job on Camp Lejeune to make a living and to continue getting the small amount of benefits that being in the military can provide.

"She's only a child, Eddie ," said Doris' mother as her voice cracked and as tears streamed down her face. "And only a boy of 21. You're neither one old enough to do as you like yet."

George raised his head as a lone tear made its way down the tanned skin of his freshly shaven face.

"What does it matter how old she is, and how old that I am?" he said as he fought back tears. "What's the difference between me now and when I'm thirty. I'll still love her. I still want to marry her. I want her to be with me forever."

Eddie made his way to the couch and took his wife's hand.

"The boy is right mother," he said with a grin. "They love each other."

George and Doris took each other by the hand and stood up. The two of them sensetive to the antagonizing pain that her mother was going through. They felt sorry but they knew what they must do. The blindness of their love for each other broke the hysterical hurt of the situation.

As they sat and talked for some time, they all finally realized that they must leave.

"Daddy," Doris cried from the doorway, and she ran to him sobbing as if her heart were breaking from an immense palpitation of love mixed with fear. She took ahold of him. She held him close. His body was so big and comfortable and she still felt safe with the calloused hands of her father on her back but she knew what she had to do. She knew that she was about to be a woman. About to join in matrimony with the man that she knew would love her for all of her days.

The couple made it to Myrtle Beach and got married. They went through sadness, like when the son that caused them to join in marriage was stillborn. They went through happiness, like when they bore three other children. They grew older in years and their children had children. So here I am. I will tell you that my grandparents never had a lot of money but none of us have ever went without. The happiness, fear and love that made their marriage has carried us all through our years. The two of them are still loving one another, even though time tries to whittle them down, their love will continue to be strong, no matter what comes into their path.

Remembrance

Seventh grade. The Sunday before exams were to start. The night before had been
uneventful my best friend and I playing video games for the better part of the night. However, living just around the corner, he had left shortly after we were done, his parents wanting him home for the next morning. I slept soundly that night, with little interruption. I was hoping to God my parents were going to make breakfast, but that hope was futile. I came downstairs and found my Dad standing by the phone, looking like he had seen a ghost. Today was Mother's Day, so I thought maybe Grandma had said something to him he didn't like.
"Grandpa passed, son."

Like 9/11, that day is etched in my memory forever. My Dad had told me with a straight face, no emotion, like Marines tend to do. Me, on the other hand, my world came crashing down. I was young, in middle school, and ready to start exams the next week. I gave my Dad a great big bear hug, squeezing him as tight as I could as if I could use some of that energy to magically bring back his father. I sobbed like a little girl, not knowing what to feel, think or do, except to sit there with my Dad and cry. The one thing that stuck out in my memory the most was, I couldn't even go to my Grandpa's funeral because of my exams that week.

Monday morning, and I did my normal routine of getting ready for school, this time taking a little bit more time. Most things during that day were a blur, mostly getting on the bus and sitting amongst the stupidly happy students ready for exam week to be over with and start their summer break. My best friend, Clayton, sat next to me, wondering what was wrong. I told him, and he got wide-eyed and tried to be the good friend and offer consoling words. I said thanks but it really didn't help much. I hated doctors and modern medicine, because in my world, they had done little to nothing to help my Grandpa. I never wanted anything to do with hospitals or doctors, and to this day, they still make me uneasy.

One Thanksgiving, three years ago, I remembered visiting Grandpa in the hospital. I was too young to understand everything that was happening to him, but even being restricted to the bed, he moved to hug me as strong as my father did. The warm smile on his face and his inviting smile hid the pain he was suffering. Like my father, he wanted to show strength despite the cancer that was eating his life away as I saw him laying there. I wished I could have understood why this was happening to him, because to me, Grandpa had done nothing to deserve this.

My Grandpa was a great man, a loving father, and a good husband to my Grandma. Although I was very young when he died, his death became a stepping stone to my maturity. My Dad had been there for me the best way he knew how, but I am not one to hold back my emotions. I am vulnerable, human, and mortal, and most of all, I hurt like any other red-blooded human being.

One Hard Winter

The alarm clock screamed like a train whistle. I nearly hit the ceiling at the break in silence. Bolting out of my bed, I tripped and took a header into the carpet. I crawled on my stomach the remaining five feet and finally unplugged the alarm. The memories of the previous night’s escapades came to me in fragmented images of hazy disbelief. “What happened?” I asked myself. I forced myself up off the floor and looked around as if I was just waking in a foreign land. Wandering toward the shower, I stopped in the kitchen and turned the coffee pot on.

I had to get to work on time this morning since I’d been late the past two days. It was six in the morning and that gave me two hours to shower, shave, dress and drive half an hour to work. There wasn’t a force mighty enough to keep me from being on time, not even the many varieties of fine liquors and beers that were still swashing around in my regretful gullet.

It was a quarter to seven when I trudged out the front door. The snow was overwhelming. The air was horridly bitter. My mood was fading to black as I shoveled what seemed to be ten feet of snow off my car. I despised my car, but it was all I could afford at the time. The radio didn’t work so I had a portable radio resting on the passenger seat. The headlights functioned at their own will. To keep the headliner from obstructing the rear window, I had unloaded a clip of heavy duty staples into the ceiling. The cruise control was out of control and I only used it when I was feeling invincible. Amazingly enough, the cigarette lighter still worked. I sat behind the wheel wondering about my life, how friends had strayed, how plans had failed, how dreams had died.

At 720 I finally left the driveway. My mind began to race as I pulled out onto the snow-covered country road. There was no way I was getting to work on time, not with the roads like ice. I punched my steering wheel a couple of times to vent my frustrations. I take pride in the fact that I’ve never been fired from any of the jobs I've worked. I didn’t want to get fired from that one either. I popped a cigarette in my mouth, reached down, and pulled out the ashtray and cigarette lighter unit from beneath the useless radio. Letting loose a line of vulgarity that would have made my truck driver, ex-sailor, father proud, I pushed the cigarette lighter in. As I pushed the lighter in, the entire ashtray unit busted off it’s hinges and sent weeks worth of ash and butts everywhere. A cloud of ash rose from the floor like a volcano. Temporarily blinded, I locked up the brakes and drifted slowly into the nearest snow bank.

I was furious. I rubbed my eyes aggressively and envisioned myself getting out of the car and breaking every window. I was going to walk back to my house and return with a can of gas, a box of matches, and a bag of marshmallows. But I didn’t even get out of the car. When my vision returned, I sat stunned. When I couldn’t hold it in for any longer, I let loose. The laughter was unbearable, uncontrollable, and down right refreshing. I couldn’t breathe. For some reason, I just couldn’t stop laughing. The ashtray unit was swinging just above the floor by a thick wire when suddenly the cigarette lighter popped up in the ready position. My hysterics went on for another twenty minutes. I never made it to work that day. I went home, chuckled over a cup of coffee, and went back to sleep. It was the most relaxing sleep of my life. I don't know exactly what happened to me but something inside me changed. Since that day, anytime I have a flat tire, or when I’m running late for work, or when the hardships of life come at me from all different degrees, I just can’t help but laugh.

Great Aunt Nuh nuh

I love my family. My whole family. Everyone from my two sisters to my mom’s great aunt from my grandfather’s brother's first marriage. At least I think that’s the connection, but to be honest I could care less how she’s related. My cousins are some of my best friends and I can go to my aunts and uncles for anything. We are all so close, which is why I was so excited when my dad told me we were visiting some relatives I had never met that had houses in Nevada and California. Not only did I get to meet some new family members but I would also get to see the west coast. I was so excited that I couldn’t wait to go.

I’m not much for clichés, but this trip taught me the meaning of “there’s one in every family”. My Great Aunt Nuh nuh was the most infuriating person I have ever met. From the moment we met I could tell we wouldn’t get along. After a horrible trip that included an unexpected overnight layover in Detroit, Nuh nuh insisted that we insist demand that the airline to compensate us at that very moment. After spending a good portion of the previous two days traveling, the last thing we wanted to do was stand in an airport line and argue fair compensation with an airline agent. My Great Uncle Bud, who I could tell instantly I would get along with, just stood silently and rolled his eyes.

Eventually, after basically dragging her out of the airport, we got Nuh nuh to calm down. When we got to their house in Reno, my parents and sisters were shown to their beds and I was led to the living room couch. I have no problems with sleeping on couches (in fact I’ve slept in much worse places) but there was a problem I could see approaching fast. My Nuh nuh and Uncle Bud were entering their twilight years and I was entering puberty. I had a hunch that our sleep schedules might not match up exactly. At 5:45 in the morning my theory was confirmed. After a solid two and a half hours of sleep I woke up to coffee being brewed, eggs being scrambled and an argument I couldn’t quite understand through my early morning haze.

When Nuh nuh saw my head peek from out of the sheets, she informed me that I had left the TV on all night. Then she reminded me that she had asked nicely that I turn it off the previous night before she went to bed. That is true, she did ask me politely to turn the TV off. In fact, she asked me nicely about twelve times. Whether I forgot or whether I did it subconsciously out of spite, I don’t know, but the fact is I was wrong for leaving the TV on. And Nuh nuh was up to the task of reminding me numerous times every day for the rest of the vacation.

After three days in Reno, and three days of waking up at 5:45, we packed the van and hit the road for the sunny shores of Carmel, California. The van, completely full with luggage and people, was gassed up and ready to go when Nuh nuh was suddenly struck with a horrible vision, one we could only assume had to do with the famine and death. “THE GARBAGE” she shouted as we pulled out of the driveway. “Don’t worry,” Uncle Bud said calmly, apparently used to these sudden eruptions of terror, “I took it out this morning.” Nuh nuh, with the same freakishly alert expression, replied “No the garbage was only half full, we should bring it to Carmel with us.”

Shock filled the van. Nuh nuh, suddenly an avid environmentalist, pleaded for us to turn around and haul the half filled bag of garbage inside the van for the three hour trip. We let Nuh nuh vent about the effect humans have on the environment for about 30 minutes in silence, never having the intention of going back to get the garbage. When she finished her enviro-rant, my mom changed the topic before any of us could point out that Nuh nuh didn’t care about the environment at all and just didn’t want the four cent garbage bag not to be filled to capacity, which is what everyone was thinking.

I wish I could say that was the worst thing that happened on that trip, but sadly for my family it wasn’t. An hour and a half later two bags, which turned out were not so securely strapped to the roof, flew off and bounced off the pavement and under cars like some horrible pin ball game. When Uncle Bud pulled over to the shoulder, Nuh nuh suggested that my dad didn’t need to go get the luggage, stating that carrying the 20-pound bag would be bad for his back, because we could drive the van in reverse down the median. My mom, the most docile and loving person I have ever met in my life, screamed “DO NOT BACK THIS CAR UP! DO NOT BACK THIS CAR UP! MY CHILDREN ARE IN HERE!” My dad, apparently as startled as I was, threw the side door open and sprinted down the median. All this while Nuh nuh grumbled about how the car accident he was in twenty-six years earlier had injured his back. “He’ll live,” Uncle Bud said flatly, still seemingly unaffected by any of this.

We made it to Carmel without my Dad’s back going out, miraculously, and my family spent the next few days avoiding Nuh nuh at all costs. I put up with a few more comments about leaving the television on and sleeping until the ungodly hour of 11 am. The day of our flight out Nuh nuh suggested we trade our tickets in and stay a few more days. I suggested that we take the earliest flight possible.

I still love my family. There's even a soft spot in my heart for Great Aunt Nuh nuh. I wish her nothing but happiness. Not just any kind of happiness, but the happiness you can only feel after a garbage bag is completely full. I wish her all the happiness in the world, as long as she stays on the West Coast and we never cross paths again.

The Final Battle

Strength, passion, courage, and wisdom; these are the words that best describe my grandfather. Ever since I was a little girl, I looked up to him–and not just because he was 7’1. My brother and I were his world. He'd eagerly scoop us up into his lap and tell us stories, show us old pictures, and teach us about character. We even got to help him in the garden, which was his signature accomplishment. I remember strolling by his side through the rows of dirt, as he picked the vegetables and I proudly held the bucket. I learned more about responsibility and hard work from him than through any job I’ve ever had. Although my grandparents lived in seclusion, he always made our visits interesting and enjoyable.

As I grew older, I realized what this man’s life had involved. He lost his first daughter (my Aunt) to spina bifida when she was only seven years old. He was an 82^nd Airborne paratrooper in World War II and fought in D-Day and the Battle of the Bulge. He has seen best friends die, and missed years of his family life. He was the strongest man I knew. However, these obstacles never altered his spirit; his caring, supportive, sensitive nature always withstood the tough times.

With old age advancing, the tough times began taking over. My grandfather’s health was fading, and it was taking his spirit as well. Although he was still thrilled to see us, I could see the dismay in his eyes. The green cabbage leaves and bright red strawberries which used to fill the rows of his garden slowly turned a rotten brown. He no longer had the energy to do his typical daily activities. This frustrated my grandfather. Ironically I wasn’t too concerned at that point; many of my friends had already lost a grandparent and I felt as if having mine alive and well made them untouchable.

Little did I know just how bad the situation was. It’s as if his health problems produced a chain reaction, like a line of dominos. First physically, then filtering into his emotional and mental state. He didn’t only look different, he acted different. I didn’t see the joy in his eyes, even when he smiled. I didn’t sense emotion in his voice, even when he talked for hours. Something inside me felt uneasy, but I denied this fear and kept telling myself things would change. Maybe he was just having a bad day.

On May 24, 2004 I came home from school just like any other day. I received a phone call from my dad and minutes later he arrived at home. I had that “gut feeling” that something was wrong. Before my dad even opened his mouth, I knew I was about to receive bad news, but nothing could prepare me for what I heard.

“Dada died this morning.”

I had never seen my dad cry before. I just sat there, in shock. The first thing that came to my mind was "What happened?" I knew his health had been failing, but he wasn’t in and out of the hospital.

“How?” I quickly asked.

This felt like the longest ten seconds of my life, until Dad finally pushed the words out of his mouth.

“He shot himself…in the chest.”

From this day on, I was never able to view life the same. Not only did I realize it does not last forever, I also understood that everyone, no matter how strong, has weaknesses. My grandfather was going through things much more severe than health loss. I felt immediate anger, and did for a long time. How could he do that to us? But I realized as times passed, he did what he felt he had to. While he was still alive, he wasn’t truly living.

Although it was a horrible incident, my family is a hundred times closer because of it. Death can occur when you least expect it, and until that day I felt as if my family and I were in a bubble, protected us from harm. Nothing prepared me for this, and I learned nothing ever can. I appreciate every moment I spend with not just my family but people in general. We never really know what others are dealing with in their own lives, sometimes not even our own family members. Life is too precious to assume it is invincible. Time is something we have no control over, and I now value it to the fullest.

Lost

In my family, we have a tradition of getting lost. We always tease each other about our crazy adventures. However, the day that my sister took us to Six Flags was by far the most memorable time I have had. That morning, my older sister woke up and decided to take my siblings and me to Six Flags in Houston, Texas. My family and I had never been to the Six Flags in Texas before so we were exited. All six of us piled into my sister’s car and headed off. The trip took about an hour and a half but we finally arrived. We walked into the theme park and immediately were hit with the screams of terror, aroma of delicious foods, and shops full of little trinkets. We went on every ride imaginable. Several hours later, when our throats were sore from screaming and our sides bruised from being thrown, slammed, and flipped in every direction, we decided to leave.

My siblings and I dragged our weary bodies into the car and got ready for the ride home. My sister, Rosanna, was the one driving and she realized that she forgot to print out the directions on Map Quest for the way home. I assured that we could just reverse the directions and we would be fine. She looked skeptical at first but then we started on our way. About an hour later, the kids are asleep and I was singing along to a song when I noticed a huge roller coaster on my left. I did a double take and then busted out laughing. We had been driving for an hour in a complete circle for we were now passing Six Flags again on our left. Rosanna decided she must have missed our exit, so we shared a good laugh and then continued in the same direction.

Another hour later, we were still driving and came to a dark road. I had no idea where we were but Rosanna thought the way home was on that road so we took it. All of a sudden, Rosanna and I noticed this huge building surrounded with barbed wire fence and security guards everywhere. I thought we should turn around but Rosanna had no idea where to go so we went toward the facility. We drove straight toward the security guard to ask him for directions. When we reached the guard, he gave us a look that made me want to scrunch down in my seat and hide. He barks out, “Ladies, this is a restricted area! What are you doing here?”

Rosanna gave me a sideward glance and then explained that we were utterly and completely lost. The guard informed us that the fastest way was through the facility and gave us directions from there. He wrote us a pass to drive through meanwhile he told us to be more careful when we are lost. A guard then escorted us through the premises to the other side. Rosanna and I sat silently in the car as the guard opened the gate for us. Rosanna smiled and thanked him but she received an intimidating look in return. I figured these guys don’t get our much because their people skills definitely needed some work.

After leaving the restricted area I let out the laugher I had been holding in the entire time. Rosanna, however, did not seem to find the situation as amusing as I did, probably because she was the one driving. Finally, around 1:00 in the morning we arrived at our house. We had been driving for about four hours and the house never looked so welcoming. Everyone went to bed, exhausted. It had been one long day. After all, its not often when one gets to see Six Flags twice in one day and be escorted out of a restricted area. It was quite an adventure that has left me with only one conclusion: Always make sure you print out both sets of directions from Map Quest…the way there and the way back.

Surrounded by Wolves

When I was 12 years old my parents filed for divorce. Unlike what most people think it did not bother me since I was glad they were getting away from each other. Most people act as if divorce is traumatic on a child – it isn’t. From as long as I can remember they had hated each other to the point were later in the marriage they both slept in separate rooms. My dad was a doctor so he had to work very hard to maintain a lifestyle that my mom wanted to live under. She was a painter but didn’t sell anything since she was still going to school and taking care of me and my two brothers. I think dad resented the fact that she did art because according to my brother Ernie he thought she was having an affair with her art instructor. If I were him I would have been suspicious and angry too since it's fishy that a female student would take private lessons at her instructor's home.

Since dad was a Pediatrician he was under a lot of stress having to make rounds in hospitals and having to take care of children and on top of that he hated children intensely. If you have semi-normal parents a divorce can go through fairly smoothly. If you have two parents screaming at each other at home and in public it is hard to get comfortable at home.This of course is disappointing since home is where you are suppose to feel protected. My brother Ernie went through the most since at that time he started hanging with the wrong people, skipping school and failing classes and doing drugs like marijuana, shrooms and acid. It wasn't because of family problems but rather a need to fit in somewhere, somehow.

My brother Tommy is unique in the sense that I don’t think it bothered him much. He is stoic and can go through a lot without it affecting him. He is the strongest of the three of us. I don’t think Ernie opposed the divorce since when he was a teenager dad would tell him he was nothing and a piece of shit. One time they were going to have a fist fight outside but thankfully everyone stopped it. I remember Mom was going to call the police but Tommy stopped and I was just there watching. Everything was spinning and that was really the scariest day of my life. So the divorce was something to look forward to. We grew up with a need to feel masculine and I think that machismo came from our view of our dad. Displaying any sort of emotions was for wimps and was only reserved for my mom.

Mom was very social and sensitive to the world and people around her. I think I was comfortable with my mom because she was so extroverted and I was to myself more. It was hard to get to know my dad since he was always busy reading medical journals and just wanted to avoid everybody. I remember when I was little I just wanted him to talk to me but instead I would watch him in his chair on the porch read his medical journals so diligently. He would do this for hours on end. When they were both separated all they seemed to do was bad mouth each other and want to make the other look like the villain. In the end both ended up looking pretty shitty. Mom got the alimony, dad ended up living in a dingy apartment and lost his family and we became another statistic among the 60% of failed marriages in America. I have learned to never get married and never have kids since somewhere along the way these things will be used as a weapon against me whether it’s through alimony, manipulation or using a kid to resent the other parent.

A Helmet Full of Embarassament

Is there anyone out there that hasn’t been so embarrassed by your family that you didn’t want to admit you were related to them? My parents were normally pretty good with us kids, trying hard not to humiliate us unduly. Occasionally, however, my father would provide an exercise in humility by his actions. It was one of those lessons that has developed into a treasured memory for me.

I spent my teenage years on a beautiful farm in rural Maine. Our community was small and included a cliquish high school that I attended with just over 300 other students. When a school is that small, your image and placement in the teenage food chain means everything. I wasn’t at the top but I had successfully managed to secure an invisible middle position amongst my peers.

One fall evening my father informed me we would be taking my visiting grandparents to the Sandwich Fair. I had often heard of this fair -- a single-day event that had been held in Sandwich, New Hampshire annually for well over one hundred years. New England fairs are wonderful and this one was the king of them all.

From the moment Dad walked out of his room on the day of the fair, I knew I was in trouble. "Um, Dad, is that what you are wearing?"

His typical father response was "What is wrong with what I am wearing?"

Well, nothing, if you call above-the-ankle, green and orange checkered pants in a poly-blend, a golf shirt of unidentifiable fabric and color, black socks and white tennis shoes the perfect outfit.

"Well, Dad, it is just that I like you so much in your Levi's."

That wasn't good enough for him. I suspect he knew I was horrified by his appearance and, knowing his reaction, I realized this set his resolve to wear the hideous outfit. I was doomed; there was no changing his mind. This was a man that my friends knew on sight by his custom suits and silk ties. Today he was leaving the house looking like the village idiot. My only consolation was the fact that Sandwich was three hours from home and I would (hopefully) not run into anyone I knew.

Like any autumn day in New England, it was cool out when we arrived at the fairgrounds. Dad popped the trunk to grab the sweaters and jackets. This was the moment he saw IT! IT was a pith helmet my father had picked up somewhere in his travels. IT was horrendous, the kind of hat you would expect to see Dr. Livingstone wearing in the jungles of Africa – a metal-covered salad bowl enhanced with a dingy canvas exterior and brim. A smile spread across my father's face as a look of terror overtook on mine.

"Oh Dad, no Dad, please, no."

My father's smile spread to my mother and my grandparents. This man was really going to wear that thing! Noticing my further consternation, he pulled up his pants to just below his rib cage, tightened his white faux leather belt and then adopted the stupidest look on his face one could imagine. He walked off in a slanted gait, my family surrounding him as they attempted to contain their laughter. I hung back trying to comfort myself with the thought I would run into no one I knew.

The day proceeded and I relaxed, caught up in the fun of the fair. Late in the afternoon there was a small "pig rodeo" that my grandmother wanted to see. It was a cute little competition and my grandmother was totally enthralled in the event. So much so she didn't notice the fight brewing behind her between two men who were appeared to be a few genes short of normal. Suddenly my grandmother was on the ground underneath the combatants. My father instantly swooped in rescuing her and took control until the police arrived.

The commotion drew a great deal of attention and the crowd swelled quickly. As I ran to my Dad and my grandmother, I looked up to notice a dozen teens, the entire group of cool kids from my school. They were all gawking, checking out what was going on. First they noticed my grandmother, tousled and shaken, then me, and then my father with his chest high checkered pants, black socks, puke mustard shirt and pith helmet. I knew I could die right then because my teenage social life was over forever.

Looking back, as I said, that day is of my most cherished memories. In the end it came down to what was more important, my family or my image. I only slightly hesitated. I stepped next to my grandmother and reached over to my father, removing the cockeyed hat from his head. I placed the hat under my arm and wiped the blood and dirt from Dad’s face. My choice made, we all walked arm in arm to the first aid station.