These Boots

These Boots

I’m not sure how or why the sweetest poodle terrier we named Boots became a member of our family during my Pre-K years but I’m awfully glad she did. She was one of the best friends I’ve ever had. Wherever I was, she was too. If I was watching TV on my bell on the floor, she’d be laying across the back of my legs, if me and my shower cap were in the bathtub, she’d sit on the bath matt and wait for me to finish. She was my shadow. It was my job to feed her. Twice daily we’d walk together to the cupboard, I’d take down the box red and blue box of Gaines Burgers, unwrap the hamburger-like patty and crumble it up into her bowl, all the while she’s looking up at me lovingly and expectantly, tail wagging. I am of the mind that families with young children should have pets. Kids can learn valuable life lessons early on just from having a furry sidekick. They inspire confident feelings and can boost self-esteem. I can tell you, for a kid with a mixed bag of abandonment issues mounting by the second, having Boots to focus on gave me somewhere to put my trust. And, in that, I grew to be compassionate, empathic – that’ll happen when you learn early on what it is to care for a living breathing thing. When I think of her now, those are the things I think of and thank her for. Nerdy but true.

Boots was with me the day I swore I’d never speak to Father Mine again. I planted sunflowers in the back yard, choosing the far-left corner of the fence so they could grow in peace and in direct sunlight as suggested on the seedling packet. Father Mine arrived while I was at Pre-K to mow the endless lawn on our Cow Bay property. He was gone by the time I got home. I grabbed a cookie for myself, slipped Boots an extra Milk Bone treat while my Mother’s back was turned, grabbed my watering can, and we set off to ‘sunflower corner’. When we reached the sweet spot, I stopped dead in my tracks. The young green stems that had sprouted so proudly from the well-tended plot were gone. Leveled. History. An angry spray of tears flew out of my face as I stomped my sneakers toward the house, Boots trotting along beside me. I stood before my Mother, heartbroken, defeated, I threw my hands up dramatically, “What happened to my sunflowers!?” She was drying dishes, her hair rolled up in curlers setting under a favorite kerchief when I accosted her with my plight. Her face fell. She stopped drying the large dinner plate in her hands, the expression on her face read as oh shit, “Your father mowed the lawn earlier, he must have forgotten they were there.” My eyes bulged, “Yeah well, see how fast I forget HIM! I told him to be careful on the phone last night! He promised he would!” I flew to my room and threw myself face first into a pillow and screamed into it. There was Boots, right up beside me like, I know girl, I got your back. At least up to the point where I cried all over her silky fur and then I’m sure, based on her doggy body language, her thoughts were more like, ok slow your roll, they’re just flowers. The after-supper phone call with Father Mine was a quiet one. I still wasn’t in a forgiving mood. He apologized and said he forgot me telling him about the flowers. And, then I got myself in big doggy doo-doo because I barked something brazen that he forgot because he only thinks about himself. Out of the mouths of babes, eh?

Boots was such a fun pup. Both of us garnered endless hours of entertainment from a simple towel. I twirled a towel above her once and she grabbed hold of it and pulled. Kept pulling until I was in a fit of giggles. We quickly graduated to the floor. We’d run off to a long hallway, I’d get down flat on my belly, Boots would grab the other end with her teeth which had to be hard as knockers because she’d pulled all the way down the hall from Way Cooler Big Sister’s bedroom door to my Mother’s. We’d do this until we were both tuckered. Some days it went on for ages and either of us minded. My Mother, on the other hand.

Somewhere along the way, Boots learned how to run around the wide circumference of our front lawn carrying a ball on the tip of her nose. And, the only time she’d perform, was when Father Mine would visit. I remember countless days where he’d stand on the cement walk way in his long tan trench coat, suit, and shiny shoes (his work clothes), I’d be next to him, Boots down below, tale just wagging, waiting for him to drop the ball, “Ready, Boots? Show Daddy how you put the ball on your nose.”  Father Mine would drop the ball. Boots, in her expert way would maneuver her snout between the fresh cut grass and the ball, flick it up in the air, catch it on the end of her wet nose, run the whole way around the lawn, and fast. It was a marvel. She’d return the ball back to Father Mine like a prize and wait for the treat he always had in his coat pocket. We’d show off her circus act any chance we could and joke that she’s really a seal disguised as a dog.

The one thing about Boots, she never left the yard. She’d bark at passers-by, but her paws never left the driveway or fence edge. This one day I was busy drawing a very Salvador Dali-shaped hopscotch in the driveway and Boots started barking at one of the neighborhood bullies driving by on his bike. This bully, with his shaggy hair, furrowed brow, pinched lips, and bad manners, without so much as a thought, flung his gangly leg way from the rusted petal and sideswiped Boots hard in the ribs with his rotten sneaker, “Shut the fuck up, you mangy mutt!” So much venom in his voice. Boots recoiled and squealed in pain and fear. I ran to her and shouted down the road, “Pick on something your own size, ya big dummy!” It so happens that Bookend Brother was visiting that day. He saw everything from the kitchen window and flew out of the side door and down to where me and the dog were, “Who was that!? Where does he live!?” Tell me right now so help me God!” I had no problem coughing up the information. I was so mad I could have spit nails. Bookend Brother bound down the road and disappeared around the curvy bend of the Bay stretch. I sat on the lawn with Boots, consoling and hugging her. She shivered. Bookend Brother was back before I could even blink. He was followed by the bully and his mother who walked him all the way to our yard by his ear. No joke. When she forcibly let go, his ear lobe was blood read unwilling to bend back to its normal shape, “You apologize to these people RIGHT NOW! No son of mine goes around kicking god damn animals …” I’m paraphrasing because she was losing her marbles, so I didn’t catch every ghastly word that came out of her mouth, just bits and pieces. The bully took his grand ol’ time coughing up an apology, but it came. Bookend Brother nodded reproachfully, “I ever hear tell of you bothering this dog again or my baby sister and I’ll snap you like a twig, do you understand me, son?” Bookend Brother’s nostrils flared, the bully shrugged in agreement and he and his mother left. She screamed and kicked at him the whole back around the curvy bend of the Bay stretch.

So, Boots was raped. I woke up early one morning to this God-awful noise coming from the back yard. Like, someone was being murdered. I bolted out of my blankets and peered out the window. And, there she was, my best fur friend, being overpowered by some old lab. To be clear, at my tender age, I had no idea that they were fornicating. I just knew that my dog was in trouble. I ran out of my room, tripped over the hem of my nightdress and wiped out, knees full of carpet burn, all the while yelling for my Mother, “Mommmmmm, something is murdering the dog!!”  I startled her out of a dead sleep. Way Cooler Big Sister emerged from her room too, also started out of a dead sleep, “What’s all the bellaring for!?” I forced them to look out my bedroom window to see. The three of us gawking out into the back yard. I was frustrated that either of them made a move to go save her. I insisted they try. Way Cooler Big Sister shook her head and said, “Those puppies are locked, no getting them apart now until they are done.” I was so confused, “Done what?” My elders exchanged funny looks and my Mother said, “I hope she doesn’t get pregnant.” Ohhhh. Yikes. And, guess what. She did.

Boots gave birth to a single puppy. A soft chocolate brown mass she refused to feed. The newest member of our family, named Brandy after a dearly departed stuffy of mine, looked like a little deformed alien. Boots, immediately after giving birth, hid under the living room chesterfield and stayed there for days. She wouldn’t eat or go pee. Nothing. And, if we so much as thought of putting Brandy near her, she’d growl. A first. She barked some but never growled. At anything. I was terrified the little alien muffin might die. I told my Mother that if she did, I’d bury her where I tried to grow my sunflowers. Luckily that didn’t happen. Brandy, hungrier than a hippo, found sustenance in teeny tiny baby bottles. It was my joy to hold her in my hand and watch her suckle the milk from the bottle. A few days of that and we tried laying her next to Boots’ belly. This time, Boots didn’t resist. They slowly started to bond.

Brandy grew into hyper little thing. Father Mine said she was bonkers because she was the only pup Boots had and her birth was unpleasant. She didn’t like the Gaines Burgers so we bought her something wet from a can, feeding her was also my responsibility. The crazy thing would pretty much have the food swallowed by the time the dish hit the floor. Brandy quickly became my other shadow. She got big and fat and an even deeper chocolate brown with dark blue eyes. She lolled around like a pot-bellied pig. Boots didn’t mind her as much once she grew more independent. Boots was brooding and watchful while Brandy gallivanted without a care in the world.

My world came crumbling down when Boots fell ill. I was sick with worry the day Father Mine took her to the vet for a check-up.  And, he figured since Boots was going, he’d take Brandy too. He came back later that evening with either of my furry friends. He told me Boots needed special care and because the dogs loved each other he sent Boots with a doctor who could provide the care she needed, and Brandy went with her so she wouldn’t be lonely which made since because Boots was her mother. I cried and cried and cried and cried. I still cry sometimes when I recall that vicious hole that tore through my chest to know I’d never see them again.

Years later, at a Sunday dinner at Father Mine’s and Step Mum’s house, the subject of Boots and Brandy came up. It was revealed that he had actually put Boots down because she was gravely ill and sent Brandy off with good friends of his who had a tons of farm land for her to run. I wanted to be mad, like I was about the sunflowers, but I understood. The truth would have hurt me more. The lesson, sometimes the things we don’t know won’t hurt us. And, the people who love us most, no matter our perception, always have our best interests at heart.

***

I would never have been able to do this project without dedicating a few pages to my fur babes. Family is family is family.

In propinquity,

Nic

Sing Blue Silver

Sing Blue Silver

It’s true, Way Cooler Big Sister and I were what the internet folk refer to these days as Duranies. Ask anyone who knew us then and they’ll tell you our bedroom was peppered with posters and glossy magazine pages, just the walls though, I drew the line at the ceiling. I still know all their birthdays; it was that kind of love. Wild Boys always shine.

In the heyday of our fandom, we lived for weekends.  Early Saturday morning, Father Mine would drop by the video store across from the food court in Penhorn Mall and rent us the VHS of Duran Duran’s first eleven videos, swing by and grab McDonalds – the Big Mac combo with chocolate milkshakes and visit us in Cow Bay by noonish. And, by visit I mean, pop in the side door, yell for one or both of us, hand over the goods, peck our cheeks and then was gone again. Way Cooler Big Sister would grab the greasy brown bags and head straight to the living room to get everything going. I always lingered inside the door watching Father Mine pull away. I’d stay put until the taillights disappeared, a little part of my heart with him every single time. Ever grateful for a sighting and his treats, always sad to see him go in such a hurry.

This one Saturday, Way Cooler Big Sister, a creature of habit, was already sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of our space age TV impatiently waiting for me to press play on the VCR, “Hurry up, food’s getting cold!” I hustled, threw a semi-cold fry into my mouth, sat next to her, and performed my McDonald’s ritual – open up the Styrofoam burger container, pour fries into the empty side, stuff one of the six hundred napkins from the brown bag into the neck of my shirt and wipe the condensation off of my milkshake cup. I took too long for her liking, so she reached up and dramatically pressed play, “They’ll be doing a reunion tour by the time you finish fussing with your food.” Once the tape was rolling, we started to chow down. Two seconds into the video, we were half choking in contempt, it was the wrong tape and were wholeheartedly miffed. She looked at me mid-chew and said, “What the hell is this shit!? Don’t tell me he rented the wrong one?” I checked the spine of the VHS case and looked at her wide-eyed, “It says Sing Blue Silver. Maybe they put the wrong tape in the wrong case?” Fortunately, in our ire, we spent an inappropriate amount of time being outraged and arguing about how and why we ended up with the wrong video. It took a few to realize that our swapped tape was a frickin’ goldmine. Father Mine did rent the wrong video but it was worth the flub because what he got for us instead was a brand spanking new documentary of Duran’s 1983/1984 World Tour. We’re talking never-before-seen-by-us performances, candid shenanigans, interviews – insight! Forget schlepping the pickles out of my Big Mac, we were going around the world with Duran Duran.

Needless to say, no one had access to the TV until the video went back to the store. We logged countless ravenous hours, memorizing every line, the details in every scene, every note they played, like it was the last thing we’d ever do. We were, in a word, mesmerized. I mean it wasn’t without some educational merit. We did learn a lot about how music tours work, how important it is to obey backstage riders to include Stolichnaya vodka, things about the FBI, and – what the word contrived means. Contrived: ADJECTIVE – having unnatural or false appearance or quality, artificial, labored. My fellow Duranies reading this will understand, they’ve probably already said it aloud. The best nasally quote of all Nick Rhodes quotes. Ever. Nick, the keyboardist, born June 8^th, 1962, shoulder shimmy wizard of the band in case you’re not familiar and didn’t believe that even to this day, I know their birth dates better than about a third of my own family.

Sing Blue Silver, for us fans, was most quotable. From the opening scene to the bitter end. In that opening scene, the band are sat behind a long table being blinded by flashing cameras and bombarded with questions. A reporter asks Andy Taylor, guitar player (was always my least favorite member but Way Cooler Big Sister dug him), born February 16^th, 1961, when he learned an instrument. Uproarious laughter ensured after his salacious quip. Simon LeBon, singer, born October 27^th, 1958, piped up and said, “I was born with my instrument.” More riotous laugher erupted. I won’t bore you with all the band details, but the best was when it came time for Roger Taylor, drummer, born April 26^th, 1960, to answer. Bashful and at a loss for words, he tries but fails. Simon jumps in and saves the day and says, “Roger needs two hands for his!” And the crowd goes wild. We keeled over with stitches. And, for days and weeks and years to come, those few lines were part of our vernacular. Along with another promo gig the band had with Coca Cola and one of the corporate bigwigs called a very dashing John Taylor, bassist, born June 20^th, 1960, to the podium to speak on behalf of the band. What does he say after all the fine remarks made about the band and the soft drink’s partnership? “I prefer Pepsi myself.” I can’t tell you how many times we uttered that back then, even in recent years. One of us would be having or see something about Coke and come right out with it. Funny how that happens, eh?

The band, in the most quotable scene for us, were preparing for their now famous Francesco Scavullo photoshoot. Simon described the dangers of undressing with press and cameras around, “Cause if you take your trousers off in front of people, they’ll say things like, ‘Simon LeBon wears yellow underwear and they’ll accuse you of having chubby legs and a gut’” When we folded laundry or any other random reason we’d give it up, “Simon LeBon wears yellow underwear.”

Father Mine ended up buying the copy from the video store for us so he didn’t have to keep renting it. It was the right thing to do. It cut down on the time he spent going to the mall, and the gas. It was amazing to have it at our disposal day and night. The only drawback was, since the trips to the video store stopped, we saw Father Mine less and less on weekends. I found myself many a time, like clockwork, going to the side door to wait for him then would remember when he didn’t’ come that he wasn’t. I held on to those weekend days for as long as I could. And, now, I hold on tight to the memories of sitting on the floor with Way Cooler Big Sister, glued to the screen, elbowing each other to make sure we don’t miss the good parts when in fact we were the good parts.

***

Finding the accompanying photo is what prompted this little piece about Kel and I. It all flooded back. And, maybe it isn’t as funny as some of the others I wrote, seeing us in my mind’s eye losing our holy shit because Dad brought down the wrong tape is hilarious. I mean, just look at us. Who do we think we are?! Ahaha! We thought we were the shit. No doubt. We bonded so deeply over our love for the band and learned so much. We discovered fashion and books and art and other music. We found friends we’d otherwise never met. One more Saturday on the floor gnawing a cold Big Mac would be a dream come true.

In propinquity,

Nic

Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo

Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo

The first and only vacation I took out of Nova Scotia with Father Mine and Step Mum was in the spring of 1988. With bulging suitcase in toe (I still have not learned how to pack light), I gleefully bid my gang adieu (except LP who came with me as my plus one), boarded an airplane for the first time in my life, a plane Orlando bound. Disney World or bust. I felt super worldly sitting next to the window, a brand new-to-me pair of sunglasses atop my head (pinched from Rock Star Brother but shush don’t tell him), and a carry-on full of snacks and a fancy bottle of Evian water. I was cool as a cucumber until the plane started to ascend, its nose pointing in a Heavenly direction. I almost choked on the complimentary peanuts I popped in my mouth as we gained speed and rose higher into the air. I was quite certain I was going to have a heart attack and end up in the wrong Magic Kingdom. Once we leveled out amid a mirage of billowing clouds, my stomach returned to its rightful place and my heart slid back into place after almost coming out of my mouth. And, for the next few hours everything was right with the world. Smooth sailing.

Landing in Florida was like something out of a beauteous reverie, even better than the daydreams I’d been conjuring up pre-departure. We left the chill of early spring in Nova Scotia behind for an easy breezy dry delightful heat. So long dampness, my old friend! Upon arrival, the glorious sun was slowly starting to sink into the Orlando horizon painting everything with a buttery haze that shone through the languid palm trees. Anyone who knows me knows I love palms, and, that was the exact moment I fell in love with them. A short stint inside the busy airport to retrieve our baggage, acquire our rental car, and we were on our way to home for the next week. Our hotel reminded me of a larger scale ‘Melrose Place’. And the pool, a curvy blue lagoon lined with uniform white long lazy lawn chairs. It was an intense thrill for a nerdy kid from Cow Bay to be in such exquisite surroundings.

One of our first adventures was Sea World. Father Mine, who refused to ask for directions when he got us lost in the middle of an orange grove, I mean deep in an orange grove. So much so that the farmer dude who flagged us down to politely tell us to get lost, offered to let us pick an orange each to take with us. Father Mine, his pride a little bruised, declined and hightailed it out of there lickety split. Our trip to Sea World really made me miss Way Cooler Big Sister who was back home working. I felt a little guilty seeing whales in person without her even though we found their being in captivity cruel. I won’t lie, while waiting for Shamu’s show to begin, thoughts of the movie ‘Orca’ crossed my mind. You remember it, the gritty film about a callous profiteering fisherman who unwittingly kills the pregnant mate of a clever killer whale. The fisherman then becomes the target of the enraged, grief-stricken creature. It’s ‘Jaws’ meets ‘Moby Dick’. That pivotal scene where the Mama Orca is strung up on the boat and miscarries Baby Orca traumatized me for life. No scene in any horror movie ever disturbed me as much. The sound of the Mama Orca screaming out in pain, the Papa Orca replying with deafening rage, and the sight and plop of Baby Orca on the ship’s deck. I plead with you, do not Google the scene. Nope. Don’t do it. I am happy to report there was no screeching from the pool, nothing put playfulness expert whale acrobatics. It was awe-inspiring. Their size, their smarts, their style.

We got some serious shopping done in the greater Orlando area. I hit the mall hard. I bought myself a bright blue California Raisin tee, peach shorts, Rick Astley’s ‘Wherever You Are’ and Pebbles’ self-titled cassettes, and a new Walkman for the plane ride home. As a side note, who didn’t own the Rick Astley!? And, I only bought the Pebbles tape because I kept missing being able to dub ‘Mercedes Boy’ from the radio. Not that I need to explain myself, I’m not ashamed! Our shopping day is kind of a blur. Step Mum probably bought new fluffy towels and LP bought Lip Smackers and a kitschy Florida tee. Of course, Father Mine was nowhere to be found until we met up for a quick supper and a ride on a riverboat.

Next stop, Walt’s World. Walt Disney. Me and Walt, we share the same birthday, which is also the date Mozart died but I digress.

Disney was, for lack of a better word, magical. In every sense of the word. I got goosebumps when I passed through the entrance to Epcot Center. They were still working on it so we weren’t as thrilled as we could have been had we gone ten years later. I did love the World Pavilions, especially France boasting a replica of the Eiffel Tower. Much like palm trees, I fell head over heals with Paris during my Florida trip. I loved the Haunted Mansion, a New Orleans antebellum manse that was more comical than scary. I particularly enjoyed when the little cart exited the house and if you looked in the mirrored walls alongside of you, it looked as though a ghoul had hitched a ride with us. I stood in the long line for Space Mountain but as soon as it was our turn to hunker down and buckle up in one of the buckets I chickened out. LP shot off into the rollercoaster abyss with a total stranger and when she emerged from the other side her face was a brilliant shade of alien green. She said it went so fast one of her hair combs blew out of the side of her head. Father Mine and Step Mum accompanied us for the Pirates of the Caribbean ride. The tiny vessel chugged along the canal and then did an ungodly drop. Father Mine cursed. And, when it dropped the second time down into the main caves of the attraction, he cursed more, “Is this a god damn roller coaster!? Jesus Christ.” We busted, “Dead men tell no tales, Dad.” He sucked his teeth and shook his head remaining quiet as our little boat floated by a slew of animatronic pirates and pillaging.

One of my favorite days was the day LP and I got to stay behind at the hotel for the day while the parentals went off on their own. We lounged by the pool like two starlets awaiting Oscar noms. I wore my favorite maroon strapless one-piece bathing suit and my John Taylor tee (circa ‘Sing Blue Silver’) over top to hide my back fat while I floated around on a flutter board. While I fluttered, I watched an oh so glamorous fashion show circle around the deluxe oasis. I started to get prune-like so I made my way to our lawn chairs and asked my bud if she could share sunscreen. She happily agreed since she had just bought something new from the vendors’ poolside, so she tossed me the goop she brought from home. I bravely shucked John from my glut and slathered myself head to toe with the silky lotion, got horizontal in my swanky chair, and loafed. Unbeknownst to me, LP shared her lotion that was SPF ZERO while what she bought poolside and coated her own self in was like SPF TWO MILLION. I noticed I was a little pink in the mirror as we got ready for the parentals to come back and pick us up for a dinner outing. I felt a little queasy on the ride over. On the small walk to the non-descript restaurant, Father Mine stopped to say hello to folks he knew. It boggled the mind he could be in a whole other country and still bump into people he knew for a longwinded chin wag. There was a bit of a wait to be seated. I leaned on the wall to hold myself up due to the fact the world was slowly started swirling like a pastel kaleidoscope, voices slurred, my eyes rolled. I attempted to straighten myself up, talk myself back but grabbed hold of Father Mine’s arm instead, startling him. Sun stroke. A bad case. Mad as a Hatter, he drove LP and I back to the hotel, chewing me out for not being more careful in the sun. The more he moaned the deeper the burn sunk into my teenage flesh. That’s when LP confessed and told me the SPF she gave me was sub-zero.  Father Mine was not impressed and scolded me again for not noticing. LP was spared a tongue lashing because she was holding the guest card. Heck, I trusted my bud to not give me sunscreen that would brand me. Father Mine squealed the car tires as he and Step Mum drove off to dinner, “Order room service. Make sure you eat. Get some water and hydrate. We’ll be back later.” Still Mad as a Hatter.

I made the grave mistake of taking a cool shower in a feeble attempt to calm down. It bolded my burn blazing red. From my hair line to the tips of my toes, just on the front side of me, I was covered. It felt like my body was one giant bee sting. My skin was tight and aflame. I laid on my bed in cool pajamas, arms and legs outstretched and I didn’t move until our Cokes and generous plates of stir-fry arrived. There was a knock our door, “Ello, room service.” The young man who wheeled our grub in was a lovely and quick-witted Jamaican. He took one look at me and in his heavy accent said, “O my girl, when you are finished with dat sunburn you’ll be as black as me!” I confess, I wasn’t exactly sure I was supposed to laugh but when he threw his head back in it, I joined in. He took pity on my amateurish Floridian stance and told me if I needed anything, a medic, an aloe plant, to let him know. How embarrassing, eh?

The plane ride home was hell. I was sat between LP and Father Mine. To add insult to injury, he wouldn’t let me have the aisle seat even though it’d be more comfortable for me to rest my crispy limbs. It was the most painful few hours of my life. Father Mine would occasionally nudge my charred flesh with the rough elbow of his sweater and grin when I winced. It may have been the only time in my whole life that I felt any kind of contempt for him. My Mother was waiting for me when I got home. I knew she’d lavish the kind of support and comfort I required. The bends of my arms were bubbled by the time I reached my bed, my bed with cold soft cotton sheets my Mother had rolled down for me to slip into. The blisters were sore and raised, threatening to burst. A one week vacation to Florida turned into two weeks off from school. It took good few days to be able to not hurt and be able to put socks on my feet.

While I recuperated from my burn, LP stopped taking my calls. She hugged me gently due to my third degree burns and thanked us all for a wonderful trip and said she’d call me later. We waited until she was safely inside her apartment building with her Mom. I should mention that before we went on our trip, she moved into the city and started going to another school. She never called. I tried her a bunch of times, but she wouldn’t return any of my calls, even when I left messages with her Mom. It was the strangest thing. I couldn’t understand after all the fun we had singing and dancing at the Country Bear Jamboree, buying Goofy tees, and a stuffed Donald Duck for Way Cooler Big Sister, eating greasy hamburgers and fries, having our picture taken with various Disney characters – I couldn’t understand her silence. That was 1987 and we haven’t spoken since. Not all friendships are meant to last, not even with the awe of the spectacular Magic Kingdom fireworks display overhead. It was a heartbreak as much as it was an excellent adventure.

***

It has always been important to me, even from a young age, to foster positive and healthy relationships – both with my family and friends. Our trip to the US was so much fun and even as an adult I’m perplexed by the gaslighting behavior of my then friend. There were no signs of discord (aside from the sunscreen fiasco but we mostly laughed about it on the drive between the airport and her house). There were no warnings. I was a child with abandonment issues (which I haven’t written much about yet) so the mysterious loss of my friend, the only one who has memories of any of the above, was crushing. I’m a lesson learner. And, from her clear and present rejection, fully realized the only constant in life is change and that her behavior was more of a reflection on her character than on mine. Heavy stuff for a kid, pure gold for an adult to keep in mind.

In propinquity,

Nic

Whiz/Bang

Whiz/Bang

blindsided

by his one-line rebuke

me

who is

always irrepressibly

cheerful

is now reduced to

a character in conflict

watching him drive away

w/o sufficient explanation

the dust kicking up a cloud

under the threadbare tires of 

his clattering camper van

                        whiz/bang

***

I know, I know. Another small poem. I couldn’t help myself!

In propinquity,

Nic

Come Dancing

(Way Cooler Big Sister sandwiched between a Hurshman and Greener)

Come Dancing

It’s fortunate that I didn’t learn the art of making friends from Way Cooler Big Sister, but, I’ll get to that in a minute. When I was nine years old, she was nineteen. This meant she was finally able to enter the bars legally to see Rock Star Brother’s band play. Being legal didn’t prevent her from going before she turned nineteen. In those days, she just grabbed her best bud, a guitar case, and strutted her feathered bangs in alongside Rock Star Brother’s swanky shoulder pads. I envied her more than I can describe. I wanted so badly to go with them. I’d go to sleep and wish when I woke up I was of age, so I could hang with them, like a grown-up instead of just being the lonely pipsqueak who stayed up all hours of the night just to hear all their stories of the exciting nightlife, pulsing somewhere beyond the thick trees of Cow Bay. They’d come home reeking of wine coolers, cigarette smoke, and adventure. The first hint of their returning home, taxi headlights in the drive, the late-night laughter coming up the side steps snapped me wide awake, all the sand from the Sandman rubbed from my innocent eyes, sitting with the bedside lamps on, waiting for them to pour through our shared bedroom door to regale me with tall tales of the evenings events. I hung on their every word, aching to be older, in the circle, somewhere in the center, right where they all were, in the thick, instead of living vicariously.

Way Cooler Big Sister’s lifelong friend and crazy sidekick, Greener, would keep me up until dawn hooting and hollering. It’s a good thing that our bedroom was in the basement, Brother Bear’s old room where his epic stereo and gruff growl once lived, or else they/we’d have had the whole house awake. Greener’s laugh, more a cackle, it boomed and echoed. If my Mother heard it, she didn’t say anything, but then again, when she was down for the count, logs were sawing.

This one night, as told by the Terrible Two, they were ravenous after copious amounts of Ten Penny beers. Way Cooler Big Sister ducked into a pizza joint a stone’s throw from the bar, and bought a full size pizza. She doled out slices of the pie to the band which left two left, one for her, and one for Greener. Greener, sitting on the bench just inside the side door, was busy flapping her lips. She had her hand out for her slice but wasn’t paying attention to Way Cooler Big Sister handing it over. It fell from Way Cooler Big Sister’s hand and landed cheese side down on the greasy van floor. Greener, still deep in conversation, didn’t notice that Way Cooler Big Sister picked it up, wiped off some of the gunk that may or may not have stuck to the greasy goodness, and put it in her hand. Greener, oblivious, none-the-wiser, chowed down. It wasn’t until that night in our basement bedroom, the same one that once housed Brother Bear’s most excellent music collection, after the pizza was partially digested, Way Cooler Big Sister confessed to dropping it on the floor and let her eat it anyway. Greener’s reaction was an ear-splitting, “Ohhhhh my GOD, Kellllly!” Way Cooler Big Sister erupted in gut-busting laughter. That jolted my Mother who pounded her heel on the floor above and bellared for them to settle down. That only made them laugh more. I was in acquitted awe.

Most of their stories, or the ones I remember most vividly, and the ones Way Cooler Big Sister and Greener would often reminisce about, revolved around food. Another similar story came from a night they arrived home late from some bar in the wild. After a night of drinking, dancing, and minor damnation, they were famished. Greener, was chilling with the radio on in our room, sideways from hooch. Way Cooler Big Sister asked me to come up to the kitchen with her to help her make food and carry it downstairs. Obviously, I was agreeable. Anything to be in the fray. I poured them each tall glasses of chocolate milk while put together two fried egg sandwiches. Way Cooler Big Sister, half sideways herself, kept laughing at them in the frying pan, “Look at them, they look like two deep fried tits and big yellow nipples!” I’m sure my face turned ten shades of red. I stood guard until she plunked the rubberish eggs inside fresh white buttered bread, “You carry down the milk and I’ll carry the plates.” I went on ahead slow to steady the frothy milk. She followed behind in a bit more of a hurry and lost her balance a few steps down the two million that led downstairs. In her topsy-turvy state, the plate in her ‘Breakfast in America’ pose, stacked with both sandwiches, teeters. The top one drops to floor, one piece of bread flies and the deep fried tit hit the striped stair carpet. We had a cat and a dog then, so you can imagine what that rubber boob looked like when she picked it up and tossed it back between its bread. She was laughing her fool head off, “I ain’t making another one! Shhh don’t tell Greener!” Better her than me I thought. Poor Greener. We made it downstairs in one piece, me with the sloshing milk, Way Cooler Big Sister with something akin to food. She passed the blasphemous top sandwich to her supposed best friend who was so hungry I’m not even sure she tasted it, in fact, she may have swallowed whole. Once she finished it, Way Cooler Big Sister exploded in a fit of giggles. Greener gave her one of those beady side-eyed ‘whatchoo talkin’ ‘bout Willis’ looks. That made Way Cooler Big Sister laugh harder. What do you want to make a bet my Mother’s heel met the floor above when she revealed the truth, that her fried egg sandwich’s condiment was cat dander? Never a dull moment with those two.

Now, can you see why I’d never take cues from her when it came to the art of friendship? I kid. Despite the fact that they tortured each other on a regular basis, they had each other’s backs. Thick and thin. And boy, for the two of them, there was a lot of thin. In it all, furry food, rip-snorting fights, and everything in between, the friendship lasted a lifetime. That’s something to emulate. I may not feed my friends spoiled wares but I put my heart and soul into caring for them, standing shoulder to shoulder, being a shoulder, shouldering their burdens, and loving the snot out of them. That is what I culled from Way Cooler Big Sister and Greener’s union. Ride or die. Even in death. It rings true.

The day came when it was my turn to carry guitar cases and dance until the sun came up. My turn to venture out beyond the suburbs and taste life. And, Way Cooler Big Sister, while she’d accompany me sometimes, there were many a time she didn’t, and in a reversal of roles, she’d wait up for me to hear the goings on. I made a point of making my own snacks though!

‘Come Dancing’ by The Kinks is one of my all-time favorite songs from back in our video-obsessed youth. Way Cooler Big Sister and I loved the video, and, in many ways, the meaning paralleled our life. The video, set in pre-rock music-halls days, is about how through the passing of time, things and people change, yet, certain things remain the same. We may have grown up and in lean ways, grew apart, but there was always love and music and laughter and friendship. Regardless of the trials, the bond was intact. Until she took her last breath.

***

I sat for a good while this evening writing this small piece of creative non-fiction for my little project, enjoying the memories of my dearly departed sister and a friend she’s had her whole life, who is like my other crazy sister. I’d been thinking of these little stories but couldn’t get the first line out for the life of me. Mom said something in passing and it sparked, so I sat down to write. I was almost finished when I received a message that Greener requires all of our good thoughts and positive vibes tonight into the coming days. It brought tears to my eyes, to think of her and Kelly the way they were when I was young, and know she’s in a delicate way. Maybe the Universe felt it important work tonight?

If you’ve got a spare prayer, please pay it forward to the consumer of furry food. I know she’d appreciate it. With all her heart.

In propinquity,

Nic

Sleep with One Eye Open (A Splice)

Sleep with One Eye Open

I had a small Gaggle of girlfriends in elementary school who stuck throughout much of junior high. Through growing pains, birthday parties, awkward school photos, pimples, perms, cafeteria lunches, crushes, school dances, even the big hair/hammer pants phases. Perhaps we were nerds of epic proportions in our own individual rights, but we were ‘Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants’ cool. The kind of cool like JH who choreographs a dance routine with you to Stacey Q’s ‘Two of Heart’ and then climbs on a stage to perform it while lip-syncing it in front of the whole student body for the talent show. We were all very different, but we stuck together like glue for a short period of time. I mean, because of them, I graduated to that kind of cool. Prior to having friends like them, I was the hermit with the headphones, poking protruding frog bellies in ponds, running through the woods without a care in the world about my hair, about make-up, or boys. And, to be honest, I still don’t think I care about boys. Such as they are.

One Saturday night, many moons ago, the Gaggle got together for a sleepover. Father Mine took me to Chickens (aka Lloyd’s Supermarket) so I could gather treats for my pals and rent a movie from the video store. I arrived at SM’s house with my pillow, a blanket, toothbrush, and pajamas in a big black garbage bag and joined them in her rec-room. I was the last to arrive but was greeted with cheer since I held all the provisions and our evening’s shenanigans. SM’s parents ordered us pizza. We each sat on our makeshift beds with giant pizza wedges flopped on paper plates gabbing about everything and nothing. Those were the things that made sleepovers great. Making your bed on the floor next to your best buds. The camaraderie, the ease. Well, for the most part. I don’t know about them but as a kid with a poop problem, I was also a pre-teen/teen with one too. I prayed to be constipated until my arse got home and met my own toilet seat again.

So yeah, pizza, monkeyshines, girl talk, music, dancing, and then finally it was time to curl up with our movie. When asked what I rented, I knelt up gleefully, produced the clunky black VHS case and said, “Feast your eyes on this! Evil Dead.” Nothing but shrieks and groans from the peanut gallery. CR ceased fishing something stuck in her braces to hide her head under her pillow in protest and let go of a muffled, “Noooooooo!” AS grumbled under her breath that her Mother would kill her if she found out she watched that kind of movie. I had to wait to press play until every one of them emptied their bladders out of fear they’d pee themselves from fright. For a Gaggle of cool gals, they were wusses I thought.

To refresh your memory, ‘Evil Dead’ (now a shagged-out horror trope) was a low-budget wonder of the early 1980s. A group of young people hike to a deep-woods cabin for a weekend getaway where they find an old book, ‘Necronomicon’, whose text reawakens the dead when read aloud. And, guess what, they read it aloud! Inadvertently releasing a flood of evil. If I remember it correctly, the single girl, maybe even the fifth wheel of the group is the one violently pillaged by the insidious trees. When her friends realize she’s three sheets to the evil, they lock her down in the cellar and chain the hatch door. Afterward, horrors abound. And continually, near shits, giggles, and gross-outs permeated the dank rec-room. I traumatized my pals. And, even though I didn’t admit so, I distressed myself. I played like I was unaffected, an Oscar-winning performance no less. Truth be told, it was a near-cauliflower pants incident. To this day, I still have creeped out flashes of the possessed friend railing against the cellar hatch, opening it enough to stab an exposed ankle with a pencil. I didn’t have any use for erasers anytime soon after that sleepover. My stomach pained like the dickens. I was constipated for days after. LP puked so I guess I wasn’t the worst. CR whimpered in her sleep, and SM ended up sleeping in her own bed, safe and sound under the protection of her own covers. It was a little unfair that the rest of us had to toss and turn enduring the stale stench of well-brought up pepperoni pizza and sour cream and onion chips. I was lucky they still loved me the next day. I mean, I think they did. I hope.

Speaking of scary movies, Rock Star Brother brought me to the brink of sheer terror twice in my young life. The first was when he made me watch the 1979 film adaptation of Poe’s ‘The Fall of the House of Usher’. I remember it like it was yesterday. Our living-room was pitch black except for the eerie TV glow and the smolder of dying flames in our fireplace. I was wearing a new nightgown, fleecy white with a frilly collar, laced up in the front with bright red silk. Rock Star Brother and Most Beautiful Girlfriend were snuggled up on the chesterfield. I was sitting, quite literally petrified, in the rocking chair that was not rocking unless you counted my extreme trembling after witnessing Marlene Usher’s crazed white hair. I can’t say what it was about her demented appearance exactly that crippled me with fear. I pretended not to be scared in front of the Royal Couple but when I went to bed, I was sure she was slinking down our hallway, the shadow of her wild hair growing bigger and bigger with each tiptoe. I let out a scream in the dark that sent my Mother running in, “Lord Moses, child! What’s the matter!?” I told her Madeline Usher was in the hallway and was coming to get me. She sighed, “You’re going to curdle my blood into a Jesus clot! My kidneys are too close to my eyes for this!” She told me no more scary movies with Rock Star Brother and scolded him for letting me watch in the first place. I could hear him chuckling all the way in in my room.

Of course, Rock Star Brother was a bit of a rebel and didn’t heed our Mother’s warning. It wasn’t long after that he sat me down with a cold glass of chocolate milk, a bowl of popcorn, pulled the TV in the basement inches away from the downstairs chesterfield and fired up the ‘The Exorcist’. I had no idea what I was getting myself into when I agreed to his suggestion of snacks and a movie. No idea. There, in the darkness of the bottom level of our house, I watched an innocent girl take on a Demon that made her snarl and spit and growl and levitate and stab herself in the bird with a crucifix. I almost cried when she spewed, “Your mother sucks cocks in helllll …” I looked at Rock Star Brother, wide-eyed and mortified, “What the HECK did she say!? Sucks a what!?” I was aghast, scared stiff, certifiably horror-struck; all Rock Star Brother could do was laugh. Looking back now, it is as plain as the nose on my face, his goal was to scare the living hell out of me. Also, I spilled half of my chocolate milk on my housecoat so there’s that. It didn’t help that he had the volume turned alllll the way up. He had rock ‘n’ roll ears even back then and he was just as much of a spring chicken as I was. It might be one of the greatest horror films of all time but even to this day, after ‘Insidious’ and ‘The Strangers’, the possession of Linda Blair and the subsequent exorcism still chills me deep in my bones. As an adult, I’d see it on the TV grid while channel surfing and consider it a defiant act to dare turn it on for the quick fright I knew would come. No one wished more than me, even now, that I could be just as oblivious of her possession as she was in the end.

The power of Christ compels you …

***

Another wee bit for my creative non-fiction project. I really wish I had time each day to sit and write a little bit on it. I guess I do, I just have to make sure I make the time. It's been hard of late, but I should be better, for art's sake. Right? Maybe I'll write tonight before bed instead of reading. Although, reading is helping me sleep now that a small bout of insomnia has set in. 

Until the next installment! 

In propinquity,

Nic

In The Wreckage

In the Wreckage

in

the wreckage

 of poetry

heeding music made

too loud

too lurid

sentences me to ruinous

tumult

***

Been a little obsessed with tiny poems of late. I appreciate their punch, the brevity, and their form. So much fun.

In propinquity,

Nic