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

Girl, You’ll Be a Woman Soon (A Mere Song)

Girl, You’ll Be a Woman Soon (A Mere Song)

Women with small children know full well that no business done in a bathroom is private when there are small children nipping at their heels. This was true for my Mother and sisters with the littlest version of me running around, mirroring everything they did, monkey see-monkey do. At a tender age, four years old to be exact, I knew where things were in the bathroom cupboards and drawers – shaving creams, razors, soaps, toothpaste, band-aids, towels, face cloths, feminine products. I’m sure you see where this is going.

Keep in mind, I liked to be a naked kid. At four, I liked to run around in my underwear and who didn’t at that age!? My parents, who were still together at this time, had company. Usual suspects, likely my uncles and aunts, close family friends, it was a fondue party. A typical scene of jollity in those days, folks eating, drinking, smoking, laughing, and jabbering at an earsplitting decibel (at least for a four-year-old!). In other words, a good rock’ time. In all the fun of cooking bits of meat and vegetables in hot oil on sharp skewers, no one paid much mind to me weaving through a sea of adult knees. And then someone alerted my Mother, pointing in my downward direction, “Houston, we may have a problem.” There I was, amid all the grown-ups, sporting an ungodly waddle. I am sure at first, my Mother, my poor Mother, thought I’d shit my pants in the middle of their festivity. On closer inspection, and much to her dismay, she realized I had a thick wad of maxi-pad in my drawers which caused my awkward toddle. My Mother’s face went red as a beet, “What in God’s name, child!?” Legend has it I looked up and regarded her with pride, “Just like you guys!” My poor Mother.

Way Cooler Sister was there for me when I was a mere tween when I was curious about the birds and the bees. Of course, this was after the unfortunate talking vagina incident via Brother ‘n’ Law’s filthy DVD player. My Mother, who had not known how to broach the subject of womanhood with me, provided a book from which Way Cooler Big Sister could enlighten adequately. She gathered me one afternoon after a few spirited games of tetherball and cracked the cover. She started with the parts, mine and that of the boys. Together, we read through the ins and outs of intercourse, conception, pregnancy, birth, and even sexually transmitted diseases. Eventually, they taught us a bunch of the same stuff in Health class, but it was nowhere near as edifying or as considerate as when Way Cooler Big Sister bestowed the material. I admit, I winced and squirmed from looking at all the diagrams, “Those penis things look kinda weird, don’t they? Like a hot dog with a hood.” Taking the task very seriously, she ignored all my stupid commentary. Even when I almost cried when she showed me a picture of a baby’s head crowning at birth. She maintained that it was all natural and normal. Even dicks. Her word, not mine. I said she was considerate, not subtle. To add to that, she also said there was nothing she showed me I’d ever need to be ashamed of, especially my period.

I was prepared for it. I didn’t expect to get it as early on as I did. But I was prepared. Equipped. As you already know, I knew exactly where the ‘things’ were. In the bathroom cupboard on the middle shelf in the yellow box. She told me, “Whenever the time comes, just take one from the box, stick it on your panties and the pad will catch the blood.” I asked her if it would hurt on account of knowing blood was going to come out of me from down there. She said no. I a million questions. She answered each one with a maternal calm. And because she did, I was ready to meet Aunt Flo. Sort of. 

It turns out getting your period cramps your style. Literally. I was in fifth grade. Our Most Beautiful Teacher handed out a Language Arts test I was certain to ace. It was my strongest subject, obviously. I was sat at my desk, wearing my favorite outfit of the moment, pink almost jeans (almost with a ton of stretch) with my black and white rock ‘n’ roll t-shirt. It was one of those standard tees with rockers such as the Sex Pistols and Ramones depicted in black blobs on white cotton. Probably the coolest piece of clothing I ever owned then and now. A gift from none other than Rock Star Brother. I picked up my pen to begin my test. Yes, you heard correctly, a pen. In fifth grade. My penmanship, along with few select others, was so impeccable, she permitted us to do our work in ink. It was quite an honour. Anyhow, I grabbed my pen and feasted my eyes on the quiz. I wrote my name in curly cute loops up at the top and tucked in. Mid way through the first question the words started to get a little fuzzy and that made me dizzy. I broke out into a cold sweat. My stomach started to swell in a pain that wasn’t familiar. Cramps. Bad ones. But not in my gut. In my groin. I did the best I could to complete all the questions and quickly excused myself to the washroom thinking maybe if I pooped my tummy or whatever was happening to me might stop hurting. And, then I saw it. The inaugural pink hue in my undies. In that panicked moment, I forgot every word Way Cooler Big Sister told me. I forgot about the book and the conversation entirely. As if it never happened. I couldn’t understand why I was bleeding from my bird. I stuffed a giant wad of toilet paper in there and sped to the office to call home. If I was going to die, I wasn’t going to croak at school. No one answered. I called Father Mine at work. He was unavailable. In a meeting. I was a sweaty heap of worry for the rest of the day, bitter I couldn’t get in touch with anyone to come pick me up and take me home to my death bed. I half cried at my desk until the end of day bell rang.

It was the longest bus ride home to Cow Bay. I needed my Mother. I needed a doctor, stat. And then, as the bus cornered its way around the dyke it all came flooding back. All the things Way Cooler Big Sister said. I wasn’t in fact dying, I had gotten my period. Aunt Flo came to town much earlier than I had anticipated. Even though I knew all about her, I still thought I had time. As my Mother says, guess what thought did …

The bus finally arrived at my stop, the last on the route. I hobbled off and home. At that point, in addition to cramps, I also had hunger pangs. The queasiness all day prevented me from eating my lunch. On the walk home I somehow got a small burst of energy and I just started running. I ran into the driveway, up the side stairs, busted through the door, locked myself in the bathroom and disrobed. In a clean pile of folded laundry, I found my pajamas and a clean pair of undergarments and braved the yellow box in the cupboard. I fiddle faddled forever. I knew where they were, but I didn’t know exactly how to use them. I was intimidated. And then, I solved the puzzle. Proudly poured myself out of the bathroom. I found my Mother and Way Cooler Big Sister in the kitchen making supper. Pots were hot, the delicious aroma of roast wafted in the air. And, as if I hadn’t almost had a meltdown in my desk earlier and I wasn’t mad at the universe and everyone in it because no one would answer the phone or come get me, I announced with the utmost confidence, “I started my period!”

I ruined my pink almost jeans. My Mother tried to get the stains out, but it was a lost cause. I also failed my test which should have been a breeze. Most Beautiful Teacher called home to see if everything was okay as it was unlike me to flunk at the arts of language. I am certain my Mother gave her the low down. The kicker of the whole thing though was a few weeks later when Rock Star Brother visited for Sunday dinner (oh, how I miss Sunday dinners!). He and Most Beautiful Girlfriend, who often teased me for articulating big words, arrived with hugs and smiles. And then he said the most horrendous thing to me, “I heard that you’re woooman now.”

I thought I’d die.  

***

It’s difficult for me to write these pieces and not talk about this subject. It’s a rite of passage for every girl. I remember my Kelly relaying all the details of that book like it was yesterday. I remember the way it felt sitting in my classroom feeling like I might fall out of my chair from the pain. My first made me incredibly sick. For years, I’d often miss a day of school if the that time of the month fell on a weekday. I had a terrible time with it. A lot of pain and headaches and exhaustion. Fortunately, I grew out of them and with the aid of the modern miracle that his birth control. It seems strange to be recounting this when I am at an age where my body is facing the opposite end of that spectrum. I’d be a lot more comfortable talking to my big brother about menopause than I was having him congratulate me on becoming a woman. Lord Jesus. I remember that like it was yesterday too. And, I know he didn’t say it outwardly embarrass me but since I looked up to him so much and I knew he knew, I assumed he knew all the gory details.

It’s hard being a kid. A girl.

In propinquity,

Nic

PS – I didn’t have access to my grade 5 school photo at the time of posting so the accompanying one relates more to the first half of the piece than the last.

A-Tisket, A-Tasket (A Snip-It)

A-Tisket, A-Tasket (A Snip-It)

To my Mother’s absolute dismay, I rather enjoyed being a naked kid. Not butt naked, I did have a little bit of humility. I just liked to run topless when out in the wild. And, by out in the wild I mean running around our massive yard with my flat-as-pancakes boobies on display for all the squirrels and blue jays to see. She’d shake her kerchiefed head whenever I’d zoom past her out the side door. I saw my brothers do it and my next-door boy best friend baring their chests so why couldn’t I? I refused to listen to the simple reason that I shouldn’t, therefore I did. I think she gave up arguing with me and let me go since there was no one to really bother us that far into the sticks in those days. There are countless snapshots of me in the family albums bare-breasted. Having said that, it’s important to note this little quirk pre-dates my raging body image problems that I carried with me into adulthood. I’m talking the age five and under. I was free as a bird. It came to bite my Mother in the arse.

The day we got our enormous driveway paved was just as exciting as the day we got cable. I envisioned myself then with a brand-new bicycle to drive, with a fancy banana seat, handlebar tassels, and a jingly bell (all before discovering the sleek reality of a BMX courtesy of my next-door boy best friend). That day though, I was still running around on a tricycle that I was fast growing out of. I sat in the living room bay window on the lookout of the workers. Around nine in the morning, I watched a decrepit truck, full of gear, with an able crew of dark-skinned men, some much older than the others, pull into our driveway and announced happily, “The pavers are here! The pavers are here!” I ran to the side door and hung out while my Mother greeted the hard-working company trying to shove me inside and out of the way. They spoke for a few minutes. My Mother told them if they needed anything to let her now and they got down to business, the business of paving our gargantuan driveway where my future bicycle would glide. My Mother looked at me and said, “You stay in the house and leave those men alone. You can watch them out the front window but stay inside and out of their way, do you hear me?” I nodded dutifully. I watched them for the longest time from the kitchen window until my Mother booted me off the cupboard so she could get some housework done. I moved onto the front step where nearly no one ever went but it obstructed my view of their diligent albeit stinky work. The smell of the asphalt made me a little queasy, but I wanted nothing more than to be right out there in the thick of things. Pretty soon my Mother found things for me to do and I almost forgot about our friends turning our gravel driveway into a smooth mall parking lot. Almost. They went quiet. And, at the same time, my Mother was AWOL. And by AWOL, I mean she probably went for a pee or was quickly unfurling her curlers on instinct that I might get up to no good. If that were the case, her gut didn’t lie.

I escaped Alcatraz out the side door and went to make friends. My Mother offered them something cold to drink earlier. They politely declined but she left it in the fridge incase they changed their minds.  Artfully, while not under the watchful eye of the Warden, I lugged the hefty pitcher of juice (probably Tang that belonged to Brother ‘n’ Law – he was addicted to the stuff) filled to the brim with ice-cubes to be hospitable. It was the well-mannered thing to do after all. And, if my parents taught me anything at that point, it was that manners mattered.

My Mother came looking for me shortly thereafter. She found me sitting on the hill in the front yard under the willowy arms of our shady front yard tree with my new pals, scarfing down Kentucky Fried Chicken. When I went out to see if they were thirsty, they accepted. In exchange, they offered to share their lunch with me. There I was, my two long dirt brown pigtails and red shorts, sitting with Ernie and Earl, gnawing on a drumstick like it was no big thing. I told them the very same hill we were sitting on was the one my Rock Star brother used to teach me how to ride a two-wheeler. He didn’t so much teach me as gave me a swift shove and hoped for the best. His intentions were good I suppose. It was also the hill that not long ago bore a giant hole. Something to do with our well. My cousin and I were outside playing while our parents visited. Her older brother was in toe too. He was being a bit of a jerk. My cousin, his sister, same age as me, hauled off and shoved him down in the hole. It was the only time I ever saw him cry. We rolled around in the grass laughing.

My Mother came around and saw me, I beamed up at her, raised the greasy chicken bones in my slick hand, “We’re having lunch! And I brought them juice!” My new friends didn’t know what to do or think. My Mother told me it was time to come in thanked Ernie and Earl for sharing with me. It should be noted that both Ernie and Earl gave my Mother a knowing nod. They were simply minding their own business, taking a break from the grueling heat and work to nourish and cool themselves not expecting to be confronted with a shirtless five-year-old eager to ask them a million and one questions about how exactly pavement was made. I can’t recall what they said but they did a heck of a lot of awkward chuckling. Their regret was implied. I feel bad about it now since I’m sure it wasn’t exactly comfortable for a few grown men to have taken a long overdue break from paving to enjoy a bucket of chicken only to have a five-year-old shirtless kid, a stranger kid, crash their party.

My Mother gave me a bit of a what for, a gentle talking to so as not to alarm me but on the inside she was fainthearted.  She reminded me that it would be better if when we had people by to work on the house or yard, strangers, it would be preferable to wear a shirt. I’m sure in that moment she wanted to send me outside to play in a one-piece snowsuit.

And, thank the ever-loving Jesus Nan wasn’t visiting us on that day.

Father Mine would have had a stroke.

In the end, we were left with a spectacular paved driveway and a funny story to tell all these years later.

***

I was pooped last night when I went to bed. I haven’t been feeling well the last few days. A summer cold grabbed me late Saturday night and put me out of commission all day Sunday. I missed the bulk of Father’s Day aside from my annual post to Dad in Heaven and the other awesome Dads I know. I was out of order. Kaput. Yesterday, my ears were still drumming, head still pounding, throat still burning. There were a few moments I thought I might fall over in my chair but I made it through and am feeling better today aside from tiredness from being kept awake by a wash of memories flooding over me.

This piece is only small, but the day is vivid in my mind. Those wonderful guys came from Preston with their tools and equipment and turned our drab driveway into a dream come true. I tried everything I could to dodge my Mother so I could go outside and watch them work. Or, better yet, converse. Ever the observer, I needed to know about every paving detail. That and my stellar manners are what landed me on that hill with those two poor fellows who were probably crawling out of their skin, sitting with a very pale shirtless five-year-old girl. Nevertheless, they felt to me, as if I’d know them forever, trading crispy KFC for ice cold Tang. I understand the optics. From all sides. But this image of me, inserting myself like I did, leaves levity in my heart. I was fond of Ernie and Earl. I was interested in what they were doing. The same would be true today.

In propinquity,

Nic

Bookends

Bookends

My eldest brother, who I affectionately refer to as my bookend, for as long as I could remember, had long hippy dark hair and a thick bushy beard to match. The smiley squint of his warm eyes and the redness of his round nose figured prominently among the mop. Our noses could have been twins except mine has a pronounced upward turn at the tip which gives me a cartoonish side profile. My Mother, as well as the Sisters who taught me at Pre-K those two years were always after me to stop swiping my nose upwards whenever I’d get the sniffles or had a cold. Sister Sophie would scold me, “If you continue to swipe your nose like that, you’re going to drown in a rainstorm, child!” I haven’t drowned yet, but I do hate my nose. I should have listened.

Bookend Brother had a lovely girl to compliment his husky face. A sinewy figure with straight as a board brown hair, chocolaty eyes, and a brazen laugh. When they wed, I was their flower girl. The family photos are a hoot. I stuck out like a sore thumb in front with the rest of my family towering over me in my furry snow-white headband and a too-long dress. Together, they were responsible for my becoming an aunt at the tender age of eight. First Niece was a beautiful bouncing baby girl, and bald as a q-ball. She was a welcome delight. And better yet, I was no longer the youngest so yay me! Her favorite past time as a wee one was to be puttered around the house in a laundry basket while holding on to the sides, white-knuckled. Heaven forbid you stop. She’d wail for more.

Rockstar Brother had the band wagon, Brother Bear had the shaggin’ wagon, Brother ‘n’ Law had the Mini Minor, and Bookend Brother had a souped up jeep. Many a time I drove around in it with him, top down, hair blowing wildly in the wind, and rock ‘n’ roll noise pollution emanating. I at that point I thought I was lucky when the one of the neighboring boys would throw me on the back of his dirt bike and whiz along the dirt road of Jimmy’s Lane. But, when Bookend Brother came riding up with his jeep, the world became a much cooler place. I can’t even begin to describe the feeling of freedom that soared through me when we’d speed up and down the Hills in Cow Bay, strapped in tight as can be, hair lifting me up and trying to pull me out as we wound and tipped the whole way.

I fell in love with music videos in the early eighties. Bookend Brother, First Sister ‘n’ Law, my Mother, and Way Cooler Big Sister, used to convene in the living room with snacks us young punks and libations for the elders and hunker down for Fright Night Videos. I would thrown myself on the carpet with the family dog, only blinking, only breathing during commercials. I knew every single frame of my favorites, Blue Peter’s ‘Don’t Walk on Past’, UB40’s ‘Red Red Wine’, Bonnie Tyler’s ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’, and cringe through the insect infested Yes video ‘Owner of a Lonely Heart’. Bookend Brother would heckle and hoot, getting a kick out of the sheer disgust of me, my Mother, and First Sister ‘n’ Law. It was like four-minute horror flick! Band members manically turning into birds, snakes, lizards, with scenes of scorpions and centipedes. I always tried to pay more attention to my snack than the television whenever it came on, but I was thwarted to look, it was impossible not to even though I one hundred percent did not want to. We’d all be cringing, squirming, full on grossing out and Bookend Brother would just cackle. Sister ‘n’ Law, with her intense fear of snakes, would usually leave them room. I lived for those Friday nights. They were the best.

Bookend Brother, at some point after the birth of First Niece was born, shaved his face. It was a shock. He basically went from resembling one of the members of any 70s rock outfit to one of the baby Beatles. It’s like the world fell on its like the world fell on its arse. I mean, it was him, but it wasn’t. It took a lot of getting used to. Now though, when I think back, I find it hard to picture him with a face full of fur.

I spent a lot of time in the house Bookend Brother built on Caldwell Road. Since I was eight years older than First Niece, I was tagged for babysitting. I didn’t mind because I loved their house full of the coolest things, including but not limited to the giant nature-themed mural in the living room a basement full of records, tapes and a full-size bar. Sister ‘n’ Law would pick me up at the crack of dawn. First Niece was never an early riser so when they both left for work, I’d drift into their waterbed and wade back to sleep. It was there in that wavy bed I saw my first glimpse of … ahem … porn. Bookend Brother had mounting collection of girlie magazines on the bed’s shelf. It didn’t occur to me to look at them. And then First Niece, the nosey parker she was, climbed into the ark and ripped one open. I confess, I was a little taken aback. I snapped it from her little hands instinctively, like I knew it was something we weren’t supposed be looking at considering I saw bare boobs. It reminded me of a time when Way Cooler Big Sister showed me something, I KNOW I wasn’t supposed to look at. In fact, I may still suffer a bit of PSTD from it to this day. Excuse the side bar but if I don’t tell this story now, it’ll leave my head – I almost wish it would. If you want to skip over it, I won’t be the least bit offended. In fact, I encourage you to.  Way Cooler Big Sister and I were at Biggest Little Sister and Brother ‘n’ Law’s trailer babysitting. First Nephew was tucked in good and tight. We settled in to watch a movie on Brother ‘n’ Law’s fancy new VCR with the multi-colored buttons on its front, a top loader. Way Cooler Big Sister, knowing full well what our dirty-minded Brother ‘n’ Law had been watching before we got there, it the play button instead of putting out very family friendly movie on. The screen zapped on and all I saw was a … this would be the time to skip the rest … a talking vagina.  It sounded like Linda Blair’s voice in ‘The Exorcist’ but it was fake flapping, spewing a bunch of gibberish about the Devil! I was traumatized. Way Cooler Big Sister laughed so hard she couldn’t breathe. Crying, I tried to wrestle the remote from her to turn it off. Needles to say when I discovered a stack of seventies/eighties porn movie boxes behind Bookend Brother’s bar, I wasn’t as queasy. I’d take a Burt Reynolds bush over a talking one any day.

The first rule of Babysitter’s Club at Bookend Brother’s house was do not, under any circumstances, let First Niece touch his records. And, I didn’t. I touched them for her. When she wasn’t running around outside with her friends, we’d listen to the ‘Grease’ soundtrack and throw darts. That was another rule. Do not, under any circumstances, let First Niece throw darts. Ah well, what they didn’t know then wouldn’t hurt them. First Niece almost took out a light above the board once. It was a close call. But it didn’t break. They were none the wiser. The rest of the time, I’d laze on their sectional, listen to countless records he had recently transferred over to cassette tapes and daydreamed. It was an easy gig. One I enjoyed. It was a privilege to be trusted to defend their castle and protect their young even though he would sometimes, when he’d had a little too much to drink take to mooning me and whomever else might be present. It’s like the beard was back! One trait this end of the book did not inherit.

***

My loveliest Bookend Brother, one of my dearest friends. Now that we are all grown up, there is nothing I enjoy more than I glass of red and a long conversation with him.

I think a bit more, in time, will be added here as well.

Love you all the way to the other end!

In propinquity,

Nic

Death of a Salesman

Death of a Salesman

It was never easy to one-up Father Mine. He was always so quick with his witty quips, gags, jokes, and one-liners. On rare occasions when I was older, sitting around his Sunday dinner table, I’d trip him up or render him speechless and there’d be a glean of ‘ya got me’ in his grin, most times a quick red flush in his cheeks. And then, without missing a beat, he’s ten laughs ahead. Most times I think he thought me nine cents short of a dime, maybe I was. But, if I was, he was too. Apples and trees, you know? They don’t fall far.

I remember the first time I stumped him. Like it was yesterday. It wasn’t a witticism or any kind of a yarn, but a tried and true stump. As in, there had to be a blue moon hanging in the sky because he was at a loss for words. If you knew Father Mine, or of him at least, you know full well he always has something to say, about everything.

Father Mine wanted to, instead of our usual quick weekend trips to McDonalds or Lawtons to scout the magazine rack, take me overnight. I was wary of the offer at first because at that time, Father Mine didn’t have a place of his own and was staying with a friend and his family. He said he was house-sitting for someone from work so I could come and spend the night. That made more sense, so I accepted. He’d make dinner and we could see a movie together or maybe go for ice cream. He picked me up, I was armed with my brand-new rainbow book bag full of pens, paper, and other arty things to keep myself occupied in case he had work to do or something or other. Before we left Cow Bay, we made a pit stop at the Cow Bay Moose, took a few pictures and drew in the cool almost winter air. The one-bedroom apartment, situated in Woodside, a stone’s throw away from the Halifax Harbour, was bright and keenly kept. You could have eaten straight off the floor. I don’t think I had ever been in a house that was so tidy. Father Mine and I settled in at the evening’s abode after a quick casserole for supper and a random show or two on television. I had my heart set on a movie at the actual theater but as predicted, he was continually hauled away by urgent work calls. I didn’t mind so much because at least we were together. In proximity, anyway. Me in the living room scribbling in my notebook, and he, nestled in the crook of the kitchen counter with a heavy receiver to his ear, talking in a hushed voice. I missed my Mother in that moment but at the same content he was near. It’s the one thing I envy my siblings, having both parents in the same place, as a family. That isn’t something I had or what I did have I was too young to remember. Nothing stopped me from daydreaming about it though, all eight of us, in our varying ages and hairstyles, cordially passing a heavy bowl of mashed potatoes around the table while yammering on about our day.

I laid awake most of the night listening to him saw logs, missing my own bed, missing home. The next morning, I got up early and nosed around a little. The apartment looked different in the light of day. Father Mine padded sleepily into the bathroom to as he put it – shit, shower, and shave. He put the television on for me and told me to help myself to a bowl of cereal for breakfast. I sat with good ol’ Captain Crunch and listened to him sing while the shower ran. Father Mine emerged, fresh as a daisy and plugged in the kettle when I asked, “What’s your friend’s name anyway?” He stumbled a little on his heels reaching for the milk from the fridge. He muttered something but it was anything but a straight answer, “Just a friend.” I almost let it go, “Why does your friend from work only have women’s clothes in his closet?” Father Mine almost swallowed his tongue in shock. It never occurred to me the tidy pad belonged to :: gasp:: a woman. The primary occupant, with the sweet-smelling sheets, would eventually become my stepmother.

Father Mine was a car salesman. He could sell a tall ice-cold glass of water to a drowning man. I spent a lot of time at the dealership on Saturdays with him. I never did like, nor do I still enjoy, that new car smell. It makes me queasy. I attribute it to all those weekends waiting around for him to close a deal, complete paperwork, or finish long behind-closed-doors phone calls with his feet up on the desk. I only know that because he had an office just off the showroom walled in glass. His boss was the nicest man in the whole entire world. Big Boss was a white-haired distinguished gentleman, and I mean that in every sense of the world. He was warm spirited and giving. I found that out quite by accident. Father Mine told me to stay where he could see me this one day, but my ears were probably plugged and I soon found myself halfway down a long hallway, office doors on each side. Big Boss’s door was daringly propped open. I waltzed in, uninvited. Everything was made of dark wood or covered with wine covered leather. His heavy desk was grand with not an office supply out of place and the obligatory cheery family photo propped up in the corner just beyond the telephone. Brazenly, I climbed up into his high back leather chair, shoved my arse right into the back, stretched my sausage legs out straight, and wiggled my feet in victory. It felt forbidden and powerful all at once. I was so pre-occupied with play pretending I was the boss, barking orders at my make-believe employees I didn’t notice a tall figure darken the door, “And what are you doing, young lady?” Uh oh. Big Boss. I stammered to answer. Father Mine was going to tan my hide for getting into things I was told not to. Big Boss advanced into the room and lorded over me in the chair. I held my breath, convinced he was going to give me a rampant what for. Instead, he leaned down and slid one of his grand desk drawers open to reveal a treasure trove of candy, “Go on, help yourself.” From then on, I’d sneak into his office, wriggle myself comfortably in his chair, and nibble on caramels, peppermint patties, even hard rum-flavored candies. One time, he even left me a whole Oh Henry chocolate bar with a little note – a sweet for a sweetie. When I was five, before I was truly aware of his presence, he gave me a shiny white Christmas bulb with Santa faces all over. It has become most beloved heirloom and each year when we put up our Christmas tree, that is always the first ornament to go on, in homage, and with love.

I used to also love sitting behind the impressive reception desk, the nerve center of the operation. That’s where Ms. Myra sat each day and controlled the switchboard. I thought of her as sleek administrative astronaut, steering the whole ship. I used to call Father Mine at work every day after school, for years. Ms. Myra was always the one to direct my call. We formed a mutual admiration society. So much so, that if she knew I’d be coming to the showroom with Father Mine, she’d leave me a box of Smarties on her desk. She’d ask Fridays, and if I said yes, without fail, there was always a little treat waiting.

And then there was the waiting room full of fancy leather chairs where people would wait for their vehicles to be serviced. I liked it in there best. Just on the other side of the wall was the body shop where Brother Bear toiled to mend dents and scrapes. But the wall itself, it housed professional head shots of all the salesmen and women. Father Mine’s was always in or near the top right position. I don’t know if it meant he was the best that week or month, but in my books, he was always aces, a head above the rest.

And, he wasn’t just a salesman, Father Mine was a natural born entertainer. He and his musician friends would play all the kiddie Christmas parties at the Buffalo Club and his outward goofiness used to fill me with equal parts pride and jealousy. Pride because he was my father and was so incredibly impressive and jealousy because I had to share him with all those other kids when I hardly had any time with him. A few friends told me recently those parties meant the world to them because it was the closest thing to a Christmas they had. Father Mine filled them with joy, lifted them up. And, I because if only I’d been aware then, if only I hadn’t been so envious and shy, I could have linked arms with my peers and wailed my silly guts out too when they pulled out their show-stopper, “I love my rooster, my rooster loves me, I cherish my rooster beneath the old oak tree, my little rooster goes cock-a-doodle-do do-de-do-do-do-do-do-de-do-do-do-do …” For all the time I craved with Father Mine, some of the time I did get with him I was inhibited and cautious. Too afraid to embarrass myself in front of him. I idolized the ground he walked on. And yet, I felt like there were a million miles in between us. He was exceedingly good to me. To my friends. But I had a heart full of spite. I remember a cousin of mine, the same age as me, and he’d tell me he bought her a new winter coat or new sneakers. Or she’d gloat and tell me Father Mine took her for a hamburger and bought her all her school supplies. I spent so much time turning myself inside out over it only to grow up and learn it was because she didn’t have a winter coat, not even an old one and he couldn’t stand the thought of her going without a jacket. I saw his kindness in a light I aimed to emulate.

We talked at length about it near the end of his days. He in his hospital bed, me sitting on the chesterfield next to him. The conversation started with him, choked up, apologizing to me for not being there enough for me, for not doing enough, or being there when he should have. It busted me up inside. I assured him that even though I felt all those things, the confusion of him leaving when I was so young, to being shy and droopy, and jealous as hell of my cousin, I couldn’t have asked for a better person to father me, to follow. In that moment, and as I write it now, even though I wish I’d been able to be more open-hearted and fun-spirited, if I’d changed it, that beautiful conversation would never have taken place. We bore our souls to each other. Talked openly about our feelings. Laughed. Cried. Laughed a little more. It was a first for us. Except this one time, when Way Cooler Big Sister was about to make a whopper of a mistake and had Father Mine out of his mind, he came to my work and asked if I could take a break to have a coffee with him. He needed to talk. We sat on a sunny patio next to the water. I sipped a cup of hot tea while he, exasperated, spilled his guts, and then asked me, me, for my opinion. Also, a first. I’ve kept that little rare tete-a-tete to myself all these years. He sat across from me fidgeting, ringing his hands, sitting on the edge of the wire chair that gave me serious waffle butt, his leg bouncing as he talked. I had his full attention. He needed me. Finally, I had something I had always wished for.

***

This little piece, for my Dad, which in the future, will likely be extended, is his little early Father’s Day gift. I know it isn’t as funny as previous pieces but not all memories are laced with humor, right? I do still vividly remember him being aghast when I asked him why his friend’s closet was full of women’s clothes. It’s like I caught him with his hand in the cookie jar. I don’t think he thought I was observant enough to take notice. He underestimated me, the last of the litter. It’ all I did, watch. Listen. Assess.

I miss him. So very much. My heart ached while I typed away. I feel so bad because I wanted to be around him all the time and there were times when all I’d be is obstinate. It was confusing for a lot of my younger years to waver between my parents with messages. I worked through anger phases that I didn’t get to have them together like my siblings did. My entire world looked completely different than theirs. I think it’s why I’ve spent the better part of my life being a peacekeeper, standing as Switzerland, an active ear, and somewhere for the people I love to lean on. Nothing make me happier than to be around my family. Then and now.  No matter what shape it has.

If you still have your Dad with you, hug him for me. For you. For him. Talk. Reminisce. Be honest. Be loving.

In propinquity,

Nic

I Looked For A Light

I Looked For A Light

I sought out a light however pale

to shine through the breadth of

separation – a fragile subjectivity

it is an arbitrary vignette

a fusty bankrupt morning

cool-eyed & cold-blooded

a well-thumbed copy of Didion’s

Slouching Towards Bethlehem

burnt brown toast & stale coffee

deskbound at the kitchen table

lone & impervious

accents & idioms of an external exhale

pleading & preaching graceful pensées

a lax wager of uncompromised insight

I looked for a light

in order to see - to unpeel the mundane

& reveal the momentous

I looked for a light

                in an e.e. cummings poem

                in a suspenseful detective story               

                in a Jackson Pollack drip painting

                in a Vivian Maier snap-shot

I sought out a light

I pursued the gleam

to outrun the gloaming

**

Joan Didion is a brilliant observer, a powerful thinker, an exceptional writer and an iconic woman. I read ‘The Year of Magical Thinking’ back in 2015 and just finished ‘Blue Nights’ – both books, honest and intensely personal, rich in texture, stark in description, potent in the punch they intended to throw.

I admire her, Joan Didion. Her work is brave. It is timeless. Emboldened. In these two skillfully articulated memoirs, with honesty and ache, she presents clear-eyed memories of her past, a portrait of a marriage and then the worrisome wonders of parenthood and growing old.

Joan Didion, in a very short period of time, lost her husband and partner, John Gregory Dunne, while Quintana, her only daughter lay unconscious in a nearby hospital suffering from pneumonia and septic shock. She too soon died.

She formed her thoughts and experiences into a profound meditation on mortality, twice. I cannot imagine what it must be to see your husband die at your kitchen table while worrying for your only child suffering mere blocks away in a hospital bed. And then, inevitably, all alone.

This woman has paid her dues. The title of one of her older books ‘We Tell Ourselves Stories in Order to Live’ – aptly applies to her fate so many years later.

Joan Didion and I share the same birthday but her sentences are better.

In propinquity,

Nic