I remember my first day of kindergarten at Thomas Alva Edison Elementary School in Madison Heights, Michigan. I was five years old and my mama walked me to school that day. It wasn't far. One street over and down a half block. I would only go a half a day to morning kindergarten and then go home.
There weren't many other kindergartners on our street and I would be walking home from school by myself so on the way there, Mama carefully told me how to get back home.
"Look for the broken sidewalk. Then turn right at the next corner after it. You'll see the Rank's house."
I was scared and I asked lots of questions but she said I'd do fine.
When we walked into the classroom, I was amazed. What a beautiful place! It was an open, airy room with a high ceiling and lots of windows. There were colorful decorations all over. There were shapes and colors and numbers cut out of construction paper on the walls. Our small oak tables had little wooden chairs around them just waiting for us to begin learning. We walked into the room and my mom introduced me to my teacher. My first day was about to begin and I couldn't wait to get started.
I don't remember what we did after my mama left, or the fun we had, or the things we learned.
But, I do remember Julie.
She was a big, mean girl with slanty eyes and braids. She was strong. While we were in the line to get a drink of water at the fountain, she tried to choke me. I remember her hands tightly around my neck and how it hurt when I pulled away from her.
I don't remember my teacher's name. I only remember her aggravation with me when I told her that Julie had choked me.
"Suzanne, don't be a tattletale. Now go sit down."
I protested but it didn't do any good.
"But, Julie choked me!"
I was flabbergasted by her lack of concern at my danger. You weren't supposed to CHOKE people in kindergarten! That wasn't safe. My mama would be mad that someone had tried to hurt me. But, my teacher never said anything to Julie and I'm the one who got in trouble.
This took the shine right off my greatly anticipated first day of school.
Hungry, still shaken and puzzled by my lack of safety in class, when my half day was finally over I turned the wrong way as I left the school. Nothing looked familiar and I couldn't find the broken sidewalk. I didn't know how to get home. I was alone on the street and there was no one to help me. I started to go up to a house and ask for help. There was one with the front door open and through the screen door I could hear dishes rattling and a television playing. Maybe some other nice Mom would help a lost, hungry little girl find her Mama. I peered into the door and saw the outline of a man sitting in a chair.
Nope.
I didn't want any other dads helping me. Only moms. Mr Rank from down our street looked like a nice dad but Mama told Daddy he beat up Millie because she forgot to brown his fried bologna for lunch. I moved quietly away from the door. I just couldn't bring myself to knock. Strangers lived there.
I thought about going back to the school but I didn't think I was allowed to go back there until tomorrow. So I just stood there--and I cried.
And cried.
I tried to remember the instructions Mama had given me but they all involved that darn broken sidewalk and I couldn't find it. I was never, ever going to get home again.
Then I heard the most beautiful sound in the world.
"Suzanne! Suzanne!"
I sniffed and wiped my nose on my arm. My mama was calling my name. I turned around and she ran to me and hugged me.
"I was worried about you. What are you doing way down here? You were supposed to come the other way."
"I looked and looked but I couldn't find the broken sidewalk."
She wiped my tear-stained face, took my hand in hers and gave me directions again as we walked home.
It had been a tough day. I was hungry. I'd been choked, fussed at and gotten lost.
I just wanted to go home.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
the continuum
I've written a few stories about my dad but there are many more interesting things about him. For example, he was a TV repairman when sets had tubes and he was also a meat cutter. The TV repairman job didn't work out as well as he had hoped, so he was mostly a meat cutter. When he'd cut himself at work, which was often, he'd take himself to the Dr's office, get stitches then come home early. Then, when it was healed he removed his own stitches. Ewww. I was grossed out, but I still loved to sit at the kitchen table and watch him clip the threads and pull them out of his hand. His white shirts were always bloody from the meat market but that was just the norm for our house.
He wasn't much of a hunter but once in a while he'd go with Uncle Bill. One time he got a pheasant and brought the foot home to me. He showed me how to pull the tendon at the top, so the foot would close and grasp. I brought it in for show and tell.
I was a hit.
My classmates were amazed. I kept the foot in my desk in a Whitman's Sampler candy box with my other treasures the rest of the school year.
That's another thing. For every birthday, holiday and anniversary, Dad brought Mom a Whitman's Sampler. She loved it. We did too because she always shared with us. Of course, she always got to choose her favorite piece first.
When he left early for work before we got out of bed, he wrote poems to Mom and us with his red meat marking pen on the laundry cards that came out of his shirts. They went something like this:
Good morning to you, my beautiful wife
and my darling daughters three.
I have get out and go to work
so I'm not here, you see.
So have a good day
while the sun shines bright,
it won't be too long
and I'll see you tonite.
He was also given some pigeons which he kept in our large garage out back. He wasn't much of a keeper though--not very tidy--and the whole mess turned into a 2 1/2 car bird house. Yes, it's as bad as you imagine it was. ICK!
For each of several winters Dad spent one freezing cold night making us an ice skating rink out of most of our backyard. He'd carefully bank the snow for the rink. Then he'd fill it with a layer of water, wait a couple of hours till it froze and fill it again. In layers. He explained if it was frozen in layers, there would be no pockets of water to pit and it would be stronger and smoother this way. Layer after layer, it would take him all night to complete it. We were the only kids in our neighborhood with our own ice skating rink in our back yard.
In the nearly 18 years since my dad died I have recognized some similarities between us. Curiosity, a quick temper and a mischievous gleam in my eye have gotten me into trouble more than once, and when I feel that golden itch to understand or learn something new, or I speak too sharply or I tease my granddaughters until they laugh at me, he's there. And sometimes, when the weather cools and the holidays hover, I walk outside at night and I see my dad sitting on top of the picnic table waiting for me to return home from a date. He's smoking a cigarette, looking at the stars in the clear, black skies, listening for the panther's scream.
He wasn't much of a hunter but once in a while he'd go with Uncle Bill. One time he got a pheasant and brought the foot home to me. He showed me how to pull the tendon at the top, so the foot would close and grasp. I brought it in for show and tell.
I was a hit.
My classmates were amazed. I kept the foot in my desk in a Whitman's Sampler candy box with my other treasures the rest of the school year.
That's another thing. For every birthday, holiday and anniversary, Dad brought Mom a Whitman's Sampler. She loved it. We did too because she always shared with us. Of course, she always got to choose her favorite piece first.
When he left early for work before we got out of bed, he wrote poems to Mom and us with his red meat marking pen on the laundry cards that came out of his shirts. They went something like this:
Good morning to you, my beautiful wife
and my darling daughters three.
I have get out and go to work
so I'm not here, you see.
So have a good day
while the sun shines bright,
it won't be too long
and I'll see you tonite.
He was also given some pigeons which he kept in our large garage out back. He wasn't much of a keeper though--not very tidy--and the whole mess turned into a 2 1/2 car bird house. Yes, it's as bad as you imagine it was. ICK!
For each of several winters Dad spent one freezing cold night making us an ice skating rink out of most of our backyard. He'd carefully bank the snow for the rink. Then he'd fill it with a layer of water, wait a couple of hours till it froze and fill it again. In layers. He explained if it was frozen in layers, there would be no pockets of water to pit and it would be stronger and smoother this way. Layer after layer, it would take him all night to complete it. We were the only kids in our neighborhood with our own ice skating rink in our back yard.
In the nearly 18 years since my dad died I have recognized some similarities between us. Curiosity, a quick temper and a mischievous gleam in my eye have gotten me into trouble more than once, and when I feel that golden itch to understand or learn something new, or I speak too sharply or I tease my granddaughters until they laugh at me, he's there. And sometimes, when the weather cools and the holidays hover, I walk outside at night and I see my dad sitting on top of the picnic table waiting for me to return home from a date. He's smoking a cigarette, looking at the stars in the clear, black skies, listening for the panther's scream.
Friday, August 8, 2008
his death
In April, 1982, at fifty-six years of age, my dad had a severe stroke that left him unable to recognize his family. He was also paralyzed on his right side and speechless. The daddy of my childhood, my nature guide, my algebra tutor, and my encourager were all gone. Through time and therapy he remembered who were and regained some mobility, but his speech, like his short circuited thoughts, was never again fluent. We never again carried on another real conversation.
Some eight years later on December 12, 1990, I got the phone call about his last strokes. This time he'd had one on each side of his body and was totally paralyzed from his neck, down.
Our family set up siege in the 10' x10' hospital waiting room next to the ICU. Our normal lives were on hold. I felt a great urgency to be with my parents. They seemed so fragile and I wanted to take care of them, to protect them. I left my volunteer responsibilities during our busiest time of the year at the food pantry with my friend and stayed at the hospital. We ate there, we slept there and updated friends and family there during these hard days. We only left long enough to shower, maybe grab a nap and return.
I saw my dad at every opportunity. I tried to talk to him but I didn't know what to say.
"Hi Dad."
I leaned over the side of the bed and kissed him on the cheek. The respirator hissed and swooshed rhythmically.
"Your mouth looks dry. I'll get some glycerin for your lips from the nurse."
His eyes followed me as I got the ICU nurse to treat his dry mouth.
"I came in first but Mom's in the waiting room. She'll be in here shortly. Are you in pain?"
He only looked at me. He couldn't respond. I didn't know how much damage had been done to his brain. Did he even know me? I felt our time rushing away and it felt frivolous to chatter about non essentials and fluff so sometimes I read comforting verses to him from my Bible. Were they for him or were they for me?
Other times I just sat with him, a million thoughts whirling through my head. Will he live? How will Mom take care of him if he does? What will Mom do if he dies? What will I do if he dies?
"I love you, Dad. I'll be back after Mom comes in."
I told him I loved him after every visit. I wanted him to understand the depth of my love. I wanted him to know how much I'd learned from him. I wanted him to know that I am who I am because of him but I didn't know how to say it. It was long ago that we'd last talked about anything and even then we didn't tell one another how we felt. Our family had spent an emotionally silent lifetime, loving one another in deed, assuming--hoping--we all knew we were loved. Now I sat with my dad in his last days, my hand on his motionless hand, my eyes searching his eyes, willing my gaze to push beyond my inability to express myself--hoping it communicated my profound gratitude to him and my deepest love for him.
After two interminable weeks of conferring with his doctors and hearing his prognosis, with deep anguish and excruciating heartache, my mother agreed to remove him from life support.
It was Christmas Eve day.
They took him off the respirator and out of ICU about 10 am and moved him to a semi-private room in the small hospital that is only two blocks from the little church where my daddy walked me down the aisle, six miles from my house and only five miles from the place he brought us when we came to Florida twenty-three years earlier.
Except for my sister Kathy who had returned home to Pennsylvania the day before, the whole family was nearby. Space in this room was close so we took turns sitting with my mother and dad. After about an hour his breathing grew tight and labored and he was no longer conscious.
A younger, yet experienced nurse stayed in the room with us. My dad began to work for every breath. His body and gown were wet with sweat. Even though I thought it unusual when the nurse asked me to help her dry him off and change his gown--to make him more comfortable she said--I agreed.
She raised the head of his bed and slightly leaned him forward. He was a big man so I braced myself and held him steady as she untied and removed his gown. She dried his upper chest and shoulders with a small towel and then we laid him back down and lowered the head of the bed.
With great care she rolled his body way over to one side and I held him while she dried off his back. We laid him flat and she came to the other side. I held him while she dried and then we laid him down again. She got a fresh gown and together we slipped it on him. Then we straightened his sheets and pillow.
As we moved him, his lungs fought for any small amount of air they found. We had physically maneuvered him around and used the towels on him, but his sick, weakened body had worked hard for those dry clothes.
Somewhere in the middle of caring for my dad in those last moments I understood that this compassionate nurse was helping me, help him die.
Some eight years later on December 12, 1990, I got the phone call about his last strokes. This time he'd had one on each side of his body and was totally paralyzed from his neck, down.
Our family set up siege in the 10' x10' hospital waiting room next to the ICU. Our normal lives were on hold. I felt a great urgency to be with my parents. They seemed so fragile and I wanted to take care of them, to protect them. I left my volunteer responsibilities during our busiest time of the year at the food pantry with my friend and stayed at the hospital. We ate there, we slept there and updated friends and family there during these hard days. We only left long enough to shower, maybe grab a nap and return.
I saw my dad at every opportunity. I tried to talk to him but I didn't know what to say.
"Hi Dad."
I leaned over the side of the bed and kissed him on the cheek. The respirator hissed and swooshed rhythmically.
"Your mouth looks dry. I'll get some glycerin for your lips from the nurse."
His eyes followed me as I got the ICU nurse to treat his dry mouth.
"I came in first but Mom's in the waiting room. She'll be in here shortly. Are you in pain?"
He only looked at me. He couldn't respond. I didn't know how much damage had been done to his brain. Did he even know me? I felt our time rushing away and it felt frivolous to chatter about non essentials and fluff so sometimes I read comforting verses to him from my Bible. Were they for him or were they for me?
Other times I just sat with him, a million thoughts whirling through my head. Will he live? How will Mom take care of him if he does? What will Mom do if he dies? What will I do if he dies?
"I love you, Dad. I'll be back after Mom comes in."
I told him I loved him after every visit. I wanted him to understand the depth of my love. I wanted him to know how much I'd learned from him. I wanted him to know that I am who I am because of him but I didn't know how to say it. It was long ago that we'd last talked about anything and even then we didn't tell one another how we felt. Our family had spent an emotionally silent lifetime, loving one another in deed, assuming--hoping--we all knew we were loved. Now I sat with my dad in his last days, my hand on his motionless hand, my eyes searching his eyes, willing my gaze to push beyond my inability to express myself--hoping it communicated my profound gratitude to him and my deepest love for him.
After two interminable weeks of conferring with his doctors and hearing his prognosis, with deep anguish and excruciating heartache, my mother agreed to remove him from life support.
It was Christmas Eve day.
They took him off the respirator and out of ICU about 10 am and moved him to a semi-private room in the small hospital that is only two blocks from the little church where my daddy walked me down the aisle, six miles from my house and only five miles from the place he brought us when we came to Florida twenty-three years earlier.
Except for my sister Kathy who had returned home to Pennsylvania the day before, the whole family was nearby. Space in this room was close so we took turns sitting with my mother and dad. After about an hour his breathing grew tight and labored and he was no longer conscious.
A younger, yet experienced nurse stayed in the room with us. My dad began to work for every breath. His body and gown were wet with sweat. Even though I thought it unusual when the nurse asked me to help her dry him off and change his gown--to make him more comfortable she said--I agreed.
She raised the head of his bed and slightly leaned him forward. He was a big man so I braced myself and held him steady as she untied and removed his gown. She dried his upper chest and shoulders with a small towel and then we laid him back down and lowered the head of the bed.
With great care she rolled his body way over to one side and I held him while she dried off his back. We laid him flat and she came to the other side. I held him while she dried and then we laid him down again. She got a fresh gown and together we slipped it on him. Then we straightened his sheets and pillow.
As we moved him, his lungs fought for any small amount of air they found. We had physically maneuvered him around and used the towels on him, but his sick, weakened body had worked hard for those dry clothes.
Somewhere in the middle of caring for my dad in those last moments I understood that this compassionate nurse was helping me, help him die.
our wedding
Today, August 8, 2008 is our anniversary so this post is extra special to me.
It was a hot, Florida Saturday night in August 1970. Byron was twenty-one years old and I was almost eighteen. The small town Church of God was comfortably full with nearly a hundred people the night we married--more than we usually had in our regular Sunday morning service.
White wicker flower baskets overflowing with daisies were placed near the two cascading candelabras at the front of the church. The glow of candles and dimmed lights softened the harsh angles of the rectangular sanctuary.
My sparkling white wedding dress with long sleeves, chiffon and lace inserts at the neckline and intricate beading , sequins and lace flowers interspersed over the length of the dress--all for $99.00 plus tax, at JC Penny--was the most beautiful dress I'd ever put on in my life.
As an adult, I now understand that despite our family's lack of saying "I love you," or telling one another our deepest feelings, that for my dad, when he calmed my fears, explained catalysts, fixed my shoes, or bought me lots of beautiful, but affordable daisies for my wedding he was showing me concrete expressions of his love.
The minister stood at the front of the church with the groomsmen all in place as my attendants promenaded down the center aisle. After my girlfriends and my sisters found their places, the organist's majestic-sounding music signaled everyone to stand and watch me walk down the aisle with my dad.
My parents had been surprisingly easy about our decision to marry at such a young age. When I told my mother what we were planning, there were no shocked reactions or arguments and only one requirement; I had to graduate from high school. The night Byron asked my dad for permission to marry they talked a long time about jobs and money and places to live. Both my parents had confidence in Byron to be a good husband to me.
Marrying at only seventeen should have scared me, but it didn't. Maybe I wasn't scared because I was seventeen and thought I knew everything anyway. I know now that marrying so young is the boldest and at the same time the most naive thing I've ever done.
I was sure I wanted to be with Byron and maybe it was because I saw some similarities between him and my dad. Opposites in most ways, they both displayed fierce loyalty to family and held great respect for the feelings of others. Despite my desire to marry him that night, queasiness overtook my stomach and my dry lips stuck together. My knees wobbled at the thought of being the center of this huge amount of attention.
The double doors opened.
It was show time.
Panic-stricken I looked into my dad's eyes, slipped my arm into his and we took a step together into the church. He smiled his crooked smile, comically raised his bushy eyebrows over the black glasses frames and said,
"Let's go, Suzanne."
We went.
As we took another step or two he bent his head down near mine and whispered into my ear,
"Look around to the left side of the church and then to the right. See all the people you know?"
I smiled and nodded to him.
"They're here because they want to see you and Byron tie the knot."
Until that moment I'd only seen faceless bodies--a nameless crowd--and it had unnerved me, but when I saw my Sunday School teacher, Mrs Bowman, my friends from school, Rose and Alice and my sisters Kathy and Karla as my bridesmaids and all my family smiling at me, trying to catch my eye as we walked, I knew I had nothing to be afraid of. These people were my friends and family. They liked me. I returned my smiles and beamed at my dad. He only knew our immediate family there that night yet he basked in the moment proud to escort his eldest daughter to be married. We both enjoyed our stroll down the aisle.
Dad whispered to me as we walked,
"Look at Byron down there. He looks scared."
I saw Byron at the altar as he watched my dad and me walk toward him. I leaned in and whispered ,
"He's not smiling, is he?"
Byron wasn't smiling but time has proven that his fear wasn't fear at all but solemn commitment. Dad and I shared another smile and walked a few more slow steps.
We reached the rest of the wedding party and my dad fulfilled his role of,
"Who give this woman to be married?"
He took his seat next to my mother in the pew. The ceremony proceeded, we promised to love and honor, I promised to obey, and Byron and I were pronounced man and wife. Thirty-eight years ago today.
We attended the same church for many years afterward so I know it is small and I'm certain the aisle is short--perhaps only forty-five feet to the front--but that night, walking and talking with my dad, it was exactly as long as I needed it to be.
It was a hot, Florida Saturday night in August 1970. Byron was twenty-one years old and I was almost eighteen. The small town Church of God was comfortably full with nearly a hundred people the night we married--more than we usually had in our regular Sunday morning service.
White wicker flower baskets overflowing with daisies were placed near the two cascading candelabras at the front of the church. The glow of candles and dimmed lights softened the harsh angles of the rectangular sanctuary.
My sparkling white wedding dress with long sleeves, chiffon and lace inserts at the neckline and intricate beading , sequins and lace flowers interspersed over the length of the dress--all for $99.00 plus tax, at JC Penny--was the most beautiful dress I'd ever put on in my life.
As an adult, I now understand that despite our family's lack of saying "I love you," or telling one another our deepest feelings, that for my dad, when he calmed my fears, explained catalysts, fixed my shoes, or bought me lots of beautiful, but affordable daisies for my wedding he was showing me concrete expressions of his love.
The minister stood at the front of the church with the groomsmen all in place as my attendants promenaded down the center aisle. After my girlfriends and my sisters found their places, the organist's majestic-sounding music signaled everyone to stand and watch me walk down the aisle with my dad.
My parents had been surprisingly easy about our decision to marry at such a young age. When I told my mother what we were planning, there were no shocked reactions or arguments and only one requirement; I had to graduate from high school. The night Byron asked my dad for permission to marry they talked a long time about jobs and money and places to live. Both my parents had confidence in Byron to be a good husband to me.
Marrying at only seventeen should have scared me, but it didn't. Maybe I wasn't scared because I was seventeen and thought I knew everything anyway. I know now that marrying so young is the boldest and at the same time the most naive thing I've ever done.
I was sure I wanted to be with Byron and maybe it was because I saw some similarities between him and my dad. Opposites in most ways, they both displayed fierce loyalty to family and held great respect for the feelings of others. Despite my desire to marry him that night, queasiness overtook my stomach and my dry lips stuck together. My knees wobbled at the thought of being the center of this huge amount of attention.
The double doors opened.
It was show time.
Panic-stricken I looked into my dad's eyes, slipped my arm into his and we took a step together into the church. He smiled his crooked smile, comically raised his bushy eyebrows over the black glasses frames and said,
"Let's go, Suzanne."
We went.
As we took another step or two he bent his head down near mine and whispered into my ear,
"Look around to the left side of the church and then to the right. See all the people you know?"
I smiled and nodded to him.
"They're here because they want to see you and Byron tie the knot."
Until that moment I'd only seen faceless bodies--a nameless crowd--and it had unnerved me, but when I saw my Sunday School teacher, Mrs Bowman, my friends from school, Rose and Alice and my sisters Kathy and Karla as my bridesmaids and all my family smiling at me, trying to catch my eye as we walked, I knew I had nothing to be afraid of. These people were my friends and family. They liked me. I returned my smiles and beamed at my dad. He only knew our immediate family there that night yet he basked in the moment proud to escort his eldest daughter to be married. We both enjoyed our stroll down the aisle.
Dad whispered to me as we walked,
"Look at Byron down there. He looks scared."
I saw Byron at the altar as he watched my dad and me walk toward him. I leaned in and whispered ,
"He's not smiling, is he?"
Byron wasn't smiling but time has proven that his fear wasn't fear at all but solemn commitment. Dad and I shared another smile and walked a few more slow steps.
We reached the rest of the wedding party and my dad fulfilled his role of,
"Who give this woman to be married?"
He took his seat next to my mother in the pew. The ceremony proceeded, we promised to love and honor, I promised to obey, and Byron and I were pronounced man and wife. Thirty-eight years ago today.
We attended the same church for many years afterward so I know it is small and I'm certain the aisle is short--perhaps only forty-five feet to the front--but that night, walking and talking with my dad, it was exactly as long as I needed it to be.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
cars
I was fourteen when we moved from the suburbs of Detroit to sixteen acres in rural, central Florida. We went from walking to school and neighborhood stores, to school buses and needing a car for every activity away from home. Instead of a gang of kids in our neighborhood around for play we had two teenage girls as our only nearby peers. There was a huge culture shock for my younger siblings and me but my dad had been raised in the north Georgia mountains and was in his country-style element. There were orange trees and two small lakes on our property and the undeveloped area was populated by possums, raccoons, snakes, hawks and even a Florida panther. My dad spent most of his off work hours exploring fields and back roads in his 1960-something red Chevy Bel-Air.
Mom always said when my dad got his hands on a car that no one else could ever drive it. When anything broke, he fixed it, but his way of fixing it was to rig it. The trunk didn't have a keyhole. It used to be a key hole. Now it was just a hole. He had a pair of vice grips in the floor of the back seat that he used to open it.
Groceries never went into the trunk when Mom used it to go shopping. They were lined across the back seat and in the floorboard because even if she could have maneuvered the vice grips to open the trunk, it was loaded with one of every tool my dad owned. There were also rolls of electrical tape, pieces of wire, tins of grease, quarts of oil and brake fluid in there. Just in case he needed it.
My dad wasn't known for being a particularly focused driver. He liked to 'sightsee.' One afternoon I saw him walking down our long, sandy driveway toward the house. He had to walk home because his car was in a ditch just down the road at the s-curve. He'd been chasing a snake across the road with his car and hadn't noticed where he was headed. His car was soon nose down in a small ravine on the side of the road.
One night after Byron and I returned to my house at my midnight Saturday night curfew, my dad met us at the door.
"B. You in a hurry to go home?"
"No, Mr. Bryant. What do you need?"
"I was driving around in the back by the lakes while a go and got stuck. It's up to the axle. Can you go with me to help me get my car out?"
Looking for any chance in the world to stay later at my house, Byron said he'd be glad to help get it out.
My dad, Byron and I went trekking out into the darkness with a flashlight and a shovel. We started walking down the path toward the lakes in the back and discovered we didn't need the flashlight because the moonlight shone nearly bright as day. I was sixteen and desperately in love so I held tightly to my guy as we traveled into the night. I stumbled, tripped and complained, making Byron also stumble and trip as we made our way off the trail into the high grasses to my dad's car.
When he'd heard enough of my complaining my dad said,
"If you'd let go of the man's arm, you could walk, Suzanne!" Patience wasn't exactly his strong suit when he was focused.
We reached the car and the two of them worked together in the bright moonlit midnight to free the thing from its sandy trap. Our ride home was jubilant and wild. We bounced all over the car as my dad drove us through the field to get us back to the house.
Mom always said when my dad got his hands on a car that no one else could ever drive it. When anything broke, he fixed it, but his way of fixing it was to rig it. The trunk didn't have a keyhole. It used to be a key hole. Now it was just a hole. He had a pair of vice grips in the floor of the back seat that he used to open it.
Groceries never went into the trunk when Mom used it to go shopping. They were lined across the back seat and in the floorboard because even if she could have maneuvered the vice grips to open the trunk, it was loaded with one of every tool my dad owned. There were also rolls of electrical tape, pieces of wire, tins of grease, quarts of oil and brake fluid in there. Just in case he needed it.
My dad wasn't known for being a particularly focused driver. He liked to 'sightsee.' One afternoon I saw him walking down our long, sandy driveway toward the house. He had to walk home because his car was in a ditch just down the road at the s-curve. He'd been chasing a snake across the road with his car and hadn't noticed where he was headed. His car was soon nose down in a small ravine on the side of the road.
One night after Byron and I returned to my house at my midnight Saturday night curfew, my dad met us at the door.
"B. You in a hurry to go home?"
"No, Mr. Bryant. What do you need?"
"I was driving around in the back by the lakes while a go and got stuck. It's up to the axle. Can you go with me to help me get my car out?"
Looking for any chance in the world to stay later at my house, Byron said he'd be glad to help get it out.
My dad, Byron and I went trekking out into the darkness with a flashlight and a shovel. We started walking down the path toward the lakes in the back and discovered we didn't need the flashlight because the moonlight shone nearly bright as day. I was sixteen and desperately in love so I held tightly to my guy as we traveled into the night. I stumbled, tripped and complained, making Byron also stumble and trip as we made our way off the trail into the high grasses to my dad's car.
When he'd heard enough of my complaining my dad said,
"If you'd let go of the man's arm, you could walk, Suzanne!" Patience wasn't exactly his strong suit when he was focused.
We reached the car and the two of them worked together in the bright moonlit midnight to free the thing from its sandy trap. Our ride home was jubilant and wild. We bounced all over the car as my dad drove us through the field to get us back to the house.
Monday, August 4, 2008
the chameleon
Pets weren't welcome and never fared well in our home when we were kids. We had a few kittens and I vaguely remember a couple of dogs way back when. The kittens developed a fatal affinity for hiding behind or sitting on top of our car's wheels and my mother routinely backed over them. My dad always buried the dead animal quickly and we children never saw them. If we cried when we "lost" another cat, we were sternly admonished.
"Stop it. It was only an animal."
My mother lashed out to cover the painful feelings that overwhelmed her. She never opened up very much and hid her vulnerability well. So, as a good daughter, I accepted her declarations, hid my sadness, and stifled any affection I might have had for pets. My mother once stayed upset for a long time after being the accidental executioner once again and declared that none of us kids would ever have another pet. And, we didn't--until my chameleon.
My dad bought it for me at the Michigan State Fair. He had taken us kids to the fair to give mom a break. The lizard and a small box of meal worms for food cost $1.25. The 4-inch creature had a thread tied loosely around his neck which, at the other end, was attached to a tiny gold safety pin used to secure him to my clothes. A leash and collar combo. He wasn't furry and cute like a kitten and I wasn't sure I wanted the little reptile attached to my shoulder. I didn't know anything about them. I wondered about biting and peeing. Sure, his ability to change colors to match whatever I was wearing was interesting, but it was my dad's excitement about the little guy's talent that sealed the deal for me.
After my initial hesitation, I proudly wore him around the fair that evening while his hue ranged from the bluish-green of my sweater to the red in the plaid of my blouse. I delighted in the stares and comments of the other fair-goers when they noticed him on my shoulder. I felt special. I felt brave.
Dad hadn't said anything to me but we both knew my mom wouldn't like it. The animal was too slithery and snakelike for her and she was terrified of snakes. When we got home that night, as my dad's co-conspirator, I proudly showed my mom my new present anyway. She had then what she called a "blue-nosed hissy" when I showed her my little green lizard.
She jumped back in fright, glared at me and through clenched teeth said,
"OH GOD! Get that thing out of here!"
The she went after Dad.
"MACK! What's the matter with you?"
I thought she was going to kill him. He tried to calm her down.
"C'mon, Bobbie. Just look at him."
He smiled, cajoled, and tried to sweet talk her into it. With his every ounce of boyish charm he worked hard to win her over. He cupped my lizard in his hand and tried to coax my mom into seeing how harmless it was. His eyes were full of mischief when he said,
"Look at his cute, little, pointy face and his cute, little, pointy tail."
She wouldn't have any part of it. Even with our smiling, sincere assurances that her fears wouldn't be realized and he would not "get loose in her house and scare her to death," she came completely unglued about the thing. She didn't want any creature surprises.
After much pleading, begging and even a few tears from me, she gave up and said she'd let us keep him if we promised her he'd stay in a cage down in the basement. Out of her sight. Which we did until he died 6 weeks later of natural causes. Or neglect.
As parents, Byron and I had various pets for our children in our home over the years; several dogs (including a pitbull), cats of various types such as a pregnant calico and huge male Siamese, and a little parakeet that was passed around from our house to my mother-in-law's to Hollys house because he was a very messy bird. Fun, but messy. Each one has been without emotional ties for me until nine years ago. That's when one Christmas I deliberately determined to unpack my stifled affection for animals and learned to lavish it on a feisty, chocolate brown Chihuahua named Treasure.
"Stop it. It was only an animal."
My mother lashed out to cover the painful feelings that overwhelmed her. She never opened up very much and hid her vulnerability well. So, as a good daughter, I accepted her declarations, hid my sadness, and stifled any affection I might have had for pets. My mother once stayed upset for a long time after being the accidental executioner once again and declared that none of us kids would ever have another pet. And, we didn't--until my chameleon.
My dad bought it for me at the Michigan State Fair. He had taken us kids to the fair to give mom a break. The lizard and a small box of meal worms for food cost $1.25. The 4-inch creature had a thread tied loosely around his neck which, at the other end, was attached to a tiny gold safety pin used to secure him to my clothes. A leash and collar combo. He wasn't furry and cute like a kitten and I wasn't sure I wanted the little reptile attached to my shoulder. I didn't know anything about them. I wondered about biting and peeing. Sure, his ability to change colors to match whatever I was wearing was interesting, but it was my dad's excitement about the little guy's talent that sealed the deal for me.
After my initial hesitation, I proudly wore him around the fair that evening while his hue ranged from the bluish-green of my sweater to the red in the plaid of my blouse. I delighted in the stares and comments of the other fair-goers when they noticed him on my shoulder. I felt special. I felt brave.
Dad hadn't said anything to me but we both knew my mom wouldn't like it. The animal was too slithery and snakelike for her and she was terrified of snakes. When we got home that night, as my dad's co-conspirator, I proudly showed my mom my new present anyway. She had then what she called a "blue-nosed hissy" when I showed her my little green lizard.
She jumped back in fright, glared at me and through clenched teeth said,
"OH GOD! Get that thing out of here!"
The she went after Dad.
"MACK! What's the matter with you?"
I thought she was going to kill him. He tried to calm her down.
"C'mon, Bobbie. Just look at him."
He smiled, cajoled, and tried to sweet talk her into it. With his every ounce of boyish charm he worked hard to win her over. He cupped my lizard in his hand and tried to coax my mom into seeing how harmless it was. His eyes were full of mischief when he said,
"Look at his cute, little, pointy face and his cute, little, pointy tail."
She wouldn't have any part of it. Even with our smiling, sincere assurances that her fears wouldn't be realized and he would not "get loose in her house and scare her to death," she came completely unglued about the thing. She didn't want any creature surprises.
After much pleading, begging and even a few tears from me, she gave up and said she'd let us keep him if we promised her he'd stay in a cage down in the basement. Out of her sight. Which we did until he died 6 weeks later of natural causes. Or neglect.
As parents, Byron and I had various pets for our children in our home over the years; several dogs (including a pitbull), cats of various types such as a pregnant calico and huge male Siamese, and a little parakeet that was passed around from our house to my mother-in-law's to Hollys house because he was a very messy bird. Fun, but messy. Each one has been without emotional ties for me until nine years ago. That's when one Christmas I deliberately determined to unpack my stifled affection for animals and learned to lavish it on a feisty, chocolate brown Chihuahua named Treasure.
my black patent leather shoes
I wore the black patent leather Mary Jane dress shoes to church every Sunday when I was eleven years old. I loved those shoes but it wasn't too long after I got them that the sole came loose from the top of the shoe and the side of my foot started sticking out of them. I knew we couldn't afford more new shoes right then, so I showed them to my dad on Saturday night before church the next morning.
He looked at my shoe and we went to the basement to fix it. I watched and asked questions at every step. He talked while he worked cleaning off each side of the opening in my broken shoe. He mixed the epoxy with its catalyst, explained catalysts to me, and carefully spread the mixture thinly over the openings. Then he placed a piece of cloth around the shoe before putting it into the vise so the vise wouldn't mar the shoe. The vise would hold the joint securely overnight until the glue could set.
The next morning while I was getting dressed for church he brought me the repaired shoe. It looked as good as new to me. My shoe only stayed together for a few hours but I wasn't worried about it anymore. I knew he'd fix it again for me the next week. He fixed it every Saturday night until I got a new pair.
He looked at my shoe and we went to the basement to fix it. I watched and asked questions at every step. He talked while he worked cleaning off each side of the opening in my broken shoe. He mixed the epoxy with its catalyst, explained catalysts to me, and carefully spread the mixture thinly over the openings. Then he placed a piece of cloth around the shoe before putting it into the vise so the vise wouldn't mar the shoe. The vise would hold the joint securely overnight until the glue could set.
The next morning while I was getting dressed for church he brought me the repaired shoe. It looked as good as new to me. My shoe only stayed together for a few hours but I wasn't worried about it anymore. I knew he'd fix it again for me the next week. He fixed it every Saturday night until I got a new pair.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
My dad and the storm
My Dad died on Christmas Eve day about 12:30 in the afternoon in 1990, a very long time ago. I've been thinking about him a lot lately and these next few stories will introduce him to you. I'm sure you'll like him.
Once in a while I dream about my dad and he's always well and happy. When I wake up I feel cheerful. He had the same effect on me when he was alive. He'd tell me a joke or an interesting animal fact he'd read or he'd try to poke me in the ribs because he knew I was ticklish. I depended on my dad to help me with my algebra homework in high school and he was the one who waited up for me when I went on a date on Saturday night. He was a peaceful man and he liked to sit outside after dark and just be quiet. Sometimes I'd sit with him and we'd listen to the night.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Storm
I was eight years old and it was a Saturday at the turn of autumn in Michigan. It had been a drippy gloomy day but the weather turned worse in the early afternoon with strong winds, sharp lightening and lots of thunder. Passing my dad in the hallway of our small tract home, I made myself tell him I was afraid. We weren't supposed to give into our fears. Mama said it was silly and I didn't want to be a baby.
Dad stopped, thought for a moment, and ran his hand through his receding black hair. He looked at his own closed bedroom door. He knew then and I found out years later that my mother was lying across their bed with her arms over her head and her face buried into the bedspread, trying not to give into her own stormy fears.
"Come with me, Suzanne. I want to show you something."
He led me to the tiny bedroom I shared with my two younger sisters. He sat down on the edge of the roll-away bed I shared with six year old Karla and I sat on four year old Kathy's twin bed. He raised the wooden sashed window over the book laden table. I leaned on the table with my elbows toward the open screen and felt the cool breeze and rainy mist whoosh across my small, round face.
"Feels good, doesn't it,? he asked.
"Yeah."
Lightning flashed, thunder boomed, and I jumped. He looked at me through his thick black framed glasses.
"Did you see the lightning bolt? Did you notice how crooked it was when it flashed and then how it trailed across the sky?"
"It was real white, too," I said. I was very helpful.
"What about the thunder? Did you hear how full the rumble sounded? It was like it wrapped around the whole world. It sounded like drums," he said.
He pointed toward a large Maple tree in the center of our postage stamp sized front yard.
"Watch as the strong older tree stays straight and lets its branches whip around in the wind. Now, see the flexible young maple by the street bow down as the wind passes through here?"
I didn't say much as we watched. His voice was low but enthusiastic about the scene in front of us as he fed me child-sized bites of the storm.
The rain started coming down harder in great sheets across the small porch and sidewalk in front of the house.
"Suzanne, see the patterns of the rain over there on the street?"
I watched traveling sheets of water move from our yard to the street where they collided with other sheets of rain., Then they bunched up and disappeared down the drains under the curb of the street. When the next lightning flash lit up the sky and the next roll of thunder crashed, my eyes flew to Dad's face. His contented gaze didn't change as the storm raged. Taking my cues from him, I didn't jump at the next flashes and rolls. I now asked, "Daddy, did you hear that?" and said, "Oh, Daddy. Look at that one!"
I don't know how long we sat there as he pointed out the ragged, earthy beauty of the day's storm and I don't know where my little sisters were. I can't say how long my mother hid out on their bed, but I do remember my utter lack of fear when he closed the window.
Once in a while I dream about my dad and he's always well and happy. When I wake up I feel cheerful. He had the same effect on me when he was alive. He'd tell me a joke or an interesting animal fact he'd read or he'd try to poke me in the ribs because he knew I was ticklish. I depended on my dad to help me with my algebra homework in high school and he was the one who waited up for me when I went on a date on Saturday night. He was a peaceful man and he liked to sit outside after dark and just be quiet. Sometimes I'd sit with him and we'd listen to the night.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Storm
I was eight years old and it was a Saturday at the turn of autumn in Michigan. It had been a drippy gloomy day but the weather turned worse in the early afternoon with strong winds, sharp lightening and lots of thunder. Passing my dad in the hallway of our small tract home, I made myself tell him I was afraid. We weren't supposed to give into our fears. Mama said it was silly and I didn't want to be a baby.
Dad stopped, thought for a moment, and ran his hand through his receding black hair. He looked at his own closed bedroom door. He knew then and I found out years later that my mother was lying across their bed with her arms over her head and her face buried into the bedspread, trying not to give into her own stormy fears.
"Come with me, Suzanne. I want to show you something."
He led me to the tiny bedroom I shared with my two younger sisters. He sat down on the edge of the roll-away bed I shared with six year old Karla and I sat on four year old Kathy's twin bed. He raised the wooden sashed window over the book laden table. I leaned on the table with my elbows toward the open screen and felt the cool breeze and rainy mist whoosh across my small, round face.
"Feels good, doesn't it,? he asked.
"Yeah."
Lightning flashed, thunder boomed, and I jumped. He looked at me through his thick black framed glasses.
"Did you see the lightning bolt? Did you notice how crooked it was when it flashed and then how it trailed across the sky?"
"It was real white, too," I said. I was very helpful.
"What about the thunder? Did you hear how full the rumble sounded? It was like it wrapped around the whole world. It sounded like drums," he said.
He pointed toward a large Maple tree in the center of our postage stamp sized front yard.
"Watch as the strong older tree stays straight and lets its branches whip around in the wind. Now, see the flexible young maple by the street bow down as the wind passes through here?"
I didn't say much as we watched. His voice was low but enthusiastic about the scene in front of us as he fed me child-sized bites of the storm.
The rain started coming down harder in great sheets across the small porch and sidewalk in front of the house.
"Suzanne, see the patterns of the rain over there on the street?"
I watched traveling sheets of water move from our yard to the street where they collided with other sheets of rain., Then they bunched up and disappeared down the drains under the curb of the street. When the next lightning flash lit up the sky and the next roll of thunder crashed, my eyes flew to Dad's face. His contented gaze didn't change as the storm raged. Taking my cues from him, I didn't jump at the next flashes and rolls. I now asked, "Daddy, did you hear that?" and said, "Oh, Daddy. Look at that one!"
I don't know how long we sat there as he pointed out the ragged, earthy beauty of the day's storm and I don't know where my little sisters were. I can't say how long my mother hid out on their bed, but I do remember my utter lack of fear when he closed the window.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)