I'm A Yia Yia (Grandma)!!!

I would like to offer a sincere apology for the long hiatus in posts.  I got the call early last Wednesday morning from my son-in-law that my Alex was in labor--I could hear her in the background saying "ow, ow, ow, ow" in a sort of panicky voice--yup, this was it.

Two and a half hours later the phone rang again to say that she was at 8cm. already--this time her panic-stricken voice was a bit louder and she could be heard summonning the help of God (she chose 'natural' childbirth (no epidural)).  Of course I was still awake from the previous call.  Still checking flights on the computer and thinking of my options to get 700 miles away as quickly as possible on the $150. I had in my bank account (wait, that was my husband's bank account and I couldn't use his money (he's not a very giving fella), so I figured I would find a payday advance place. When daylight came I would find a way to get the money and drive the 10 hours.  I knew she would be delivering soon so I told her husband to call me at work and I would leave as soon as she delivered.

I got to work, told them I was leaving and began to look for a pay advance store.  Guess what?  There's no such thing in the mountains of NC.  So my Toni was going to get a short term loan from her bank for me.  Really.  She struggles, often, to feed her children and was willing to lend me the money.  But not my own husband.  My eyes were opened very wide that day. 

Now here's the kicker.  My daughter's school bus driver was dropping off one of our students and I asked her if she, perhaps, knew of any pay advance places in any nearby towns as I didn't want to take the money from Toni.  She tells me she has cash in her purse that she was holding on to to pay a bill at the end of the month and wanted me to have it.  She said God spoke to her.  She cried.  I have never been so moved by such giving people.  So now, there are two people, neither of whom are my husband, willing to help me get to Florida to be with my daughter and new granddaughter.  Maybe it's because they are both mothers and understand.  Maybe God speaks to them but not my husband.  What have I married?  The disappointment grows in me every day. Every time I look at him.

At any rate, my son in law called me at 8:30 to say that Alex delivered baby Maria just minutes earlier at 6lbs.3oz. and 19 1/2 in. long.  I was on the road within an hour and got to Florida by 8pm to hold that perfect little baby.  I'm in love.  I stayed with them all week and just stared at this tiny miracle sent from heaven. And at the miracle that came to me from heaven 21 years ago.  My God I love her with every ounce of my being. 

Sunday was Alex's birthday.  I was still in the fog of happiness and went down to the tourist shops (she lives in a condo on Clearwater Beach) to find her just the perfect gift.  And there it was, a perfectly dainty silver necklace--its pendant, a turtle hatching out of a shell.  She's always had a thing for turtles.  It was only $10 too--bonus!  Well when my husband heard about it, he got his undies in a wad because guess what I used to pay for it?  The Visa attached to his account.  How dare I use his money to buy her anything when I shouldn't have bought her anything at all since she's wealthy and has everything she could ever want?  Yes, he said that--almost verbatim.  Now my disappointment is turning to raw hatred.

Again, what have I married? 

I apologize for the rambling.  This was supposed to be dedicated to my sweet little baby Maria.  Any words of advice on how to get past the idiocy and infancy of my husband?  I know you love him Gare, but really, he's an ass hole.  See?  Even baby Maria thinks so...

Gus, Alex and Baby Maria are all wonderful, healthy, and happy!  I can't wait to see them again as soon as school lets out.  Or maybe sooner...

Because do I really need more rocks in my brook?  I think the music is just right as it is.

Jen ;-)

My First Valentine

On this Valentine's Day, I'd like to tell you about my first Valentine.  I believe in doing so I will offer some insight into my forgiving nature where my father is concerned.

I actually can't tell you when I received my first Valentine because I can never remember not getting one--a card and/or some chocolate or flowers, a funny note...  Dad was just as thoughtful in his good deeds as in his bad--with me anyway.  He always put a lot of thought into making me feel special on special days, be it Valentine's Day, birthdays (except the one that he made me skip ;-)), Christmas and Hannukah since we celebrated both, any occasion that he thought I should feel special, he would make sure I felt special. 

My first Godiva chocolates were given to me by Dad, and whatever the gift, it came along with a note usually saying "Be Mine" with one of his many pet names for me (Kymus, Tilla, Aradomie, Fraymus, the list goes on and on) then signed "Love, Dad" or one of the pet names he had for himself like McFith (I believe this had a movie reference).  At any rate, it was real and it was kind and it made me feel special.

But it wasn't only on special days that Dad made me feel special--he was the only person in my life who showed me affection (okay, so they were very tight bear hugs that took my breath away, but they were hugs just the same, and I felt love behind them even if the words were never spoken), without me forcing it upon them.  I loved bed-time because I could force Mom, Dory, Gary, and Dave to hug me, but Dad did it quite often totally on his own. 

Just he and I would go for all day walks to get ice cream and while we walked we would talk and he would listen to me and ask me about school and my friends and my future. 

When I began to play the flute in 5th grade, he would ask me to "serenade" him.  Imagine a beginning floutist (much like a beginning violinist).  I know I sounded awful, but he would ask me to play song after song for him and close his eyes as if it were the most beautiful music he'd ever heard.  I got so good so quickly because of this, I was first flute when I entered middle school--beating out girls who'd been playing years longer than me.  Every new thing I tried, he encouraged me.  I still don't know if it was because he looked at me differently or because he realized the awful mistakes he'd made with my older siblings in forcing everything on them with punishments and belittling rather than encouragement.

As I said in an earlier post, Dad rarely held down a job so Mom worked long hours as a waitress.  Late at night when she would call for a ride home (she never drove) he would always take me with him and we would sing together along with the oldies station in the car, and he would tell me stupid jokes and sayings from when he was young like, "what a face, what a figure, two more legs and you'd look like Trigger" (Roy Rogers' horse), and he'd tell me to say "under the sheets" after every song title and we would laugh at how it changed the whole meaning of the songs.  He'd sing "Mrs. Brown you've got a lovely daughter", "Henry the 8th", "Raggmopp" and "101 pounds of fun".  He'd point out the advice in songs like "if you want to be happy for the rest of your life, never make a pretty woman your wife" (not really sure here if he wanted me to remain ugly or be a lesbian, but I listened intently at his words of wisdom.  I think he was talking about his own life, really.).

Also on these drives he would let me shift the gears as he drove and he'd always have to stop at a convenience store for some item or another and bring me out a "prize", usually marshmallow snowballs or some other such yummy thing.  I did love that time together.  And I did love Dad.  Here's a poem I wrote many years ago, shortly after his death that may put it into perspective a bit:

Tilla Fray, Kymus Arodomie.
These are the names
When you were happy
You used for me.
When you were happy
There was nowhere in the world
I'd rather have been
Than with you, Dad.
I reminisce--
About our walks,
Our talks,
Your bear hugs,
The way you made me feel loved.
I miss you Dad.
I miss the fun we had.
And I understand the bad,
Was meant for good.

Once I got to the point where I was no longer afraid of him--and he knew it--I could say absolutely anything to him.  I would argue for hours with him trying to convince him to get a job.  After hours of banter, he would finally cave and tell me that he would look "tomorrow."  Tomorrow never came as far as the job hunt, but it was still a victory for me.  Those sessions, where I learned to choose each word ever so wisely, taught me how to convince just about anyone just about anything.  A very good skill to have in one's arsenal.  It also taught me how to sooth the most savage of beasts.  In my last job, I had a boss who was infamous for his ill treatment of workers.  By the time I left that job, he would call me to his office (or those below him but above me would do so), just to talk him into a good mood.  And I would.  Every time.  I became a master because of Dad.  

I know that Dad was very mean, very often.  I also know he was mentally ill.  And I know that he was a man who knew right from wrong and chose wrong much too often.  But I forgive him.  And I thank him for his part in making me who I am--my brook has a much more beautiful melody for all of the rocks he put into it.  I only wish Dory, Gary and Dave had happy memories of him too because it's the happy memories that help to wear away the edges on the more jagged rocks.   Still some damn fine music though!

Jen ;-)

Let The Good Times Roll

Punishment is over, I've survived, wiser and stronger.  In the words of Rick Ocasek, "let the good times roll."  Even the "good times" though, were often uncertain and quite confusing for the nine year old child that I was.

Take for instance, Dad's toys.  He loved his toys: staple gun, knives, hammers, blow torch, you get the picture.  Most men do love toys/tools.  But not like Dad.  As he aquired them, he loved to test them out on the easiest prey.  Usually me, of course.

First there was the staple gun.  Whenever I wore my hair in braids, he would wait for an audience (generally my siblings), then stand me on my tippie toes against the wall, extend my 2 braids (I learned not to wear my hair in braids after several sessions of this) toward the ceiling as high as they would go and use his cool staple gun to staple them in place.  This was all done with a nice big smile on his face but with the underlying threat of compliance.  And there I would stand, in front of my audience who laughed heartily partly because it wasn't them, partly because it did look funny, and mostly because Dad would be angry if they didn't.  I don't remember how long I would stay there up high on my toes--probably until Dad left the room because the amusement wore off, but I would eventually gently remove the industrial strength staples from my hair and the wall, take my seat at the dining room table and work on some homework or reading or other thing that would be pleasing to Dad should he walk in and find that I was no longer attached to the wall without being given permission to do so.  "Games" were always difficult because I never knew where my boundaries lay as far as resisting or setting myself free.

Setting myself free was something that had to be done with his hammer and nail game as well.  The one instance I vividly recall Mom becoming angry with him was after one of these great games.  This particular day I happened to be wearing new clothes (a rarity for me) when he layed my on the floor and drove nails through my pants and shirt, into the hardwood floor, pinning me there like a chalk outline.  Mom got mad on this occassion, though, not because he was torturing her 9 year old daughter, but because he put holes in my new clothes.  Really Mom?  He beats your children to a pulp and it's this you choose to be angry about?  Go figure.  I guess she chose her battles after the whole splitting open of Dave's head after she thought her words or anger could stop a beating.  I'm actually quite suprised that he didn't immediately go upstairs and drive holes through every piece of clothing I owned.  Just to make a point.  But he didn't and my clothes and I survived to play another day.  Lucky us!

Rarely holding down a job, Dad had many hours alone while we were at school and Mom was at work to think up fun new games.  The family favorite for everyone in the family except me, was the never-fail, crowd-pleasing "You Light Up My Life," which was a popular song at the time.  In fact, I bet if any of my siblings are reading this now, they are already snickering a bit, just remembering the hilarity of it.  Dad lights his blow torch, corners me with the flame an inch or so from my face so I can feel its intense heat, and orders me to sing, "You Light Up My Life," which I do in my small, crackly voice and the crowd erupts in laughter.  You know how you hear that kids are resilient?  I'm here to tell you that's a bunch of crap.  To this day I cannot and will not repeat something someone tells me to, nor will I sing in front of anyone.  Makes learning new languages difficult (that's why I use Rosetta Stone, so no one can hear me repeating, then laugh when I sound silly).  I guess I'll always have a few issues, even after years of therapy...

Now I don't want you to think that only I got to play Dad's fun games.  Sometimes it was a family fun time (by family I mean the children and by children I mean Gary, Dave, and I because Dory rarely got to play with us, poor girl), like being tied up with ropes and left for hours sometimes to free ourselves.

Then there were the cultural games like Gestapo, which I told you about in an earlier post, and Russian Roulette.  If you are unaware of Russian Roulette, it is generally played by 2 or more people, sitting in a circle using a gun with only one round in it and one by one the players pull the trigger that is pointed at their temple until the "loser" finally gets the round in his skull.  Our version, luckily, did not involve guns but slaps or punches.  I'm sketchy on the details, maybe Gary or Dave could help me out here, I just remember playing it and hating it.

The last game I will relay to you is one that was actually palatable.  It was the clothespin game and it was played whenever we had company (along with the 'dead game' in which all the children tried to be 'dead' for the longest).  It was basically a contest to see who could attach the most clothespins to his or her body--like most games, Dave usually won this one.  So that's our family fun time in a nutshell, because nuts is what we all were/are!

 These 'games' make up some of my most rockin' music in my brook and are responsible for a great deal of who I am and what I can handle "in fun."  No one will ever call me a stick in the mud--I know how to have fun damn it!  I'm having fun doing the backstroke down my brook, listening to some wonderful tunes.  Let the good times roll...

Jen ;-)

TKO, But Damn It, I'm Still Standing

I'm yanked from the deep slumber that comes from pure exhaustion by a sharp pain on the top of my scalp and a feeling that there is someone above me trying to remove my head from my neck.  Dad is waking me via hair.  Like the drunk desperately trying to prove to the cop that he is sober, I try to awaken and focus.

"Did I give you permission to go to bed Puke?" is being forced through gritted teeth an inch or so from my face, which he is holding in place with his fingers woven through my long, stringy hair.  I am his marionette--he pulls my strings and my limp body moves to his direction.  Welcome, Jenny, to round three.

As it turns out, round three isn't so bad--a bit of name calling, some slaps across the face, some punches to the gut and a few knocks to the floor--nothing too intense.  The fact that I've been in a deep sleep makes it all kind of dream-like (I have what I consider to be a gift in the deepness of my slumber--I can have a full conversation, eyes open, with someone who wakes me, and not remember a word of it after I go back to sleep and awake again--it has been very helpful in instances such as the aforementioned "round three").

"Go to sleep, you worthless piece of shit," then he leaves my room and I do just that.  In the silence that is left I am Daffy Duck re-attaching my beak that has fallen to the floor, and moving on.  The adrenaline crash returns me to my deep, deep slumber.

I wake to the sound of music from my alarm clock and begin to dress for school.  Whew, respite from punishment.  I do believe that Dad has been waiting for this moment all night, he knows exactly what I'm thinking.  "JENNIFER!!!" jerks me out of my skin and I sprint to his room and, again, assume position of attention.

"Where do you thing you're going, Rat-Liar?" (The double names were always the best--he must've thought extra hard to come up with that one).

"To school?" I ask, beginning to wonder if my days are confused and it's actually Saturday, not Friday.

"You don't deserve to go to school because you're a rat and a liar.  Go to your room, Rat-liar."

"Yes." I return to my room and sit deflated on my bed.    I didn't see that coming at all--I didn't know he could do that but, of course he could, he could do anything he wanted.  He took away my birthday once (told me I would have to be 5 for another year) and he can do this too.  He's the father and it's the 1970's. I wait until I hear Dad go down the stairs, then I let loose the tears.  I watch Dory, Gary, and Dave pass by my room on their way down the hall and glance in at me with pity in their eyes.  It makes the punishment and the fact that I will spend the rest of my life inside this huge gray coffin, somehow palatable that my siblings may actually care about me.

The loneliness of my childhood forced me to rely pretty much solely on God for help.  He was the only one who listened and cared (He had no choice, really, he was the only one who couldn't or wouldn't walk away from or hit me for my words).  So all of the long, lonely hours in my room were spent asking God for help and making promises about my future behavior if that help was received. 

So goes the weekend.  I sit on or lay atop my bed praying and waiting to hear my name.  I respond to endure some form of physical punishment and listen to what a rat, liar, puke I am.  I am allowed after a day or two to join the family for mealtimes at the table but may not speak unless spoken to and the only time that happens is when Dad is hurling insults at me.

I begin to accept the fact that this will be the rest of my life when Sunday night rolls around and I respond to the usual holler of "Jennifer."  To my sheer suprise he askes me if I have learned my lesson.  "Yes," I respond with a stomach full of butterflies.  Could this mean what I think it means? 

"Why should I believe you?  You're a liar and a rat."

"Because I know now not to be a liar and a rat."

"Prove it."

Here's my chance.  "If you let me go back to school, it will never happen again,"  kinda sounds like my plea to God.

"Again, why should I believe you?  All you've proven to me is that you're a liar."
This is my last chance.  I need to make it good.  Lay it on thick.  "You have taught me that it's wrong to lie and it's wrong to get people in trouble and it will never happen again.  Please let me prove it to you by letting me go back to school."  And I really mean every word of it.

I see his face soften, "Alright, I'm going to believe you this time.  I better never get a call from your school again.  Do you understand?"

Do I understand???  Yes, yes, a million times yes!  Could it really be over?  "Yes," I practically shout at him.

"Go take a shower, you stink."

I am thrilled to oblige and so I shower, go to bed and return to school on Monday morning.  I've survived my first real punishment.  Yay for me in the tone of Willie Wonka telling the bratty children not to do something that will hurt them. 

Of course I didn't win, I never did with Dad.  It's a TKO but at least I'm still standing.  The weekend as a whole, is a rock that adds quite a bit of music to my brook.  I think I'll leave it right where it is and enjoy its guitar solo with a bit of oboe added for good measure.  What is pain?  Oh yeah, that's right, it's weakness leaving the body!

Jen ;-)