Author: melgrieves

One of the things I remember most vividly about my mother happened on every vacation trip our family took.  We typically went camping for two weeks near the end of summer, with perhaps one night a week spent at a motel, as we journeyed to various national parks.  Dad always drove and Mom sat in the front passenger seat with a pad of paper and a pencil.  As we made stops along the route to whatever national park we were going to visit, she would jot down a note or two on the paper.  She did this every day of our vacation.

When we started our vacation trips, we’d stop frequently to see the sights along the way to our ultimate destination.  On the way home, however, it was more of a direct drive from wherever we were to home, so there were long hours spent in the car. We three kids  played the usual car games as we drove – I spy with my little eye, my father owns a grocery store and he sells (blank), or counting how many different state license plates we saw on our travels across the miles.  After awhile, mom would get out her notepad and remind us of what we saw or did on our first day of vacation.  Then she’d offer the first line of a poem, and we three kids would chime in with rhyming lines relating to that day’s events. We continued this poem-writing process covering every day of our vacation.  It kept us all occupied in a joint effort, we learned a lot about rhyming and tempo, it was a good review of our whole trip, it made the time and miles fly by, and we had a lot of fun doing it.   The final version of each poem was descriptive, accurately depicted our adventures, and always included a bit of humor.  By the time we arrived home, the entire family, together, had written a two page long poem about every day of our entire vacation experience.   Sometime after we were home, Mom would type up the final version of the poem for us all to see.

I think those poems were the basis of my enjoyment of writing poetry to this day.  We studied poetry in school, of course, but I think this joint effort with the whole family writing the family vacation poem together made a lasting impression on me and fueled my love of poetry.

The sound of a train whistle evokes different emotions among the people experiencing it.  Some find it soothing and comforting while others find it annoying and bothersome.  My experience with the sound is with the former since moving into the Ovation community.  I feel a certain calmness when hearing the train whistle even in the wee small hours of the morning.

My connectivity to this sound is twofold.  The first and foremost reason is that the train whistle brings back wonderful memories of my husband who was an engineer on the ConRail railroad.  He preferred road trips where he could experience long stretches of the countryside as opposed to working in the yard building a long line of railcars awaiting future trips.

From listening about his travels on the railroad, I too wanted to experience what it was like to power a locomotive down miles of track knowing that you were an integral part of making the wheels of commerce turn in this country.  After many heartfelt conversations, I was able to convince him to take me on a road trip with him.

The experience was beyond my wildest expectations.  Not only because of a shared encounter of beauty with someone I love, but being privy to the sounds of the powerful engine, the sight of numerous controls and gadgets, and yes, the whistle that was blown before every railroad crossing; one long, two shorts, and one long. As the countryside passed by, I envisioned what it must have been like sitting in the engine with a crew shoveling coal into the old steam locomotives of yesteryear.

After returning from my adventure, I had a plan in mind of becoming the first female engineer in the country.  My girlfriend and I walked into the railroad office asking questions about how to apply for a position as an engineer on the railroad.  We completed our applications and left knowing our idea of making history was most likely short lived as it was intimated that this was a man’s job.

My other endearment with the train and its whistle is connected to a former colleague and close friend, Bob.  He went home to Wisconsin when he learned that his father was dying and only had a short time to live.  His father too was an engineer only on the Union Pacific railroad.  Shortly after his father’s passing, Bob heard a train whistle in the distance.  It was if the train and its whistle were signaling a farewell to one of its own family.

While the train may be a nuisance to some residents in the Ovation community, I’m thankful of its close proximity.  I take comfort and feel a certain peacefulness when hearing the train and its whistle while also knowing that I live on the crossroad bearing my late husband’s name.

In loving memory of Marvin Grant–

My dinner with the former boss of the San Francisco mob was unexpected. 

My life in a small Midwestern town was predestined to carry on the ancestral tradition of settling down, getting married and having children.  But kismet had another idea in mind by bringing my person and best friend into the picture.

The connection was undeniable and within a few months, I left my familiar haven in Michigan to venture out into the unknown.  The adventure was not only inspiring and memorable but terrifying since I was without my safety net. The

first stop was Arizona with the next stop being California 1 ½ years later where we decided to settle in the San Francisco Bay Area because of a career opportunity.

My first encounter with Jimmy “The Hat” Lanza was that of trepidation, wonder and interest as I learned of his criminal past.  You see, Jimmy was a Sicilian-American mobster and boss of the San Francisco crime family after serving as an underboss in the 1940s – 1950s.  Jimmy took control in the 1960s after his boss was indicted and sent back to Italy and served it that role for over two (2) decades.  Jimmy was engaged in gambling interests, contract hits, etc.  He also had ties to Las Vegas and other famous mob bosses across the country like Jimmy “The Weasel” Fratianno.

J. Edgar Hoover ordered an illegal wire tap on Lanza’s businesses for over six (6) years because the FBI was unsuccessful in recruiting informants to infiltrate his organization.

My colleagues would share their memories of Jimmy “The Hat” and his entourage pulling up in their expensive automobiles to the valet parking lot at Bay Meadows Racecourse, a thoroughbred racing facility in San Mateo, CA.  Their recollections painted Jimmy as a colorful person with stories to tell and a great sense of humor.  Jimmy et al., would saunter out of the race track with valet ticket in hand joking with the attendants while yielding a handful of cash as tip money.

My interactions with Jimmy started during our numerous chats in the hallway of the Executive offices at the race track.  Jimmy, wearing his signature fedora while being pushed in a wheelchair by his caregiver, would stop by my office usually with a gift in hand before attending the races.  In return, I would supply him with a stack of daily passes for him and his friends to use throughout the racing season.

He had an infectious smile and my fondest memory was the way he would yell

“MARIA” in that Italian accent as soon as he saw my face as he was being wheeled down the hallway.  It was difficult to process that the person I was becoming familiar with was involved in criminal mob activities for over 40 years.

One day shortly after his 100^th birthday, Jimmy asked if I’d like to join him for dinner at a local Italian restaurant.  I accepted his invitation and met him and his caregiver for dinner.  It was like something out of a movie with a number of guests stopping by the table to give their respects and kiss the ring.  I was in amazement as to how a woman from a small Midwestern town ended up in the company of a notorious mobster who was featured in Life magazine.

The conversation flowed easily and was interesting, but I found that I became fixated on part of his finger that was missing at the knuckle.  Being a movie fanatic with a wild imagination helped me conjure up possible scenarios of how he lost part of his finger.

At the end of the evening, I remembered going home feeling thankful for my bravery of experiencing a dinner with Jimmy “The Hat” Lanza and that I didn’t end up in the San Francisco Bay sleeping with the fishes.  

When I was growing up, we took a two-week vacation every summer.  We drove to a national park – a different one each year – and camped out along the way.  Camp areas were free then, but there were often no amenities – no laundry facilities, most with no bathrooms (you could find an outhouse every few campsites), and no covered area in which to gather on rainy days.  Usually one night each week we’d spend the night at a motel – just to shower, do laundry, and eat in a restaurant.  Those were the nights I liked the best.  I did not really enjoy camping – too many bugs – bees gathered especially when mom cooked bacon for breakfast.  And I hated the cold.  I tend to be a warm-blooded person and the cold really got to me.

After driving all day and seeing the sights along the way, late each afternoon we’d search for a campground, select our camp site, and begin our setup.   Camping areas being what they were in those years, my dad and brothers would pitch the tent and gather wood to build a fire; mom and I would get out the cooking supplies and fix dinner.  Dinner always tasted wonderful, especially since everything was cooked over the fire.  Most campgrounds had grills over a small pit, but sometimes we just had to cook over an open wood fire.

Laundry was a difficult challenge, especially at campgrounds with no running water.  In the morning, we’d use water from the river or nearby creek, heat it over the fire, wash and rinse essential items (mostly underwear), and then squeeze each item to remove as much moisture as we could.  The boys would ensure the fire was completely out and then we’d get in the car to continue our journey.  As soon as we got onto the open highway, mom would give each of us a piece of underwear.  We’d each roll down our window slightly, insert the item in the window with most of the item hanging on the outside, and quickly roll up the window.  As we drove along, the laundry would flutter in the breeze as we drove down the road.  Dad would tell us when we were coming to a town, and then we’d bring all the laundry inside the car.  (We certainly didn’t want the townspeople to think we were backwoods hicks.)  If the laundry was dry, great.  If not, out the window it would go again once we got through town. I found it rather amusing at the time, and I do to this day, but my older brother was always horrified to see his tighty whities  fluttering in the breeze as we drove across the miles.   It’s a sight not soon forgotten, so if you remember driving along the highways in the 1950’s and saw a car with laundry flapping from the windows, you probably saw my family on vacation! 

Nobody has been able to go anywhere for more than a year, and I’ve been stuck behind these closed doors for so long.  Nobody had come to see me for such a long time – months in fact.  I missed my friend who used to come pick me up, sometimes humming when we were together.  I felt lonely, unwanted, useless.  I used to have a purpose – I used to sit in the living room or the dining room with her, and she smiled when she looked at me.  She said I added color to her life;  she added love and purpose to mine just by choosing me and our being together.  I knew we were friends because she’d come to where I lived so often, pick me up, and perhaps we’d be joined by others that she liked.  Sometimes we’d end up in her living room, sometimes in the dining room, and occasionally even out on the patio together. 

Finally, I heard her humming, steps coming toward the door to where I live, and when the door was opened, there she was.  I was so happy to see her again.  She took me from my house and we went to her kitchen, and she gave me a refreshing drink of water like she always did.  Then she gave me some garden flowers to hold, and we went into her living room.  And she gazed at me for a long time and smiled.  Then her other friend came to the door, rang the doorbell, entered the house, and both of them admired me.  I held the flowers exactly as she wanted.  I was so happy to be her chosen vase.

Maybe this is the moment to reflect.

            Our family was inconvenienced, apprehensive, frequently frustrated but not infected. That didn’t make all our troubles trivial but they were not catastrophic. We were lucky. Very lucky!

            Ironically, our daughter and son-in-law have preferred working from home and one of our two sons and his wife have used the time at home with their infant daughter to great effect. The other son works in a well-managed and relatively safe environment. His wife, a teacher and nurse both, was at home to supervise their two active sons, for whom on-line school presented little difficulty and with the use of a sports park right across the street. As for the two of us, our greatest trouble was only being stuck at home with those wretched train horns.

            Looking back now and considering how we managed to endure the isolation and worry, we must acknowledge a debt of gratitude to the public library system, with an assist from those engineers and innovators who came up with Amazon’s Kindle reader. We found little of the broadcast programming or streamed content on the television to be satisfying anymore. Books became a lifeline.

            Never much of a serious reader growing up, I was momentarily thrown by a question from a panel member in an ornate university interview room.

    “What was the last book you read?”

    “Agatha Christie, I think?” Hoping that the panic didn’t sound in my voice. There was a pause, bordering upon eternity. Then he laughed.

    “That was honest.” I heard, while furiously trying to recall the titles of the Conrad and other books that we had been assigned in high school.

    Having survived the interrogation, I returned to the light reading that was a relaxation from text books. Later, it was a way to endure constant travel. A visit to an airport bookshop for a paperback in that pre-digital era was a necessary preparation to pass the time on a trip.

    Was retirement the point at which my tastes changed? No, I managed to read pretty much everything David Baldacci has ever written, along with the usual suspects in that best-seller genre, after moving in with Burlington Northern. But it did mark the return to library services and abandonment of the annual Seattle used book sale. However, the day finally came when anything that appealed on the library online listing was on loan elsewhere and a decision had to be made.

    I could not begin to chronicle my evolving taste in literature without resorting to Amazon’s database. Between us, my wife and I have read 650 digital books in the ten years since we acquired Kindles for Christmas. Some were published by Amazon but most found their way onto the list by the act of downloading to our Kindles from the library website.

     I have always been inspired by libraries, from the joy as a pre-teen of discovering a new adventure story in a favorite series, or when taking our own children to the library on a Saturday morning and carrying home an armful of books for the week ahead. They enjoyed being read to long after they were able to read well on their own, I didn’t mind and truly enjoyed The Phantom Tollbooth. I could not convince the oldest to read a “long” book until I struck a deal. I would read the first Hardy Boys book as long as she read the next one. That was all it took. So, I had a respite until the youngest took a shine to a well-written series based upon Welsh mythology and its multitude of tongue-twisting character names. I mangled most of them, but he wasn’t the wiser. The children regularly beat the library reading challenges, a strength that served them well through school and college and on to successful careers.

    I recently made a great discovery; the ability to recommend to the library system a newly reviewed but, as yet, unreleased book for a future purchase. Doing so puts you at the head of the list to borrow the book when it becomes available. I have scored several times on the actual day of release. A very satisfying feeling.

     In looking over our Amazon history listing for just the last eighteen months, I have read several books about political figures in the administration and Congress, in a quest to understand what I found so distressing. And, additional thrillers, police procedurals and courtroom dramas.

     More to the point are the illuminating biographies; Churchill, Bourdain, Trevor Noah, Elton John and the four founding gals of NPR were a few. Wonderful novels that include Beartown, The Goldfinch, Nothing to See Here and the not so wonderful Crazy Rich Asians. Plus, Jon Meacham’s The Soul of America, the memoir Educated and sobering books on the environment and evolution.

    American Dirt is a harrowing tale of the courage and perseverence of migrants from Central America and Nomadland is a depressing chronicle of impoverished seniors and their quest to survive by travelling to manual part-time jobs and living in their vehicles.

    In comparison to which, I can put up with the train horns.

I laid in bed and watched through my window as the sky became lighter and lighter. I knew it was early because the birds hadn’t even started singing. I was on top of the covers in my bed only in my pajamas and a warm housecoat. I planned this so I wouldn’t have to spend any time making my bed. I was toasty since this old house, I mean really old house, got warm during the summer. My room especially. I was up on the third floor. Dad said my bedroom used to be a closet or something like that because it was so small. He should know, he was raised in this very house. I even had to walk through the bathroom to get to the room. That was such a pain, especially if one of my older sisters was soaking the tub, and they stayed in it for hours. I had to turn my back as I opened the door, snake my way between the sink and the toilet, then finally get to my sanctuary. My friends thought it would be kind of cool to walk in on one of them, but everyone who visited was briefed as to the proper procedure. If they didn’t follow it, the screams from the water would bring Mom up the stairs and then there would be trouble.

Anyway, I just couldn’t sleep any longer. Today was the day. The family was going to the Montana State Fair in Great Falls. We hadn’t been able to attend for the last three years, either because Dad couldn’t get off work, or because he was out of work and we didn’t have enough money.

I was ready to help on that end. Mowing grass for my grandpa, washing the family station wagon, scavenging for returnable bottles, and weeding old Mrs. Mock’s garden provided a pretty hefty sum of eleven dollars and twenty nine cents to spend at the fair. I was going to buy some cotton candy, and a nutty buddy ice cream bar, then ride on every ride at the carnival. I was set. I wouldn’t have to ask Dad for one cent. The money was laid out by the little table next to my bed. There was one five dollar bill, six one dollar bills, a quarter, and four pennies. I had been searching for another penny somewhere so I could trade the pennies in for a nickel. Bob Seek, the grocer, said he would trade out the money if I found another penny.

I’m nine years old and can barely remember the last time we went to the fair. I recall riding a little kids train, but I was almost six years old and it was for babies. It wasn’t neat at all.

I didn’t hear any noise in the house, so I rolled out of bed, used the toilet, washed up, and put a dab of butch wax on my hair to stiffen my cool crew cut. I even brushed my teeth so I wouldn’t have to do that after breakfast. I got into the clothes I had laid out the night before. Clean underwear and socks, then I pulled up a pair of jeans with matching knee patches. Mom was really good at putting those things on. I got a brown and black striped short sleeved shirt, and slipped my favorite belt into the pant loops. The belt buckle had a picture of a space ship blasting through the universe. When you wiggled the buckle the space ship moved. Really cool! Finally, I slipped on my boots. They were pretty scuffed but I used a brown crayon to cover the light patches. The boots had a dark black stripe running up the side. I looked down at them. I was ready to go.

I wandered down stairs and saw that Mom was just starting a pot of coffee. She had already lit up a Camel. She always smoked and drank coffee every single morning.

“Mom, I announced, I’m ready.”

She turned around and looked at me and smiled.

“Well aren’t you the early bird.” She said.

“Can you get everyone else up so we can get going.” I asked.

“Honey, its six in the morning. The fair doesn’t even open its doors until ten o’clock.” She explained.

I started to panic just a bit. It took Helen and Alice forever to get ready, I knew. My older sisters had one speed, slow, and even worse when they were fixing themselves up.

“And your father has to change out that bad tire on the car before we can go anywhere.” She continued.

My entire plan was going to be ruined. I just knew it.

“Why don’t you sit down and have a bowl of Wheaties. It’s the Breakfast of Champions, you know.” She teased.

I got into the conversation with her as I headed to get milk out of the Frigidaire.

“I think I’ll just have what Tony the Tiger has. Its greeaaat.” I said without a lot of enthusiasm.

Still nobody up so I went outside and jumped on my bike. I rode around the neighborhood and it seemed like everyone was sleeping in. I waved at Mr. Mock as he headed down to the railroad depot. He was the station master and even let me play on the telegraph key once. He didn’t wave back. He was grouchy a lot of the times. I think it was because he had something called the gout. At least that was what Mrs. Mock said. I don’t know what that was but it must really be a bad thing to have.

I got back just in time to watch Dad change the tire.

“They just don’t make these retreads like they used to.” He muttered.

“This is the third one this year that blew its tread. One of these days I’m going to buy a brand new set. If only they weren’t so danged expensive.” He went on explaining to me.

I rolled the bad tire out to the garden plot. Mom would fill it with good dirt and plant garden stuff or flowers in them. We had seven tires all lined up.

I came running back to ask Dad, “Are we ready to go then?”

“Are your sisters ready?” he inquired.

I frowned.

“Why don’t you go and find out.” He suggested.

I took the porch stairs two at a time, flew through the screened summer room and went upstairs. I looked into the girls’ room. They weren’t even up yet. They were still a couple of lumps under the covers.

I turned on the light and opened the window shades then started singing “You are my Sunshine” as loud as I could. I was sure that might get them going.

One of them threw a pillow at me.

“Mom, Robert won’t leave us alone. Helen screamed. Get him out of here!”

I figured if Mom came up she would tell them to get moving anyway.

She didn’t.

“Come on, you guys, we’re going to the fair today, you didn’t forget did you.” I asked.

“How could we forget, that’s all you’ve talked about for the last two weeks.” Alice whined.

“Mom has pancakes with strawberries and whipped cream on the table. You’d better get going.” I announced.

They both jumped up and squealed as they put on their robes. Their favorite breakfast. They raced downstairs.

Two minutes later I was hiding in a closet while they searched for me. So I told a white lie. What was the big deal?

I emptied the garbage cans, swept the garage floor, fed the cats, and watered some flowers.  Mom kept suggesting things I needed to do before we could leave. I was really tired of waiting.

“If you wash the windshield on the car we’ll take off.” Dad promised.

I found a bucket and put some dish soap in it, added some water from the backyard hose and started in on the car. We owned a Ford station wagon with real wood on the side. I don’t know what it was for but it looked real neat. I got up on the hood, did a spiffy job, climbed down to announce to anyone who could hear me that the job was done.

“Mom’s still making lunch but go ahead and get in the car.” Dad said.

I raced out, climbed into the way back seat and waited. We called it the way back seat because it was all the way to the back of the car. I had that seat all to myself because my sisters always sat in the middle one. I could even lay down on the thing. I brought a couple of Richie Rich comics to pass the time.

Finally everyone was loaded up, the picnic basket sat beside me, and we were off.

We started through town and Dad stopped on Main Street to talk to some guy. They talked and laughed forever. Then the guy started talking about church and the new pastor and everything. I knew for sure we would miss the fair completely.

Again, finally, we drove out of town headed south to Great Falls.

Dad drove fifty miles an hour all the way. Everyone was passing us!

“Racing down the highway is tough on an engine. This car has to last a long time. I go under the speed limit so I don’t have to worry about highway patrol. Let those idiots past, they’ll only get there five minutes before me.” That was the stuff Dad always said when we were traveling.

We drove through the west side of Great Falls as I caught a glimpse of the fair grounds. The huge roller coaster stood high into the air. No way was I going to climb into one of those cars racing up and down on that thing.

We slowly inched along the line of cars until we finally reached the ticket booth.

The big board showed the prices of admission.

“Two adults, two over eight and one under eight.” Dad told the guy in the ticket booth.

“Dad, I’m nine now remember?” I said as I clamored to the front so I could stick my head over the seat.”

The guy in the booth laughed and handed Dad the tickets. I don’t know why he was laughing.

We found a great parking spot under some trees.

“Perfect, Mom said, we have shade and we can sit here for a picnic.”

“Aren’t we going to check things out first?” I asked, hoping Mom would see the wisdom in my suggestion.

“Eat first, Dad directed, then you won’t be hungry and fill up with all that carnival crap.”

So we sat on a big blanket, ate tuna fish and pickle sandwiches, fruit cocktail Jell-O, and drank cherry Kool-Aid.  No one was in a big hurry. Except me. Alice and Helen were busy checking out their hair in the car’s mirrors, and jabbering about maybe meeting some handsome boys.

Again, it took forever for Mom to repack everything in the very rear of the car, but we finally seemed ready to have some fun.

“Where do you want to go first, Robert, the cattle barn or the poultry pavilion?” Mom asked.

I looked at her and couldn’t believe what she had said.  The carnival and all the music, and kids, and rides were there waiting for me. The cattle barn!

So we looked at every rabbit, pig, pigeon, cat, dog, cow, chicken, horse, flower arrangement, vegetable display, and jams and jellies in the world. We saw more quilts, arts and crafts, and photograph displays than a person should be allowed to see. Then I heard the magic words.

“Girls, why don’t you and your brother head on over the midway and see what’s going on. Your father and I are going to be at the cowboy stage to hear some music. Make sure to stick together.” Mom ordered.

Those weren’t magic words, those were directions to a fate worse than death. I looked over at my sisters and they were thinking the same thing.

“Okay Mom, what time should we meet at the car?” Alice, the oldest asked.

“Let’s make it eight o’clock. That will give you a chance to see everything.”

I checked my Roy Rogers watch and saw it was already noon. Oh Man!

With that we were off. The music, and noise, and people milling around was wonderful. This was real excitement, real action. I was trying to decide what to do first.

“Oh look, there’s Judy and Bonnie.” One of my sisters squealed.

The girls milled around each other whispering to their friends, pointing out boys, and giggling.

“I’m going to try my luck at the game over here, I’ll be right back.” I said as I pointed to a nearby booth. I couldn’t hang around with that bunch another second.

The idea was to toss money onto a bunch of dishes lined up in the middle of the area.  If your coin landed and stayed you would get that dish as a prize.  I stepped up and started to dig into my pocket. A guy with stringy hair, a tee shirt and dirty jeans came over. He smiled at me. I think he only have about six teeth in his mouth. I handed him a dollar and he gave ten dimes.

“Try your luck, win a prize.” He shouted to no one and everyone.

I just about won something and was getting real close to making the dime stay on the dish. I cashed in one more dollar. The first toss was a winner. I was now the proud owner of a dark blue colored glass plate.

“Winner, winner. A winner every time”, the guy hollered as he handed me my prize.

“Hey you guys, look what I won.” I said as I proudly displayed the plate as I walked back to the group.

Judy and Alice laughed when they saw what I was carrying.

“Are you going to carry that around the rest of the day, even on the rides?” one of them asked.

I thought about it and knew it was a stupid thing to have tried to win. Ten minutes later I accidently slipped it into a big black garbage can. I had spent one dollar and one dime to win that dumb thing. I shook my head just thinking about the lost moolah.

I hung with the girls for another half hour but got real tired of them not doing anything except showing off to any boys nearby. I slipped away.

“See the fat lady, six hundred pounds, the bearded lady, the man who can swallow a two foot sword, marvel at the half man, half ape. Only twenty five cents to witness some of the world’s greatest curiosities. Step right up.” The little man with the big megaphone implored.

I rushed up and put a quarter on the booth top, and got my ticket.

“If you get too scared don’t expect a refund.” The man yelled out loudly as I started to pass.

The crowd chuckled and laughed. I glared at the little man. Frightened, hah!

I was ready to enter the tent when I heard my name being called. It was a friend of mine.  Billy Ford, who claimed to be a relative to the New York Yankee pitcher, Whitey Ford.  I didn’t believe he was related, he just said that to be a bigshot, I was sure.

“Are you going in there?” he asked with wide eyes.

“Sure, I said, come in with me.”

“I heard it was pretty scary, especially the guy who looks like a gorilla.” He said.

“Chicken, bock, bock, chicken.” I said to him.

“Alright, but you stay in front of me.” He demanded.

We went in together and moved to the edge of the stage. I couldn’t believe how big the fat lady was, and the sword swallower put two blades down his throat at the same time.

We watched as curtains swirled, and lights flashed. All of a sudden someone or something let out a loud bloodcurdling yell and jumped right in front of Billy and me. All I saw was wild eyes and hair all over its body. We yelped and headed for the exit before it could grab us.

“Jeepers, we almost became gorilla food.” Billy yelled as we tried to get our breath.

“I’m not going back there.” I announced.

We headed toward the rides and away from that tent.

I stood in front of a ride called the Hammer. It had the shape of a double hammer head at the end of a long steel platform. The rider is strapped in at one end of the hammer head and it starts rotating in a circle. I watched the people as they screamed and hollered to stop the ride.

I wasn’t afraid of the Hammer and would have climbed aboard but a person had to be able to be a certain height to enter. I stood up to the measuring board but was just a little short. Maybe I crouched down a little but not much. I’d ride the Hammer for sure next year.

I never did see my sisters again but saw a couple of other friends. We rode a few rides, played some games, and ate for cool fair food. The best was cotton candy. I went back for seconds.

My money was getting low and the day was ending. I was looking for a souvenir. I didn’t want any balloons or pinwheels or any of that junk. I wanted something cool.

Suddenly, it was right in front of me.  A woman with tattoos of roses all over her arms was selling hats. They weren’t like baseball hats, but kinds of a sporty look to them. My uncle Hank wore something like it when he has a date with some woman. Mom never let him bring his dates over to the house for some reason.

“Looking to buy a hat?” the lady asked me.

“Yes, but how much?” I asked.

“The hats are two dollars and I will embroider your name on the front for free. You also get to pick a free adornment for the hat.” She explained.

I didn’t know what an adornment was but some kid walked away with a feather sticking out of his newly purchased hat.  I figured that was what an adornment was.

“Okay, I think I want a red one.” I decided as I pointed to the pile of hats.

She grabbed a few and set them on my head until she decided one was a good fit.

“Okay, what’s your name? I’ll sew that one the hat.” She said.

“Rober..uh, Bobby. Just Bobby.” I answered.

My family all called me Robert but I thought Bobby, the name Mary Ellen Fisher used when she flirted with me, was cooler.

“And I’ll take that tall white feather as an adornment.” I said using the new learned word.

She set the hat in a machine and it quickly sewed my name. She put the feather through a couple of slits in the side, then set in on my head.

“Looks pretty sharp, young man.” The tattooed lady said.

I gave her two one dollar bills. I walked away and just knew that everyone was checking out my head gear. I liked it.

I got back to the car just before Alice and Helen so I imagined Mom and Dad didn’t figure out that I didn’t stayed with my older chaperones the whole day. And we kept quiet.

I got compliments all around concerning my hat, and was careful not to bend the feather as I got into the car. I would keep this hat forever, and maybe even wear it to Easter Sunday Services, or Christmas parties. After all it was red and white.

We slowly left the fairgrounds along with a long procession of cars doing the same. I looked in the rear window and watched the bright and blinking night lights of the exciting rides fade into the distance.

I sat quietly and thought back about the entire day. What a fun time, even if the gorilla guy attacked Billy and me.  It all faded to dark as the old station wagons tires drummed on the highway.

Note to readers: This is a piece of fiction I wrote years ago, intended to be part of a novel about victims of childhood sexual abuse dealing with those issues in their adult lives. I served on a board of directors for a nonprofit organization established to help people struggling with these issues. I think I’ve lost what it takes to do justice to such a novel. It’s too gut-wrenching. But I still like this piece. My own grandmother Maude shows up as a character, as does my hometown.

* * * * *

© 2011 Melody Grieves.

MEMORIAL DAY

When I was little, I called it “Remembery Day.” It’s one of the few times I can recall my parents noting anything I did or said was cute. Mostly they didn’t pay me much attention at all, which is probably the reason I prized the attention I got from my brother Charlie. I would do anything for his approval, and would forgive him just about anything. If not forgive, then forget. I had a lot to forget, as it turned out. I remember the day I decided to start forgetting big chunks of my childhood. Memorial Day, 1965. I was 13.

Meekerville’s Memorial Day parade got under way at 10 a.m. That meant I got up early to decorate my bike. Since we turned six, Sally Duncan and I always rode our bikes in the parade. In the early years we joined the procession for the last half mile as it passed our houses on Main Street, winding up the only hill in town, and ending in the cemetery with the veterans-led ceremony and 21-gun salute. We were used to that half-mile ride. We made it often during the summer, accompanied by Sally’s older sister, for afternoon picnics. We liked the oldest part of the cemetery, where the pine trees had grown tall and the weathered tombstones served as table and chairs. Sally’s sister would sneak off with one boy or another while we sipped Kool-Aid and munched our sandwiches and made-up stories about the people buried beneath us.

But on this, my thirteenth Memorial Day, I would start where the parade started, south of town near the little league fields, along with all the veterans in uniforms, high school marching band members with white spats covering black sneakers, farmers on tractors, village VIPs in convertibles, 4-Hers on horseback, and half the town’s kid population on bikes, decked out with flags and streamers, bringing up the rear. And I would be going without Sally, who had recently decided she liked boys more than bikes. If that’s what turning 14 meant, I wasn’t at all anxious to do it.

I awoke before the alarm went off, pulled on cutoffs, a sweatshirt and new PF Flyers, then scrambled downstairs, carrying the box of crepe paper, Kleenex flowers and miniature flags. Maude was already stirring up breakfast.

“Sit down and eat first, monkeyshine,” she told me. “Made your favorite. Ham and raw-fried potatoes.”

I considered skipping the food. “Do we have syrup for the potatoes?”

Maude made a face at me. “You’re a funny kid. Who ever heard of such a thing? Yeah, we got syrup. Get it out of the cupboard if you got to have it.”

“Okay, I’ll eat first.” I found the familiar shape of Mrs. Butterworth without having to duck my head into the dark cupboard and settled in at my place at the kitchen table.

Mom, still in her robe, came into the kitchen, her beehive hairdo still adorned with the toilet paper wrap that kept it in place during the night. She used to always be the first one up in the morning. She used to never let people see her with the toilet paper on her head, and no matter how early I got up, the bathroom already smelled like Dove soap and Aquanet hairspray. But this past year she was sleeping in later. Staying up later too, watching tv and snacking on candy she kept hidden in those deep robe pockets and going to bed long after everyone else in the house was asleep. She peered into Maude’s skillet. “I was going to make Tom some pancakes.”

“Too late. He’s already gone down to the coffee shop.”

I wondered if Dad would come back home in time to help me decorate my bike. It was kind of a tradition with us. Where Mom lacked any sense of color coordination or artistry, Dad had a good eye for detail and design. And he was good at staying in the background and advising, rather than Mom’s impatient habit of busting in and doing it for you. Not that I really needed help anymore. I just liked those times with Dad.

Mom got out the Bisquick anyway. Making pancakes was her holiday morning tradition, even if the dog was the only one eating them. She cracked an egg into a bowl. “Oh, he’ll be back for pancakes. He loves my pancakes.” She stopped and stared out the window for a moment. “No,” she said. “Don’t say it. I know. It was Charlie who loved my pancakes.”

Neither Maude nor I had planned on saying any such thing.

Mom got the milk out of the fridge, added some to the bowl. She never measured when she cooked. “This is the first Memorial Day without him.”

I thought back to just a week after Memorial Day last year. That was the weekend Charlie died. We’d seen a lot of firsts without Charlie in the past year, a lot of pancakes going to the dog. First Fourth of July without Charlie, first Labor Day without Charlie, first Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years, Easter and assorted birthdays without Charlie. I suddenly found myself feeling guilty for being glad this was the last first anything without Charlie.

Maude sat at the table with me and slurped in a swig of coffee. She winked at me. “Ahhhh…black as the devil and hotter ’n hell.”

Mom, pulled back to the present by her own mother’s irreverence, whipped the batter with a fork and smiled grudgingly. “Oh Mama, honestly!”

I was glad for Maude’s humor. She was the only one in the family who still acted like herself. Dad was not around much since he’d started working nights, and now even quieter during the times he was around. Mom was moodier than she’d ever been, which was saying something, and you had to be careful to quickly disappear when she went off on one of her tantrums or crying jags. I guess I was different too, but I couldn’t say how. It seemed befuddlement was my usual mental state, not knowing exactly how to act. Afraid of some feelings, ashamed of others.

But you could depend on Maude. And since she was in a humorous mood, I figured I could cajole her into giving up one of her bridge decks and a few spring-loaded clothespins for noisemakers on my tire spokes. She went for it, after giving me a bit of a hard time. I set to work giving my bike its best Memorial Day showing to date.

Maude and her cronies lined the front porch and hollered and waved when I rode by the house. Dad sat on the other end of the porch, his nose in the newspaper, and didn’t notice. I saw Mom come out the front door as we rounded the corner toward the cemetery. At least she was dressed and the hair t.p. gone.

Once at the site, I hiked my bike up the grassy hill so I could watch the ceremony from a secluded spot. The program wouldn’t start until all the folks who walked along behind got there. I knew the routine. Old Colonel Dubanich would give his speech about patriotism and sacrifice. The mayor would read the names of Meekerville residents who had died in the World Wars, Korea, and now Viet Nam. It would end with the 21-gun rifle salute. That was the part I both loved and hated. I loved the idea of it, showing honor and respect to fallen heroes, so fiercely that you hoped their spirits would be able to hear it. Yet the crack! crack! crack! of the shots disturbed me on a level that I didn’t understand. More than just the loudness of it. Standing 50 yards away didn’t diminish the shock of the gunfire much, but it let me be alone with my thoughts and fears, without interruption or influence.

This year was no different. Except for two things: my mother had made the walk up to the cemetery; and the newest name on the list of the fallen was Charlie McGee, first Meekerville casualty of the war in Viet Nam.

I couldn’t take my eyes off Mom. She, too, stood apart from the crowd, but not as far as I did. I was sure she hadn’t seen me. The way she stood there, her cotton print dress fluttering in the breeze, reminded me of the photo in the picture box, the one where she was holding Charlie as a baby. They both had this way of standing on one leg, the other knee cocked and toe pointed to the side. There were more pictures of Mom with Charlie in the picture box than there were of any of the rest of us in any combination. And not even one picture of Mom and me. Of course, we all knew Charlie was her favorite. When they told her he’d been shot and killed, she wailed “Oh no, not Charlie! Dear God, not Charlie!” I knew she really meant “Take Elizabeth or Janet or Bill or Kathy, but not Charlie.”

We all loved Charlie. He was trouble, but he was also charming and full of light. Some of my earliest memories are of Charlie…taking us swimming at the lake, meeting me on my way home from school with a fun surprise, not minding if I tagged along with him and his buddies to the drug store for a Coke. My sister Janet considered it a pain to have to babysit me, and often foisted me off onto Charlie, who didn’t have a problem with it at all. He was more of a hero to me then than he was now as a fallen war vet.

Charlie could do no wrong in my mother’s eyes. Even though he had done plenty wrong in his short life and finally paid for some of it. He got into fights in school. Mom would say he was probably defending someone else. He did stupid, dangerous things, and Mom would marvel, “That boy just isn’t afraid of anything, is he?” He got a girl pregnant and married her and they lived with us until they moved into a dumpy little apartment on the edge of town, and all Mom would come down on was the girl who tricked Charlie into marrying her; Mary Jo, who was all of 14 when she met 20-year-old Charlie. When Charlie went to prison for robbing a gas station, Mom was certain it was Mary Jo who’d talked him into it. And then Mary Jo had the nerve to divorce him while he was in prison—the slut, the bitch—and that’s why Charlie went off and joined the Army and got himself killed in Viet Nam. Having nothing other than my mother’s perspective on all this stuff, since no one else in the family would dispute her, I guess I pretty much believed her.

Except… except…I couldn’t quite name it. Except there was a flip side to all of that hero worship. I mourned the death of my brother, but there was another Lizzie inside me who felt relieved, saved even. When Mom had asked me to read aloud Charlie’s obituary in the local paper, I smiled when my name was listed as one of his “survivors.” I immediately felt ashamed of myself and hoped she hadn’t seen it, but didn’t dare look up or stop reading, scared of her reaction if she had.

What had I been afraid of? That she would slap me like that other time? Oh God, I was beginning to feel sick. I didn’t want to remember all this. Colonel Dubanich was nearing the end of his speech. Soon the names would start. I was here to honor heroes like my brother, and all I could think about was the morning years ago when Mom came into my room to see why I wasn’t up and getting ready for school. I told her my tummy hurt. She pulled back the covers to check me out.

“Elizabeth! Where are your pajamas? And underwear? Why aren’t you wearing any pants?”

“Charlie took them off last night.”

She stood over me, silent for a moment. Then she slapped me hard across the face. “Don’t ever say anything like that again. Charlie would never do such a thing. You’re a dirty little liar. Now get up and get dressed and go to school!”

Charlie had warned me not to tell anyone about his nighttime visits or the tricks he and his friends had me do for treats, but I guess with not feeling well and being half asleep, I’d forgotten. As hurt and shocked as I was, Mom’s reaction scared me more than anything. I remember feeling confused, but knew in my heart that the best thing to do was to stay quiet and out of the way, and if I could, forget about the whole thing. It wasn’t much later that Charlie married Mary Jo and told me he had someone else to do tricks with. I’d resented Mary Jo, so like Mom, I tended to blame her for all the new problems in Charlie’s life. And I’d muddled on, busy with learning the things that a kid is supposed to be learning and put those confusions out of mind.

Until this thirteenth Memorial Day. Suddenly unwanted memories crashed back into my head and I could not stop them.

The guns started to crack. I bolted, pedaled my bike around tombstones and over graves until I got to the path that led to the old section and the safety of the tall pines. I sat on a marker with its name lost to time, and cried until I puked my guts out.

By the time I felt like riding home, the crowd had gone. I rode around the cemetery’s perimeter road just to make sure I avoided anyone who might still be there. But that led me past Charlie’s grave, and there was Mom, lying on top of it, curled up like a baby and bawling full out. I was close enough to hear her, but held back, out of sight. She would be more unpredictable than ever in that state, and I wasn’t feeling too sure of myself, either. I yearned for a closer connection with her, but I was also afraid of her. I ached for her loss, and I hated her for not seeing my pain. I missed Charlie, but hated him for making my life so complicated. Hated him for the sickening memories. I knew I would probably never understand it all. It was just too hard.

I’d missed seeing Maude coming up the road. She knelt beside Mom, shook her shoulder gently. You rarely saw Maude do anything gently. She got Mom to her feet, wrapped a sweater over her shoulders and kept an arm there as she walked Mom slowly out of the cemetery. I got close enough to hear Maude tell her, “Just keep putting one foot in front of the other. Just do what you got to do, hon.” I turned my bike around and took a long route home. I promised myself I would forget all things sickening, all things painful. I never rode through the cemetery again.

That night I had my recurring nightmare for the first time. In it I am on Charlie’s grave, digging down through the dirt with my hands. I’m wild. I’m screaming. I’m crying. When I get to his coffin, I claw through that too. My fingers are bloody stubs filled with splinters. I break through the white silk lining and rip it apart. And I find bones. Not even an intact skeleton. Just dry, hard bones. I start gnawing on them like a dog. I gnaw until my teeth fall out, my mouth and face are dripping blood. Then I look up out of the grave and…that’s when I woke up.

That’s when I always wake up. And that’s when Maude came in that first night to calm me. I must have been screaming for real. Whenever I have the nightmare, and I wake up and realize it’s a dream, I close my eyes and imagine her there. She sits by my bed for a while, patting my hand, until my breathing gets normal again.

I say, “How are we going to make it out of here?”

And she says, “One step at a time, Lizzie. One step at the time.”

And I ask, “What are we going to do?”

And she tells me, “We’re gonna make raw-fried potatoes. We peel one potato and slice it, and put it in the pan. Then we peel another potato and slice it and put it in the pan. And we keep doing that until we have enough for everybody. And when they’re cooked just right, we sit down and eat them and forget about everything else.”

“And we put syrup on them?”

“Sure, monkeyshine, if you got to have it, you put syrup on them.”

“And that’ll work?”

She smoothes the hair off my forehead and turns out the light. “It’ll work for now, hon. It’ll work for now.”

So this is what it’s like to be dead. I woulda bet my last dollar that it wasn’t nothin’ like this. Not that I had a dollar left. After that last hand, lucky I had enough in my pocket to buy me some Jack Daniels, or I’d have died sober, and Lord knows that woulda been a shame. Wish I had a bottle right now, waitin’ for them two nitwit daughters of mine to make their way across the state of Washington so’s they can bury me. I wonder how long I have to do this. There are lots of other places I’d rather hover over, if that’s what I gotta be doin’. Jesus.

Angie, “nitwit” daughter number one, age 55, short and chubby with gray hairs dyed to match their original mink hue and smooth skin kept that way with three daily applications of Oil of Olay, squeezed the steering wheel hard as her Camry finally crested Snoqualmie Pass.

Her sister Sarah, ten years younger, nearly a foot taller, half as wide and twice as pretty, even with no makeup and gray hair undoctored, crossed lanky arms over her chest and slumped against the passenger door.

“Stop sulking,” Angie told Sarah. “I’m sorry if this interrupts your holiday plans. If you’d stayed home for Christmas like a normal person, maybe it wouldn’t be so tough on you.”

Here we go, thought Sarah. Guilt trip number 437.  “Can we please not have that conversation again?”

“It’s just that it hurts, the fact that you’d rather spend Christmas with strangers than with your family. And now you’re the only family I have left. Next year you simply must spend it with me and Joe and the boys. We’ll have everyone for Christmas Eve dinner, then we can go to the midnight service at the church and then we can gather again in the morning to open presents. It would be so perfect to have everyone there, and we can do something special to honor both Mom and Daddy. I know it would make them so happy.” Angie wiped tears away and wiggled her gloved fingers at Sarah, indicating her need for a fresh Kleenex.

“Christ, Angie, they’re dead! They won’t be there smiling down on us. Mom’s in the ground, and Dad…what are we going to do with Dad, anyway? I’m not contributing one dime to memorialize or bury him. We still need to talk about that.”

Yeah, I wanna know what you’re doing with the old man, too. I don’t suppose your ma sprang for a spot at the old cemetery for her first husband. But wouldn’t that be a hoot, spending eternity together after all.

“So, come on Angie. Tell me the whole story. Why does it take both of us to drive to Spokane to deal with this? We can’t exactly bring Dad’s body home in the trunk of your car. He should just be buried in a pine box over there, or let that woman he was shacking up with put on a funeral.”

“Well, there’s legal paperwork and because they weren’t married, Maxine doesn’t have a say in anything. And you’re here because I’m tired of dealing with everything all by myself and needed the company.” As Sarah rolled her eyes and turned to watch the scenery fly by, Angie reached over and touched her shoulder. “By the way, thanks for coming, Sis. It means a lot to me.”

Heh heh. The old lady taught Angie real good about that passive aggressive shit. Come on Sarah. Show some of that spunk you always had.

“And besides,” Angie continued, “Maxine has already moved on. Left town. Vegas, I think.”

“How appropriate. A deserter just like Dad.” Sarah glanced at Angie and could see she was winding up for that old argument. “Oh never mind, let’s not go there. So what’s the plan for Spokane?”

“He did love you, you know.”

“Yeah, right. Look, we have other things to figure out. Do we have to clean out his apartment, or did Maxine take everything?”

“I don’t think there was much to take. He’d had a run of bad luck lately and they were living in a motel room.”

Sarah shook her head.

“It’s a disease, Sarah. Addiction is a disease.”

“Are they sure it was a heart attack and not his liver finally giving up? Or maybe he cheated one too many times and a poker buddy did him in.”

“He tried to quit, really he did. He wasn’t a bad man, Sarah. You just didn’t get to know the real him.”

“That wasn’t my fault, you know.”

Oh Christ. They sound like their mother and me. All that useless arugin’. And they wonder why I left. I don’t have no disease. I just needed to drown out all the nagging and bitching. They’re half way to Spokane and I still don’t know where they’re gonna lay me to rest and I hope to hell after they do I can get on with my afterlife. I got places to go, things to do. Least I think I do. Hurry up girlies.

Sarah put her seat back and closed her eyes. “I have a headache. Can we just be quiet awhile?” Glad that Angie took the request to heart, to the point of not even answering, she practiced deep breathing and tried to relax. She remembered countless car trips along I-90 when the family moved first one way, then the other. And the final drive when she and her mother moved to Seattle after her father left them for the last time. Angie had already grown up and left home by then, marrying Joe when she was just 19 and pregnant. She never knew how bad it got with their dad. And even if she had, thought Sarah, Angie would still cling to her romantic notions and ignore reality. Just like her deal about Christmas. Ever since Sarah could remember, Angie had been trying to have the perfect family holiday experience. She ignored the fact that her husband and sons drank too much when they all got together and then said mean things. And when Sarah tried to stand up for Angie, they all turned on her, including her sister. So she’d stopped spending holidays with them and now had to put up with the guilt trips instead. Still better than the unsettling family dinners.

She’d actually lied to Angie this year, staying home and enjoying quiet festivities with friends while telling her sister she would be skiing in the mountains where her cell phone wouldn’t work. And that’s why Angie hadn’t called until three days after their dad had died. And why Sarah was suffering yet another attack of the guilts.

While Sarah nursed her headache, Angie chewed her lip and watched snow banks and pine trees whiz by. Once out of the mountains, the view widened over the high desert, now covered in white. Later, in Palouse country, cropped hills would take on an unearthly aspect, something Angie loved but Sarah called creepy.

Sarah knew how Angie saw things, she knew the arguments by heart. Angie thought Sarah always chose the negative when given a choice. Why couldn’t she see the good in their father? Surely she must have some good memories and now that he was gone, why not choose to keep those? Daddy had always called Angie his little angel and when he had money he never forgot to bring her a surprise back from his trips. She’d thought he was the funniest, handsomest man on earth and as an adult she tried not to make the mistakes her mother had made, not to irritate and nag her own husband. If you did things right, your husband could think he was running the show while you pulled strings from back stage. Her mother had never learned that. She knew their father had given Sarah a rough time, but maybe her attitude warranted it. Well, some of it at least.

Angie drove on while Sarah dozed, and finally pulled off the highway at Ritzville, stopping at an Arco station. “I need to use the little girl’s room, and call that funeral home. I can’t find the directions I wrote down.”

“What funeral home?” Sarah was wide awake again now.

“Tell you about it later. I gotta tinkle and put on a new face.”

Sarah sighed, got out of the car and stretched, then retied her Nikes and jogged a bit.

I don’t guess these two are ever gonna change. Hard to believe they’re my kids. Angie such a do-goody tattle-tale control freak, little miss Christian housewife. God she was a funny lookin’ kid, and always too fat. But I kept tellin’ her how pretty she was cuz I figured she needed to hear that and I think it helped. Whoever said I wasn’t a good father? Then Sarah, she come along and she’s a stunner. Takes after me. Her I had to take down a notch so she didn’t get a big head. Guess that worked too. Maybe worked too well. Stupid woman actually don’t see how gorgeous she is. Dresses like a man half the time. Go figure. Hell, I tried. I just wish they’d get this matter of their dead dad resolved so I can move on.

Back on the road, Angie switched on the radio, and sang along to a song on a Christian rock station.

Sarah listened for about half a minute, then turned the radio back off. “Oh no you don’t. You’ve got some talking to do. I’ve been nice and quiet ever since you picked me up and yes I know you couldn’t get hold of me earlier and I’m sorry about that, but you really do need to tell me what you know and what plans you’ve made. Now, spill.”

“Well, you might not like one or two of the decisions I made. I mean, I didn’t have a choice. Someone had to make them.”

“I get that. Just tell me.”

“Well, it was Joe’s idea really, once we found out how expensive it would be to bring Daddy back to Seattle and bury him alongside Mom.”

“Not that Mom would want that in the first place. Jesus, Angie. I can’t believe you even considered it. Well, if you’re not doing that, that’s one less thing I have to get mad about.”

Angie squinted sideways at her sister, the way she used to when they were kids, just before she would stick her tongue out at her. Sarah watched; no tongue flick. She was beginning to find humor in all of this.

“So we contacted a funeral home in Spokane, and my heavens, it wasn’t much cheaper to have a service there and bury him in eastern Washington. I mean, funerals and burials have gotten so expensive and Joe is doing okay with the business, but you know how the economy has been lately and then I got laid off and we just knew you wouldn’t want to foot the bill.”

“You got that right. So what? We abandoning him to the state for the pine box deal?”

“No, I decided to have him cremated. It much less expensive, you don’t have to buy a coffin or a burial plot and we can have a service back home later at the church instead of some cold, unfamiliar funeral home.”

Cremated? Goddammit Angie. You must be fuckin’ crazy. I don’t want to be cremated, burnt up to nothin’ but ashes and dumped some place. I wonder if that’s gonna ruin this afterlife thing I’ve got going. How can I hover around and watch things if I’m just a fuckin’ pile of ashes?

Sarah sat silent. She’d never have guessed Angie would opt for cremation. It didn’t seem to fit with her religious views, although truth be told, Sarah never had asked what her sister actually believed. She just assumed.

“But wait, Angie, don’t they have to have the deceased’s will or written statement that says they want to be cremated? I think there’s some law to that effect.”

Atta girl Sarah. I knew you had a brain in you there somewheres.

Now Angie sported her little-kid indignant look on her freshly oiled face. Her head twitched and she prickled up her shoulders before answering. “No, but it does make it much easier if such a document exists. At least, that’s what the funeral director in Spokane told me on the phone. I assured him that we had paperwork to that effect.”

“We do? Dad left a will? I’ll be damned.”

I never wrote no goddamned will. What the hell you talkin’ about?

“Well, not exactly. Joe downloaded the forms off the internet and I sort of…”

Angie was chewing so hard on her lip Sarah thought she might bite clean through it if they hit a bump in the road. “Did you forge Dad’s signature?”

Angie wiped away tears and returned to her stubborn pose. “Yes, I did! God forgive me, I forged his signature. It just made the most sense.”

You little shit.

Sarah drew her knees up and lay her forehead on them. Her body shook.

“Sarah?  You okay? Really, Sarah, I just thought it was best and you were off skiing and I wanted to do the right thing but we really can’t afford anything else. Oh please don’t cry. Don’t be mad.”

When Sarah lifted her head, her eyes were indeed filled with tears, but she was laughing. Laughing so hard she couldn’t catch her breath, and then when she did, she utterly howled.

Sarah was still giggling when Angie drove into the parking lot of the Lucci Funeral Home, and when Angie pronounced the name of the place as the “Lucky” Funeral Home, instead of the Italian pronunciation “Loo-chee,” Sarah howled all over again.

Angie unhooked her seat belt and opened her door. “Honestly, Sarah. Get a grip.”

For once, Angie’s right. Jesus, kid. I can see losing it a little, and I know you weren’t so fond of me when I was alive, but I’m dead now and you could show some amount of respect.

“I’m going in to take care of business. You can stay here or come along. I don’t care. I’m used to doing everything by myself anyway.” Angie slammed the door and disappeared behind the giant white pillars at the front door.

She was back within minutes, having presented the forged documents to the director and given him the green light for cremation. “Did you want to see Daddy, Sarah? They have him ready for viewing. Not laid out in a special room, but refrigerated in a rented casket.”

Sarah held back more snickers. “Refrigerated? Oh, I bet he’s enjoying that.”

Angie nodded. “Daddy always did hate being cold.”

“Well, then, he ought to love the bonfire.”

Angie sank into the driver’s seat, leaving the door open. “They’ll cremate him as soon as we leave. We can’t get the ashes until tomorrow, though. It takes a while for the cremation, and then it’s a while after that before we can take him. I made reservations for tonight at a Best Western.”

Angie waited while Sarah let all of that sink in. “You want to see him or not?”

Sarah saw the mix of sadness and angst in her sister’s face and softened. “Sure, what the hell. I’ll go with you.”

Well, I’m skippin’ this show, kiddos. You go on in there and but I ain’t gonna go look at my own dead self. I guess I might as well get used to this crematin’ idea. Maybe I can sit on Angie’s mantel in one of them urns and just use that as home base between adventures. Hmph. Yeah, okay, maybe that’ll work.

* * * * *

Sarah insisted on driving when the viewing was over. “You’re too upset,” she told Angie. “And you drove all the way over here. Just tell me which way to the motel.” She checked them into the room, told Angie to relax while she went out to pick up dinner. She returned with a Domino’s pizza, two pints of Ben and Jerry’s, a deck of cards and a fifth of Jack Daniels. Angie was still in the shower, so Sarah tucked the ice cream into the mini-fridge and set up the table for dinner and cards. Then she fooled with the radio alarm clock until she found one of those stations that plays big band hits from the ’40s, the music their parents used to listen to. When Angie reappeared, massaging Oil of Olay into her décolletage, Sarah handed her a glass with ice and poured her a double shot of whiskey. “Here ya go, Sis. I figured we would have our own private memorial service right here.”

Angie took a look around, plopped down on the bed and burst into tears, crying full out, not the muted sobs Sarah had witnessed at the viewing of the body.

Sarah handed her sister a Kleenex and sat beside her and rubbed her back. “Aw, come on, Ang.  I’m sorry. I thought this would be appropriate. I’m not trying to be snarky. These are things Dad loved. Really, I meant it in a good way.”

Angie swallowed the last of her sniffles. “I know you did. And that means so much to me. I miss him so much already, and seeing that table set up with pizza and cards and whiskey and listening to that music just reminds me of when we were kids, before Daddy and Mom started fighting, and they would sit at the kitchen table with Uncle Don and Aunt Louise and they were all so happy. Of course, Mom and Aunt Louise drank highballs, not straight whiskey. I don’t think I’ve ever drunk it straight myself.”

“Well, it’s about time.” Sarah clinked her glass to Angie’s. “Drink up.”

“Here’s to you, Daddy,” said Angie, and sipped her drink like she was afraid it would bite her.

Sarah took in a big gulp. “Yeah, that too.”

There now, daughters, that’s right nice. I hate to admit it, but it brings a tear to your old man’s eye. If you can just leave things like that, maybe I find some peace in all this.

“Hey, Angie, remember how to play gin?” Sarah dealt them each a hand and sorted her cards.

Angie munched a slice of pizza. “I think so, but let’s wait til after we eat. Or the cards will get all greasy.”

Sarah took another long drink of Jack Daniels and suddenly her sister’s quirks and demands were easier to put up with. “Of course. We don’t want greasy cards, do we?”

They did get around to playing gin, though they argued over the rules, neither remembering them exactly. They drained the bottle of whiskey and ate Cherry Garcia ice cream and reminisced the early days, to Angie’s delight, until Sarah thought she could finally let go of some of her anger and hope for better days with the one family member she had left. When they finally went to bed, Angie fell to snoring right away, but Sarah lay awake a while, thinking about her father’s ashes cooling at Lucci’s.

Look at them, sleeping like babies. I always loved babies.

In the morning, Angie refused breakfast, saying she thought she might have a touch of flu. Touch of a hangover is more like it, thought Sarah, and offered to drive. They swung by the funeral home, where Angie, despite feeling queasy, insisted on going inside to collect the urn and to take care of any remaining details.

Sarah popped the trunk on the Camry. “Let’s put it in here. Don’t want any spills.”

Angie clucked her tongue. “You’re not going to start up again, are you?”

Sarah shrugged. “Just being pragmatic, not snotty.”

“Okay, okay. I’m just not feeling like myself.”

“Jack Daniels will do that do you.”

Angie propped a pillow between her head and the passenger door window, then sat upright again suddenly. “I almost forgot. Mr. Lucci said I-90 might be closed at the pass. They’re doing avalanche control today.”

“Damn.” Sarah turned on the radio to find highway info. “We might have to take Highway 2. Longer, but prettier.”

Angie groaned.

“Don’t worry, I know the way. You’re free to sack out.”

They made it to Leavenworth before Angie roused herself. Sarah pulled into the little town with the German motif and stopped in front of a bakery and sandwich shop. “Want some lunch?”

Angie stretched and checked her makeup in the visor mirror. “Yes, I believe I do. I feel much better.”

They ate a quick lunch and selected some pastries to go, then got back on the road. The food perked Angie up and she began to plan a memorial service.

“It’ll be perfect. Daddy always did love a family gathering.”

Sarah whipped her head around to glare at Angie. “When? When did he even attend a family gathering, let alone love it?”

“Maybe you were too little to remember. But I do. We’ll need to call all their old friends and relatives. Dad still has some cousins, though I think they’re in Utah. But they’ll want to come, I’m sure. Even some of Mom’s family will want to come, I’ll bet. I’ll get Pastor Freeman to officiate the service, and the Ladies’ Auxiliary puts on a grand buffet for occasions like this. Of course the boys and their families will come back up from California and I think I’ll use Morrison’s for the flowers. They do the nicest arrangements…”

The more Angie rattled on, the angrier Sarah got. But she held her tongue until Angie got to the part about burying the ashes next to her mother’s grave. “I know there’s space for family members in Mom’s plot. It can’t cost that much to add one little urn.”

Hey, little angel, that’s a helluva an idea. I like that! I always did love your mother better than any other woman I ever had. She probably wouldn’t believe that, but I did. If she’s hanging around like I am, maybe I’ll get a chance to convince her. I wonder… Whoa!

Sarah hit the brakes and skidded onto the snowy shoulder, dangerously close to the deep drop off to the Wenatchee River. “Absolutely not, Angie! No fucking way! You are not burying Dad next to Mom. Don’t you know that would be the last thing she would ever want? You remember all that crap about how great Dad was when you were young, but you forget how he hurt Mom with all the lies and the women and losing all their money time after time and the drunken meanness and gambling away her wedding ring, for God’s sake. You’re not burying his ashes next to Mom, Angie. No fucking way. And that’s that!”

Then it was Sarah’s turn to break down and cry, but unlike the night before, her sister did not melt and comfort her. She held her breath as she eyed the river below, just inches outside her door.

“He was never there for me, Angie. He told me I was ugly and stupid and would never amount to anything. Sure he’d come home happy once in awhile and I’d think things were going to change and that maybe he really did love us, that maybe I was lovable after all. But he’d turn sour again in no time. For years, nearly every night I listened to Mom cry herself to sleep. He was a bastard. And I’m glad he’s gone.”

Poor kid. I was a bastard, wasn’t I? Shit. This is like Scrooge having to watch his old Christmases or somethin’. Damn. Aw, quit cryin’, Sarah. Quit now. It’s okay. I did love you. I loved all of you. Please, I want you to know that, if nothin’ else.

Sarah’s crying jag didn’t last long and seeing Angie’s face, white with fright, suddenly clued her into their precarious position. She eased the car back onto the highway and the sisters rode in silence all the way to I-5, where Sarah surprised Angie by turning north.

Angie hesitated, but finally asked, “You know you were supposed to turn south, don’t you?”

“Don’t worry about it. I know where I’m going.”

Angie opened her mouth, then closed it, and sat up straighter and crossed her arms over her chest. She kept watch, but kept quiet, for 35 miles, when Sarah turned off I-5 at Mt. Vernon, onto Memorial Highway.

“Oh, this is rich, Sarah. What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m going to free us all up, that’s what.”

“Free up whom?”

“Jesus, ‘whom.’ Since when did you start saying ‘whom?’ I’m freeing up you, me, Mom, all of us, even Dad. Especially Dad. No more bullshit. No more dreaming of a perfect family. It’s time to let that go.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Now tell me where you’re going.”

“You’ll see.”

“This is my car, have you forgotten that? You’re hijacking my car.”

Sarah laughed. “Now that’s funny.” She pulled into a scenic view parking lot. The historical marker sign was titled “Deception Pass.” She climbed out of the driver’s seat, walked to the back of the car and opened, then closed, the trunk. She walked round to Angie’s side and opened the door. “Come on, we’re going on a little hike.” Under her arm was their father’s urn.

Hey, wait a minute there girlie. Where you going with that?

“Oh Sarah, no. Not here.”

“Why not? Can you think of a place with a better name for this guy?” She lifted the urn’s lid and peered inside. “S’alright? S’alright!”

“You can’t, Sarah. You can’t decide that all on your own. It’s not fair.”

Sarah shrugged and turned toward the trail. Angie grabbed the sack of pastries and toddled after her. “Don’t go so fast. Sarah!”

But Sarah made it to the overhang close to the water long before Angie did. The trail was well maintained and easy to travel, but Angie was slower at physical things. Plus her fancy boots couldn’t keep up with Sarah’s Nikes. Sarah leaned over the railing and watched the churning water, blends of turquoise and navy blue outlined with white trails of foam, all shimmering in the sun. While waiting for Angie, she sat on a bench and read the sign telling the history of the area.  A mix of good and bad, including tales of pirates, settlers, prisoners, Native Americans, dance halls, Dead Man’s Bay and something called the War of Pigs. To Sarah, it seemed the perfect place to let Dad loose. He would feel comfortable here. He’d probably feel comfortable being buried next to Mom, too, but that was not going to happen.

She licked her finger and held it up to test for wind. Nice and still. She removed the cap from the urn, and unsealed the closure on the plastic lining. She’d read about people tossing the whole bag into the water only to have some poor boater or fisherman come across it, ashes still in the plastic. Nope, Dad was going to be totally unleashed. Back to the earth, back to the water. A memory of him taking her fishing when she was barely big enough to hold her bamboo pole flashed in her mind, how she’d been so excited to get up when it was still dark and leave in the car with him. But then how scared she was being left in the car while he sat in a bar, and how worried Mom had been when they didn’t come home until after midnight.

She heard Angie’s approach, first by the scuffing and huffing, then by her plea to “wait, wait, wait!”

“I can’t wait, Angie. Come look, come look at the beauty and know that Dad will be happy here.

She’s gonna go through with it. Spunk, hell. That girl has balls! Wow, I’m floating, I feel like a bird. Goodbye daughters. Go fly, have good lives. I hope the water ain’t cold….

Angie bumped up against the fence just as Sarah turned the urn upside down. The ashes created a whirling vertical cloud, settling in one of those trails of foam.

Sarah expected Angie to be yelling or crying, or something other than just standing quietly beside her. She offered her the urn. “You want to keep this?”

Angie nodded and took it, then handed Sarah a cookie.

Sarah nibbled, then asked, “What are you doing for New Year’s Eve? I thought maybe you and Joe could come over and I’ll cook us a nice dinner.”

“Mmm-hmmm. That would be nice.”

“Ang? You’re not mad at me?”

Angie fished her second cookie out of the white paper bag. “Actually, if you want to know the truth, I’m kind of relieved.”

The sisters watched, mesmerized, as the white trail of foam carrying their father’s ashes scribed its way toward open sea.

“Well,” said Angie. “Daddy always did like to travel.”

I think everyone, and I mean everyone, can quickly conjure up the memory of travels in their lifetime.  But can you remember THE trip, the one experience of going from your home to another place in hopes of new adventure. The time when everything was wonderful and new and exciting and awesome.  Where the food would be much different than the usual fare at home. Maybe the language was foreign and communication was difficult but overcome with smiles and sign language and pictures. Or perhaps seeing firsthand the wonders of the world, Old Faithful gush at its appointed time in Yellowstone Park, or standing outside in the freezing cold just to see the Northern Lights put on their amazing dance of colors.

Oh course you can. And that moment in time is revisited with a discovery of snapshots in the bottom of a box rescued from the attic, or seeing a television program and suddenly telling the room of uninterested people, I’ve been there! Or having your children, who flew from the nest long ago, come back and reminisce around the packed dinner table about their youth. And one of them begins a sentence with Remember the time that. And it all comes flooding back. And most times the conversation usually ends with That was the best trip ever.

I just hung up the phone from a cousin who has lived in California since the early fifties. She reminded me of an event long, long, ago. A visit.

The memory of my first trip, first big trip, traveling from Montana to California was brought to mind.

I grew up the only son of a dry land farmer in northcentral Montana. My father was a veteran of World War II, a second generation farmer, and a lover of beer. Hamm’s, Great Falls Select, Pabst, Grain Belt, or Schaefer. He wasn’t particular. Just whatever was cheapest at the time.

Farmers, or maybe just my Dad, never wanted to leave the home place for any reason. I didn’t know if maybe he would miss a rain storm, or a weed sprouting, or possibly, God forbid, hail. Or maybe with five small children, the oldest being ten years old, the hassle would not be worth it.

In 1952 he bought his first new car, a Desoto Custom Sedan with fluid drive. I remember the morning he drove into our driveway with the car. We ignored the fact that he had left the night before to pick the thing up. One look at his face and us older kids immediately knew he had had a rough night.

Anyway, that Desoto was built like a tank, had a huge chrome front end that we fantasized to be a grinning monster with enormous silver teeth.  The car was roomier than our bedrooms. It was big.

Weeks later, my cousin little Bobby and I, named by the family as big Bobby, discovered a cool cigarette lighter and was amazed to see  that it heated up even without the car running. We, needless to say, burned about a dozen small circles in the plastic plate covering an area that would have held an optional purchase of a clock.

My Dad was philosophical about the incident when he announced the fact that sooner or later every vehicle gets a ding or two, or a rip somewhere.

And that nobody really ever looked at the damaged area anyway, except maybe Mother. He said that, of course, after he was done walloping my behind.

He never replaced that plate. It was a reminder of my youthful curiosity until he finally sold the car twenty years later.

Anyway, my Mother finally convinced Dad to take a week and travel to California, to a town named Fremont. Our young minds figured it must be a magical place since it was so far from home.

We loaded up, the huge trunk held suitcases, a stroller for the twins, a gallon Coleman water jug, sleeping bags, and a good size cooler full of ice and beer. We backed out of the driveway and were off.

My oldest sister, Alice, had, the night before, set out the different road maps that were to be used. She spent an hour measuring and looking for numbers then measuring again as the next sister, Helen, and I looked on. We were going to drive over one thousand miles! We jumped around and screeched for a while, not knowing in our exuberance that all of these miles would be in a sedan with seven people. Our first big trip, anywhere.

Within two hours we all were farther from our home that we had ever been. We drove right through Helena, the state capital, and home to many relatives, then south to Idaho. There were several stops along the way but only to use a facility, or get beer out of the trunk. We ate fried chicken and chomped on assorted vegetables during the entire day. We drank water.

Somewhere in the middle of Idaho, we finally stopped for the night. The excitement had turned to boredom to all out tiredness. We kids slept in our assigned areas that night. My older sisters side by side on the back seat, the twins fit nicely on the floor with the transmission hump dividing them, and I in the back window. The folks took up the front seat. We were all covered with blankets or sleeping bags. Perfect.

Breakfast consisted of cold cereal out of one of the new single use boxes. I had Rice Krispies. We didn’t have milk so water had to suffice. We were used to making do.

We took off again by five the next morning, gassed up the brand new car with the burn holes in the dash and were off. My Dad said it was going to be a long day because we were going to make it to Fremont come hell or high water, by God.

Traveling with five kids in the car was probably a real challenge for our parents. Generally one or the other of us tried to raise a ruckus in the back seat so we could be punished by being put in the front between our parents. Then, of course, the lucky villainous child would turn around to give a last insult by sticking out their tongue.

We all had imaginary lines on the huge expanse of the back seat. It was our private designated area that no one could touch. If one did trespass the immediate whine or scream or slug would be forthcoming. The twins, both girls, were so small they didn’t count in our space management. Then a window would roll down or up, always just the opposite of the sibling next to us desired. There was always a few back hands meted out from the front seat. The more beer my Dad drank, the easier it was to rile him so we had to be aware.

Somewhere along the way we stopped at grocery store. You kids stay in the car was the expected order.

In a few minutes the folks came out with a bag or two of groceries. I imagined apples, and sodas, and really good stuff that any six year would want. The beer cooler was refilled, and we drove away.

Needless to say, the air conditioner was non-existent, so four windows fully down, through Nevada, in early July, was supposed to keep us cool. Mom handed back grocery goodies to her expectant children. A slice of bologna between two slices of Wonder Bread. That was it. No mustard, no mayo, no nothing. She passed around a cup of water filled from the thermos to get the fine cuisine down.

When my older sister complained, she learned she could have had thuringer, or head cheese, or, gag, olive meat loaf. They were all Dad’s favorites. We were used to it. The good news, we got a handful of green grapes for dessert.

For supper, we had the same thing. The Wonder Bread, left open during the hours of driving through the desert didn’t fare well. So dry bread and bologna and a handful of grapes for supper.

How many more miles? Are we there yet? One of the twins has a dirty diaper. I’m thirsty. I need to use the bathroom..bad.

Shut up and sit back. We’ll get there when we get there. You girls can change that diaper. You just went.

I imagine that might sound familiar to most kids.

Car games got old, we cheated if someone guessed too quickly on I Spy, my older sisters could read books they brought along, I could only bother them to tell me what the words meant.

At long last we got to California. Almost there right, Mom. Yes she would say, in about six hours. We groaned, moaned, and whined until we were all asleep in the back.

Suddenly the car stopped, awakening us. We had arrived. It was late, or early, depending on which side of midnight it was.

We grabbed our sleeping bags, threw them on the living room floor and I was out like a light..

Early the next day our cousins woke us up. They were in swimsuits! They had a pool in the back yard! Our spirits soared!

Forget breakfast, forget everything.

 Mom, where’s my swimming suit!

I will always remember climbing into the beautiful blue colored water. I immersed myself completely. I slowly brought my head out of the water and looked at the Southern California sunshine sparkling on the top of the water. At that moment I forgot everything that had happened in the last couple of days. It was, I decided right then and there, the best trip ever.