I love that people tell me their stories. My head is full of these memories, details, and endings that I've decided shouldn't stay locked in my head. Therefore, with no specific number in mind, I'll post one a day until I don't feel like doing it anymore or you beg me to stop. I say they'll be mostly true because I will change names and other details that would reveal the subjects' identities. I might also embellish to fill in details where the memory has gotten fuzzy. Before you ask, yes - some of the stories are mine, and while you're welcome to guess, I won't tell which they are. If you know me well and already know the stories, I'll ask you to just bear with me and not rat me out!
Mostly True Story #2: Comfort Food
Maybe it's your mom's tuna casserole. Maybe it's your uncle's famous chili or the marinara sauce it took your grandmother all day to make. Whatever it is, it's the food that you try to re-create so you can close your eyes, and with the first bite be transported to a time when you were small and there was someone big who kept the world from being such a scary place.
Erica gets this craving every now and again for the strangest thing - white bread with King Syrup spread on it. Ask her why on earth anyone would want to eat that and she'll tell you it makes her remember a day when she was little. She doesn't have many memories of her grandfather, but there's one that sticks in her head as clear as crystal.
She was about six years old and staring into the refrigerator, looking for a snack, when her grandpa wandered into the room. He didn't say anything, just looked at her and raised his eyebrows and winked as he reached over her and got the loaf of bread from the top of the fridge. Erica shut the door and watched him reach into the cabinet, past a stack of crocheted doilies, some boxes of tea, various canned goods and a jar of pickles, to pull out the bottle of King Syrup.
He got out two pieces of bread, spread some syrup on each one, put the supplies back, and handed one piece to Erica. She sniffed it experimentally, then followed her grandpa's example and folded her piece in half and took a bite. She liked it! Grandpa had created a monster. Every time Erica visited after that, she wanted syrup-bread. She never ate it at home, even though her mom kept the supplies on hand.
It's been about 20 years since her grandpa died, but Erica has informed me that she has never once made herself a slice. She says she thinks about it every so often, and once, she bought a bottle of King Syrup, thinking she'd go home and do it, but she never did. She says she's afraid it'll offend her adult palate and ruin the memory - of this weird, yet wonderful tradition she shared with her big person.
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
11 January, 2010
25 December, 2009
There Must Have Been Some Magic
I wrote earlier this year, here, about my cousin Vicki, who I've continued to think about throughout my life, though we hadn't seen each other or spoken in nearly two decades. If you look at that old post, and scroll to the comments, you'll see what I found last week - a new comment from Vicki herself. As of this writing, I'm happy to give the update that we've shared a few emails now and we're both excited at the chance to get to know each other as the grown women we've become. Michael tells me this is a bona-fide Christmas Miracle™, and I don't disagree.
Because Vicki told me, much to my delight, that she's still a huge Bon Jovi fan, here you go:
My wish for you is that every day, you have a little of the peace and kindness associated with this time of year. So many people say they love Christmas because it's the one day everyone tries to get along. What if, in that sense, every day was like Christmas? Just think about that.
Whatever you're celebrating today, whether it's Christmas, a holiday associated with your religion, or simply another day that you've woken up to life on this planet, I wish you all imaginable happiness. To those I love, may you know how desolate I would be without you.
Because Vicki told me, much to my delight, that she's still a huge Bon Jovi fan, here you go:
My wish for you is that every day, you have a little of the peace and kindness associated with this time of year. So many people say they love Christmas because it's the one day everyone tries to get along. What if, in that sense, every day was like Christmas? Just think about that.
Whatever you're celebrating today, whether it's Christmas, a holiday associated with your religion, or simply another day that you've woken up to life on this planet, I wish you all imaginable happiness. To those I love, may you know how desolate I would be without you.
23 November, 2009
Vanity Goes After a Fall
I don't remember the first time I heard about my mom's antique vanity; it's just one of those stories that gets repeated in the family every once in a while and just becomes part of the backdrop of the world as you know it. The world as I grew up in it included the broken pieces of the vanity, of which I only caught one glimpse when I was little, but I'm getting ahead of myself.
The story goes something like this: About 30 years ago, my mom was moving to a new apartment and, being surrounded by brothers and brothers-in-law, was not lacking in hands to help load her furniture on to the truck to move it. Unfortunately, said brother-type-people didn't do a very good job securing things and well, when you add a steep hill and gravity to a poorly-secured vanity, nature does the math and gets a grim result - all over the pavement. Ever since that day, my mom has lived by the rule "if I want it done right, I'll do it myself," and who could blame her? Lucky for her, and for the rest of us, she's competent and capable at just about anything she sets her mind to. She may be but little, but she is mighty, my mom is, and she loves as fiercely as she does everything else.
I, on the other hand, am not so little and not so mighty, not by myself anyway. I like to think of my philosophy a little more in terms of what happened to the vanity next. Sam Kelley, my great-grandfather, was a bit of a notorious packrat in the family. I was only 8ish years old when he died, so I didn't really get to know him, but from what I do remember, he was also a kind, gentle-souled sort of man. I like to think that this was the driving force behind his saving everything, as much as Depression-era thrift. Why else would he have gathered up the splinters and shards of my mom's beloved heirloom and stashed them away in his cellar, where they remained until after he died? I asked once, but no one would tell me anything other than I wasn't supposed to be poking around in the cellar.
Therefore, I'm left to draw my own conclusions. I have decided that Sam Kelley just couldn't bear the thought of seeing something treasured by someone he loved thrown away. I have decided that this was his way of loving - perhaps a subtle way, one that may not be noticed by anyone who didn't go looking for it. I could be reaching with this one, but it comforts me to know that this is at least a possible and plausible explanation, because I know how beloved he was, and still is among those who were lucky enough to know him. It comforts me because I see this pattern in myself and wonder if I might have gotten it from Sam.
I'm sure I could spend hours with an analyst to break down all of the reasons it's hard for me to come right out and just say "I love you," or why I smile and nod and keep my distance when inside I'm screaming for the chance to let go. I don't even think I could learn to flirt if it were taught at the graduate level. Well, whatever the reason, my heart or my shoes, I am who I am, and maybe, just maybe, people will see my unconventional declarations of affection for what they are. At least my apartment doesn't have a cellar, though it has got a vanity.
The story goes something like this: About 30 years ago, my mom was moving to a new apartment and, being surrounded by brothers and brothers-in-law, was not lacking in hands to help load her furniture on to the truck to move it. Unfortunately, said brother-type-people didn't do a very good job securing things and well, when you add a steep hill and gravity to a poorly-secured vanity, nature does the math and gets a grim result - all over the pavement. Ever since that day, my mom has lived by the rule "if I want it done right, I'll do it myself," and who could blame her? Lucky for her, and for the rest of us, she's competent and capable at just about anything she sets her mind to. She may be but little, but she is mighty, my mom is, and she loves as fiercely as she does everything else.
I, on the other hand, am not so little and not so mighty, not by myself anyway. I like to think of my philosophy a little more in terms of what happened to the vanity next. Sam Kelley, my great-grandfather, was a bit of a notorious packrat in the family. I was only 8ish years old when he died, so I didn't really get to know him, but from what I do remember, he was also a kind, gentle-souled sort of man. I like to think that this was the driving force behind his saving everything, as much as Depression-era thrift. Why else would he have gathered up the splinters and shards of my mom's beloved heirloom and stashed them away in his cellar, where they remained until after he died? I asked once, but no one would tell me anything other than I wasn't supposed to be poking around in the cellar.
Therefore, I'm left to draw my own conclusions. I have decided that Sam Kelley just couldn't bear the thought of seeing something treasured by someone he loved thrown away. I have decided that this was his way of loving - perhaps a subtle way, one that may not be noticed by anyone who didn't go looking for it. I could be reaching with this one, but it comforts me to know that this is at least a possible and plausible explanation, because I know how beloved he was, and still is among those who were lucky enough to know him. It comforts me because I see this pattern in myself and wonder if I might have gotten it from Sam.
I'm sure I could spend hours with an analyst to break down all of the reasons it's hard for me to come right out and just say "I love you," or why I smile and nod and keep my distance when inside I'm screaming for the chance to let go. I don't even think I could learn to flirt if it were taught at the graduate level. Well, whatever the reason, my heart or my shoes, I am who I am, and maybe, just maybe, people will see my unconventional declarations of affection for what they are. At least my apartment doesn't have a cellar, though it has got a vanity.
26 May, 2009
What We Keep
We all have this stuff that seems to travel with us as we move through life. Contemplating my future has also made me contemplate the things I'll take with me. As I'm downsizing, (the goal is to have everything I own except furniture fit in my car) I find myself asking "why do I have this?" an awful lot. I've decided that if I can't come up with a good answer quickly, I probably don't need to hang on to it. I am kind of a sentimentalist, though, so some things that aren't useful as anything other than good juju do make the cut:
(click to enlarge)
(click to enlarge)
- Drumhead signed by the mighty Robo (Memory / piece of music history)
- Cthulhu (Memory: bought with Scott at the creepy Hampton comic shop at 2 in the morning)
- Dummy Winslow Leach (I made it. Could foresee giving to one of a few people)
- A beanie baby (Memory / sentimental value: my cousin Millie left on the dashboard of my first car)
- Chibi-Cthulhu (Gift: sculpted just for me as a Christmas gift from Mary)
- A unicorn (Gift / memory: from Sam, once sat on my desk at work as an inside joke)
- The most recent handful (out of a gazillion) Red Rose Tea animals my grandmother keeps giving me (Gift, yes, but good grief, I have to figure out what to do with these creatures before they take over)
- The remnants of a vast Marvin the Martian collection I'd amassed in high school (Gifts)
- Half of a wire sculpture Jeanne gave me 15 years ago (Gift / memory)
- Pink, sparkly Emperor Palpatine (Gift)
- Blue Lisa Snellings Poppet (Bought it because I love her work & wanted a piece)
- COBRA action figures (Gift)
- Wooden sculpture I got out of a vending machine with Melissa (Memory)
- Jade carvings my mom brought back from China (Gift / Memory
- The King (Gift, doesn't really apply to this topic since it's not like I'll keep putting up an expired calendar, but it's in the picture.)
31 March, 2009
Perfect Family Stranger Matters
Growing up as part of the TGIF generation, I've watched my share of sitcoms. To this day, I enjoy occasionally letting myself get sucked into some cheesy half-hour dilemma, just to go back in time and savor the days when figuring out how to stay up past my bedtime was my top priority. With my birthday coming up in a few days, I've been doing lots of thinking back over my life and wondering how certain things have ended up the way they have.
When I was little, my cousin Vicki was my hero. I'm sure 14-year-old Vicki didn't think 8-year-old Heather was cool at all, but to me, she was Awesome incarnate. I loved it when she got stuck babysitting me! Sometimes, we'd walk the mile or so from our grandmother's house to Parkway, a little shop outside of town that had arcade games and penny candy. From those walks, I don't remember any profound conversations about life and love, or even any meaningless conversations about anything at all. I do remember feeling like the luckiest kid in the world, getting to hang out with this amazing being who allowed me into her presence. Sometimes, she even shared her headphones and let me have a listen to whatever was in her Walkman, instilling me with what would become a lifelong passion for hair bands.
Vicki gave me my first mix tape, containing Bon Jovi, Nelson, and Tyketto. I nearly murdered my baby brother when he broke that tape years later, so cherished was it. Bon Jovi and Nelson were easy enough to find at the flea market, but since this was before the days of Amazon.com and eBay, I had to shell out $60 to have the out-of-print Tyketto album shipped from Japan after years of searching through every rarities catalog I could get my hands on. I still remember that Bon Jovi's "Living in Sin" was cut off at the end of side 1 of that tape, and that Tyketto's "Standing Alone" was at the end of side 2. I can't tell you how many nights of loneliness and teenage angst that song got me through - no, still gets me through.
I remember watching Jon Bon Jovi's wedding on TV with Vicki, and how she clung to me like a stuffed animal as she cried her eyes out. I was so mad at Jon for picking that woman over my cousin. What could he have been thinking?
I remember when Vicki went to prom. She had this black velvet dress with a short, emerald-green skirt and black crinoline sticking out. She wore it with black mesh gloves and teased her hair so that she looked like she'd just stepped out of a music video. I thought she was so beautiful, and I vowed that I'd borrow that dress for my prom someday.
I remember when Vicki got married. She'd met her husband at a Def Leppard concert. I mean, how cool is that?
I don't remember the exact moment when Vicki became just a name signed at the bottom of a generic Christmas card addressed to my mom "and family," or at what point I realized that I wouldn't know her if I ran into her on the street today.
I'm aware that she has children now, three of them, I think. Maybe four. I'm aware that she lives somewhere in the midwest now. Minnesota, maybe. I'm aware that some stuff happened in the family that's probably none of my business, and it resulted in Vicki being even more estranged. Out of all of my cousins (and I have about 30), I wonder about her the most. I wonder if she's happy, if she still listens to hair bands, if she ever wonders how I turned out. I wonder if we have things in common as adults - how does she feel about the environment, gay rights, the death penalty? Has she traveled? Does she want to? Is she a book reader? If so, what does she read? Would she like the things that I write? I wonder, if we met now, if we would be friends, or if we'd end up staying strangers who just happen to have the same grandmother.
When I was recently in California, Michael made me aware of The Bird And The Bee, prompting me to pick up their new album at Amoeba while I had some time to kill in San Francisco. There's a song on the album that makes me think of Vicki and a long ago afternoon in Pennsylvania, watching MTV as she so loved to do, when Vicki told me all about David Lee Roth, and how it just wasn't Van Halen without him.
I may never work up the courage to ask around the family and see if anyone has Vicki's address, but somehow, I have this hope that one way or another, she'll come across this post and see that I'm thinking of her, that I remember all this weird, random stuff that no one else would find consequential.
Dear Vicki, This one's for you
Love, Heather
When I was little, my cousin Vicki was my hero. I'm sure 14-year-old Vicki didn't think 8-year-old Heather was cool at all, but to me, she was Awesome incarnate. I loved it when she got stuck babysitting me! Sometimes, we'd walk the mile or so from our grandmother's house to Parkway, a little shop outside of town that had arcade games and penny candy. From those walks, I don't remember any profound conversations about life and love, or even any meaningless conversations about anything at all. I do remember feeling like the luckiest kid in the world, getting to hang out with this amazing being who allowed me into her presence. Sometimes, she even shared her headphones and let me have a listen to whatever was in her Walkman, instilling me with what would become a lifelong passion for hair bands.
Vicki gave me my first mix tape, containing Bon Jovi, Nelson, and Tyketto. I nearly murdered my baby brother when he broke that tape years later, so cherished was it. Bon Jovi and Nelson were easy enough to find at the flea market, but since this was before the days of Amazon.com and eBay, I had to shell out $60 to have the out-of-print Tyketto album shipped from Japan after years of searching through every rarities catalog I could get my hands on. I still remember that Bon Jovi's "Living in Sin" was cut off at the end of side 1 of that tape, and that Tyketto's "Standing Alone" was at the end of side 2. I can't tell you how many nights of loneliness and teenage angst that song got me through - no, still gets me through.
I remember watching Jon Bon Jovi's wedding on TV with Vicki, and how she clung to me like a stuffed animal as she cried her eyes out. I was so mad at Jon for picking that woman over my cousin. What could he have been thinking?
I remember when Vicki went to prom. She had this black velvet dress with a short, emerald-green skirt and black crinoline sticking out. She wore it with black mesh gloves and teased her hair so that she looked like she'd just stepped out of a music video. I thought she was so beautiful, and I vowed that I'd borrow that dress for my prom someday.
I remember when Vicki got married. She'd met her husband at a Def Leppard concert. I mean, how cool is that?
I don't remember the exact moment when Vicki became just a name signed at the bottom of a generic Christmas card addressed to my mom "and family," or at what point I realized that I wouldn't know her if I ran into her on the street today.
I'm aware that she has children now, three of them, I think. Maybe four. I'm aware that she lives somewhere in the midwest now. Minnesota, maybe. I'm aware that some stuff happened in the family that's probably none of my business, and it resulted in Vicki being even more estranged. Out of all of my cousins (and I have about 30), I wonder about her the most. I wonder if she's happy, if she still listens to hair bands, if she ever wonders how I turned out. I wonder if we have things in common as adults - how does she feel about the environment, gay rights, the death penalty? Has she traveled? Does she want to? Is she a book reader? If so, what does she read? Would she like the things that I write? I wonder, if we met now, if we would be friends, or if we'd end up staying strangers who just happen to have the same grandmother.
When I was recently in California, Michael made me aware of The Bird And The Bee, prompting me to pick up their new album at Amoeba while I had some time to kill in San Francisco. There's a song on the album that makes me think of Vicki and a long ago afternoon in Pennsylvania, watching MTV as she so loved to do, when Vicki told me all about David Lee Roth, and how it just wasn't Van Halen without him.
I may never work up the courage to ask around the family and see if anyone has Vicki's address, but somehow, I have this hope that one way or another, she'll come across this post and see that I'm thinking of her, that I remember all this weird, random stuff that no one else would find consequential.
Dear Vicki, This one's for you
Love, Heather
28 December, 2008
My Little Goat
A coworker once asked me, "when are you going to stop calling him your 'little' brother?" I'd never thought about it.
"Never, I guess," I said, feeling like the question was just really bizarre. It doesn't matter that he's bigger than I am, old enough to buy alcohol or join the Marines, or smokes like a chimney; he'll always be my little brother.
Every family has its craziness. Every member of every family is convinced that their family is definitely the weirdest, most screwed-up, or most special, but in the end, the flocks tend to be pretty average--fluffy and pale, with the exception of one or two off-kilter black-wooled members who make the rest bleat in frustration more often than not. When I look at my family, though, I can't help but feel like the sheep analogy comes up short. There are one or two of us who put on the white wool when we have to, but for the most part, the darker spectrum suits us as we line up in shades of black when we get together. Okay, so we have an entire family of black sheep, each not quite understanding the rest, but recognizing a similar cadence in temperament. And then, there's my brother. In the family of black sheep, he's the Goat.
There have been lots of times when I've looked at my brother and asked myself, "how is it that we come from the same gene pool? How were we raised in the same house?" While my cousin--raised with us, basically a sister--and I never entertained the notion that we might not go straight to college after high school, it was a constant, painful, uphill battle just to get my brother to get through 12th grade. I'll never understand why he took up smoking, since he, right along with the rest of us, has spent his entire life watching members of our family die of lung cancer. I'll never figure out why so many things "seemed like a good idea at the time" to him, or how he ever managed to survive others. So many times, I just gave up, figuring that my brother was just another of the mysteries of the Universe that are destined to passeth all understanding. I just didn't speak Goat.
I never gave up all hope, though. There's just something about my brother that makes anyone who knows him need to believe that the good kid you know is in there will win. He's funny as hell, his heart's in the right place, and you can still find him playing with Legos and watching cartoons on a Saturday morning. He has a buoyant personality, ebbing or rising to suit the level of those who currently surround him--often with mixed results. We've had a rough go of it for the past couple of years, but this Christmas, my family got what I see as the best present we could want: my brother has enrolled in school. This isn't to say that going to school would be the only acceptable path for him to follow. If he'd joined the military, begun an apprenticeship, started in a job where he could work his way up to a stable position that'd support him, I'd be just as happy to see him taking those reins and getting his shit together.
Still, school is what he's chosen, and I have high hopes for his success. He's going full-time in pursuit of a career in the precision automotive field. He explained some of it to me, but it's honestly over my head. Sure, I was a bit of a garage brat, and I can change sparkplugs or if pressed, rebuild a carburetor as long as I have a manual, but I'm nothing like the gearhead he's going to be when they get through with him. We joke that when you hear him say, "trust me," you run for your life. That kid has been blowing up lawnmowers, go-carts, and dryers ever since he could turn a wrench. Maybe you think that doesn't bode well for his ambitions, but I personally think he'll be glad of the knowledge he'll gain to let him take stuff apart without that snapping, sizzling, smoking shrapnel that has so often trailed in his wake like a second shadow. Knowing that he's going after something he'll enjoy and probably be good at gives me confidence that he'll really thrive. He's not trying to hide in with the sheep. He's finally figured out that it's okay to be the Goat.
My gift to him this Christmas was a copy of David Sedaris's Me Talk Pretty One Day, because it contains the story You Can't Kill the Rooster, which Sedaris wrote about his own brother, and I couldn't resist sharing the similarities between Sedaris's Rooster and my Goat. He started reading the story at the page I'd marked as soon as he opened it, then left the noise of the family and guests to sit on the porch and read the rest. Whe he'd finished and I told him why I'd chosen that book for him, he said, "you finally understand me."
Note: If you're reading this in an environment where it isn't suitable to play the above reading, which does contain profanity, you can read the story here, though the version in Me Talk Pretty One Day (read aloud by the author in the audio clip above) is longer, and continues to a nice ending.
"Never, I guess," I said, feeling like the question was just really bizarre. It doesn't matter that he's bigger than I am, old enough to buy alcohol or join the Marines, or smokes like a chimney; he'll always be my little brother.
Every family has its craziness. Every member of every family is convinced that their family is definitely the weirdest, most screwed-up, or most special, but in the end, the flocks tend to be pretty average--fluffy and pale, with the exception of one or two off-kilter black-wooled members who make the rest bleat in frustration more often than not. When I look at my family, though, I can't help but feel like the sheep analogy comes up short. There are one or two of us who put on the white wool when we have to, but for the most part, the darker spectrum suits us as we line up in shades of black when we get together. Okay, so we have an entire family of black sheep, each not quite understanding the rest, but recognizing a similar cadence in temperament. And then, there's my brother. In the family of black sheep, he's the Goat.
There have been lots of times when I've looked at my brother and asked myself, "how is it that we come from the same gene pool? How were we raised in the same house?" While my cousin--raised with us, basically a sister--and I never entertained the notion that we might not go straight to college after high school, it was a constant, painful, uphill battle just to get my brother to get through 12th grade. I'll never understand why he took up smoking, since he, right along with the rest of us, has spent his entire life watching members of our family die of lung cancer. I'll never figure out why so many things "seemed like a good idea at the time" to him, or how he ever managed to survive others. So many times, I just gave up, figuring that my brother was just another of the mysteries of the Universe that are destined to passeth all understanding. I just didn't speak Goat.
I never gave up all hope, though. There's just something about my brother that makes anyone who knows him need to believe that the good kid you know is in there will win. He's funny as hell, his heart's in the right place, and you can still find him playing with Legos and watching cartoons on a Saturday morning. He has a buoyant personality, ebbing or rising to suit the level of those who currently surround him--often with mixed results. We've had a rough go of it for the past couple of years, but this Christmas, my family got what I see as the best present we could want: my brother has enrolled in school. This isn't to say that going to school would be the only acceptable path for him to follow. If he'd joined the military, begun an apprenticeship, started in a job where he could work his way up to a stable position that'd support him, I'd be just as happy to see him taking those reins and getting his shit together.
Still, school is what he's chosen, and I have high hopes for his success. He's going full-time in pursuit of a career in the precision automotive field. He explained some of it to me, but it's honestly over my head. Sure, I was a bit of a garage brat, and I can change sparkplugs or if pressed, rebuild a carburetor as long as I have a manual, but I'm nothing like the gearhead he's going to be when they get through with him. We joke that when you hear him say, "trust me," you run for your life. That kid has been blowing up lawnmowers, go-carts, and dryers ever since he could turn a wrench. Maybe you think that doesn't bode well for his ambitions, but I personally think he'll be glad of the knowledge he'll gain to let him take stuff apart without that snapping, sizzling, smoking shrapnel that has so often trailed in his wake like a second shadow. Knowing that he's going after something he'll enjoy and probably be good at gives me confidence that he'll really thrive. He's not trying to hide in with the sheep. He's finally figured out that it's okay to be the Goat.
My gift to him this Christmas was a copy of David Sedaris's Me Talk Pretty One Day, because it contains the story You Can't Kill the Rooster, which Sedaris wrote about his own brother, and I couldn't resist sharing the similarities between Sedaris's Rooster and my Goat. He started reading the story at the page I'd marked as soon as he opened it, then left the noise of the family and guests to sit on the porch and read the rest. Whe he'd finished and I told him why I'd chosen that book for him, he said, "you finally understand me."
Note: If you're reading this in an environment where it isn't suitable to play the above reading, which does contain profanity, you can read the story here, though the version in Me Talk Pretty One Day (read aloud by the author in the audio clip above) is longer, and continues to a nice ending.
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