At eleven in the morning, the wind blew in a wall of clouds and it began to hail. Outside, people scuttled, surprised that the expected rain had shifted in nature to stinging pellets, dropped from meters above. Perhaps if it hailed more often, the fashion of hats would reappear, for the humans clapped their hands over their crowns; perhaps if it hailed more often, the reading of newspapers would become common again, for today's social electronics can take a photo of what was happening, but no one was doing that. No selfies during immediate hailstones. A newspaper held as a roof over a head would have deflected the pummeling riot.
From my high-up window, exactly where the cloud wall stopped was clearly visible, it presented a dullish grey-green barrier which halted on tip toe at the County Hall building. Weather like that appears in this area, coming right off one of the Great Lakes as definitive lines of snow, storms, or cold fronts. The north will be dark, unbeckoning, tumultuously roiling in bulbous tantrums; yet as one looks to the south, brighter skies hold sundipped fluffs of clouds sweet as lambs sliding through the angelic atmosphere, with harmonies murmured by seraphim. We've been featured on the evening news because of it.
It was a false showing, for the heaving clouds whipped balls of ice at us quite briefly, then lifted their skirts and ran, pushed onward by the spiraling wind. Rains fell from more stable clouds, all in a hurry to go further east towards open fields, where only railroad tracks run through empty yards or over valleys. The city trees thankfully raised their branches again, letting the rain wash down leaves and limbs, melting the uninvited ice. Thin white miasmas rose as the warmer rain hit the melting hail, creating short-lived, seething ghosts of a colder breath.
Hail is formed when ice pellets within a thunderstorm are caught by the updraft, and given another coating of ice when lifted back into the freezing, higher atmosphere. Once heavy enough, and depending upon the strength of the rising air, they fall. Same mechanism can make a tornado. Here, it is rare to get stones of any great size; I have heard from a Texas cowgirl, however, that they may get large enough to break windows, tear up a garden, and put dents in cars.
The weather remained twitchy, the dull green of the hailstorm clouds hastened east, the rains came, a band of darkening cumulonimbus hovered over Lake Erie and in the developing moisture of these new clouds, a waterspout sprang up. For the most part, they are harmless, weak, and just elongated sprays of water. Still, anything of tornado shape and just as unpredictable gives me the willies. I will watch my waterspouts from a restaurant porch with wine, thank you.
Today: the television in the oil change place where I have taken my car is broken, the image is pixilated as if reassembled by macaques and frozen into a nonmoving, nonliving chockablock of pink human. The sound works, and the sports channel is playing super hip city lingo fast speech interviews, hitting the listener bam bam bam with immense metaphors packed into a space the size of a Chiclet. The same information is stretched out like a rubber band, repeated over 'n over in these Chiclets as fast as hail, and just as unmerciful. Oh, for a set of earbuds. Or a mallet, for my head.
The commentary based on banter pauses to interview a wee child, whose voice has the Minnie Mouse capacity to bore through Vermont granite. The motherly interviewer pulllls out answers from this mite in encouraging tones by making her own voice go up at the end of each sentence. The mite squeaks back in longer and longer explanations, causing the windows of three sedans to shatter from the aural detonation. Phil Spector cried out from his jail cell, for his Wall of Sound was as soul-shaking as a glass of Fizzies in comparison.
Public service announcement: it has been noted by linguists that young women have begun making their voices go up at the end of sentences, even if it isn't a question. Noted reporters on NPR have been guilty? That wasn't a question? My foot is stuck in the grate? He was shot in the parking lot of the convenience store? Check yourself, because if you do it within my reach, I will punch you.
Now, if sound could be concentrated like a laser, it would be this ambitious child's voice. It cannot be shut out, and a new appreciation for the sports banter emerges from the sharp edges of dental drill lunacy. I wish deeply for the space-filling goofballs to come back. Please. The other adults in the waiting room have dropped into the subconscious plane of their phones and laptops. Some have brought friends and family to pass time with, and the families have a commonality, being that each would like the other members of their party to shut up. Shup! SHUP!!
They are large, dressed for an enclosed backyard with high hedges, and banging on the vending machine. Arguments about whose dollar was put in last for payment blast off the walls, in the same way the television is yammering. "Only talk to the money," spews the sportscaster; "My dollar, MY DOLLAR," roars Mom. I am temporarily fascinated by the similarity, and wonder if we have become an undercurrent propelled by media or the weather. Well, sure.
Ideas turn over as fast as colloquialisms; for example, last week's fidget spinners are already in the past tense. "I thought the school allowed them," said one parent with a straight, wondering face. Why on earth wouldn't they, aren't they educational toys? Remove the term 'educational' and bingo. You can mimic the academic descriptor "educational" because you heard it advertised as such, and you hope against hope that spinning one will cause Pookie to absorb phonetic skills rather than you actually reading to the Pookster. Let this enlightenment brighten your family policies: NO, IT DOES NO SUCH THING. All the spinner does is create theft, dissection, distraction of the rest of the students, high blood pressure in the teacher, argument, and unholy, tearful oaths sworn on a Gideon's that My Grandmother Bought It For Me with angel choir theme music, when in reality, the wet-faced six year old has magically shoved Ignatz Jr's. toy down the front of their pants. I am not shaking children upside down by the ankles in spite of the pleasant imagery, so if your kid brought one to school because you thought increased learning would happen but it was stolen, broken, or given to a friend just to hold for the day, oh well. Hailstorms, life is full of. Ask the Beanie Baby collectors.
The air has cooled, the thick humidity dissipated. A large box was kindly delivered today, and has been given a door to make a new cat house for Snowbelle. She was so happy to see it, she did a silly, crooked dance and told me thank you. She will sleep in it tonight, and dream catnip dreams. Soon the downtown buildings will blush in sunset, subdue to purple before the lamps light, and our own dreams will play at deeper levels we have no waking knowledge of. Wishes. I wish. Sleep well. Good night, Mama.
Friday, June 30, 2017
Sunday, June 18, 2017
Unfather's
This isn't pleasant to read, and may create unease or cause you to dislike me even further than before. Let it, for discomfort causes reflection, and perhaps invokes greater compassion, or kindness, or if you need to protect yourself, greater indifference. That dirty little neighbor's kid who's always hanging around your own family may need a sense of normalcy, even if it's just for an hour. It's okay to send her home, too. She's still learning.
I don't even think of the day anymore until reading statements that others have scripted in praise of their fathers, then, the memory clenches as if I swallowed a peach pit. Tell me I'm ungrateful, that after all, he is my faaaather, that I didn't appreciate what I had, that the knot will go away once I forgive him; let me tell you, this is not a story of forgiveness but of survival. Realize the number of me that there are. Please understand that I am so amazed, almost confused, by those of you who miss your dads.
He killed our pets, threatened to kill us, smashed my mother into floors, walls; broke our dishes, scared neighbors, beat up my grandfather for giving me and my brother quarters, said it was his right to use me don't tell your mother, was mean whether drunk or sober, took his diabetic brother who was in the hospital a two pound box of chocolates resulting in my uncle's death, and when he tried to kill himself and was revived in the ambulance, I asked the invisible air why, why did you bring him back.
I was six and it was Christmas, the kind with lead tinsel and sumptuous lightbulbs on the tree that made it smell like it would burst into a fireball within ten minutes. My brother and I had to kneel in front of the manger and pray to baby Jesus, a poorly painted plaster bit that spent the rest of the year rolled up in newspaper in the hot, dusty attic. My mother had wrapped up a toiletry set for me, consisting of four rectangular glass bottles. Pink body lotion, rosy bubble bath, green shampoo, and a clear cologne that smelled like pale flowers. I was enchanted, left it under the tree to make Christmas last a bit longer, before the explosion. Didn't take long.
Mom and Dad in the kitchen, Dad yelling. YOU'RE MAKING HER A WHORE, SHE'LL BE ON FRANKLIN STREET WITH THE PROSTITUTES. What the heck is a whore? My mother tried; she won't be a prostitute, she's a little girl, little girls use bubble bath. More yelling, I could see my Mom's face crumple, she was collapsing like a dying star.
His sisters never used any of that, she doesn't need it, men will be chasing her just like the red-headed women on the street you don't know nothing, no daughter of mine. Looking back and considering circumstances, I believe he was more concerned with his own reaction to any prettifying of a vulnerable little girl. As a result of the bubble bath debacle, the set remained unused under my bed, and I was relegated to using Spic and Span or Oxydol in my once a week bath. My father would expect us to greet him at the door when he got home from work, happy to see the breadwinner, the king of the house; I was told to wait until he smelled me, to see if I had any forbidden fragrances.
Do you know what it's like to have your neck smelled by your angry father every night when he arrived home? And still he would come to me at night, to help me say my prayers. I was allowed boy's things, cap guns, tool sets, a Zorro outfit, catcher's mitts, a chemistry set, no lace, no frills, those things were far away from me, and I regarded the ribboned girls at school as sissies who would squeak if a frog jumped at them. But deep inside I longed to be washed in bubbles, given embroidered handkerchiefs, allowed lotions and bows. Best that I wasn't.
Yet I now read the "best dad ever", "I miss you every day", and the "wonderful man who brought me up, stood by me" and wonder what that is like. The day mine died, I felt a wash of relief, the abuse had become verbal as I grew, married, and I would plot escape routes when visiting. Don't let him get between you and the door. He still yelled, hateful, don't bring us no food, shove your pans up your ass. After my Mom died, I eventually stopped going over altogether, it was better for me even though the guilt wagged it's finger.
I don't miss standing in front of the card display, searching for one that would satisfy him without sentiment to mock, or encourage the slurping noises when he kissed my neck or cheek. Something that wouldn't be an out and out lie. I don't miss worrying about bringing him the right thing, to be told take it back, or have it thrown against the wall. Come here and give me a kiss instead.
We all have our demons, and I try not to visit mine on anyone; but it happens and I apologize. It causes me to step back and evaluate how clingy I can be when something seems right, balanced, or well, normal. Dinner at a table--I wasn't allowed to eat with the family, had to take my plate to the living room on newspapers on the floor. People having people over without the main course being launched or furniture broken. I will always be on guard, but that's no one's problem but mine.
With my class of first graders, I made sure to pull together a Father's Day gift, except I got the date wrong, it's this week, not last week. We made plaster casts of seashells and half the students opted to wrap theirs in Christmas paper because they love Santa. There are more fathers in this group, and the cards we made assured me that these children are loved properly, and that they are safe with their dads. I like to think that there is more good than bad, there has to be.
Night comes, shading the micro scrutiny of day; sleep restores and creates growth. Growth means hope. Thundering clouds have washed the men who are building a garden down along the apartment sidewalks. They are planting impatiens of a delicate lavender, making it look like home, like hanging stars in a night sky. Paint your stars, illuminate space with nebulae or the flowing curtains of the borealis, planets with swirling rings, moons somber and silver. You can. I did. You are loved.
I don't even think of the day anymore until reading statements that others have scripted in praise of their fathers, then, the memory clenches as if I swallowed a peach pit. Tell me I'm ungrateful, that after all, he is my faaaather, that I didn't appreciate what I had, that the knot will go away once I forgive him; let me tell you, this is not a story of forgiveness but of survival. Realize the number of me that there are. Please understand that I am so amazed, almost confused, by those of you who miss your dads.
He killed our pets, threatened to kill us, smashed my mother into floors, walls; broke our dishes, scared neighbors, beat up my grandfather for giving me and my brother quarters, said it was his right to use me don't tell your mother, was mean whether drunk or sober, took his diabetic brother who was in the hospital a two pound box of chocolates resulting in my uncle's death, and when he tried to kill himself and was revived in the ambulance, I asked the invisible air why, why did you bring him back.
I was six and it was Christmas, the kind with lead tinsel and sumptuous lightbulbs on the tree that made it smell like it would burst into a fireball within ten minutes. My brother and I had to kneel in front of the manger and pray to baby Jesus, a poorly painted plaster bit that spent the rest of the year rolled up in newspaper in the hot, dusty attic. My mother had wrapped up a toiletry set for me, consisting of four rectangular glass bottles. Pink body lotion, rosy bubble bath, green shampoo, and a clear cologne that smelled like pale flowers. I was enchanted, left it under the tree to make Christmas last a bit longer, before the explosion. Didn't take long.
Mom and Dad in the kitchen, Dad yelling. YOU'RE MAKING HER A WHORE, SHE'LL BE ON FRANKLIN STREET WITH THE PROSTITUTES. What the heck is a whore? My mother tried; she won't be a prostitute, she's a little girl, little girls use bubble bath. More yelling, I could see my Mom's face crumple, she was collapsing like a dying star.
His sisters never used any of that, she doesn't need it, men will be chasing her just like the red-headed women on the street you don't know nothing, no daughter of mine. Looking back and considering circumstances, I believe he was more concerned with his own reaction to any prettifying of a vulnerable little girl. As a result of the bubble bath debacle, the set remained unused under my bed, and I was relegated to using Spic and Span or Oxydol in my once a week bath. My father would expect us to greet him at the door when he got home from work, happy to see the breadwinner, the king of the house; I was told to wait until he smelled me, to see if I had any forbidden fragrances.
Do you know what it's like to have your neck smelled by your angry father every night when he arrived home? And still he would come to me at night, to help me say my prayers. I was allowed boy's things, cap guns, tool sets, a Zorro outfit, catcher's mitts, a chemistry set, no lace, no frills, those things were far away from me, and I regarded the ribboned girls at school as sissies who would squeak if a frog jumped at them. But deep inside I longed to be washed in bubbles, given embroidered handkerchiefs, allowed lotions and bows. Best that I wasn't.
Yet I now read the "best dad ever", "I miss you every day", and the "wonderful man who brought me up, stood by me" and wonder what that is like. The day mine died, I felt a wash of relief, the abuse had become verbal as I grew, married, and I would plot escape routes when visiting. Don't let him get between you and the door. He still yelled, hateful, don't bring us no food, shove your pans up your ass. After my Mom died, I eventually stopped going over altogether, it was better for me even though the guilt wagged it's finger.
I don't miss standing in front of the card display, searching for one that would satisfy him without sentiment to mock, or encourage the slurping noises when he kissed my neck or cheek. Something that wouldn't be an out and out lie. I don't miss worrying about bringing him the right thing, to be told take it back, or have it thrown against the wall. Come here and give me a kiss instead.
We all have our demons, and I try not to visit mine on anyone; but it happens and I apologize. It causes me to step back and evaluate how clingy I can be when something seems right, balanced, or well, normal. Dinner at a table--I wasn't allowed to eat with the family, had to take my plate to the living room on newspapers on the floor. People having people over without the main course being launched or furniture broken. I will always be on guard, but that's no one's problem but mine.
With my class of first graders, I made sure to pull together a Father's Day gift, except I got the date wrong, it's this week, not last week. We made plaster casts of seashells and half the students opted to wrap theirs in Christmas paper because they love Santa. There are more fathers in this group, and the cards we made assured me that these children are loved properly, and that they are safe with their dads. I like to think that there is more good than bad, there has to be.
Night comes, shading the micro scrutiny of day; sleep restores and creates growth. Growth means hope. Thundering clouds have washed the men who are building a garden down along the apartment sidewalks. They are planting impatiens of a delicate lavender, making it look like home, like hanging stars in a night sky. Paint your stars, illuminate space with nebulae or the flowing curtains of the borealis, planets with swirling rings, moons somber and silver. You can. I did. You are loved.
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