01.22.12
Posted in Just Me at 12:12 PM by Ann Hornbeck
Oh man! KFOG always finds a song to play that I love, love, love. Gotta love the Freddy Jones Band’s “In a Daydream.” I think one of the most enjoyable times of my life was living single on the Peninsula south of San Francisco. From 1983 until my divorce in 2001, I was always commuting from the East Bay to Marin County where I worked in two different software engineering companies as a Software QA manager/director. This was a time when software companies were popping up everywhere in the valley and the technology was breathtaking in its infancy. While I was commuting from the North Bay to the Peninsula, my ex was having his own fun with a 20-something, so I took off on my own.
With one daughter in college at San Francisco State, and the other daughter working and taking classes at the local community college, and traveling back and forth between the USA and England, I rented a truck and relocated to Palo Alto. I found a great condo two streets over from the district of “cool,” with restaurants, cigar bars, bars, book stores; Mollie Stones for one of the best grocery shopping experiences anywhere; CalTrain where I could hop on the train and be in San Francisco within 40 minutes, eating in North Beach, waiting for the band to begin at the Saloon; riding my bike through the streets of Palo Alto; taking in a movie at one of the coolest movie theaters that only showed Cannes-level movies; hiking the trail bordering Stanford; gathering with friends where we would have marvelous meals, music and blind wine tasting parties. I had everything I could ever need. I was living the dream. Eventually, I moved to Los Altos where the dream continued. When I moved to the coast, things got even better. I absolutely loved living by the ocean. I have had a lot of fun in my life, but those were the happiest days of my life. When my company relocated to Wisconsin, I turned down their offer to relocate and found a company in San Mateo where I worked until they too, relocated out of the country.
The newspapers said “the bubble had burst” and with it, so did I. Eventually, I found a new job, but it never felt right. When mom died I knew it was time to leave. And I did. Now, my income is well below the poverty line. But, thanks to my daughters and their families, I am safe, fed, nurtured and frustrating as hell! It is true, when the tables are turned, the mother becomes the child, and the child, the parent. Perhaps someday, I will be able to fund myself, or take another job if that is the only answer. In the meantime, I’m no longer living the dream. I am in a daydream.
I dream of that little cottage in the country, where I will age, just like the mountains to the west that that I behold each day. They know my secrets, my hopes, and my love. I open the door and immediately, the scent of yarrow, sagebrush, marigold, roses, larkspur, and dogwood bring a wild freshness to the morning. I hobble to the flowerbeds, my knees popping as I bend down to dig at that nasty weed that my hands cannot destroy. “Where’s that spade shovel?” I stand up, but I have to stop for a moment so my legs can prepare for the 20-foot walk to the tool shed. As I exit the shed, I hear a car turning into the driveway. Both families have arrived, my grandchildren rolling out of the cars, racing to see who can run the fastest. “Grandma, Grandma! We came to help you with the canning! “I’m first!” No, I’m first!” “But I’m the strongest so I get to carry the wood inside!” “Yes, but I’m the oldest, so you have to listen to me!”
What a beautiful dream.
Peace out!
————————————————-
“Shine”
Give me a word
Give me a sign
Show me where to look
Tell me what will I find
What will I find?
Lay me on the ground
Fly me in the sky
Show me where to look
Tell me what will I find
What will I find?
Yea, yea, yea,
Oh, Heaven let your light shine down
Oh, Heaven let your light shine down
Oh, Heaven let your light shine down
Oh, Heaven let your light shine down
Love is in the water
Love is in the air
Show me where to look
Tell me will love be there
Love be there
Teach me how to speak
Teach me how to share
Teach me where to go
Tell me will love be there
Love be there
Yea, yea, yea
Oh, Heaven let your light shine down
Oh, Heaven let your light shine down
Oh, Heaven let your light shine down
Oh, Heaven let your light shine down
Give me a word
Give me a sign
Show me where to look
Tell me what will I find
What will I find?
Lay me on the ground
Fly me in the sky
Show me where to look
Tell me what will I find
What will I find?
Yea, yea, yea
Oh, Heaven let your light shine down
Oh, Heaven let your light shine down
Oh, Heaven let your light shine down
Oh, Heaven let your light shine down
I’m gonna let it shine
I’m gonna let it shine
Heaven’s little light gonna shine on me
Hey, hey, Heaven’s little light gonna shine on me
Shine, shine on me
Shine, come on and shine.
- Collective Soul
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01.20.12
Posted in Just Me at 8:21 AM by Ann Hornbeck
The morning is dark and wet, a good thing as Spring arrived before Thanksgiving, and even now, continues to call the Bay Area “home” for what might become a year-long event as next week will bring 68 degrees. No skiing, no sitting around the fire, no cider to keep our bodies warm, and no one to cuddle, but that’s nothing new for me, but I always have my grandchildren!
Things sure do change around here. Angie and Robin have purchased a house on 5 acres of land in the country. This is good news for the entire family, as well as Jack the Dog, Kona the Cat, Millicent the Rabbit and of course, Blueberry and Buddy who will peck away the day, searching for worms and seeds. The property includes a huge stall for horses, a big building for storing items from tractors to bridles, a gazebo, a garden and most importantly – a swimming pool!
The property needs a LOT of work, and the inside definitely needs a facelift, so once the keys are handed over, the remodeling games will begin! I expect we will be moving in within three weeks, if not sooner. This is going to be an excellent way for everyone to get in better shape! I can only imagine what my brother Bill and Ms. Woody do every day on their 75 acres.
Angie’s plan is to have vines on the hill to the far right of the property, assorted fruit trees in the back of the property and close to the stream, and a bunch of other things that Angie and Jessica continue to discuss. A lot of work ahead, but before we know it, we will be weeding and weeding and weeding as we work on the front and back yards and everything in-between!
I will also be able to get my exercise in by working in the yard and maybe even running on the country road, or driving to Lake Berryessa where I can hike the Blue Ridge Mountain Range – not the one in Virginia – but the one here in Cali-Cali-California. What a view from Lake Berryessa!
Peace out!
“Going Up the Country”
I’m going up the country, baby don’t you wanna go
I’m going up the country, baby don’t you wanna go
I’m going up the country, baby don’t you wanna go
I’m going to some place where I’ve never been before.
I’m going, I’m going where the water tastes like wine
Well, I’m going where the water tastes like wine
We can jump in the water, stay drunk all the time
I’m gonna leave this city, got to get away
I’m gonna leave this city, got to get away
All this fussing and fighting, man, you know I sure can’t stay
Now baby, pack your leaving trunk, you know we’ve got to leave today
Just exactly where we’re going I cannot say,
but we might even leave the USA
‘Cause, there’s a brand new game that I want to play.
No use of you running, or screaming and crying
‘Cause you’ve got a home as long as I’ve got mine.
- Canned Heat
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01.17.12
Posted in Politics at 8:11 PM by Ann Hornbeck
The house is quiet as I listen to Greg Brown Radio on Pandora. Interesting how positive some websites are – not asking for anything other than your “Listening Ear.” Yes, of course, logging on brings a host of ads purporting this and that, but you can multitask and still hear the music without the ton of complete crap trying to lure you into the madness named capitalism. But many times, it is important that we listen carefully. Only then, may you find “TRUTH. ”
When I was young, I could hear every note of every song. Now, that doesn’t mean much, but the interesting thing was, I could guess the next note, even if it was the first time I ever heard the song. Even today, I can pick up on the melody in a flash, but my voice – nope! Of course, there are many times when I will pretend to sing as I hear my voice straining for those high notes, those REALLY HIGH NOTES that I used to reach. High Soprano was I – singing “Oklahoma” like I had been singing it half of my life. And now, after years of TOO MUCH, I am lucky to find my voice. What I do know, is I have definitely learned how to read between the lines.
What does that mean -”reading between the lines?” Have you picked up a newspaper recently? Trust me, you have not missed anything. If you read anything, it is obvious at first glance, that one or more “new author” took little bits from the original story and put it in this tiny space that previously was 12 paragraphs or more, but now consists of 6 lines in order to fill the white space that is causing the editor to pull hairs out of his already bald head. Ok. That has nothing to do with “reading between the lines” but I think you guessed that already.
Whenever I happen to pick up the newspaper (actually, that is a rarity), I laugh at the stories. They are so banal, and so far from the truth, and what the heck are you trying to say – just SAY IT already! I love opening my computer each morning and scanning the NPR, CNN and Yahoo websites. “Oh, the little white lies…” We are inundated. It is overwhelming. “84% of voters are unhappy with our politicians.” “9% of ducks prefer honey over seeds.” ”12% of fleas are brown.” “95% of women use deodorant but not 6-year old boys.” “36.5% of men wish they were sleeping instead of skipping through the park.”
Truth – don’t fail me now!
My mother was a true journalist. A story teller. Her facts straight; her emotions in-check; a woman of truth, and a woman definitely able to create the space for those who read between the lines. But, even knowing what she knew, she still struggled to make the story possible, to change someone’s mind, to share the truth, even though sometimes, she softened the blow so we could enjoy our morning paper without spilling the beans. She loved the click, clack, click of the black keys, the words floating from her mind to the brown paper, with few changes and much to digest, and always, always, always, the truth…except when it wasn’t.
Let freedom ring!
- Homeland
I want my country back
and a good dream to stand up for.
Got my hand over my heart,
but I don’t feel at home here anymore.
Big, big flag above the big, big mall,
and the shake rattle and roll to the core.
Things sprawl after they fall,
and I don’t feel at home here anymore
Homeland of Sojourner Truth
and Chief Joseph before,
Many quiet words of wisdom drowned out by TV
and I don’t feel at home here anymore.
Blind engineer, war train on the track,
many, many a heart is sore.
We want our country back;
we want to feel at home here once more.
I want my country back.
- Greg Brown
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01.14.12
Posted in Just Me at 9:43 PM by Ann Hornbeck
The Beginning
Rollia stops, his arm resting on the hoe. He looks out over the rows of dirt and prays for a good bounty come the harvest. The rows are neat and even, the black soil rich and hearty. He thinks, “No need to worry; everything finds its place in the universe. God grants us what he knows will be enough.” His knowledge of planting and caring and harvesting is embedded in his genes. He rises and falls with the seasons, like birds to the seeds. “This life is hard, but what more do I need. Nothing except God on my side, my wife in my arms, and my children fed and nurtured. Thank you, Lord for the blessings of this day.” His heart returns gracefully to his childhood, his life in the rolling hills of Germany. He thinks of Sarah Jane, remembering their time together and how hard she worked keeping the family fed and clothed. He breathes in and out, feeling his grief, yet reveling in the fact that he has his eyes on a pretty new girl, one who took a fancy to him, someone who will be a good partner and friend. “Time always seems to correct the past, or if nothing else, it sure lessens the pain.” In the distance, the rain clouds are full, and the rumble of thunder roars across the Appalachian mountains as streaks of lightning explode in the May sky. “Here comes the rain – hallelujah for that!”
Frank sits in his library, the door shut while he waits for his tea and crackers. Mary is in the kitchen preparing dinner and almost forgets that Frank is waiting. “Lord knows I would like to prop up my legs for a moment!” She scurries to the door, knocking quietly and waiting for Frank’s response. He beckons her to enter. She is glad to see him, but he barely acknowledges her. Frank loves his wife and children, but his stoic German upbringing and his devotion to his work is disappointing at times. But, Mary is patient. Her thoughts navigate back to her life on the farm, the early risings, feeding the chickens, helping with the little ones, the long walk to school. “Oh, how much I loved sitting down in the parlor in the evenings, the sound of gospel music filling the air, her heart glowing with faith and family. Those were good times; hard but good. My, my, how did Mother and Dad ever survive feeding and clothing twelve children? She giggles to herself thinking, “They definitely enjoyed one another!” She walks softly out of the library thinking she will sit down at the piano tonight and play some gospel music. “I know Isabelle would love to hear it!”
Isabelle sits alone at the dinner table. She hears the choir practicing below. Tonight’s music seems familiar, so she listens intently as she tries to find the connection. Her foot taps, up and down, up and down, her mind searching for a point of reference. “I must call Mary! I won’t be able to sleep a wink otherwise.”
Mary has just put Pauline and Scotty to bed. She answers the phone to hear Isabelle’s voice, “I was just thinking about you! I have to tell you this story! Today, that little French girl that I so adore showed up with an infestation of lice! I’m sure it came from the ship! I can only imagine how awful she must feel. Poor little thing can’t speak a bit of English and my French isn’t great, but I took her to the drugstore to get her the proper medication. After that, I took her to her home where I had to use sign language to assure the parents understood how to apply the medication. My, my, my – those poor people come across the sea with nary a morsel of food and few blankets, I can only imagine how frightened the little ones must be!”
Isabelle listens intently. She fears for Lizzie sometimes. With her size three shoes and petite body, she could never protect herself, but her mind is as quick as they come. “Well!” Isabelle remarks. “At least you didn’t have a shotgun loaded and aimed at you like the time you cleaned that dirty little boy at the coal camp. Thank Goodness someone wrangled that shotgun away or you wouldn’t be here today!” By the way, I heard the prettiest gospel song while I was eating dinner, but for the life of me, I can’t remember where.”
Rollia sits on the front porch. The moon is high in the sky, the air warm as Orion traverses the nighttime sky. “I wonder who my boys will become. They sure are hard-working boys! And, that Glenn sure loves his football.”
Mary sits knitting. Her hands move over and under, across and through, never missing a stitch. She smiles as she remembers her phone call with Isabelle. “I wonder what my children will be like when they are my age. They sure are smart already!”
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01.09.12
Posted in Just Me at 8:49 PM by Ann Hornbeck
His body is the perfect color, dark brown with a golden hue that highlights the muscles and tendons that release and contract, easily noticeable on his lean body. He stands straight and tall, a smile planted squarely on his face as he scans the beach. He sees her blond hair shining beneath the sun, the same color of the sand. One look and he knows innately that she is the woman with whom he will spend the rest of his life. He is a big man on campus, a star basketball and football player, nice as they come. Raised in the country, Glenn is an honest man, faithful, good and trustworthy. He comes from a hardworking, laboring family of six brothers and one sister. Glenn’s mother has recently passed away. Glenn’s father thinks she died from overwork – cooking, cleaning, washing, ironing, gardening, baking, packing lunches, canning, and everything in between. Everyone chips in as best they can. Everyone works, many as glass blowers and artisans, a trade that produces beautiful, etched glassware in colors of the past. Glenn is the only son to graduate from high school and he has just received a football scholarship to the Fork Union Military Academy in Virginia.
Pauline’s head is tilted up. She looks into those beautiful hazel eyes and realizes Glenn is the one she will spend the rest of her life loving. Her heart skips a beat as he gently helps her onto the blanket neatly placed on the white sand. Pauline will never forget this first conversation. Pauline is 16 years old, already a high school graduate and attending West Virginia University in Morgantown where she lives. Pauline thinks of her mother and how much she misses her. Her father is strict, her stepmother loving and caring. But her mind moves quickly back to Glenn. Pauline wonders how she can see him when he is going to school so far away. And, will her father even allow dating? She thinks this is going to be a hard one. But, Granddad has bigger plans for Pauline.
Glenn can’t stop thinking of Pauline. He is lovesick and also misses his friends and family. He thinks that maybe the military isn’t for him. He finds a ride back to Morgantown, proposes and Pauline accepts. They plan their leave, no looking back. The train pulls into the station, their paperwork signed, their vows shared, their future sealed. Pauline’s father bans her from their home. Eventually, they find an apartment they can afford. Glenn has a job selling candy off of a candy truck. Pauline continues taking classes but she is tired and she has a secret growing in her belly. Surprise! Elizabeth Jane is born on April 27, 1925, a few months earlier than people expected, but who’s counting? Everyone.
Pauline and Glenn are happy as happy can be. Fast forward and Dorothy Mae is born on February 27, 1928.
And, so it was written, but let’s start again from the beginning…
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01.07.12
Posted in Just Me at 8:29 PM by Ann Hornbeck
Today, I finally went for a 5-mile run, but no luck. I was doing great all the way out and up the hill and back down, and OUCH!, the knee seizes up and I have to walk the distance back to the starting point. Disappointed? Yes. But, I have a plan. Plan A: Check my benefits to assure P.T. coverage, and go for it! Plan B: Drop down to the 5K and work on increasing my time. Plan C: Start swimming laps again. Plan D: Run smaller distances until you feel better. Yes, I refuse to stop. There is no need to stop. Stopping means getting old before your time. The pains will show their ugly face soon enough, so Go! Go! Go! while you can.
The best news is most of my life, I have remained active. That much I know is true. Ok, I haven’t been like you, Janie, you who could be found running up “Buckhannon Mountain Road” at any time of day, even when you were running on the corridor between the interstate and the connecting freeway (!) or you, Becky who with your husband and my cousin Brad, skied until the morning light, making sure no one was left behind before you took your E.M.T hats off and actually enjoyed skiing down the mountain a time or two under the full moon, or you Kathy O. who ran the canyons and guided canoes across the ancient “ponds” of previous mountainous glaciers, and now delivers body parts across the world, and you sister Hope and nieces Stephanie and Erin who hiked the canyons of Utah, and my daughters and their husbands who ride their bikes with their children, pulling the littlest ones in the trailer so they too can enjoy the ride and learn positive choices, and let us not forget Aunt Dorothy and Uncle Bill who in their late-70′s still skied Snowshoe Mountain even with Uncle Bill’s brand-spanking new artificial knee, and Mark who rides his bike to work every day, and he and Carla who create beautiful gardens each year and spend hours canning the bounty of their labors, and of course, my brothers David and Bill who were and remain my heros in all aspects, physical or oracle. And, absolutely, there are many more of you to honor, and forgive me for my oversight.
And yes, the pains will become more intense, our hair will turn more gray, our wrinkles will no longer “become us” and our mirrors will no longer be able to lie, but we shall survive. We are all survivors. That’s why we’re still here. To enjoy, to embrace, to try, to fail, to push, and push and push away the inevitable and have fun doing it. Some of us are fast and some of us are slow, but we’re out there doing it, and that’s a big HOORAY for all of us!
My life surprises me a little bit every day. You think it’s that, but then it’s this. You think you’re winning and then you fail. Your heart is breaking and then your dog climbs up on your lap and starts licking your face until you fall out of the chair, laughing, as you try to stave off the slobber that continues to help the wet kisses along. You wake up worrying before your coffee has been poured and at the end of the day you are free of stress and ready for tomorrow. The anniversary of your mother’s death arrives and instead of crying, you celebrate! My, how things change.
“Everybody’s going somewhere, ridin’ just as a fast as they can run.” (Jackson Browne)
So let’s GO!
Peace out!
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01.06.12
Posted in Just Me at 11:59 AM by Ann Hornbeck
Today our candle is lit, it’s fiery wick gently blowing as I walk past my mother’s photo. It is 1958. Betty is in her early 30′s, a small scarf wrapped tightly around her neck, her hair beautiful and wavy, a bouffant hairstyle that is the latest trend. She is sitting at her news desk, her face turned to the right, her hand opened and palm up, her arm long and slender, her lips parted slightly as she speaks to someone in the newsroom. Behind her, the window is made from thick, block glass, a trend in the 1950′s. Normally the blocks would be reflecting the sunlight but in the dark of night, they create patterns of dark gray and black.
Betty works the nightshift at the Bluefield Daily Telegraph. She loves her job and the drive in the big Plymouth from Princeton to Bluefield. Her work day begins at 3:00 p.m., and ends at 2:00 a.m. She rarely sees the sunlight, except for a little time in the mornings where she sits and reads and re-reads the morning paper, still checking for mistakes and omissions. Betty needs to grab some sleep while the boys are at school, so I am next door eating breakfast. The neighbor also works at the Bluefield Daily Telegraph as the Society Editor, a position that Betty found for her.
Betty is a single parent. She scrambles for help after Duffy leaves the family. She hires one maid after the other, finally finding the perfect person, Mary, who provides us with a loving touch, one that is especially needed at this time of transition. Night after night, when Betty gets home at 2:00 a.m., she drives Mary to the other side of town where the “black” community resides. The men at Betty’s work tell her it is unsafe. Mary says Betty is safer in her neighborhood than anywhere else. Mary says her people know why Betty is there, they know her car, and if Betty ever had car trouble, she should just sit there and wait as someone from the black community will be there to help her. Betty witnesses that truth. I witnessed that truth many times, as I would go home with Mary and play with her children.
Betty now works from home and works hard. She is getting thinner but the bills are being paid. She even has a used car to drive. Now, her life is stable. She has a sense of lightness and direction before her. She will move to her home town where her parents live, her sister and husband live, a good place to raise a family. And so it was.
Today she lives in many forms. Every day she is in my heart. She is a part of me, and I a part of her. She is the rain, I am the wind. She is a smile, I a tear. She is and I am. I love you, Mother Betty!
Today, I also remember my friend Ruthie and her family who mourn the loss of Kathy who died this week at 55 from a heart attack.
Today, I pray for great progress with the Randall family who remain at Steve’s side as he goes through multiple operations from his automobile accident.
Today, I pray for all who suffer.
Peace!
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01.02.12
Posted in Music, Poetry and Inspiration at 5:56 PM by Ann Hornbeck
It’s another happy April
to every happy fool.
And you move through my dreams
like a trout moves through a pool.
Sure I will do anything,
but I blush at the reverie.
Sleeper come and go with me.
And she always was a painter
and she left me her suitcase,
and I still remember the soft lines
of her drunken face,
as she stood there in my doorway,
like a cat up in a tree.
Sleeper come and go with me.
A small farm in Wisconsin
for a driftless man,
supper on the table,
and a lover’s tender hands,
though she leaves my salt and woodsmoke,
for a job in the city.
Sleeper come and go with me.
I will take you with my children,
through the clover, to the creek,
when Orion’s gone a hunting
through the fields our wishes seek,
where we all can love each other
like sugar in our tea.
Sleeper come and go with me.
Well the last wild fling is over
and a cold wind brings the dawn,
to rows of parking meters
and the shadow of a blond,
who is standing by the wild rye
in a pointless dream.
Sleeper come and go with me.
It’s another happy April
to every happy fool.
And you move through my dreams
like a trout moves through a pool.
Sure I will do anything,
but I blush at the reverie.
Sleeper come and go with me.
Permalink
01.01.12
Posted in Just Me at 9:10 PM by Ann Hornbeck
Destiny’s Children
1958. Something is different. I don’t know when, or how or why, but I am in the backseat of the car. My Mom and David are in the front seat, and Bill is asleep next to me. We are going up and down and around the mountains, too many turns on a two-lane road with barren and wet trees the only thing I see. I am afraid that I will fall over the cliff. But instead, I fall into myself. I am confused! I don’t know why we are leaving. Where are my playmates? I see the puppy that we found dead in the road. It’s guts spread out of its tiny body. The boys are poking it with a stick, laughing in their fear, showing us the blood. My heart is sad. I don’t like the laughter. I love puppies. I wish I could have one. From somewhere, a box appears and within it, a torn piece from a blanket. One of the parents or an older sibling helps put the puppy into the box and tells us we must bury the puppy and say a prayer. We march slowly in a line, older to youngest, boys first, girls last. Someone holds a flag someone says a prayer, and then the puppy is put into a hole and covered with dirt. I don’t fully understand. It makes my insides hurt. Everything seems different. Where is daddy? All of a sudden, the car is spinning, I look out the window and see the trees are too close, the outside sounds scary, and inside, Bill grabs hold of me, while David helps mom stop the car. We are on the edge, one wheel holding on to the side of the road, we on the inside, are holding one another. Mom’s hands are shaking terribly. She checks each of us. Someone appears from the truck. They hurry to get us out of the middle of the turn before another coal truck veers down upon us. My eyes cannot stop looking out the window. Everyone is quiet now. I don’t want to look out the window anymore.
1959. Our new house is comforting. It is white with black shutters. And, there is a small shed that my mom says is a playhouse just for me. Sometimes, my brothers play with me, but they don’t like dolls. Bill and I play tickle. We try not to laugh when the bottom of our feet are tickled. First him, then me, then him – it is fun. David has a paper route. He gets up really early in the morning and goes all around the community, tossing papers into driveways. Sometimes he takes me with him. I get to ride side-saddle. It is cold, and sometimes wet! He always throws the rolled up paper perfectly, never having to get off the bike. I love spending time with my brothers.
I have a best friend. Her name is Linda. She is the little sister of my big brother’s friend. She comes to visit her grandmother and grandfather who live a few houses down the street. We love to play together. Linda’s neighbor is the same age as Linda. She can’t walk. She is in a wheelchair except when she sleeps. She doesn’t like me. She wants Linda all to herself. I want Linda all to myself. I try to be nice to the girl in the wheelchair, but she is mean to me. I can’t wait for Linda to come to my house so we can play in the playhouse.
My daddy came to visit. He pulled up in a big, new car. I went running down the sidewalk and jumped into his arms. My mother and brothers didn’t run into his arms. They stood on the porch with their arms crossed. I sit next to daddy during dinner. I don’t understand what they are talking about. I am happy. But, something doesn’t seem right.
I wake up to loud voices. I fall asleep again, but then my daddy wakes me up. He is hugging me and crying over me. He makes me sad. My mother comes into the room and tells my daddy to leave. She puts me in bed with one of my brothers. I hear sad voices. I hold onto my brother and fall asleep. When I wake up in the morning, my daddy is not here. I keep asking when he is coming back, but I don’t hear an answer.
1959 – 1992. Silence.
1993. Duffy is at my brother’s house in Virginia. I am 40. Bill is 45. David is 47. We are waiting to “meet” the infamous Duffy.
Anger. Duffy who waited for each of us to turn 18 before contacting us; Duffy who never sent $1 in support of his family; Duffy who tried to steal me away until a court order was signed and delivered to him; Duffy who once or twice sneaked into our hometown and watched my brothers play football – obviously sitting on the other team’s bench where no one would recognize him.
1993. Duffy brings knives for each of us. He says that he travels around and sells them at fairs. David, Bill and I look at each other. We understand innately what the other one is thinking. We laugh. We are free! We are Destiny’s children.
Mother:
“And so I thought I’d let you know
That these things take forever
I especially am slow
But I realize that I need you
And I wondered if I could come home”
- From “First Day of My Life” by Bright Eyes
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12.29.11
Posted in Just Me at 9:34 PM by Ann Hornbeck
The month of January brings reflection and joy, sadness and pause, and memories galore as my family toasts my mother’s life. Where is she now? I believe she is right here. My mind’s eye reflects her. Her “mousy brown hair” as she always called it, more gray than white at the end of her life, but for me, forever brown. Her body youthful and lanky, 0% fat, long legs and arms, steady on her feet, shoulders squared, and hazel eyes that knew much, much more than she revealed. Oh, they twinkled with joy, were piercing when angered, and wise beyond her years always.
No crossword puzzle could conquer her, nor could Sudoku or anagrams or whatever puzzle was placed before her. Her mind fierce and focused, forgiving and thoughtful, all at once. Not a moment of time for patience! If she said do it, you did it, no questions asked and no time to hesitate. To this day, I find myself making my bed when the sheets are still warm, the couch pillows fluffed and everything in its place before walking out the door. Everything must be put away where it belongs, no dilly-dallying, get to it and do it now! The funny thing was, she never yelled, she never shouted, she never spanked or hit, but that intense stare was enough to make anyone hope for cover.
I see my mother everywhere. I see her sitting in the sun at Nags Head, working on a crossword puzzle, her young body slippery with suntan lotion, her long legs brown and sprinkled with white sand reflecting the sun as her pen moves quickly as she races against a clock that no one can see but her. Her mind is constant like the second hand of the dining room clock. Click. Click. Click.
I see my mother in the kitchen. It is Saturday, the only day off she has this month, except for Sundays. She is on her hands and knees mopping the floor. Her hair is tied up in a scarf, moisture beading up on her brow as she lifts her arm to wipe the sweat away. She sighs. I feel something that I don’t want to feel. I am 7 or 9 or 15, but now a feeling like anger appears in my head, one that I always try to push further and further away. Many times, I don’t even recognize what it is, but it’s here like the sun in the noontime sky, but harsher. I leave the room, calling on Chi-Chi to go outside with me.
I hear my brothers. My mind sees Bill reading quietly in his room. David is hanging out with his friends. They begin to pick on Bill because he chooses to read Mad Comics in his room. Or watch Star Trek on the black and white TV. He likes being alone. He needs to be alone. His room is shared with his older brother. Their room juts up against my tiny room. No privacy for two growing boys. No room at the inn. I imagine these things. I was much younger, but I still feel their reality, their pain, even though they have buried it far, far away in the ground. And I have not.
My room had a really cool closet. It reminds me of Alice in Wonderland. After I ran away from home, I would dream about that closet. It was mine. It was different. Like me. I had everything I needed and it all fit perfectly in my closet. I swear there must have been a secret door that held my dreams. I must have entered through that door many times. I found comfort, I found peace, and I understood why I did what I did. In my dreams, everything was exactly the way it was supposed to be, even though it wasn’t. My closet was full. My house was full of rooms. Sometimes I would not know where I was. Sometimes, my father walked with me into rooms that I didn’t recognize. Sometimes he wouldn’t come into the rooms with me. He would stand outside the door, or he would send me in and then disappear. Most of the time, the dreams were in black and white. I don’t remember ever seeing him smiling or laughing, just not where he should be, or trying to take me somewhere where I did not want to go, or I just didn’t want to hear what he wanted to say. Many times, my dreams were of huge waves racing toward the shore, towards me. I would stand on the shore, petrified, knowing that I was going to die alone, helpless, fatherless.
My life is full. My life is good. My life has also been interesting. That’s what my mom always said: “I have had an interesting life.” I never asked her to define “interesting.” Many times, I wanted to ask more questions, but usually, I just let it go. I let it go because it made me sad. My mom was happy. My mother’s plate was full. I sure miss her. I hope some day I can be truly happy. I hope some day I can release my anger and watch it melt before my eyes. I will watch the anger vaporize – poof! Gone! Over! Done!
I don’t know why I can’t forget. I don’t think remembering is a bad thing. It’s just that it makes me sad. It makes me sad for my family, more so than for myself. I guess when you love someone you just want to take their pain away. I’m probably the only one still carrying the pain. Memories aren’t always happy, but I’m sure glad I was brought into the family I have – they sure made the journey more comfortable.
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