Hamburger Helper

When I was nearly 13, my brother got high. Really high. So high, he wanted to fly. He was sixteen and well versed in the most popular ways to self- medicate in the 70's. After following our older two brothers into the drug culture, he had many resources to procure his drugs of choice. It was 1976, August, quite near my birthday.

Using an exterior roof ladder on this particular steamy Oklahoma night, my brother Mark climbed to the highest peak of a local junior college, somewhere between 3-4 stories high while he was simultaneously 3-4 Quaaludes high, and he jumped.

If nobody was there to see it, did he really fly?

My four best friends and I celebrated my 13th birthday just over a week later in a large, smelly tent in our backyard. The tent smelled as a tent should smell. I just don't happen to care for the smell of tent. I understand some people do. Just a hint of freshly opened tent smell can invoke fond childhood memories, a love of nature, visions of travel with the world stopping at the entrance of that smelly old tent.

We didn't speak of my brother at all that night in the musty old tent. We had cake and ice cream and my battery operated 8-Track with plenty of KC and the Sunshine Band tapes to keep us entertained. I don't remember what I got that year. I remember wanting a record player but it was probably too expensive, like the very first VCR's, fax machines, computers and so on. I had to wait.

As a little girl, Mark was always my favorite brother. He was gentle and shy. He didn't seem to want or need to be heard and most importantly he did anything and everything I asked him to do. Mom used to call him my little puppy dog.

The best of times were the shows I made him perform with me. We would practice for hours, prepare invitations, invite anyone who happened to be in the house at the time and actually charge for admittance. He was much too introverted to sing by himself but he happily accompanied me by doing the whistling part of Otis Redding's, Sitting by the Dock of the Bay.

Somebody had to do it. I couldn't whistle without laughing.

When it came time to perform, I would intentionally make him laugh during his big whistling part. It was fun for me and the audience ate it up. "Try again", they would scream! We would rewind the tape and attempt to whistle along but the great irony and sad truth of a happy whistle is that it is silenced by the slightest smile.

Eventually Mark grew out of his boyhood and out of playing with his little sister. He turned to the business of becoming a man but first, he had to survive our household. Before he jumped, I would find him passed out in the hallway, lying in an empty bathtub with bleeding wrists or standing next to my bed while I pretended to be asleep. It is difficult to understand but there was a potent mixture of fear, embarrassment and pity that kept me from telling on him. I can only recall it happening a few times before I learned how to defend myself by lying on my stomach or stretching and yawning to mimic a person about to wake up.

A month or so after Mark jumped, everything seemed to go back to normal. Mom and Dad got up very early in the morning to have coffee, read the paper and sit in the quiet for a few hours before heading off to work.

"God Dammit Joyce, are you making that mother-fucking, dried up, shit in a box, Hamburger Helper, again", Dad screamed as he walked in the door after work.

I could hear him from the sanctity of my upstairs bedroom and knew it would be one of those nights. He was not a drinker, he was unhappy, unfiltered and quite probably bi-polar. Being the only other female in the house, I took her side against my father. I often encouraged her to leave him. "Why do you stay with someone who treats you this way?" Didn't she deserve the opportunity to steal away a few moments of relaxation by skipping a step or two and substituting powdered cheese from a box?

I want very much to think of my mother as a strong woman but I can't get the word stoic out of my head. His mental beatings extended to my brothers and eventually to me. There were regular fist fights as soon as my brothers got big enough to take him on and our house was never without a series of holes punched through drywall, doors and even the occasional window. My mother was stoic through every last excruciating moment of it.

That night, after she was berated for her supper scenario, she never stopped to acknowledge him, she didn't look up from her one-skillet dish. She didn't glove-up and grasp the handle of that cast iron culinary weapon, searing him with boiling hot packaged noodles, as I would sometimes imagine her doing.

No, she finished dinner with her characteristic unflappable determination and asked me to wake my brother and help him into his wheelchair so he could sit down and eat with the family. Mark was unquestionably the most squeamish, painstakingly fussy eater that had ever lived. During a kitchen remodel when we were all little, my parents discovered what must have been two years worth of peas stuffed into the cushion of his assigned spot at the table.

But he loved Hamburger Helper like no other.

Visitors in the Night

I try to pay close attention to my dreams.  I am one of the lucky ones who not only has the experience of wild, vivid dreams but I can generally remember them the next day. My mom used to look forward to dreams where she was visited by dad or my two brothers after they had passed. She truly believed they were communicating with her from the great beyond, bringing her a message or just spending time with her because she missed them so much.

Last night, I received such a visit.  Mom, Dad, Robby and Mark were all there. There were others who are very much alive; thus, for much of the dream, it hadn't occurred to me that anything was unusual. I had forgotten they were all dead. One by one, they began to be called back.

Each was called in the order they had died. The manner in which they had to go was viscerally brutal. They had to have their hearts removed, then go through a series of painful procedures only to finally be placed into what could only be described as a casket sized, ominously terrifying  ironing press. Once they were placed in the press, the giant lever would come down and squeeze them until they disappeared into nothing but hot vapors.

By the time I witnessed Dad and Mark go, I knew Robby would be next. They had enjoyed their time here, it was comfortable and happy. They communicated with their thoughts and expressions; no spoken words. Each had a countenance that told me they were delighted to see me, yet pained to go. Each one looked at me and I heard the words in my head......I'm sorry. They didn't have to say why, I simply knew and each time, I forgave and accepted.

Then I turned to my mom.  She was the only one left. At first, I was relieved for in my sub conscience mind, I thought she was still part of the living. In the dream world, she was still with me. Thank God I still have her, I thought to myself.  Then she stood to go, to prepare to have her heart removed. I screamed and fought and pleaded with her to stay. Not you too, I need you. Can't you see that?  I need you now more than ever.Why did you do it, why did you give up and let yourself die? But within minutes, she was nothing but a hot vapor.

The next thing I did was lie down in the surgical bed where they had all had their hearts removed and waited for my turn.

The Good Man Project - Where For Art Thou Grandpa?

His name was Benson. I can remember his smell, a combination of cigarette smoke and Old Spice. I gravitated to him like a helpless floating particle, unable to understand why he was like candy. I couldn't resist him.  His chair, the light beige recliner, sat within two feet of the front door in their tiny shotgun house. I think the door might have actually hit the chair upon opening.

We didn't get to visit "this side of the family" very often.  It wasn't like my dad's family, where we were always having them over or I was constantly begging to spend the night with my older cousins Debbie and Betty Sue or my Aunt Sarah. These people were once, twice, maybe four times per year, as I recall.  When my mom's side of the family got together, it was for Christmas, a special occasion or somebody had died.

My mom had two sisters close to the same age and two brothers, born much later. They grew up in this impoverished yet important dwelling behind the school yard on the south side of Oklahoma City. My mother's childhood memories of sharing a bed with her two sisters, having family over to play musical instruments every weekend or her younger brothers sleeping in the kitchen because they didn't have a room was one of the many things I learned by reading her journals after her death.

There was so much I didn't know.

What I did know was that I loved this man who kept an ashtray on the side of his recliner because he couldn't be without a cigarette for more than a few minutes. When we were allowed to make one of our semi occasional, i.e. rare sojourns to their home, it seemed to be something my dad faced with dread, consternation and a healthy dose of passive aggression. I had the sense we were to be there for the appearance, the gift exchange, the formalities, then we were to vamoose, evaporate like yesterdays rain. 

When the whole family was together, there was Grandma (not much to say about her, aloof, distant, never really knew her), Grandpa and gay Uncle Bob who lived in the back room addition which was built on many years later. The nuances and ultimate falling out with Uncle Bob is a post all unto its own; however suffice it to say, the man could make a mean pie crust.

The other uncle never had children and the two sisters each had two boys so I was the one and only precious baby girl grandchild. I often wonder if this is why grandpa took pity on me and acquiesced to my insatiable need to be near him or if I was just too darn cute and persistent to allow him to put me down.  I want to think he wanted me as much as I wanted him.

He had  large, rough hands for a man with such a diminutive stature. He was a machinest but preferred music above all else. He allowed me to be the pouty, doleful girl I was and I felt safe with him. I remember the photo above. I remember my dress, the doll I was holding, the worn, leather briefcase beside his chair and the black Mary Jane shoes which were my absolute favorites. I also recall the feeling that I didn't want my picture taken ergo the signature sullen face. He never smiled in pictures, my mom never smiled and I didn't either. Why didn't we smile?

Can somebody please fill in these blanks for me?  Aunt Donna? Uncle Benny? I want to know more about the man who in the words of Dan Fogelberg was a "quiet man of music, denied a simpler fate".

As part of my series on good men, my grandpa immediately comes to mind. He died when I was 10. This gentle man was taken from me before I realized how much I needed him. I can't help but wax philosophically. Would I have turned to him for advice during those cluttered, demoralizing, baffling years? Would he have been able to usher me through the substandard choices or circumvented the chaos and shown me the essence of the male archetype I craved? 

Hard to say.

Not sure I want to know. But I would like to know why we were not allowed to visit often enough for me to cherish this man.

My other grandpa died when my dad was only 13. My Granny Mac never remarried. This man, Benson, was the only shot I had at a Grandpa. His life was cut short due to heart disease and lifestyle. One cannot inhale tobacco to that degree and escape its wrath.  He was a good man. I don't think anyone else in that teeny, tiny house wanted to deal with me and my attitude. On some ethereal level, he got me. He didn't mind holding me, loving me and allowing me to adore him. He was humble, used to working hard to support his family but stepping aside to let them have the spotlight. When I was with him, he was the light of my world and I made him smile in a world where smiles were not easily given.

When someone in my family passes, we honor them with the words and music which carry meaning for them. Some might call it cr-A-zy or unconventional at best but that's what we do.  Dad had Sinatra, Mom had Van Morrison and a spanish guitarist. My brother had Pink Floyd and my Grandpa Benson had Dan Fogelberg. My eldest brother and a friend of his played their guitars and sang to him.....

The Leader of the Band is tired

And his eyes are growing old,

But his blood runs through my instrument

And his song is in my soul.

My life has been a poor attempt

to imitate the man.

I'm just a living legacy

to the Leader of the Band.

His song will forever be in my soul and his blood courses through my veins to remind me he was a good man and I am his legacy.

The Good Man Project - Bubba

After spending a great deal of time here at Stalking Sunsets sharing my painful memoirs inhabited by one bad character after another, I was asked by a follower, "aren't their any good guys out there"?

What to my wondering eyes should appear but a revelation, and an inspiration to expose the good guys for what they are.  Simply good.

I must begin by picking up where I left off on my last post and mentioning perhaps my all time favorite good guy, my very own #1Son.  It is difficult to describe the gentle spirit that resides within this young man. You meet him and you feel immediately comfortable with him; yet, you're not sure why. He won't open up to you, he will appear quiet, reserved, perhaps even shy. But once he knows you, you will find yourself wondering how the hell he can be so damn funny.

He is the kind of person that will be there when you need him, which is a good thing since he will be around to usher me into my twilight years. That's old age, not vampire sex.  He's a diamond in the rough, with life waiting just around the corner. He takes things as they come. He's not in a rush, he's willing to let life unfold before him.

Traveling together to Oklahoma this past Thanksgiving, we laughed our way there and back, each of us doing our impressions of the southern accents we've long since abandoned. I have expected a lot out of that child. I moved him to Wisconsin at the age of 14, I married twice during his lifetime and I brought three more kids into his formerly peaceful existence. I was a young, single girl who learned to be a mom and I made lots of mistakes.

He has endured the loss of his grandmother and grandfather who favored him and helped to raise him while I was working three jobs. He has watched me bury two brothers and bring life to two babies at the same time. He had a tumor removed from behind his ear at the age of four and will always have a hearing loss from the makeshift inner-ear the surgeon fashioned back into place for him.

In spite of it all, he grew into this amazing man and he loves me with all my faults. He is a dedicated brother to his somewhat challenging siblings. They adore him and they call him Bubba.  Everything he has attempted in life, he has done well. Whether it was pitching a no-hitter on a red dirt baseball field in Oklahoma or playing the trumpet and winning the State of Wisconsin marching band competition. He can be counted on by anyone lucky enough to be a part of his life. He is soft and kind in spirit yet tough as nails underneath and I couldn't be more proud than to proclaim him a "good man".

A Time to Die (Part Two) - Unraveling Addiction

The first brother, Mark, who was actually the youngest of the three and the closest to my age was already gone. The  oldest brother stood with us in the hospital room during one of the more brutal moments of Mark's slow and painful death slide, turned to the remaining brother and said, "I will never let this happen to me, but if it does, please put a gun to my head and kill me before I have to suffer like this".

Within three years, he too was gone.

I have struggled with writing these words because I can offer no reasonable explanation for it. There are two beautiful girls who lost their father; in spite of the fact I know he would have given his life to save theirs. He couldn't save his life to give to them. The pain he had endured was much too great to overcome the demon possession, known as addiction.  

Just a few short years before their deaths, we had all endured the loss of our father. After weeks of waiting and woodstocking in the pseudo concentration camp conditions beset by the hospital, we knew he had left us. We could easily tell the difference between a body with life and a body that was void of it, an empty shell.  My brother and I gave them the okay to shut off the life support.  Mom couldn't do it. She could not issue the  order; yet, she knew he moment he had slipped away because she had "felt him pass through her body".

Unless you've been there, and witnessed it first hand - you may not be able to fully grasp the certainty of it but there is no doubt as to when the spirit leaves the body.  I have seen it three times now with dad, then Mark, then mom. I have previously written of my mother's death experience. She was afraid, yet she was not alone. Her people had come to get her. She asked them where they were going. It would be her last words.

After dad died, Mark began to escalate his drinking. He had married a dentist and followed her to a real life "Northern Exposure" assignment in the furthermost outreaches of Alaska.  He was isolated, saddened and without any means to brighten his day; literally no sunshine.  He could not wander around on his own as transportation was limited and exposure to the elements was deadly.

The people of the area still participated in traditional Eskimo customs. Outsiders, white people with green eyes, especially were not welcomed. He had chosen not to return home for dad's funeral. We didn't understand why but would later learn he had relapsed from 12 years of sobriety. Another thing we didn't know is that his wife was a long time, practicing alcoholic.

He began to get sick and the sickness escalated remarkably fast. He came home with drunk wife in tow and sought medical attention immediately. Unfortunately, he was already too far gone when he was told he was carrying the Hepatitis C virus. All three of my brothers had participated in serious drug abuse in their younger days. They had gone as far as sharing needles and they would later learn, they all carried the incurable and potentially fatal disease.

I was on bedside duty the night Mark passed away. I sat in his room, watching the monitors. We knew the end was near but he had surprised us so many times before. This time seemed different. I didn't grasp it fully then, what had happened or why I reacted, but I knew I needed to call for the rest of the family camped out in the waiting room.

I sat on his bed and spoke to him as he passed.  He was peaceful, he did not appear to be afraid and he too, was not alone.  He was gone before mom and the others could make it down the hall.

It was after Mark's death when  Mr. Sunshine offered up the possibility of a move to Wisconsin. I knew my oldest brother, the one who swore he would never let himself succumb to the disease, was already well on his way.  My mom and remaining brother were determined to heal him, to find a liver for him, to save his life. I couldn't take anymore.  I ran as fast as those infamous Oklahoma winds could blow me.

This one was by far the most difficult to understand. Robby was the home coming king, good looking, athletic, a talented musician and  family man. To look in from the outside, one could say he had the world at his feet. I didn't know him very well as our age difference had taken him out of the house when I was young, but I adored him from afar.

He had the same sweet gentle spirit and quiet reflectiveness as Mark. His senseless death angered me. I wanted to make him responsible for everyone else because he was the oldest and I wanted to wake him up from his death and scream at him because he had so much to live for.

My oldest brother drank himself to death.

When the question arises as to the forces of addiction, the truth of disease vs. lack of willpower, I know the answer. It is a heavy burden, a rope tied around your neck, a nightmare that suppresses you until you can no longer see beyond its walls or hear the cries of your loved ones as they struggle to pull you from the fire.

But what is the reason some will succumb to this antagonistic tormentor while others treat it like a bully on the playground--running away screaming or choosing to fight back and win the right to have their lives back?

Is it a hereditary trait as most would suggest or does it run through families because one fucked up generation fucks up another? I suspect it is both. It is tied to pain. When we are hurting, we take things to make our hurt go away. We place band aids over open wounds, we massage sore muscles, we fight off illness and treat infections. But some infections cannot be treated with antibiotics.  Some infections run so deeply within us, they infiltrate our spirit.

George Carlin was famously quoted as saying, "Just cause you got the monkey off your back, doesn't mean the circus has left town". I am afraid the monkey has jumped back on for a wild ride on the back of my remaining brother. He and I are a lot alike. I would think that damn monkey would be tired of trying to hang on by now.

What is this bizarre, unexplainable three-ring circus full of people whose strongest desire is to temp fate with a death wish?  The lion tamer, the man shot from a cannon, the addict?  How did I manage to avoid becoming the high-flying, death defying trapeze artist in the center ring?

I do not know the answers to these things but I do know, more than most, the lessons we learn.

I know if one generation does not seek to heal themselves, to not only face their bully but to kick its ass, they will pass the proclivity for addiction on to the next.

I know that some do not have the knowledge, understanding or awareness to do this. This does not make them weak, just disadvantaged. They are or were engaged in an unfair fight.

Most importantly, I know the next generation can overcome the burden as well as the gifts of inheritance because I have done so, or have I?

Oklahoma - A Time to Die

Coincidences, happenstance, bizarre outrageous behavior - I consider all of these to be signs from the universe. Sometimes I am tuned in, paying attention to the warnings placed in my path - the flashing beacons that are there to keep me out of the woods.

Yet at other times, I am sleeping at the wheel, letting my own convoluted thoughts steer me in the wrong direction, veering off the road until I crash into a tree and wake up slapping myself upside the head in grateful disbelief.

Right now, at this very moment in my life, I am so highly tuned into these divine signals - the frequency, pitch and tone of the messages I am receiving are along the lines of having the Mormon Tabernacle Choir in my head serenading me with a multitude of  HAL - LE - LU - YA's.

This brings me to the most recent soul awakening conclusion revealed to me during my Thanksgiving trek back to Oklahoma - the place of my birth, my home for the first 37 years of my life. My beloved red dirt wearing, tornado flying, flat as a pancake, peaceful, low tax, friendliest-people-on-the-face-of-the-earth Oklahoma is not my home anymore.

When I first moved to Wisconsin, it was not easy. Yes, it was exciting and necessary to move in order for us to begin our new life; but leaving my home state was immensely troublesome. I was often homesick. Whenever I found myself with a travel layover, I would seek out the gate with the departure to Oklahoma City. I remember sitting at those gates basking in the Oklahoma that surrounded me. I would soak in their warmth and drink from their accents, feeling completely at home with them.

People from Oklahoma have a certain look about them. You can see a softness, even when they are abrasive-- it's still there; the gentle, familiar, cushy undertone.

This trip was different. Something was not right. I wasn't recognizing them anymore. Had they changed or was it me? It had been almost three years since I had buried my mother. Dad was gone, two out of three brothers are dead and the remaining one has checked out. Seeing their children, my nieces and nephew, was a joy and a privilege.  It made me want to see them more. I have extended family and many friends who always welcome me with the kind of love that can only be found at home; yet, I felt myself longing to be back in Wisconsin.

I wanted to go home.

Perhaps it was the trio we encountered at the hotel swimming pool. I refer to them as Gansta Dude, Crack Whore and the Prostitute they brought along for some "adult" fun while my kids were playing nearby. Crack Whore sucked, no chewed, on a pacifier while Gansta Dude wore an overstuffed parka inside the moist heat of the indoor pool and Prostitute was asked to perform various duties ranging from fist fights with Crack Whore to sex in the hot tub.

My kids were kept busy with assorted forms of lifeguard/shark/victim role-playing, Marco Polo, etc. They didn't notice. My mother bear instincts were telling me to play it calm and ignore them (while keeping one eye glued to them), to not engage in a confrontation and to not report them to the front desk. They left after a half hour or so.  I think we were spoiling their ambiance.

I wanted to go home.

There was a beggar or two or three or four at every major intersection, all holding various cardboard signs explaining their plight. My children wanted to give them all money.  As I drove along, they kept shouting for me to stop as they read aloud from the dilapidated placards, this one was a former Marine, this one is old, that one is homeless, mom, mom, mom, we have to help this one, look mom, look--he's holding a sign with a happy face on it.

I wanted to go home. 

The signs were everywhere, pointing me in the direction of Wisconsin; but perhaps none more-so than my shock and disbelief at the condition of my last remaining brother and his house, our house, the house I grew up in had begun to fall into disrepair. My brother's wife is a hoarder. She doesn't have any dead cat carcasses, piles of human feces or goats eating through her walls but she is well on her way.

My brother is drinking again and he will die soon, just as the other two had done, by slowly drinking themselves to death. The Hepatitis C will make certain work of it. I've seen it before, it is an appallingly monstrous way to die.  This is why I was so easily convinced to leave Oklahoma over nine years ago. The first brother had died, with me at his bedside and the second one was well on his way.

(To be continued...) 


Art Credit: Bouguereau Girl in the Cross Timbers of Oklahoma,by Margaret Aycock

Strike Three - Meet Mr. Sunshine With a Chance of Pain

This time around I stepped up to the plate knowing I was going to strike out, thus I chose to go down looking - scoring a backwards "K" on marriage number three. I watched the ball whiz past me without one consideration of taking a swing at it. Actually, I knew no matter how good the pitch or perfect the swing, this was not going to be a home run, double, single or even a fielder's choice. Perhaps I could have connected for a sacrifice fly but I didn't; for when you hit the ball on a sacrifice, you are still out.

I locked myself in my hotel bathroom to avoid making eye contact with my girlfriends. These two had traveled from Oklahoma and Texas to support me and I was hiding from them. I didn't want them to see I had cried off my carefully applied wedding makeup. I didn't want them to hear me and bang on the door. I didn't want them to realize how much I didn't want to get married that day. I was afraid they would encourage me to suck it up, get dressed and get out there. After nearly seven years with this man, I was done, so very, very done on the day we got married.

This is the story of Mr. Sunshine with a Chance of Pain.

Mr. Sunshine seemed to have his feet planted firmly upon God's green earth but as I began to really know him, I realized his head was spending far too much time in the clouds and his vision was always marred by the bright, golden sphere he so often seemed to be chasing. As interpreted by this rendering, he would clench his fists and don a briefcase, preferring to make his mark by making a million or making a name for himself rather than making a living.

My mom, God rest her soul, was the first person to see this. She came to visit us the week we got married. She watched him practically skip out the door one morning while whistling a happy little tune. He was leaving us with three young kids and a house full of boxes. We had just moved into our new home days before. There were projects everywhere, babies crying, madness and mayhem; yet, off he bounced to his sales job saying something about making the world a better place one sale at a time.

Mom turned to me in her dry but always pleasantly blunt tone and said, "who's he think he's foolin' with that shit?" God how I miss that woman's way with words.

She was right. I knew it and eventually even he came to admit it. It was all an act to cover up one scared, insecure young man who seemed to suddenly wake up and find himself with three kids, a wife, a house, an enormous pile of bills and not a chance of sun in sight.

(To be Continued)

The Little White Cloud

My mom passed away in March, 2007 from breast cancer. In the ten years leading up to her death, she endured the loss of her youngest son Mark, her beloved sister Lila who was also her best friend, the love of her life (my dad) and finally, her eldest son, Robby. In the immediate days following her passing, I poured through her photos and writings, discovering a woman I barely knew. I was dramatically swept into the formative years of the woman that would one day be my mother.

Her later years were defined by grief; though you never saw her outwardly mourn. You could see the hurt in her eyes. There was a dullness to them letting us know that a considerable part of her spirit had died along with her loved ones. She wrote this poem on January 27, 2003, just one month after losing Robby.

Footsteps on the carpet
Loud and Clear
They are mine
No one else is here

Squish, squish, squish
Rings in my ear
The constant reminder
No one else is here

Where are they now?
Where will I be?
Unanswered questions
Wish I were free.

Free from the pain
What have I done?
Loved them too much?
Need the sun.

We all take a great deal of solace knowing that she is free from the pain, with those she dearly loved, and that she has once again found the sun. I was estranged from my mom for those last few years leading up to her death. In my eyes, she was so consumed with caring for the dying, she forgot she still had someone in her life who was living. I left Oklahoma in large part to escape the death march that stampeded through our family. After being with both dad and Mark as they passed on, I couldn't handle one more and I knew Robby was already on his way. Mom always understood this and assured me that we all have our "thresholds of pain". For instance, she wasn't able to sit with dad when the life support was shut off because it exceeded her threshold. She waited in the family room and later told us she knew when his spirit left his body because she felt him pass through her.

Looking back, it is clear to see she never recovered from the enormity of her losses. She was depressed and unable to embrace joy in her life. To this day, I feel a sense of being robbed for not having a mom in my adult life. When I see other women my age shopping with their mother's, my heart hurts. I know she allowed herself to die, perhaps she even wished it upon herself. What other reason could account for her ignoring the lump. Why else would she refuse to tell the doctors about it even after all other tests had been exhausted and no cause for her symptoms had been found? The cancer had metastasised into her bones. She was literally aching to her bones with pain so intense she could barely breath but she still wouldn't tell them she had a lump, a very large lump, visible to the naked eye. She had been living with the dying for so long, she was now dying to live with them again.

Mark Twain once said, "Forgiveness is the fragrance the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it." I do not suffer any grudges against my mom. I miss her but I am not angry with her. On the contrary, I have journeyed back in time to meet the woman I barely knew. This is the woman I have come to know and love. She was vulnerable and innocent and yet fiercely strong and protective of her loved ones. She had to work extra hard on me, her only daughter, to "make me a lady" when all I wanted to do was act like my brothers. Morals, honesty and integrity were as much a part of her fiber as the love of her children and family.

She was a stunning beauty with piercing blue eyes. She played the guitar, the violin and the steel guitar. Her extended family members enjoyed coming to their small, white house behind the school every Friday night for a family hoe-down. They nearly all played an instrument. She dreamed of playing the cello but her family could not afford to purchase one. It was during this period of time she discovered what she called the “neverland of music lovers”. She had also heard it referred to as “another time and place”. She writes, “I was able to transport myself to this place with various artists. It has gotten me through many hours of intense pain”. Music was her salvation.

At the age of 17, she used to tag along with her sister, Lila, to a club called The Little White Cloud. The sisters enjoyed dancing and were known to be quite good at it. Mom marveled at her older sister’s ease and grace on the dance floor. They loved taking the free dance lessons to learn the hot new Latin dances of the time. It was during one of these outings, when her life would take an unexpected turn.

I convey this in her words: “The chemistry between us could not be denied. He was 24, tall, slender, tan and had the most beautiful hair styled in a duck tail. He was wearing blue suede shoes. He was, to use 1950’s terminology, ‘a cool cat’. He had hands that totally fascinated me and over the years I came to the conclusion they were a little magic. From the time of our first meeting, he became the center of my life. We eventually married and of this union, four children were born.”

Now of course, legend has it that Grandma Bea attempted to shoo this ‘cool cat’ right off her front porch when he came a callin’. After all, she was only 17. We have never been able to get a confirmation on this but after seeing the photos of dad during those years, we’re fairly certain it is an accurate historical account. In spite of Grandma Bea’s wishes, mom loved him. As we have come to know, when Joyce Macdonald loves somebody, there ain't gonna be no stopping it.

I wish I had a little more time with mom now so I can ask her more questions about those early years. I want to know what she was thinking in every picture. Did she realize how beautiful she was? Doubtful, she was too humble to think much about her looks, but she was indeed quite eye-catching. I want to know what color her dresses were in all those black and white photos. I want to ask her how she managed to curl her hair like that and what color of lipstick was her favorite. I want to see her again with these new eyes of mine. But most of all, I wish I could help her see herself through my eyes. The eyes that now see clearly the wonder of this woman.

As she was slipping away from us, we all gathered around her to give her our love. Earlier that morning she had whispered, “where we goin’, where we goin’?” We imagined she was talking to dad or Lila or one of the boys. We knew she was scared so we assured her and gave her our permission to go. As she drew in for her final breath, I asked her to look for Lila on the dance floor. I told her they would be dancing together soon. I pictured them standing under a sign reading, The Little White Cloud. I want to imagine it is Lila who first greets her as they find themselves on a dance floor, listening to the heavenly music, feeling once again transported from her pain………when in walks a tall, slender, tan man with beautiful, messy hair and magic hands.

Just as he had done so many years before, he immediately captures her, taking her in his arms. They are dancing. She is home. With a gentle spin on the dance floor she becomes aware of another person in the midst. It is Mark. He is healthy, strong and handsome with that beautiful smile on his face and a camera in his hand. With the second turn, she notices the heavenly melodies, stirring at her heart are being played by Robby. He is backed up by her daddy and the long line of musicians from which she came. One generation to the next, it is an entire orchestra of forefathers. She’s not immediately certain who they all are but she instinctively knows they are clan, her tribe, her people. Each new turn brings more family, more friends, more understanding of just how significant her time on this earthly plain was. Her nurturing spirit and gentle caring soul is now at peace.

Overwhelmed and slightly breathless, she feels she can dance no more. The divine harmonies are drawing her near. When she arrives at the foot of the orchestra, she notices an empty spot has opened up between Robby and Grandpa. She takes her seat and skillfully presses her delicate fingers of one hand to the strings of her instrument. It is a cello. With her other hand she smoothly caresses the strings with her bow.

She is once again beautiful, made whole, with the man she loves and those she had once lost. The light has returned to her eyes. They are together forever in a heavenly grace, free of physical and emotional pain, where souls are renewed and love endures for all eternity.

Rock on gypsy soul.

Let your soul and spirit fly

Into the mystic.

If Life's A Buffet , I'm Gonna Need More Plates

I like food. I like to think about food. Thinking about food has gotten me into a bit of trouble in my life because thinking about it leads to coveting it and craving it, which leads to an almost ritualistic feeding frenzy where all sense of good judgment is temporarily suspended while I plow through a large plate of spaghetti and meatballs.

My relationship with food is complicated. It is as loaded as a colossal serving of cheese fries. On one side of it there is passion, desire, respect and appreciation. I am a foodie. I love the preparation of food, the careful selection of ingredients, the aroma of a savory saute. My dad was a foodie too. Early childhood memories of him involve his love of eating. He seemed to be at his best when it came time to select and consume good food. This is really saying something because my dad was generally not at his best.

My mom cooked most every weeknight but the weekends belonged to my dad. Mom had an arsenal of tried and true recipes that could quickly be prepared after a long day at work. She was a good cook with four hungry kids to feed. Most of us happily sat down and ate with very little discord, most of us except my brother Mark. Born with a picky palette, Mark was well known for finding interesting ways to hide the food he didn't want to eat. A convenient dog under the table, sneaking food onto other people's plates or ingeniously stuffing food into the cushion of his chair. This wasn't discovered until many months later when the rancid mystery smell was finally traced back to the vinyl chair cushion stuffed with foam rubber and a mountain of peas.

Dad used to complain quite frequently about mom's quick-prep meals. (If we'd only had Rachel Ray back then.) Nothing sat that man off like coming home from work and finding Hamburger Helper on the stove. "Blank-it-e-Blank, Blank, Blank, Blank Joyce, you know how I hate that Blanker Blankin Blankburger Helper". What can I say, dad had a way with words. I suspect that's why the weekend food duties were summarily turned over to him.

One night of the weekend he would cook and the other night he would usually do take-out. He did both with passion and vigor. You couldn't help but get caught up in his excitement. This was the same colorful, grumpy Archie Bunker who sat in that recliner five days a week watching Truth or Consequences; the same man you carefully tip-toed around so as not to get hit with the fallout from his explosive temper. This same man now stood in the kitchen with a smile on his face, zestfully throwing in every kind of spice known to man kind, chopping, frying, stirring and humming as if a tiny cartoon bluebird were resting on his shoulder. Food made the man happy.

On the other hand, mom used food to make the rest of us happy. Cherry cobblers and banana pudding made from scratch were like giant band-aids she placed over our hearts when we were downtrodden. Or if God forbid, she noticed one of us looking a little too thin - she made it her personal quest to pack the pounds on us. This included our poor dogs. In addition to being on the receiving end of all the vegetables that couldn't fit into the vinyl chair cushion, our dogs were subjected to my mother's truest form of love. Here's our portly poodle named Prissy. She looks like a stuffed sausage with curly, white hair. We could decorate her with silly hats and sunglasses because once she was propped up like that, she was like a rolly polly on it's back.

I have continued to use food to self medicate during the low-lows or when life calls for a Sara Lee pound cake and a fork (why bother to cut a slice, just pop off the paper lid and and dig in). I was blessed with a tall frame and for most of my life I have been able to get away with these episodes of stress-induced hedonism. That however, is not the case today as I approach my 46th birthday. If you look closely, you can see the tiny red Sara Lee logo imbeddid in the form of cellulite on my thighs.

I recently realized I have been thinking of food as the enemy, something I need to strategically avoid, something that elicits fear, panic and loathing; both of the food and of myself. Not long ago, my boyfriend and I decided to venture downtown to "split some appetizers". Neither of us were hungry enough for a full dinner so it seemed like a splendid idea. It was late so our options were limited. We ordered what we thought was a serving of 12 small bites of deliciously mouthwatering munchies; however, through a simple math error and a misleading menu, we ended up with a platter containing 36 of my worst nightmares. A strange sort of involuntary nervous laugh was heard at the table and it was me.

Later recounting the experience to a trusted friend, I had one of those ah-ha moments of clarity. She reminded me of my love of food and told me to quite simply relax and enjoy it. Oh yeah, I do love food. The fear and negative energy I was associating with food was the very thing that was causing me to abuse it. I was sneaking around with my overindulgences. Like an alcoholic hiding the empty bottles, I was hiding in my relatively dark living room, dreaming up and then following through with the most outrageously decadent temptations I could possibly imagine.

I don't know if any of this makes sense to anyone other than me but I suspect we do a lot of things we know we shouldn't do under the cover of darkness. Sometimes it's literally dark and sometimes it's figuratively dark. I was in the dark in more ways than one. Until I was willing to recognize the fear and guilt and then let it go, I couldn't get back to thinking of food in a healthy, loving, natural way. Now I can nurture myself with food in the light of day, enjoying all of the subtle, palatable nuances, the edifying memories of childhood and the search for decent Mexican food in Milwaukee.