My friend, Kathy, is your typical mother, runner, vegetarian, assistant dean who calls her parents by their first names. She loves college basketball and cackling at inappropriate jokes. She's the kind of friend you can not talk to for two months and then send her an email simply saying, "I just saw a guy walk into a pole" and you just know she's cracking up on the other end of the campus.
Kathy is interesting and all, but the most captivating thing about her is her family. Not her husband and kids. They're fine, but not particularly note-worthy. However, no fiction writer could come up with these characters: Bob, Jack, Joe and Slash. They are Kathy's uncles and aunt. More than likely you will never meet them and that is your loss.
Bob, Jack and Joe are brothers to Kathy's mom, Sue. Bob and Jack lived in the same small town where I lived and I would often see them at the grocery store. They traveled as a pair. For awhile I would make a point of trying to remember which was which. But, in the end, it didn't really matter because they were always together. I would say, "Hi, Uncle Bob. Hi, Uncle Jack," and they would never recognize me. I would then follow it with, "I'm Kathy's friend, Tonya. The one with all the kids," to which they would reply, "Oh, sure, sure. How are the kids?" I'm pretty sure at that point they still didn't remember me, but they were very polite.
Neither of them ever married and they lived in their childhood home which was right across the street from Our Lady of Perpetual Guilt, or whatever the name of the Catholic Church was. They were what I would call "hard-core Catholics". They would be at mass for whatever obscure saint's day it was and would choose a candidate based on one criteria, are they Pro-Life? The kind of devout Catholic that moderate Catholics even find a little tough to take sometimes. But, they meant well and were true to their faith, so you have to respect that.
When I met them they were both semi-retired but starting a landscaping business together. This kept them busy and entertained but still left time to take care of their older brother, Joe. Joe had recently been moved back to Illinois from Iowa because he was bi-polar with a hint of schizophrenia and starting to lose it. There was a story the uncles had vaguely mentioned that involved Joe's dog, (or was it a cat), and he had lost it, or killed it, or something. Anyway, Joe was shipped to the brothers for the kind of proper supervision only old, single men can provide.
Joe had been married to Nancy before she died in a medical mishap. I never met Nancy and when I asked Kathy if Joe was showing signs of mental illness when she was younger she said, "I don't know. All I remember is that Uncle Joe and Aunt Nancy had four sheep which they named after their nieces: Kathy, Julie, Heather and April. The sheep were all struck by lightning and killed. Uncle Joe just left their carcasses in the field to rot." I took that as a "yes" he showed signs of illness.
Joe might have struggled with mental stability but he kept himself very busy. He could be counted on to look through the household bills and maintain his notes in his office, the local coffee shop. He would sort and categorize the bills and make notes in a shabby, spiral bound notebook. A typical entry in the notebook might be: "Susie arrived at 5:15 p.m. with Subway. Bob, Jack and I ordered our usual. Susie had tuna salad with Baked Lays and a Diet Coke." Sure, it might seem a bit trivial to the average person, but you never know when someone might race through town screaming, "What did everyone have for dinner?!"
Then, there's Kathy's Aunt Slash. She really isn't her aunt, but a cousin to Bob, Jack, Joe and Sue. And Slash really isn't her real name. Her given name is Joan. In the late 1950's Joan had a career as a dancer, but she assumed no one would want to watch a dancer named "Joan", so she had a stage name. With all the options open to her, it's unclear why she chose "Phyllis", but she must have thought it held much more allure and intrigue than "Joan". For as long as Kathy could remember, they all called her "Joan/Phyllis" (literally "Joan-slash-Phyllis") which was eventually shortened to Slash. I'm sure in her heyday Slash was quite glamorous, but I knew her when she was using a walker and had a colostomy bag. I hate to reduce someone to a device they had to use in their old age, but the bag plays a key role in my favorite Slash story.
The four of them were returning from a family gathering when Bob (or was in Jack) had to pull over to the side of road because there was a slight colostomy bag back-up. I'm not so sure there can be a "slight" problem when it comes to colostomy bags, but, nevertheless, they pulled over to clean up and correct the situation. In true Slash-form all she said was, "Well, that'll teach me to eat gooseberry pie."
I will always treasure my memories of the yearly Thanksgiving Day football games with our families and Bob, Jack, Joe and Slash. Bob and Jack always had a great time, Joe always looked concerned and Slash just stood on the sidelines cheering for whoever had the ball. It all would end with the traditional picture of all the players in a cheerleader-style pyramid. I will always regret not being around on the Thanksgiving Day years before when Nancy fell from the pyramid and broke her arm. I wonder if Joe just left her on the field to rot.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Sunday, October 9, 2011
The Feather Incident
My son, Zach, is hands-down my quirkiest child. The laundry list of his diagnoses isn't as important as the fact that almost every person, young and old, in the small town we lived in knew and loved Zach. The teachers, the students, the parents, (the cops), the store clerks, everyone. He is a kind, generous, occasionally violent child with the kind of curiosity that would allow a person with a normal IQ to excel in any engineering college. Zach's unique genius drives him to wild investigations that often end in a mess with us laughing because, really, what else can you do?
It was one of those Saturday mornings where I had planned to do laundry, clean the house, run errands and feed the kids. The kind of glamorous day every young girl dreams of. I was still in my nightshirt and most of the kids were eating breakfast in front of the TV when feathers started floating down the open stairwell from the second floor. There weren't many feathers, but when you don't own birds any feather will draw your attention.
I was at the kind of fork in the road I often found myself as a mother. Do I ignore it and it will go away without much damage? Or does it warrant immediate attention? It's a judgement call. Like deciding whether the cut your kid just got needs stitches. Looking back, I made the right choice. I decided to head upstairs and I didn't need to ask who was up there, I knew. Zach. If you are asking how I knew, you've never met him.
With every step, the quantity of feathers increased exponentially. As I turned the corner and saw his room, I wasn't angry, I wasn't laughing, I was in utter disbelief. It was like looking at an optical illusion. You know you couldn't be seeing what your eyes thought you were seeing. What used to be his room had been transformed by the entire contents of two large feather pillows into an ocean of white fluff...that was still moving. Zach was standing in the middle of it all with feathers stuck in his curls sporting a frightened look sprinkled with a dash of accomplishment.
I'm not entirely sure what I said, but I'm fairly sure I quietly asked Zach to go downstairs. I'm not being sarcastic; I was probably very calm. My normal reaction to most things is quick, loud and passionate. However, in moments of extreme duress I am calm in an ominous way. During labor with the only child I birthed, I wasn't the violent, cursing woman I and everyone who knew me predicted I would be. I was calm, quiet and polite. Ryan and my mom thought I had been possessed.
Left on my own in the room, I found that every single surface had been covered. Every dirty sock on the floor, his sheets, his desk, everything. So, I devised a plan to find all the clothing, shake off the feathers and put them in a basket in the hall. If you are smarter than I am, you will realize the flaw in my thinking. Every time I picked up a shirt, every feather in the vicinity began to float. The only ones that didn't continue to drift slowly back down to the floor were the ones that stuck on my sweaty arms, legs and face. Nice.
After a few attempts to pick up the clothes, I changed my tactic. I needed to remove the bulk of the feathers before moving anything else. Perfect. I went downstairs to get the vacuum and all of my kids were silently sitting down watching TV. They only do that when I have blown a gasket and gone on a tirade. Apparently, my zen-like calm had left me at some point when I was upstairs because my oldest told me later that a stream of obscenities had been flowing down the stairs. The fact that I stood in front of them looking like a deranged bird in a nightshirt further convinced them to remaining perfectly still and silent.
I hauled the vacuum upstairs and started it up. My lack of experience with feather removal showed again as I failed to anticipate that vacuums actually blow air out as they suck air in. Within three seconds, the entire room was airborne. It was about this time that I became aware I was getting a bit wheezy. Damned asthma. So, I thought, "I'll just open the window to get rid of some of this goose dander." Do I need to paint the picture for you?
Fast forward an hour and a half and the entire room was free of feathers with the help of a dust buster. All hail Black & Decker. I never asked Zach why and I never punished him. I figured the hours he sat silently on the couch listening to my muffled curses was punishment enough. Sometimes with kids the anticipation of discipline is penance enough. I threw away every feather pillow in the house after that. So, years later when I would occasionally find a stray feather, I knew it was from "The Feather Incident", as it came to be known. Let this be a lesson. As they say, if you can't be a good example at least be a dire warning.
It was one of those Saturday mornings where I had planned to do laundry, clean the house, run errands and feed the kids. The kind of glamorous day every young girl dreams of. I was still in my nightshirt and most of the kids were eating breakfast in front of the TV when feathers started floating down the open stairwell from the second floor. There weren't many feathers, but when you don't own birds any feather will draw your attention.
I was at the kind of fork in the road I often found myself as a mother. Do I ignore it and it will go away without much damage? Or does it warrant immediate attention? It's a judgement call. Like deciding whether the cut your kid just got needs stitches. Looking back, I made the right choice. I decided to head upstairs and I didn't need to ask who was up there, I knew. Zach. If you are asking how I knew, you've never met him.
With every step, the quantity of feathers increased exponentially. As I turned the corner and saw his room, I wasn't angry, I wasn't laughing, I was in utter disbelief. It was like looking at an optical illusion. You know you couldn't be seeing what your eyes thought you were seeing. What used to be his room had been transformed by the entire contents of two large feather pillows into an ocean of white fluff...that was still moving. Zach was standing in the middle of it all with feathers stuck in his curls sporting a frightened look sprinkled with a dash of accomplishment.
I'm not entirely sure what I said, but I'm fairly sure I quietly asked Zach to go downstairs. I'm not being sarcastic; I was probably very calm. My normal reaction to most things is quick, loud and passionate. However, in moments of extreme duress I am calm in an ominous way. During labor with the only child I birthed, I wasn't the violent, cursing woman I and everyone who knew me predicted I would be. I was calm, quiet and polite. Ryan and my mom thought I had been possessed.
Left on my own in the room, I found that every single surface had been covered. Every dirty sock on the floor, his sheets, his desk, everything. So, I devised a plan to find all the clothing, shake off the feathers and put them in a basket in the hall. If you are smarter than I am, you will realize the flaw in my thinking. Every time I picked up a shirt, every feather in the vicinity began to float. The only ones that didn't continue to drift slowly back down to the floor were the ones that stuck on my sweaty arms, legs and face. Nice.
After a few attempts to pick up the clothes, I changed my tactic. I needed to remove the bulk of the feathers before moving anything else. Perfect. I went downstairs to get the vacuum and all of my kids were silently sitting down watching TV. They only do that when I have blown a gasket and gone on a tirade. Apparently, my zen-like calm had left me at some point when I was upstairs because my oldest told me later that a stream of obscenities had been flowing down the stairs. The fact that I stood in front of them looking like a deranged bird in a nightshirt further convinced them to remaining perfectly still and silent.
I hauled the vacuum upstairs and started it up. My lack of experience with feather removal showed again as I failed to anticipate that vacuums actually blow air out as they suck air in. Within three seconds, the entire room was airborne. It was about this time that I became aware I was getting a bit wheezy. Damned asthma. So, I thought, "I'll just open the window to get rid of some of this goose dander." Do I need to paint the picture for you?
Fast forward an hour and a half and the entire room was free of feathers with the help of a dust buster. All hail Black & Decker. I never asked Zach why and I never punished him. I figured the hours he sat silently on the couch listening to my muffled curses was punishment enough. Sometimes with kids the anticipation of discipline is penance enough. I threw away every feather pillow in the house after that. So, years later when I would occasionally find a stray feather, I knew it was from "The Feather Incident", as it came to be known. Let this be a lesson. As they say, if you can't be a good example at least be a dire warning.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
My Asian father
It's important that I begin by saying I am not Asian. I'm not partly Asian, faintly Asian or Asian-ish. My racial background is Caucasian mixed with Caucasian. Not that I don't like people of Asian descent or I wouldn't be thrilled to be Asian, but I'm simply not Asian. I only mention this because it is paramount to the story that follows.
I worked as an academic advisor in a department with quite a few other advisors. One such advisor was named LaTanya and students would often get our names confused. However, we looked nothing alike. I was, and still am, a short, thick,white woman. LaTanya was (is) a statuesque black woman.
One day, a student called and asked to make an appointment with the advisor he had met with before named "Tonya". Since the other advisor also went by the name "Tanya", the secretary asked, "Is she black or white?" Long pause. The secretary, being very familiar with the typical white guilt that makes white people too nervous to say the word "black", smirked and asked again, "Is she black or white?" Again with the pause followed by, "She wears glasses."
The secretary was so amused by him avoiding the racial issue that she wouldn't let him slide. She said, "They both wear glasses." Which was true. "Is she black or white?" This time the pause was longer followed meekly by, "I always thought she was Asian." Yep, he was talking about me.
Oh, the secretary thought this was supremely funny and proceeded to tell the story to everyone in the department. I didn't mind that so much. Of course I look more Asian than a medium-skinned black woman. But it was when people would hear the story and respond with, "Yeah, I could see why he would think Tonya was Asian" that irked me.
What in the hell were they talking about? I'm so white it's ridiculous. I had never questioned my racial background. Why should I? This prompted many long looks in the mirror. I'll admit that I tried to see if I could pull off a more naturally wide-eyed appearance. I just looked like a female version of Marty Feldman.
I quickly moved toward the notion popularized by disgruntled children everywhere, maybe I'm adopted! I thumbed through my memory searching for any recollection of pictures of my mother pregnant with me. Oh, right, that one photograph of her in the shapeless yellow maternity dress with her ankles spilling out of her pumps. Ok, I wasn't adopted. But that doesn't mean my mom wasn't scandalously impregnated by an Asian foreign exchange student at the Baptist college she and my dad attended after they were married.
Did I really want to go there? My sweet, virginal mother who was studying to be a special education teacher at a religiously conservative college with her husband? It would be very romantic, yet tragic. My dad would be an upright, responsible man and claim the love-child as his own to protect his wife's virtue. What a wonderful man.
Then I remembered what my dad's mom said about me the day I was born. My dad, my aunts and uncles all retold this story a thousand times when I was growing up. When my dad called my grandma and said they had a baby girl she asked who I looked like. My dad said, "Well, she kind of looks like me," to which my grandmother, his mother, replied, "Oh, I thought she'd be pretty."
Yeah, I've been told a million times I look like my dad. One colleague once told my father that he never considered that the female version of him could be pretty, but it was. So I'm not an illegitimate love-child or adopted. Whew! I was finally secure in the feeling that I was not racially ambiguous. That security lasted exactly one week.
While on campus during lunch, a man standing on the steps of the Psychology building caught my eye and my heart jumped. The man looked just like my dad. Sure, it's not uncommon on a university campus to see a man with longish hair, chinos, a collared shirt and a v-neck sweater, but he really looked like Dad. It couldn't be him because he was seven hours away, but he looked so much like him. As I walked closer to the man, a delivery truck pulled between me and the man so I couldn't see him again until I was very close to him. He turned his head and I saw.....he was Asian.
I worked as an academic advisor in a department with quite a few other advisors. One such advisor was named LaTanya and students would often get our names confused. However, we looked nothing alike. I was, and still am, a short, thick,white woman. LaTanya was (is) a statuesque black woman.
One day, a student called and asked to make an appointment with the advisor he had met with before named "Tonya". Since the other advisor also went by the name "Tanya", the secretary asked, "Is she black or white?" Long pause. The secretary, being very familiar with the typical white guilt that makes white people too nervous to say the word "black", smirked and asked again, "Is she black or white?" Again with the pause followed by, "She wears glasses."
The secretary was so amused by him avoiding the racial issue that she wouldn't let him slide. She said, "They both wear glasses." Which was true. "Is she black or white?" This time the pause was longer followed meekly by, "I always thought she was Asian." Yep, he was talking about me.
Oh, the secretary thought this was supremely funny and proceeded to tell the story to everyone in the department. I didn't mind that so much. Of course I look more Asian than a medium-skinned black woman. But it was when people would hear the story and respond with, "Yeah, I could see why he would think Tonya was Asian" that irked me.
What in the hell were they talking about? I'm so white it's ridiculous. I had never questioned my racial background. Why should I? This prompted many long looks in the mirror. I'll admit that I tried to see if I could pull off a more naturally wide-eyed appearance. I just looked like a female version of Marty Feldman.
I quickly moved toward the notion popularized by disgruntled children everywhere, maybe I'm adopted! I thumbed through my memory searching for any recollection of pictures of my mother pregnant with me. Oh, right, that one photograph of her in the shapeless yellow maternity dress with her ankles spilling out of her pumps. Ok, I wasn't adopted. But that doesn't mean my mom wasn't scandalously impregnated by an Asian foreign exchange student at the Baptist college she and my dad attended after they were married.
Did I really want to go there? My sweet, virginal mother who was studying to be a special education teacher at a religiously conservative college with her husband? It would be very romantic, yet tragic. My dad would be an upright, responsible man and claim the love-child as his own to protect his wife's virtue. What a wonderful man.
Then I remembered what my dad's mom said about me the day I was born. My dad, my aunts and uncles all retold this story a thousand times when I was growing up. When my dad called my grandma and said they had a baby girl she asked who I looked like. My dad said, "Well, she kind of looks like me," to which my grandmother, his mother, replied, "Oh, I thought she'd be pretty."
Yeah, I've been told a million times I look like my dad. One colleague once told my father that he never considered that the female version of him could be pretty, but it was. So I'm not an illegitimate love-child or adopted. Whew! I was finally secure in the feeling that I was not racially ambiguous. That security lasted exactly one week.
While on campus during lunch, a man standing on the steps of the Psychology building caught my eye and my heart jumped. The man looked just like my dad. Sure, it's not uncommon on a university campus to see a man with longish hair, chinos, a collared shirt and a v-neck sweater, but he really looked like Dad. It couldn't be him because he was seven hours away, but he looked so much like him. As I walked closer to the man, a delivery truck pulled between me and the man so I couldn't see him again until I was very close to him. He turned his head and I saw.....he was Asian.
Saturday, October 1, 2011
Cast of Characters
My father is a writer. He primarily writes novels and short stories. As a teenager, my mom and I would proofread his chapters and give our opinions. Those chapters were written on actual paper that came out of the typewriter and, later, the printer. We would sit in his study on the shabby loveseat and make notes with a pencil. Fast forward a few years and I no longer get the first look at his writing, but I still influence his stories. I'm his character scout.
I'm not sure how it started. Did he ask me or did I just mention something once? Either way, for years I have been telling my dad about interesting people I meet. We all know of odd people or fabulous people with an unbelievable past. For some reason they strike me as memorable and worthy of mention in a story.
For example, let's say you are working at a bead store and have a regular customer, Shirley. You think Shirley is just a nice, older lady with a penchant for malachite. But, your boss tells you Shirley's story. Shirley was a nun for 15 years who chose to serve the Lord by writing to inmates. As you would expect when a sex-less woman writes to a sex-starved man, Duane fell for her and she for him. I guess the lure of an overweight virgin nun for a 38-year old armed robber is just irresistible. After he was paroled, Shirley quit the nun-hood and she and Duane bought an 18-wheeler and drove across the country together. Yep, right into the sunset. There is no way a writer could resist that.
Then, there are the twins. During my marriage to Ryan, we lived in a small town in Illinois. It's one of those towns where everyone knows everyone and the oddballs are just sort of ignored, yet accepted. As a newcomer to this town, I was fascinated by the twins. They would walk around town together as youngsters and later, as adults, they would walk alone. They were clearly a bit slow, but I found out they and all the males in the family had the same developmental delays caused by a genetic defect. Their father could also be seen shuffling around town and bidding on shit nobody else wanted at local auctions. I heard there was sister but she moved away and presumably lead a normal life.
The thing that struck me about the twins was what they would wear. They would walk side-by-side, not talking, but wearing clothes appropriate for opposite weather conditions. For example, it would be 65 degrees and one twin would be wearing shorts and a sleeveless shirt while the other would be wearing a winter coat. In Illinois, this meant that at most times of the year only one of the twins would be dressed appropriately for the conditions. Naturally, I began to call them Hot Twin/Cold Twin.
My dad would see the twins first-hand on his visits. We looked forward to the first twin siting of every trip. We loved to talk about whether Hot Twin was the one that always dressed too hot for the conditions, or if Hot Twin was the one who dressed as if HE was hot. The debate remains to this day.
I've left out another tidbit about one of the twins, the one that wears the winter coat. For as long as I've "known" him, he periodically starts running. I'm not talking about taking up the sport for exercise from time to time. I mean when he's walking around town he will occasionally start jogging. He's not trying to cross a street and no one appears to be chasing him. Something deep down has provided an irresistible urge to jog. It doesn't last long, maybe just for a few seconds. Did he remember something he needed to do and then promptly forgot? Did he suddenly feel cold and need to warm up? It remains unclear. But, his story lives on in my dad's writing.
Of course, I would be remiss if I didn't tell you about the guy from my Ph.D program. He was a gay, Muslim librarian named Dylan. As if that wasn't enough, his partner was an astrophysicist. That's right, a rocket scientist. It's hard to decide which part of this was the most intriguing. For me, it was the fact that his name was Dylan. Not a lot of Muslims named Dylan, I'm guessing.
Whether you are a high school football player who insists on wearing the same clothes to lift weights as you wear when you work cattle or maybe you just have a vaguely ethnic name like Twinkle Patel, I will tell my dad about you. You very well might see your story in print. Consider yourself warned.
I'm not sure how it started. Did he ask me or did I just mention something once? Either way, for years I have been telling my dad about interesting people I meet. We all know of odd people or fabulous people with an unbelievable past. For some reason they strike me as memorable and worthy of mention in a story.
For example, let's say you are working at a bead store and have a regular customer, Shirley. You think Shirley is just a nice, older lady with a penchant for malachite. But, your boss tells you Shirley's story. Shirley was a nun for 15 years who chose to serve the Lord by writing to inmates. As you would expect when a sex-less woman writes to a sex-starved man, Duane fell for her and she for him. I guess the lure of an overweight virgin nun for a 38-year old armed robber is just irresistible. After he was paroled, Shirley quit the nun-hood and she and Duane bought an 18-wheeler and drove across the country together. Yep, right into the sunset. There is no way a writer could resist that.
Then, there are the twins. During my marriage to Ryan, we lived in a small town in Illinois. It's one of those towns where everyone knows everyone and the oddballs are just sort of ignored, yet accepted. As a newcomer to this town, I was fascinated by the twins. They would walk around town together as youngsters and later, as adults, they would walk alone. They were clearly a bit slow, but I found out they and all the males in the family had the same developmental delays caused by a genetic defect. Their father could also be seen shuffling around town and bidding on shit nobody else wanted at local auctions. I heard there was sister but she moved away and presumably lead a normal life.
The thing that struck me about the twins was what they would wear. They would walk side-by-side, not talking, but wearing clothes appropriate for opposite weather conditions. For example, it would be 65 degrees and one twin would be wearing shorts and a sleeveless shirt while the other would be wearing a winter coat. In Illinois, this meant that at most times of the year only one of the twins would be dressed appropriately for the conditions. Naturally, I began to call them Hot Twin/Cold Twin.
My dad would see the twins first-hand on his visits. We looked forward to the first twin siting of every trip. We loved to talk about whether Hot Twin was the one that always dressed too hot for the conditions, or if Hot Twin was the one who dressed as if HE was hot. The debate remains to this day.
I've left out another tidbit about one of the twins, the one that wears the winter coat. For as long as I've "known" him, he periodically starts running. I'm not talking about taking up the sport for exercise from time to time. I mean when he's walking around town he will occasionally start jogging. He's not trying to cross a street and no one appears to be chasing him. Something deep down has provided an irresistible urge to jog. It doesn't last long, maybe just for a few seconds. Did he remember something he needed to do and then promptly forgot? Did he suddenly feel cold and need to warm up? It remains unclear. But, his story lives on in my dad's writing.
Of course, I would be remiss if I didn't tell you about the guy from my Ph.D program. He was a gay, Muslim librarian named Dylan. As if that wasn't enough, his partner was an astrophysicist. That's right, a rocket scientist. It's hard to decide which part of this was the most intriguing. For me, it was the fact that his name was Dylan. Not a lot of Muslims named Dylan, I'm guessing.
Whether you are a high school football player who insists on wearing the same clothes to lift weights as you wear when you work cattle or maybe you just have a vaguely ethnic name like Twinkle Patel, I will tell my dad about you. You very well might see your story in print. Consider yourself warned.
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