Soon, maybe real soon, everyone in this house will know how to properly sleep
in on the weekends. Until then, middle of the night travelers get the silent
treatment because our weekends are just as important as the weekdays. We cram
in two full days of family time and then spend the rest of the week waiting for
the next weekend. There are many prayers, long stories told and pictures drawn
that consist entirely of dreaming up the perfect week. Stories that involve the
"weekend becoming the weekdays" and vice verse. But then, who'd pay
the bills if we play five days a week and work two. It does sound like a great
plan I always remind. But, we live in a world were only 1% of our great
nation likely lives that way. Being the grown up in the house, I squash
all fanciful talk and remind them to keep dreaming, but in the meantime, go be
productive or play. As for me, I'm just thankful I don't have to work on the
weekends. I did that for a long time. It's not all that much fun. I remind
myself of my weekends at their age and I use those memories as a
barometer for the inevitable complaints that bounce around the walls here. I
have a suitcase full of childhood baggage that is tucked way up high in some
compartment in my brain. I've made peace with it all. I forgive everyone
involved. But, it's all there. Up high. Packed away. All the oxygen sucked
away. Like one of those bags...what are those bags called? The ones that suck
out the air? I did that to my childhood baggage. What the hell is that bag
called? Uh? Um? Well, anyway, that rocky bag is hard as hell, lumpy, and I
don't have any plans of opening it. But, it is there. It is a part of me. Like
ashes to a flame.
Weekends in the 70's, during my childhood, were much different than today.
Weekends were unpredictable. Like the weather. Since my dad sometimes worked on
the weekends, I knew that meant two things. My mom would either keep us home or
take us to the beach where we were free to roam the ocean, dig for hours in the
sand, or skate the long stretch of concrete that some like to call the
broadwalk. I wish it was called a boardwalk because that would make the song
make sense, but it wasn’t made of boards and you definitely couldn’t be under
it. It was our home away from home. We'd either be there or we’d be stuck at
home, with mom. All day.
Even the rain could not stop us from at least driving to the beach. If you
lived as close to the ocean as we did, well, you knew perfectly well that it
could be glorious and sunny in one spot on the sand and a there could be a
thunderous downpour only yards away. We always took our chances. The only time
we didn't stay is if there was lightning. Otherwise, we'd just wait out the
storm. Mostly because we’d all rather watch the mood swings of the Florida
water cycle than bear witness to the weather changes that plagued my moms mind
as she mulled around the house. My early photos in my mind are filled with
snapshots of my mom walking around the house singing and crying. The singing
sounded nice. The crying sounded like it hurt.
As a little girl, I was sweet and simple, the type of kid who could always find
something interesting to immerse myself in. And that’s why it was always such a
shock. Barbie, who actually resembled my mom a lot, (but my mom had
black hair and blue eyes), and I would be immersed in some activity; we’d be listening to
music, trying on clothes and mom would just flip a switch. It was never me who
flipped her switch. But it was me, or my dad (which depended on whether he was
the offender or not), who came to the rescue. I don’t remember the
conversations, but I clearly remember my feeling of shock at seeing her sob,
and that my instant reaction was to make it okay. I’d yell at the boy or man
that made her cry. I'm about four the first time I remember her in this state.
The problem with coming to her rescue, I later learned, was that sometimes, it
was the radio who was the offender. We always had music on, and I always sang
along, I’d see a certain song trigger a reaction and I tried so hard figure out
what the words meant. “Bears, only love you when they’re playing.” It wasn’t
until years later when I heard the song as an adult that I realized it was
PLAYERS, only love you when they’re playing. And it wasn’t until I had children
of my own singing the words to songs that I knew they had no idea the meaning
of, that I asked my mom about those days.
“Who was playing you, mom?” was the question and the story told was the first
one that allowed me to have some empathy for her that had never existed before.
I found out that day that her first sexual experience was a rape. Her next was
with my father and next thing she knew she was married with three small children
to, who could easily be described as, Arthur Fonzarelli. My father was a bit of
an Fonzi growing up. He looked older than he was, rode a motorcycle, and if
Greaser comes to mind, just add athletic, Jewish carpenter who also loves
football and that’s my father. My mom was a 'knockout' as a teenager and was
often mistaken for a celebrity when she was out. So
much finally made sense that never did after this conversation.
I felt my deeply Jewish roots branching out in every direction growing
leaves that will cycle through seasons of change, the leaves withstanding all
the sacrifices and injustices the tree has ever known. All parts nourished by
the light from above. Light lovers. Lovers of light. Seekers of light. If I
were a better science student, I'd tell you the name of that process where the
plant seeks the light. I read about it even recently. Photobiotic? (I think I
just made that up). It's a photosynthesis and a biology thing- um? um?
uhhh?
Got it! Space Bags!
Phototropic, Space Bags.
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Welcome to My Beautiful Mess. Stay beautiful! Clean up your messes. xo, D