I’ve been here forever, it seems, and never done a landmark. Some of you who I have met in real life know that there are some things I simply prefer not to talk about online. I know that may sound odd, since I do seem like the sort who will say anything. It’s true – I WILL say anything. But I won’t share everything, and that’s the way it should be, I think.
So for my landmark, I’m going to tell you a story. I’ll be posting it in parts, this bit of memory that has been keeping me up nights. It’s not meant to be a literary thing, just a bit of my past that I wanted to share. It’ll be a longish, rambling sort of story, but I need to tell it. Thank you for allowing me that. Some things are cheapened by the telling, and I sincerely hope this isn’t one of them. Here goes.
In my junior year of High School, I transferred to a public school from a private Christian school. My transition was smoother than anyone expected, because in the larger school I could find people to hang out with that I liked, as opposed to being stuck with the same six or twelve faces.
At the beginning of the year, I shared two or three classes with a fellow named Ronnie Ellis. His legal name was actually Ronnie, not Ronald. His hair was a bright red that is closer to orange, and his skin was so pale and translucent that you could see the blood shift in his face when he smiled.
IB English was our first class of the day. It was like AP, except you could apply the credits internationally, if you wanted. He sat in front of me. Seems the junior class didn’t have many people whose last names fell between Ellis and Hall in the alphabet. He spoke to me once or twice. I was new, and several people spoke to me. Being an Army Brat meant being the new kid a lot, and I found that the ones who speak to the new kids first are usually the outcastes, the extremely relaxed and confident, or an interesting combination of the two.
Which suited me better than fine.
As fate would have it, we were also seated together in Speech and Drama, third period. This class had fewer ‘good students’ whom I will call ‘Hermiones’ since they tended to be girls. I was one of those. Speech and Drama had a few Interesting Characters: the star quarterback, the lead majorette (who competed in the Miss Teen USA pageant later that year), a recent transplant from New Jersey named Mary Jones (“call me ‘Jonesy’”), a thrasher named Chuck (Jonesy and the Hermiones quickly named him “Chunk” because he was a “hunk”. A hunk of what, we didn’t know. But the Hermiones had a tendency to sigh collectively when he tossed his hair out of his eyes.), and a lot of people who were genuinely interested in acting or wanted an easy elective.
This is where I got to know Ronnie and his friend Roman White. I also had American History with Roman (he was interesting, but this isn’t his story, alas). We all had to stand up and introduce ourselves (the teacher was new and didn’t know anyone) and tell why we chose to take the class, leading to much embarrassment all around. Hermiones don’t like that sort of thing.
I said some thing along the lines of, “I thought it would be a good way to come out of my shell a bit” leading one guy to forever after that call me “SHELL!” He always greeted everyone at top volume, using invented nicknames. I think they did and SNL sketch about him. At least he spoke to me. The quarterback spoke to me once, merely to ask if I needed glasses. When I told him I wore contacts, he asked me why I squinted all the time.
“I’m light-sensitive.” I don’t think he knew what that meant, but at least he never bothered me again.
Ronnie was a film geek, of sorts. He was already putting together his own movies in his spare time with friends (which was cool). They were spatter/gore fests (which was not – at least not to me).
The lead majorette wanted to win the national twirling championship, and was also excited about being in the upcoming Miss Teen USA pageant. The Hermiones and I just blinked at her. Same planet, different worlds. Jonesy came to class the day after the pageant aired and informed us that our classmate hadn’t even made the first cut, after having “verbally embarrassed the state of Tennessee, and this town, specifically, on national television.” Jonesy knew that not everyone who lived there had that thick Appalachian accent (known for its harsh R’s, twang and tendency to break glass), but the rest of the country did not. Her twirling earned her a scholarship; I think I heard she’s a real estate agent or something, now.
Our Dramateacher was married to the pastor of the local Church of the Nazarene. In short, a fundy. I liked her immediately. From the poofy bun of her hair to her sensible shoes, I sensed a kindred spirit.
Back to Ronnie. He loved Monty Python and Dr. Who. I had never seen Monty Python, but had been caught up by Thom Baker’s Dr. Who ever since a channel switching accident in 8th grade. Whenever anyone said anything profoundly stupid or unintentionally ironic, Ronnie would mutter, “Hmmm. Yes, well” in a marginally accurate British accent, and I would giggle, guiltily uncertain whether I laughed with him or at him.
My giggling days were over quickly. One morning I was called to the office with Roman just before first period. Ronnie’s father had died, and the two of us were asked to collect his homework assignments, since between the two of us, we were in all of his classes. Roman told me where the funeral would be, and said he planned to take the assignments and books to the receiving of friends. I got my mother to take me to the funeral home; she waited with the motor running. It was late fall, so it was pitch black by seven o’clock. The rain was pouring, and the parking lot was a maze of deepish puddles, like a set for one of Ronnie’s horror films. I was confident I’d survive, since the sweet young virgins always do. He’d never really mentioned the morality play essence of his favorite genre. I might have thought better of his life’s ambition if I had considered that.
Truth was, I couldn’t breathe. I was so nervous. It seemed like Ronnie was the only person in the whole building that I knew. I inched awkwardly through the receiving line, then lost my nerve and skipped straight to the end where Ronnie stood. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, looking so pale he was almost transparent. When he opened his mouth to greet me, his dry lips made a clicking sound like they had tried to grow together from clenching his jaw so hard.
I saw it all really quickly – the pain, the determination to just sort of get through the next hour. I told him I was sorry. He said that his father had been at work, and had just fallen over dead, right at his machine. I had no idea what sort of machine he was talking about, or where his father had worked. I thought maybe all fathers worked with machines; my own had worked with tanks, though he hadn’t fallen dead over one. It seemed better to fall dead over a tank than over some nebulous ‘machine’ though. At least he seemed fairly certain the machine hadn’t caused his father any harm.
He introduced me to his mother, briefly. I hugged them both quite naturally, wanting to give them comfort, but not knowing how. Ronnie took his work from me and I went to the back of the chapel, where I found Roman looking as uncomfortable as I felt.
“Are you staying?” I asked him.
“God, no.”
We waited a few minutes in silence, and slunk out when the organ began to play. The wet air tasted great to me, after the stillness of the chapel, with its box of fakey-plastic looking dead father and its dozens of streaming eyes.
I couldn’t imagine the pain of Ronnie’s loss – I recoiled from it horror, to be honest. Ronnie, though… I didn’t shrink from him at all. He’d seemed happy to see me, pleased that I had come. We didn’t know each other well, and I was only bringing his homework… but I could have sent it with Roman. Maybe coming to the funeral was meaningless, maybe it had done nothing to ease his pain, but I wanted him to know I cared, horrible awkwardness or not.
That night I prayed for Ronnie and his mother, and after that their names were in my prayers every day.
More tomorrow.
[ May 10, 2006, 01:03 PM: Message edited by: Olivet ]
Posted by Narnia (Member # 1071) on :
Mmmm. I'm hooked. Thanks for writing.
Posted by ketchupqueen (Member # 6877) on :
Wow.
You tell much better stories when you're not drunk on one margarita.
No, really, I'm intrigued.
Posted by Belle (Member # 2314) on :
I love you Liv. Please continue.
Posted by blacwolve (Member # 2972) on :
I want to hear the rest
Posted by ludosti (Member # 1772) on :
More more!
Posted by Icarus (Member # 3162) on :
I'm reeled in, and I can't wait to read more, but I had to tell you about the many dobie possibilities that passed through my mind when I saw this title . . . besides the obvious vulgar one, of course. There's "He smelled like panties," for one . . . Posted by advice for robots (Member # 2544) on :
*Can't imagine how somebody could end up smelling like pennies.*
Guess I'll have to wait and find out. :D Great landmark so far. I almost forgot you had that username.
Posted by Chreese Sroup (Member # 8248) on :
Well, you've done it now, I have to post mine.
I can't wait to find out more!
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
Thanks guys. This is really a very selfish thing I'm doing, but I'm glad you like it. This bit is significantly less proofread. Forgive me, please. I have not slept well lately, an probably won't until it's all out.
#
When Ronnie came back to school afterwards, he was withdrawn. He slept openly in first period, in the front row. We were reading the Transcendentalists by then. I could understand sleeping through some of Thoreau, even though I loved it, but Hawthorn was great. I liked his short stories and thought te Scarlet Letter was wonderful (if you skipped the silly Custom House opening, which I did). By the time we’d worked our way through 'Am. Lit. lite' to The Grapes of Wrath, he’d transferred down two levels to Regular English, without even stopping in College Prep. After more Steinbeck, I envied him.
I asked him about the regular Junior English class once. He laughed and said it was crap. “I think we talked about what a verb is, once.”
I say he laughed, but Ronnie seldom laughed an all-out belly laugh. He was more of a giggler. Little, snorting giggles, like he had really fast hiccoughs. Maybe he was just always trying to hold it in. I don’t know. He could make me laugh, though. Until my sides hurt and doubled over, then I’d look up and see him shaking with laughter – completely silent – and his transparent face all mottled with the weird blood-flow changes cause by laughing so hard.
But that was later. Junior year he missed a LOT of school. When he showed up for class he tended to be in dirty clothes. He stank. Plus, he seemed consumed by a bleary-eyed lethargy that I would have recognized as the results of drug use if I hadn’t been so oblivious to such things. I tried to be nice to him, but he was mostly withdrawn until after the Christmas break.
Before the break, we started with dramatic readings, and story telling. These were almost universally fun. I picked a favorite Dave Barry story for my reading, and had great fun with it. My youth minister (whom we all called “Coach” or “coachypoo” since he’d been out PE teacher and coach at the Christian School) had told me once that laughter opens the heart to receive.
I loved doing funny skits with the youth group at church functions, and was practically begging him to let us stage Milne’s The Ugly Duckling as an out reach. He was up for it, but most of the youth group was just there to get dates, so it didn’t work out too well. Besides, they wanted to make me the pretty, dumb Princess, or the clever one who wasn’t really ugly, but I wanted to wear a fake beard and padding so I could play the King. It was really dumb, but when they always pick you to be Mary in the Christmas pageant, you get a little pissy about typecasting. Now, I suppose I can admit they were probably right, but I wanted to be funny, not pretty. Well, not JUST pretty.
My reading went well, but I fretted over the storytelling. I finally decided on a story I’d heard Mike Warnke, a Christian comedian, tell in concert. I had a tape, and played it over and over. I didn’t copy him exactly, but I wanted to get the timing right. I suppose I did, because I had the class laughing. Hard.
Ronnie congratulated me as I took my seat. It was the first time in a while he’d spoken when he didn’t have to. A little beginning.
After me, the Quarterback got up to tell a story. He’d picked one about his summer trip to the beach. It involved picking up girls and getting a guy to buy him liquor. About halfway through, he seemed to realize that our teacher was a minister’s wife, so he skipped ahead to the part where he woke up and couldn’t find his pants.
The Hermiones and I just blinked at him in shock, mouths hanging open. The teacher’s face was as carefully neutral as I had ever seen it. Ronnie’s head was down on his desk, and his whole body seemed to be trembling. I guess laughing soundlessly really can be a blessing. It looked more like he was passed out and having DTs or something.
Some years later, Ronnie told me he ran into the fellow at a grocery store. He’d been a year ahead of us in school, but we were still in college at the time. The quarterback hadn’t gone to college. He was buying beer, and had been drunk enough to have greeted Ronnie Ellis as a long-lost friend. He was married with a kid and another on the way, working manual labor and going to seed. Beer belly, thinning hair, the whole shebang. When he told me the story, we both acted sad. I think we were really just feeling smug, and more than a little guilty in our smugness. He’d never really done me any harm, except for the time he stepped on me in the hall and went on without even an ‘excuse me.’
I think about it now with genuine horror. It’s the worst thing I can think of to have your life peak in High School, so that anyone who remembers your former glory is suddenly a buddy.
Ronnie perked up after that, a tiny bit. At least, he was talking to Roman and me sometimes. We got started on a play, The Best Christmas Pageant Ever. I got to be old church lady, and was exceedingly happy about it, even though I had horrible stage fright and made a fool of myself. It didn’t really discourage me, because Ronnie and Roman were way worse. We had a great laugh about it.
Even funnier was the dress rehearsal, which we had at our teacher’s Wednesday evening church service. Before the play, she had us all come up to lead the congregation in It Came Upon A Midnight Clear. What we didn’t know was that, in the Church of the Nazarene, they sing all 847 verses. We merbled our way, red-faced, through the last 846.
One of the Hermiones asked me, back stage, if she was getting ‘lip lines.’ I assumed she was asking about her makeup, which looked fine to me. She didn’t wear much make-up, which made her a rare bird, much like me. It WAS the 80’s, after all. My lipstuff had been gnashed off during the interminable hymn, and she suggested I put some more on, even helped me with it.
Looking back, I realize she was trying to get me to relax, get a read on me. She was also a transfer student, and a very natural actress. I think she was Dorothy in the Show Choir play our senior year, and she graduated second in our class. I was third (two B’s, both of them in Driver’s Ed/Safety *snort* Bet that explains a LOT to you WenchConners). I admired her quite a bit. She was quiet, but her little kind acts meant a lot to me. If I hadn’t been so oblivious to such things, I would have realized that she was flirting, in that very careful way people do when so much more than their hearts are at stake. Many of my friends were queer; it was something I understood, but not something that could ever be spoken about. The risk of beatings was real. Maybe sometime I’ll tell you their stories, too. But not now.
Ronnie didn't do the dress rehearsal, but he gradually came back to us, back to his life. The spring term had the drama class getting ready for forensic competitions, which I’ll tell you about tomorrow.
Posted by Narnia (Member # 1071) on :
still reading...
Posted by ketchupqueen (Member # 6877) on :
Ooooh. Intriguing.
Posted by CT (Member # 8342) on :
Waiting for more.
(I know what the metal smell of pennies makes me think of, but that may be because I've been around it quite often.)
Posted by Jaiden (Member # 2099) on :
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
Now that I read over this, I realize it sounds like I knew I was pretty. That's not even remotely true. I didn't think I was pretty at all, in fact. When peopleat church commented on me being pretty (I think I was more commonly called 'graceful' ) I would shrug and go on about my business. I was uptight, determined to prove myself in ways that had nothing to do with how I looked.
Plus, I got braces just after school started that year. I had intermittant skin problems. I mostly tried to stay off my peers' radar, and was always mortified if anyone took notice of me when they didn't have to.
That changed my senior year, but junior year I fought and scratched an clawwed to be 'one of the guys.' Most of my girlfriends were sort of butch and most of my guy friends were... not. Not that my friends were all sexually ambiguous -I just wasn't comfortable with the ultra-feminine types or the big, hairy-knuckled manly men types.
It was partly a comfort zone thing, and partly an archetype-identity thing. I was the Smart Girl, or wanted to be, and somehow I thought Smart and Pretty were mutually exclusive.
I'd been teased horribly in Christian School as The Brain, because my academic average was always 97 or 98 out of a hundred (my christian school hadn't used the 4 point scale, for some reason). When one of my Christian school classmates wanted a boy to leave her alone, she'd actually said, "Get away, or I'll make her kiss you." Meaning me. The boy ran.
The teasing had been bad. So bad, in fact, that the principal (who also taught us history) noticed. He even gave the whole class a talking to, with me there.
He'd look at me like he was thinking really hard, then turn to the class. "What's wrong with you kids?" Look at me again, then everyone else. "She's beautiful." Kids muttered. He looked at me again. "Why can't you see that?"
I wanted to scream. The principal had been an Optometrist, and I thought he needed his eyes checked. I was not beautiful; everyone else was right. It never occurred to me that all the Christian school parents (who loved me) would go home at night night and ask my classmates in exasperation, "Why can't you be more like her?" (which DID happen, 'cause their parents would always tell my mother how lucky she was to have a kid like me, yadda yadda).
In any case, I mostly firmly believed I was fugly, and as a result always miss-read people's interest as friendliness (or hostility, depending on their approach). I was clueless and deluded.
This story so far makes me sound confident, and I wasn't usually. Only when it had to do with the two unshakebale truths I held about myself: I was very smart, and I was odd (meaning different and also unattractive).
Posted by CT (Member # 8342) on :
quote:Originally posted by Olivet: This story so far makes me sound confident, and I wasn't usually. Only when it had to do with the two unshakebale truths I held about myself: I was very smart, and I was odd (meaning different and also unattractive).
I can accept this intellectually, and I know for sure that you speak the truth about this matter [i.e., how you have felt and thought about yourself].
(My own opinion of you is different, but that's another issue entirely. And I know that your sense of self has evolved over time, just as has mine *smile)
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
Well, I mean, I know I'm no great beauty, but I also know I'm cute now. And probably was, more or less, then. I just was so convinced that I'd never get anywhere on my 'looks' so I blocked out the possibility that anyone would find me attractive. It was really pathological: I was not the exotic, excruciating beauty my mother was, therefore I was a toad.
Almost everyone has an awkward stage, but mine hung onto me mentally (if not physically) much longer than most. Just, you know, one of those quirky things that make no real sense.
Posted by Beanny (Member # 7109) on :
You're a great story teller, Olivet. Thanks for sharing your experiences with us in such a beautiful style.
Posted by twinky (Member # 693) on :
Posted by whiskysunrise (Member # 6819) on :
Posted by Ela (Member # 1365) on :
It makes me laugh to hear you say you are no great beauty. You are one of the most beautiful people I've met, and I mean both inside and out. Posted by Wonder Dog (Member # 5691) on :
Please, sir, may I have some more? Posted by JaneX (Member # 2026) on :
*agrees with Ela*
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
Thank you guys. You are really too kind.
Remember I said this would ramble? Heh. Here goes!
Speech and Drama competitions were held every spring at a nearby college (Milligan College, I believe it has a religious affiliation… Methodist maybe). The categories included all sorts of acting and speechmaking types of things, debate, extemporaneous speaking, duet acting and so forth. Our sweet little mouse of a Drama teacher decided we should ‘field a team’. So we spent a week or so on each category. I proved competent at extemporaneous speaking, because when I had my mind engaged on hard facts, I didn’t have as much trouble with nerves.
When it came time for us to do duet acting as a class, Ronnie and I got stuck together. The vagaries of the alphabet were to blame. Sure, we had joked around a bit and got on well enough, but for some reason we were not pleased to be paired. At least our scene was from Barefoot in the Park – I’d have died a thousand deaths before I’d have been Blanche to his Stanley in A Streetcar Named Desire. I was at least an inch taller than him. The quarterback and a girl voted Most Vacuous in class superlatives fit the parts much better.
Nope. I was relieved to have comedy. Ronnie was still shell-shocked from the turns his life had taken recently, I think. He tried to act ‘normal’ and I mostly bought it because I was clueless. He looked at the copies of our scene and asked me if I wanted to be Paul or Corrie. O_O
Being cheeky, I said, “Paul.” I thought he was joking and only realized he wasn’t when his shoulders drooped at my answer. Mustering my tact and compassion to handle the awkward situation, I slapped him with my rolled-up pages. “No, Idiot, I’ll be Corrie.”
We did pretty well, but he had trouble remembering his lines, and didn’t step on my lines quite enough. He needed to be more forceful, but he just couldn’t muster the energy. I admit I was not terribly understanding about it. I made the effort to be encouraging and not come down on him, but secretly I thought he was being a doofus. I was sixteen, what can I say?
We were entered to do the duet acting, but he didn’t show up for our coaching bits. I was also entered in extemporaneous speaking, but I sort of hoped he’d do the duet acting with me, anyway. He was beginning to wash more often and sleep less in class, but I was still a little concerned for him. I don’t even know exactly why I took such an interest in him. I mean, we had very similar interests, not exactly the same, but if you blurred your vision a bit they were pretty much the same.
He didn’t show, but we had a good time anyway. I came in fourth out of four in extemporaneous speaking. They had mistakenly given me less than half of the 15 minutes I was supposed to get for the last speech, and I was too shy or too unsure of myself to say anything about it.
We’d all met at the school, standing around waiting to drive to the competition. People liked my outfit – a full white skirt, quite long, with a pink sleeveless top and mans button-down shirt over it(sleeves rolled up and tied at the waist). Pink shoes that matched the top. I must have looked like a candy, wrapped loosely – the kind your mother made you throw away on Halloween. But for 1986, it was cute and modest. As we waited, the others asked me if Ronnie was coming.
“He said he might.” I shrugged, but I knew he wasn’t coming. The boy could never lie to me. Well, he could try, but it never worked. I don’t know why he was so easy for me to read about stuff like that. I was way too sheltered to really understand a lot of the situations I encountered in the wide world, but I knew when Ronnie hedged. He had only said he ‘might’ because he wasn’t able to say ‘no’, for whatever reason. Maybe guilt, or maybe he didn’t want me to know he was scared.
For a while we all thought Chunk wasn’t going to show, either. He had a swim practice, but Jonesy went to check on him. “He’s wet but he’s coming,” she said. Jonesy was enough like one of the guys that nobody squawked when she peeked in the boy’s locker room. The Hermiones and I envied her that, if only where Chunk was concerned.
Anyway, it was a good day, despite my poor showing. I had fun and met lots of Drama Dawgs from neighboring High Schools. The boy who took third place extempo speaking was feeling really bad, sure he’d placed fourth, but I told him, no, my last speech was awful. “You’ll place, I promise.” I was glad for him when he did, because it meant something to him.
One of my judges tried to ask me out. It was weird, because he was just a college boy, maybe two or three years older than me. He gave me honest marks (I think he may have been the judge of my horrible last speech), except maybe a little high on poise. Anyway, it took this girl Cindy from Davey Crocked HS to tell me what was going on. She’d stood by while he asked me where I went to church, a definite Preliminary Dating Question in the Christian circles I moved in. Somehow, I didn’t get it. *facepalm* I think maybe it was because he had a beard.
“What was that about?” I asked when he finally left me alone. Cindy gave me a look.
CLUELESS, I said. I may be over emphasizing this, but it is important later.
One last little tidbit, to give you a bit about me that isn’t related to this story much, if at all. My first day of public High School, I was riding with a group of kids from down the street. See, I lived in the county, but we’d applied so I could go to the city school. It was better in a lot of ways, but I had to provide my own transportation. I didn’t have a car or my license, so my folks arranged for me to rideshare with a friend of theirs three children. The two boys were in High School, the daughter (who was to drive us) dropped us off on her way to work.
That first morning, she stopped back by her house to get her tennis shoes, leaving me in the car with her brothers. The older boy, whose name was Ralph (even though everyone called him “Duck” for reasons I never bothered to find out) turned around in the seat and made eye contact with his younger brother (named, get this, “Naaman”). They were both pretty much your typical scary hillbillies – their eyes didn’t quite look the same direction and so forth. He glanced at me and back at his brother and said (in such a thick accent it took me a minute to make it out), “Whadda yeh say we lay ‘er?”
They both laughed big, open-mouthed, snorting laughs while I parsed what he said enough to be offended. Not offended, really. More like scared sh*tless, though I wouldn’t have used that word at the time. The fear moved rather smoothly into in anger, still the hot kind, but I kept silent. Just before the sister came out, I had reached the point where fear and anger cease being uncomfortable and start to feel… neutral, I guess. It’s a very interesting place to be. Fear can make you panic, rage can make you irrational. But this… this was cool and detached. To be so angry that you feel nothing, so angry that your mind is crystal clear… God, it is a beautiful thing.
I’d already given the sister $5.00 for gas for the week. When Mom finally got it out of me why I didn’t want to ride with them anymore, that was the end of it. Papa disappeared for maybe 15 minutes, acting like he had to go to the store. The Cro-Magnon brothers never said another word to or about me again, as far as I know. Naaman ended up in some special school, and I only saw Duck once in passing after that. It was a big school.
I was oblivious to interest, as I said before, and tended to be paranoid about the nature of that interest. That’s probably why the boys I tended to go for were a little younger, or at least not much taller, than me. Maybe I was shy, but I think it was because needed to feel in control.
What the Cro-magnons taught me, without meaning to, was that I was in control. Because, in that perfect moment of clarity, I knew I would fight if it came to it, and I would fight dirty. I would fight to maim. I would sink my dainty, manicured nails into their eyesockets, and rip off their ears with my teeth if I could.
(Which I realize would have been total overkill, as I was never in any real danger. )
On the outside I seemed weak, and shy, but on the inside I wasn’t either. Not by a long shot. I’m still like that. I don’t lose my temper or anything – I am essentially a calm person. But I have met my beast – that lovely, lizard hindbrain lurking in all of us – and I live happier knowing it is there should I need to protect myself, or my own.
That’s about as personal as this will get. It doesn’t have much to do with Ronnie’s story, but maybe a little to do with how I feel about it. That story of my first ride to public high school simply illustrates the first time I felt the alfa femme stir inside me. Just a tiny bit. She looked past her toothy muzzle at a couple of foolish boys and realized she was more than up to whatever life would throw her way.
Not that I ever oozed confidence, or anything. I just knew I'd have the guts when it mattered.
[ July 28, 2005, 05:16 AM: Message edited by: Olivet ]
Posted by Mrs.M (Member # 2943) on :
I'm absolutely riveted.
It's funny, I was always pretty confident about my looks, but very insecure about my intellect.
Posted by Corwin (Member # 5705) on :
I was going for the "may I have more" line but I see Wonder Dog beat me to it, so I'll just echo him. Posted by KarlEd (Member # 571) on :
<--taps foot.
<taptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptap>
Posted by Beanny (Member # 7109) on :
I like your inner beast, Olivet.
Posted by Bob_Scopatz (Member # 1227) on :
I'm riveted.
(I'm also fascinated by this story and if I could just get these rivets out, I'd be a lot happier...)
More please!
Posted by Tammy (Member # 4119) on :
You're riveting us all. Please keep writing!
Posted by Belle (Member # 2314) on :
I gotta say ditto to this:
quote:(My own opinion of you is different, but that's another issue entirely. And I know that your sense of self has evolved over time, just as has mine *smile)
I just think you're so cool. And you're an amazing storyteller.
*hugs*
Posted by Rakeesh (Member # 2001) on :
Thanks much for sharing-a very interesting story
(Now more story, damnit!)
Posted by CT (Member # 8342) on :
quote:He glanced at me and back at his brother and said (in such a thick accent it took me a minute to make it out), “Whadda yeh say we lay ‘er?” ... Just before the sister came out, I had reached the point where fear and anger cease being uncomfortable and start to feel… neutral, I guess. It’s a very interesting place to be. Fear can make you panic, rage can make you irrational. But this… this was cool and detached. To be so angry that you feel nothing, so angry that your mind is crystal clear… God, it is a beautiful thing.
Oh, yes. Yes, yes, yes. For me, it is a blissfully cold, clear feeling, and that is when I feel I can speak with the utter truth and rightness of God himself. "This is wrong. This Will Not Be Done." And -- I know I am in charge. Very heady, almost intoxicating.
quote:Papa disappeared for maybe 15 minutes, acting like he had to go to the store. The Cro-Magnon brothers never said another word to or about me again, as far as I know.
I can totally see this. I love your Papa for it, I do, even though I (and you, I recall) itch to fight our own battles.
quote:What the Cro-magnons taught me, without meaning to, was that I was in control. Because, in that perfect moment of clarity, I knew I would fight if it came to it, and I would fight dirty. I would fight to maim. I would sink my dainty, manicured nails into their eyesockets, and rip off their ears with my teeth if I could. ... I don’t lose my temper or anything – I am essentially a calm person. But I have met my beast – that lovely, lizard hindbrain lurking in all of us – and I live happier knowing it is there should I need to protect myself, or my own.
I. love. this. landmark.
Speak it, sister.
Posted by kojabu (Member # 8042) on :
More more!
Posted by Cr1spy (Member # 8407) on :
quote:Originally posted by Olivet:
Speech and Drama competitions were held every spring at a nearby college (Milligan College, I believe it has a religious affiliation… Methodist maybe).
As a Proud Milligan College Buffalo, I am glad you have partaken of our beautiful home. (Plus, we are Christian Church/Church of Christ not Methodist)
I am enjoying your story!
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
See, a great deal of my friends went to a Church of Christ in that area. I started a Prayer Club my senior year, and many of the people went to the same church as the kids in a prayer club out of another HS that was in that area. I loved the Church of Christ lock-ins.
I might have to add a bit about that, too.
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
My Junior year went well enough. I was in the Science League, where I did well, and Art, a class my best friend, Lisa, and I decided to take together when we got our of Driver’s Ed at Christmas. The old art teacher had retired during the break. I had actually signed up for art 6th period in the fall, but I only lasted a week. It was ‘an easy A’ and the teacher was about to retire. He didn’t stay in the class room much. One day there was a poster taped upside down on the chalk board and the words “Draw This” with an arrow pointing to it. I was at a table with a girl from the local group home. She was pretty and trying to act tough, cussed worse than my father had when he was in the army. Plus, she was hungry. I saved stuff out of my lunch to give to her.
Then I transferred in to Botany, taught by the same guy who taught Biology. I totally loved it, except for a couple of guys who teased me a lot. I was sure it was because I was on the homely side, but looking back I think I was mistaken. One guy hardly spoke to me until one day on a field trip (Botany had LOTS of ‘em) he came up to me and said, “I want to do low, vile, disgusting things to you.”
“Um… Thanks for the warning.” I felt persecuted. I knew I was no great beauty, but why make fun of me? I shared a table with a pretty girl named Missy and boy named Paul. Missy would help Paul tease me, by telling he wanted to ask me a question, so would I switch seats so he could whisper it in my ear? His question, the first time, related to a kink I couldn’t mention here, though it was reputedly shared by Hitler and James Joyce. The second time I fell for it (after much pleading from Missy, insisting on Paul’s sincerity and fear he would fail the class) turned out to merely be his tongue.
My buddy Lisa and I were in art class together, now taught by Mrs. Hoilman, whose husband was a student at a local seminary. Ah, another kindred spirit. She encouraged Lisa and me to apply to the Governor’s school in Art. She got in, while I made alternate. She wouldn’t go. Too shy to go without me, she said. I was very flustered with her, but now I sort of understand. We’d hang out together for hours, drawing in silence, occasionally asking the other’s opinion or to pass a particular pencil. I mean, we were best friends, and we hardly ever spoke to each other.
Funny, I still think of her as the closest female friend I ever had in school. She was a year behind me, though, so we didn’t have any classes together my Senior year. We still hung out, but she started dating and it became less and less. I didn’t date, though I did do the youth group thing a lot. I was homely, you see.
Somehow, and I still don’t quite remember how, I ended up with Ronnie Ellis and Roman White and Lisa after school on the last day of school. Ronnie had a huge car by then. He called it his Road Ship, because it was simply huge. We piled in and went a few blocks and ate spaghetti at a little restaurant. Lisa was coming home with me, and my ride was late. I think I had forgotten that school let out early that day.
It was an odd goodbye. Lisa was coming home with me because she was coming with my family on our vacation to the beach. I don’t think Roman came back to the city school the next year, at least I don’t think I ever saw him again. Ronnie did sometimes. I think Roman may have helped out with some of his filming shoots. I talked with Lisa about youth group stuff that summer (youth drama camp – I think she’d rather have been skinned and staked to an ant hill, but she was nice about it), and ended up inviting Ronnie, too.
I don’t think he showed, but we were definitely friends by then. He did some summer community theater, I think. I ran into one of the girls from the Drama class who had seen him “trying to do that horrible English accent of his” in some play or other. That comment made me angry, though I didn’t say anything. If my anger is any measure, I definitely thought of him as a friend of mine.
Lisa and I went to the beach together, and it was the best beach-with-a-friend trip ever. We didn’t lie on the beach like idiots, and I didn’t get dragged along after vapid boys. We played putt-putt and swam in the hotel pool, and drew. She even enjoyed hanging out with mom and papa (my saintly stepdad) as much as I did. We went to the amusement park because it was sort of expected of us, but I realized she was even less thrilled about roller coaster than I was. It was strangely liberating.
I suppose I should make another quick aside about my previous summer. My mother and I had gone to the beach with two other girls from Christian school and their mothers, all of us from the same church. My friends were Jeanette and Johnnie. Jeanette and I were both going to the same Public school the next year, though the only class I had with her that Junior year was American History (taught by a blind, but very vain, coach who never really knew if his roll call was accurate because he wouldn’t wear his glasses). Johnnie always kept in touch with all of us, and was nicer to me than most. She loved my mother, too, and was the other person I went to school with who came to her funeral (four kids and prettier than ever).
I liked Jeanette and Johnnie, but they never got that I liked books. They always tried to ‘include’ me in stuff, especially Johnnie. But, I wasn’t sulking when I read Ivanhoe in the hall when we had the Christian school Fall Festival. If the Duck Pond had come even close to being as much fun as Sir Walter Scott, I’d have been there like a shot. But they wanted me to quit being a dork and join in. They finally coaxed me out by saying that Chucky Loveless had shown up, after having been expelled the year before. He’d ridden his bike up the hill and was hanging out. He was sort of strange, which should have made us friendly, but didn’t, because he was the variety of strange that goes along with inhalants. He came up to me and said, “I’ve got a hot mouth” while waving his hand in front of said orifice by way of demonstration.
“The concession stand has orange drink.” I said. “It’s free.” He wandered off, and I didn’t realize how funny that was until MUCH later.
Anyway, the beach with Johnnie and Jeanette had been an entirely different animal. I’d done it before, but I was tired. Johnnie’s mom wouldn’t let us eat our take-out pizza on the balcony over the strip because of the long line of cruising boys sweeping past. Which was the only reason Johnnie and Jeanette wanted to sit there. I wasn’t interested, because interactions with the male of species were always painful and confusing to me. Why bother?
We went out the beach side of the hotel, where we had left our beach chairs. When we got there, the beach chairs were occupied. By two boys. One of them was really cute and the other was a minor deity.
Now, math was never my best subject, but I knew that two boys + three girls = One girl watching TV with the mothers tonight. At least the hotel had HBO.
Jeanette had light brown hair and huge green eyes, and Johnnie had black hair and steel blue eyes and a very, very outgoing nature. The boys stood up and moved closer. I tried to finish my pizza quickly, so I could fade away painlessly. Then I realized the little godling was talking to me. Crap. I mean, why? It’s getting dark, but we’re under a street lamp.
When the boys and girls had sorted themselves out, it was Jeanette who was stuck watching HBO. This was especially satisfying for me, because she was the girl who had threatened boys with having me kiss them. Nyah.
It wasn’t my first kiss. That had been two years before. A guy had asked to kiss me, and I was tired of being teased about not having a boyfriend (even though I hadn’t wanted one), so I’d gone along with it. Not really proud that I kissed a boy I didn’t like just so I wouldn’t be teased about never having been kissed. Not that it was unpleasant, because it wasn’t. Just not the manner I would have chosen. Getting your first grown-up kiss shouldn’t be like ripping off a band-aid. Yeah, I know. Me and Ron Weasley.
Anyway, I spent the next few days riding roller coasters with a boy, and sitting/walking on the beach with a boy. Sort of double-dating with Johnnie. We played a game to see which couple could kiss the longest without stopping, and my pretty, pretty boy and I won every time. He was adorable, and both boys also went to the same sort of Christian school as we did. My boy (his name escapes me for the moment) was already accepted at Tennessee Temple, and entering his senior year. I was convinced it was some sort of elaborate sting operation – this older, charming, ideal fellow, what the heck was doing with me?
I enjoyed it, but I didn’t believe it. I don’t think he did either. I puzzled over it, like it was some kind of test. If you’d have asked me, I’d have said that Jeanette was the prettiest of us. Johnnie was pretty and bubbly and fun. So why me? I still don’t get it. I mean, I wondered for a while if it was some sort of character-building assignment. It’s not like we hit it off, really. At least I didn’t. When we left, we exchanged addresses. Both the boys wrote us. I don’t remember if I answered or not. I believe I did. His letter had had the tone of obligation, and I’m sure my reply did, too.
Sometimes I STILL wonder what that was all about. Not that I’m complaining. It was almost worth the horrible sunburn (which only partially peeled, leaving me to go to church camp with a decidedly Holstein complexion).
When we got back, I had to perform some skits at a youth picnic, and afterward Sean Berbert held my hand. Sean was not really great looking, but I liked him much more (because he liked my stories, made-up fairytales I used to tell), so it was really much nicer. Never really saw Sean again, since the Christian School closed its HS that year, and he lived two towns over.
Anyway, the beach with Lisa was much more my speed. Never felt the need to wear the swimsuit that always got looks (it was a one-piece, but it sort of laced up the sides. I felt obscene in it, but the other girls always wanted me to wear it, so I did. Because, underneath it all, I wanted to fit in). I finally realized that I could fit in better in public school. Not because I was determined to be worldly, but because I could choose to be with like-minded people. Hard to do when you’ve been trapped in Christian school with the same twelve people for four years.
By the time my senior year had started, Ronnie Ellis had come to youth group with me once, maybe. I found that this year I had te same lunch period as him, and we ate together some. Very slowly, almost subliminally, we became important to each other, even though I don’t think we had any classes together at all. I did have Advanced Art, First Period, with another of his close friends, Chris Range. Strange Range, they called him. I think he liked it, or at least it didn’t bother him. Ronnie was the one I heard the nickname from, in any case.
More about Strange Range next time.
[ July 31, 2005, 11:28 PM: Message edited by: Olivet ]
Posted by Liz B (Member # 8238) on :
I plan to keep reading . . .
Posted by CT (Member # 8342) on :
(Did anyone else google Hitler and Joyce? *smile)
Enthralling, Olivet. I am fascinated.
Posted by KarlEd (Member # 571) on :
Well, I googled them, but didn't get my question answered. Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
Sorry. It involved coprophilia. *shudder*
Posted by zgator (Member # 3833) on :
I really wish I hadn't googled that.
It's been 12 hours. Get moving.
Posted by Rakeesh (Member # 2001) on :
Dude...Olivia...next time, let our curiosity remain unanswered!
*shudder*
(This is not, however, to say stop story-telling)
Posted by Noemon (Member # 1115) on :
I'm loving this landmark by the way, Olivet. I just realized that I'd been reading along, anxiously awaiting the next installment for the last week, and hadn't said anything.
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
I should have said, "Do not Google" but I didn't. I thought dictionary.com or some such would be more likely to be used in the definition of a word, but I'm at work, so I was brief. Sorry.
And thanks for reading, guys. I'm glad you like it even though this is entirely selfish writing, just something I need to do. Thanks again.
Posted by Rakeesh (Member # 2001) on :
Hehe, I'm just bustin' yer chops. It was worth a brief, " EWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!" Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
Bad news, friends. I just found out that I should have been working on a narrative for work for at least the last two weeks.
*oops*
Today was the first day of school fo rthe kiddies, too. So my theraputic venting here may have to wait until I bang out narratives of 30-odd business processes. *gag*
*sniffle*
Unless I have another sleepless night on account of it. Then it will be work be danged, give me my mental health.
Posted by Stray (Member # 4056) on :
Aaagh! I've been looking for this thread all day, waiting for the next installment! *pouts* Hope you can get back to it soon!
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
Finally. Sorry for the delay. I have to get this out. Here goes.
I couldn’t get my friend Lisa to take Advanced art with me. I was a Senior and she was a Junior, maybe she wanted to save it until her last year. I don’t know. She and I helped Mrs. Hoilman decorate the classroom before school started. We both totally loved her.
Advanced Art was a first period class. Art classes, for some reason, were always held in the Vocational Hall(D hall), on the opposite end of the school from the Academic courses (read: every other course I had ever had). Since my homeroom was Art, my locker was now in D hall. I had to run to make it second period Anatomy, then back to D hall for the Mandatory Senior class, Health. Forth period, after lunch, was Geometry, followed by Chemistry and Senior IB English. I also took Spanish as a purely voluntary 7th period class, so I got out of school an hour later than most everyone, except those in band.
Art was my Homeroom, so I was the obvious choice to be sent to the student council. I was the only remotely studious one, pretty square, so of course they saddled me with it. I had a 7th period class, for crying out loud. I remember most of the people in the class fondly.
Two girls who dressed like Madonna in her material girl days, and wore lots of make-up. They joined the Navy together after graduation. A Basque exchange student, who was also a great skateboarder. Rick Mathes, who wanted to be a fashion designer, or a set designer. He called Andy Warhol and spent almost an hour talking to him once. Even made an appointment to see him when he went on a NY trip that summer, But Warhol was dead by then. He started calling the set designers for his favorite soaps, after that. A guy named Larry who went into Commercial art, I think. And Chris Range.
The Health teacher was a little batty. Anatomy was taught by a woman who graduated from college with a degree in Biology when women just didn’t go to medical school. She was bitter, a total hardass, and I loved her. She gave us oral exams where we had to know the Latin names of muscles, their attachment points and functions. It’s hard to remember stuff while sitting one-on-one with a hardass teacher who is pointing at parts of a stinky dead cat and not saying anything. You just had to KNOW it. I loved it.
I mean, it was hard to cut open and start opening up a dead cat, (from Carolina Biological supply) at first, anyway. I love cats. Plus, that was the year ALF became popular, and all his jokes about eating cats were very much not funny to me, especially before lunch, with a dead cat lying in front of me. We worked on the same cats for MONTHS, too. The smell was not fun.
I was only in Geometry for about four weeks. I got mono from sharing a soda with Johnnie and Jeanette at Midnight Bowling with the youth group. Johnnie fought with it all year because she never rested up quite long enough. Me, I was practically taped to my bed for two weeks, and forced to drop one of my seven classes. I dropped Geometry, and I have never regretted it. I’d had it in Christian school already, and there was this guy named Bill who sat diagonally behind me who was always staring, and sort of sucking his retainer, making ‘clacky’ noises at me. He always wore a sort of Carribean straw hat and the same John Cougar Mellancamp t-shirt ( I know it was the same one, because it was torn in two or three places. He wore a shirt under it for decency, but he never wore any other shirt.) He was also in Anatomy with me, but on the other side of the class. He never spoke to me, as far as I recall.
Anyway, when I dropped Geometry, Dr. Bingham picked me up as a Science Room worker for fourth period. I had had him for Biology and Botany the year before, so I got to help some with the Biology labs and grade Botany homework. There were two other workers at different times. One of them was a girl named Kristy that fixed up with this guy who went to my church. They had been sweethearts in gradeschool, but they were too skittish to try to date. When they both (separately) confided their dilemma, I was more than happy to laugh at them and get them together. They had two kids the last time I saw them.
I didn’t have any classes with Ronnie, but we almost always ended up at lunch together. Sometimes Range was there, too. They would quote British comedies back and forth at each other sometimes, but were usually entertaining.
It occurs to me that the most interesting stuff happened after I had surgery. I hadit scheduled for Christmas break, so I wouldn’t miss much school. My teeth were fairly straight. My jaws were not. I had braces, but the mismatching of my teeth was mostly jaw. This is probably the biggest reason I felt horribly ugly. I was a mutant in my own eyes. I felt like I couldn’t eat properly. I thought I was Quasimoto, because my jaws were, like, less than a millimeter off from each other.
I don’t know if it was because I was an artist, if somehow this minor variation (mostly only visible to dentists and orthodontists) of my features was an affront(in my mind) to symmetry itself. People tell me they can’t tell a difference in my old pictures, but I can see it. Only now have I come to question whether or not it is actually there, when it it irrelevant.
Anyway, the surgery was an orthodontic-related procedure, though mine was done by a maxillary surgeon. I believed I would be different afterward. Not gorgeous, but acceptably pretty. Before Christmas I cut my hair off, short enough that they shaved my neck, but still a very feminine style. I cut my fingernails short. I don’t think I told anyone, but I was thinking of the rituals that some tribes perform to show passage to adulthood, or mark some other important stage in a person’s life. I was going into a cocoon. I didn’t know what I’d emerge as, but it would be just fine with me.
Went in the hospital December 20th, for surgery on the 21st, and didn’t get released until the 26th or 27th. They broke both my jaws, and wired them shut. My teeth were fixed into a plastic mold, to keep my bite aligned, and my braces were wired together. I couldn’t even use a straw. I mostly ate from a syringe with a long rubber tube on it.
When I woke up in recovery, my butt and the backs of my heels hurt, but I didn’t have any other pain. I was cold, and they had to keep me sitting at a 45 degree angle so the blood wouldn’t pool in my chest. They had tubes in my nose, so that the swelling wouldn’t close off my breathing.
I must have looked horrible. Ronnie visited me in the hospital. He brought me a little keepsake box. It was the one time I’ve ever known him to keep anything from me with his face. If he was disturbed by how I looked, he didn’t show it.
One day they sent me down for an X-ray, and the X-ray tech made my mother stay outside, even though she was an RN. The tech laid me flat to take the X-rays. When I sat up, I started to cough, because some of the blood still oozing from my wounds had trickled into my bronchi. Well, my mouth was plugged, so when I coughed, the blood came out my nose. I had a little, damp hand towel with me, and the tech grabbed it and pinched my nose shut, smothering me. I remember seeing my mother come into the room just as I was passing out.
I didn’t actually stop breathing, but I thought I was going to die. I wasn’t strong enough to get her off me, and she didn’t know I was suffocating. I remember thinking death wasn’t so bad. But I didn’t die.
That was in the morning. I think I still had some blood on my face that afternoon, because Mom didn’t have the heart to scrub it all off with me looking so miserable about it. She was afraid she’d hurt me, but really my whole face was numb. They said the feeling would come back in my face and jaws, though maybe not in the gums around my upper front teeth.
The afternoon was when my pastor came to see me with his youngest daughter. I had been in school for several years with his older daughter. One of the perks of public school was that I no longer had to invite her to my birthday parties, and I wouldn’t see her much. She had always been popular in Christian school and was horribly mean to me. At one slumber party she’d jumped up and down on my back until I said a curse word. She didn’t like it that I wouldn’t curse. At my sixteenth birthday party, she gave me a little decorative plaque on friendship that I had seen on a shelf in her room at least four years before that. I probably shouldn’t have held it against her, since she really didn’t know about my weirdly detailed memory. Then again, she knew I was a freak; she’d called me one often enough.
But the younger daughter was always nice to me, at least to my face. They visited a while and prayed with me and left. I later found out that the girl had gotten hysterical in the elevator, crying and saying, “Daddy, is she going to die?”
I must’ve been a sight.
Other people from church visited, and one other guy I had playfully nicknamed “Pondscum”. He called me “Oreo” for some reason he could never adequately explain. He was a Freshman, and we’d met through they guy I fixed up with the other Science worker. They were best buds. Pondscum had asked me one day, what color his eyes were. He claimed they were green, but I said, “No, sort of a brownish green, like pond scum.” I called him pondscum because I thought he was the most beautiful boy in the school, and I’d have died a thousand deaths before letting him know it.
Pondscum and I had started a Prayer club, which met weekly after school. Mrs. Hoilman had been our sponsor, and we met in the Art Room. We even had activities with other high school prayer clubs. We’d just come together to talk about our faith and encourage one another. Part of the year, Pondscum dated one of my dearer friends, Beth. He didn’t treat her well, and it annoyed me. I mean, he wasn’t mean to her. He’d walk her home from school, leaning on her and never offering to carry her books. Beth was on the Science League Biology II team with me, and she had an eating disorder. When she confided in me that she hadn’t had a period in seven months, I freaked. She didn’t look overly thin, but she was hurting herself. I didn’t know what to do. Her parents already knew, but she’d lie to them about what she’d eaten. I just told her it was the stupidest thing I’d ever known a person as smart she was to do, and tried to make sure she ate veggies and took her vitamins.
I think she settled into something a bit less destructive. She really was too smart for that. When her parents remarried, it made a huge difference. They went to my church afterwards ad we all were in youth group. Ronnie, too. By Christmas of my Junior year, he had become reasonably active in the youth group, and came to church. By then Coachipoo had gotten married and let an established married couple take over the youth group. They were great fun. She was great at organizing everyone and easy to talk to, he was a former cocaine addict who had lost hi sense of smell. He had a great love of the Lord, and didn’t mind when we teased him about wearing a T-shirt with Spanish o it, when he didn’t know what it said. He’d lose his train of thought for no reason, and his wife would have to tell him what the last thing he’d said was.
It was actually one of the more effective arguments against drugs that I have ever encountered.
More Later, but not too much later.
Posted by ketchupqueen (Member # 6877) on :
When? [/whine]
Posted by Jaiden (Member # 2099) on :
*still reading and really enjoying*
Posted by Chris Bridges (Member # 1138) on :
Waiting for more. Reasonably patiently.
Posted by whiskysunrise (Member # 6819) on :
I'm enjoying it too.
Posted by beverly (Member # 6246) on :
Just now sat down and read all that there is. Have loved it so far, and am bitterly disappointed that it hasn't all been written yet.
Olivia, you *are* a goddess. Posted by Farmgirl (Member # 5567) on :
You have the most amazing memory for details. I am in awe.
I can barely remember many of my classmates names, much less all the details of their personalities like you are able to relate.
*waits*
Posted by RoyHobbs (Member # 7594) on :
Late-comer to the thread: new fan of the author. Posted by MidnightBlue (Member # 6146) on :
I'm still waiting for the part where we find out why he smelled like pennies.
Posted by kojabu (Member # 8042) on :
Yea I've been wondering that myself.
Posted by Noemon (Member # 1115) on :
quote:I can barely remember many of my classmates names, much less all the details of their personalities like you are able to relate
Farmgirl, I know! I can acutally remember many of my classmates' faces and personalities, but I doubt I could come up with many of their names. And remembering which classes I had during which periods? Forget it.
::suspicious::
Olivet, are you looking at old school schedules and yearbooks to come up with some of the details, or is all of this really that fresh in your mind?
Posted by ClaudiaTherese (Member # 923) on :
She has an eidetic memory. Seriously vivid.
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
Well, I HAD an eidetic memory, and it was a bitch. I have worked long and hard at forgeting some things, and putting order to most of the rest.
However, I'm older now, and whether it is related to the meningitis I had a few years ago (let's hear it for microbes!) or just because my brain finally reached capacity, my memory is not so eidetic anymore.
This stuff from High school... most of it is still there, I just have to dig it out. If I can't locate a detail for certain, I leave it out.
My brain is like a room full of slips of paper. Each piece of paper has some bit of memory on it, but none of them are filed. I can remember a conversation from my Junior year word for word, but I have to really dig to be able to say for certain it was my Junior year (from clues in the memory).
I admit I may have put something in the wrong place on the timeline, but I've been very careful to be honest about what I remember. Writing this won't help me at all if I lie.
Truth is, I'm beating myself up to pare it down. I wanted to go into detail about, say, Ricky Mathes (he used to sign all his designs "McColl" and was gay but used to tell me he'd marry if he could see himself with 2.5 kids and a station wagon). We were like best art buddies, but this isn't his story.
I'm very distractable. *shrug* So this will be way longer than it really needs to be.
But I'm not fudging the details, and I haven't looked at my yearbooks (don't know where they are), though I had thought about scanning pictures of them, if I could find them.
Anyway, I DID tell you I was a freak, or at least freakish. I didn't lie. I haven't been completely forthcoming about my memory issues, because I still feel like they are some strange, twisted part of my past that I should hide. I truly meant never to speak of it again, once upon a time.
It was all part of my plan in Senior year for after the surgery - I was going to be normal. I was going to fool everybody, and just be a regular girl. By the time I hit college, I knew I'd be free of any lingering image issues from High School.
It was all very cold, detatched and calculating, something I had become quite good at in Christian School. I made sure no one ever knew what I was really thinking, sometimes not even me.
Edited for clarity.
[ August 08, 2005, 06:37 PM: Message edited by: Olivet ]
Posted by mothertree (Member # 4999) on :
Thanks for sharing your landmark with us Olivet. Is the "In Stages" deliberate or a Freudian type slip?
Posted by tt&t (Member # 5600) on :
I'm enjoying reading this very much. Posted by Katarain (Member # 6659) on :
I've been enjoying reading this as well.
A word about autobiographies, though... We discussed the memory problem at great length last year in my autobiography class. You never really can remember something exactly--you have to fill in the details. And really, how do you know if you're remembering what you do remember correctly? Someone else will probably have a very different version. Many times, autobiographers have to deal with readers coming up to them later and being shocked that yes, some of the story was invented. And that's okay. It's part of what autobiography is. It can be true at large with those small invented details filling in the memory gaps.
It's still Truth.
-Katarain
Posted by ketchupqueen (Member # 6877) on :
Yes, when will we get more? [/whining]
Posted by RoyHobbs (Member # 7594) on :
...
Posted by MidnightBlue (Member # 6146) on :
I know you said in another thread that you were thinking of deleting this, or at least not writing more, and that's completely within your rights, but you can't leave us hanging on why he smelled like pennies!
Posted by RoyHobbs (Member # 7594) on :
*knock knock knock* Anytime now...
Posted by Rakeesh (Member # 2001) on :
She's had an operation and her peepers are outta commish for the time being, if memory serves.
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
Y'all aren't going to let me chicken out. I can see that. My eyes are almost up to it, but I have some backed-up work I have to do.
Then, I'll finish this, I promise.
Posted by Rakeesh (Member # 2001) on :
Because of course not having fully operational eyes to type with means you've chickened out Posted by ketchupqueen (Member # 6877) on :
Are you saying you don't use your eyes to type, Rakeesh? Posted by Rakeesh (Member # 2001) on :
Of course I do. I was joking. Hence the Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
quote:Feel no shame for what you are – New Year’s Prayer, Jeff Buckley
I honestly thought about not finishing this. I had never intended to let that bit of information about mnemonic history get out here. Very few of my RL friends know about it, and I suppose it doesn’t really matter now. I was told that sometimes this type of thing fades with age, as it seems to be doing in my case. I’m glad.
Katarain is right, though. There is no such thing as a flawless memory, and mine was no different. It isn’t like a video tape – things are colored by emotion and affected by it. As a matter of fact, there have been times I have been so upset that I couldn’t tell someone my name when they asked. I was so upset I couldn’t remember. That was the most horrific realization I ever had (before the age of twenty, anyway), that it could all be gone when I might need it the most. Just … Blip… Gone.
I was sent to see a child psychologist when I had behavioral problems in second grade. Mostly for fighting, or, more accurately, fighting BACK. Maybe that’s why I loved Ender so well. In any case, he said I was very precocious and wanted to test me. I think I became part of some study or other after the testing. My dad was till in the Military and so the Child Psych was a civilian employee of the government. Military families get a deal on healthcare (or at least they DID then). I got to be a guinea pig. Once I was old enough to realize the difference between clinical interest and caring, I began yanking their chains. They’d show me a picture for 15 seconds (usually a library, with lots of books where you could read the titles, things like that) and ask me to describe it. By the time I was nine or ten, I started saying, “A monkey in tutu, eating a banana.” Heh. I didn’t get asked back.
When my parents divorced, my mom sent me to counseling. Yeah, I was bummed, but not about the divorce. I was pretty much universally despised at Christian school. I had only just learned (at about age 13) how to manage my memory so I could find information I needed, when I needed it. I was in 7th grade before I ever made straight As. I had never done badly, but with a modicum of effort, I became a top student. I was also very devout, and all the parents liked me. The kids hated me, but they knew their parents would let them go to the movies if *I* was going. We had an uncomfortable arrangement. The counseling went on until the young, health department counselor asked if she could test me, because I seemed so mature for my age.
They like to do that. They like to get your numbers down in front of them, as if that tells them the secrets of your soul. The problem is that it doesn’t tell them anything. I never went back. I put on the happy face so they wouldn’t make me go.
So, I’m a bit tetchy about the memory thing. I never intended to share that here, but once it was out… what the heck. Just so you know, I’m not upset at CT about it all. I don’t want anyone to misunderstand. I’m talking about it now because if I don’t, people will get the wrong idea. It’s not like the movies. It makes you weird. I remember when I first realized that the other kids didn’t remember things like I did. Not my siblings or my parents, either. It was a very, very bad feeling.
Of course, with all the past testing, my mom knew my numbers. She was proud of me, and also proud of my numbers. People would praise me to her, and ask about how I became such a good student. Did she do anything special? Mom would always say it was just me, all on my own, and then she’d mention my numbers. Not the IQ, even she thought that was gauche, but the percentage of accuracy of my memory (which never broke 90% and wasn’t really as a big a deal as she made of it). I would shoot her a look, or say, “Mom” in that way preteens have of giving small words about 20 extra syllables.
She never got it. She never understood that I hated it when she bragged about my numbers. It felt false. For all I know for certain, she could have made it up. They never told me those things. I never told her it made me feel like she was going around telling people I had three nipples, or gills under my arms. It was something she was proud of, and, as much as I hated it, I wanted her to be proud of me even more.
Anyway, there are three things I never, ever planned to reveal on Hatrack. That is one of them. It isn’t the strangest, but it is the most likely to be misunderstood. In any case, I’m sure my numbers are much lower now. I bet if I were tested now, I’d be below the Hatrack average, anyway. So let’s move on with the story.
When I went back to school after Christmas break and my surgery, a lot happened in a short time.
I spent the first month and a half with my jaws wired shut. I bought milk and mixed Carnation instant breakfast with it, about four times a day during school. I could sip, but I couldn’t use a straw. I could barely carry on a conversation in the lunchroom. It was too noisy for people to make out my mutterings. I had learned some sign language, but few others could speak it. Eventually, I carried a note pad around my neck on a chain.
We still had the prayer club meetings, but sometimes they were just Pondscum and me. One day, he generously offered to buy me anything I wanted out of the vending machines. When I protested, he insisted it was nothing. I finally had to write him a note, explaining that I appreciated the offer and would love to take him up on it, but I couldn’t eat anything in the vending machine because I couldn’t open my mouth. Pondscum was pretty, but not terribly schmart.
I had lost ten pounds I couldn’t afford to lose during the Christmas break, and I lost five more the week the wires were clipped. My jaw muscles had atrophied a bit, so I had to build up to eating some things, while I steadfastly refused to drink another drop of Ensure or Carnation instant breakfast.
It was about this time that I was working on two things for Advanced Art: my final project, and my one-woman show. The show consisted of a bunch of my drawings wheeled out into the lunchroom during all three lunches (but locked in the office at other times to prevent vandalism). My show went over well, as it consisted of a lot of faces and hands. I also did a bunch of super-close-ups of various features of a face. They varied in scale and so forth, and were not intended to suggest a whole when displayed.
A particular favorite of mine was a very large, wet-looking close-up of a crying eye that I had called “Compassion”. I know, I know. How very TEEN of me. *blush* Several people wanted to buy it from me, but I couldn’t part with it, nor could I afford to make prints. We didn’t have a lot of money. My Junior year I had been one of two nominees from our school to attend a “Youth Congress” in Washington DC, but we didn’t have $500.00 to spare for the trip, and we didn’t know enough people with enough spare cash to raise it. Besides, Ronnie would never have let me live it down.
There was a girl named Julie who was quickly becoming my best friend, though I have absolutely no memory of how we met (which I find odd, but there you go). She was also friends with a girl named Melanie, who was probably the single lowest person in the HS pecking order. She was very over weight, and never wore make-up or did anything with her hair, for religious reasons. She would wear a fuchsia t-shirt with foot-high letters on it reading REPENT NOW. She came back from band trips with stories of how she’d met angels. The other band kids tended to call her “Melephant”. Melanie thought of Julie as her best friend, and Julie thought of me as her best friend. I never really had many people I allowed to know me well enough to call them friends, because I was too busy trying to hide the things I thought made me an unlikable freak. But I tried to be a friend to people I cared for, and was glad of their company and friendship, though I always kept part of myself away from everyone.
Julie would invite me over for a sleepover whenever Melanie was coming, but she’d make up a story about why I HAD to be there, so Melanie wouldn’t know it was because Julie found her hard to take in large doses. Melanie didn’t like me very much, though I had nothing against her. At least at first.
She could be very mean. She’d make fun of my flat chest, and call me “Jezebel” for wearing lip gloss (at which point I’d escalate by digging around for some eye shadow, which I never wore). It was sometimes not pretty, the way we dealt with each other. My clothes were never appropriate for church, even though it was one of those progressive churches where people wore t-shirts and jeans or whatever (none of us went to that church as our ‘home church’ but when we had sleepovers it was the one we went to because Cesar Santiago (a friend of my mother’s) went there, and Julie had a crush on him). I always wore a dress, but that wasn’t good enough because it didn’t have sleeves. It DID have a full jacket, which I always kept on, but… it was always something. I realize now it was because of the way I looked. I was quite pretty, though I didn’t realize it at all. I’d been brainwashed by middle school.
The major difference between Melanie and me was that people tended to assume the best of me, or be nice to me, simply because I was cute. People made fun of her and were mean to her because of the way she looked. It wasn’t fair, and it bought her a LOT of slack from me. I made it a point of honor never to treat anyone the way I had been treated.
Needless to say, Melanie soon became part of the prayer club. She went to church with Pondscum. Pondscum had gotten the idea for a prayer club from a guy in their youth group who had started one at a nearby high school. Soon, there were plans to have a prayer club picnic, where the two clubs could meet and… pray, I guess. Or play Frisbee.
I promise this side story is relevant to the understanding of the last part of the story. You’ll just have to trust me.
Back to Ronnie… Ronnie had started coming to youth group with me, but generally avoided the Prayer Club. I think he just hated the idea of staying late at school. He was working on one of his spatter movies, anyway. I still sort of wonder why he bothered being my friend. We had so little in common, yet our friendship was very natural and easy. That year he started sharing music with me. I endured quite a lot of early Kate Bush on account of our friendship. Aw, truth is, I kind of liked it. I drew a picture of ghostly Cathy and quoted Kate Bush’s Wuthering Heights song on one of my show pictures. It was drawn mostly to please Ronnie, though I only included it in the show because it was one of my better efforts.
Tomorrow, A Flower Blooms.
Posted by ketchupqueen (Member # 6877) on :
quote:It felt false. For all I know for certain, she could have made it up. They never told me those things.
Oh, yes, I know that feeling. They used to test and test and test me, psychological tests, IQ tests, and they never told me anything afterward. To be fair, my mother never told us our numbers. When we claimed we were stupid, she would refute it, but not with specifics. (All she told us was, "two of you are above above average and two of you are above that. None of my children are stupid.") Still, it bothered me tremendously that I had to preform like a trained seal-- and then everyone knew what they said about me except me.
quote:I was quite pretty, though I didn’t realize it at all. I’d been brainwashed by middle school.
Ah, yes, I know that feeling, too. Except for me, the torment and the torture and the brainwashing started in about first or second grade, when kids started to realize exactly how different I was from them (not that I had a LOT of friends before that, but I got along okay.) By middle school, I couldn't take a compliment because I thought anyone who gave me one was either teasing me or trying to use me.
(((hugs))) Thank you for finishing it. I really do care about the rest. Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
*hugs kq*
I had trouble in first and second grade, too, but that was because, as I said, I fought back. Then we moved when my father retired, and I started at a new school. I did okay. I kept out of trouble, didn't try too hard to make friends, but didn't let them get too close. Then I got placed in a Christian school.
In Christian school I was a top student, and most of the families knew me from church. All the parents liked me because I was well-behaved and made good grades. Plus, I was very devout.
The devout part was genuine, the reserved part was just me trying to be perfect, trying to keep everyone at a distance.
To be honest, mom never told any of our IQs either, but the memory thing intrigued her, I think. My folks had had genetic counselling by the military doctors, and she used to say things like 'a child of ours would have a one-in-four chance of being X' and stuff like that. We all did well in school, but, ah, I don't know.
She had rheumatic fever in her senior year of HS and was told she wouldn't be able to persue her chosen career (nursing). It was an out-and-out lie, as far as I can tell, because she went back to school at 40 and graduated valedictorian of her nursing class. She had a lot of guts to do that, at her age.
She had married young and put all her energy into mothering, and she was good at it. Dad never let her take the tests to go on with her education, so maybe she had something to prove.
I think that is probably it, though she proved it herself well enough when she went back to school after the divorce. In any case, I'm not angry about it now.
In any case, I think the most remarkable thing about surviving childhood is that anybody does it without becoming a loony. Kids can be mean.
*hugs again*
Posted by ketchupqueen (Member # 6877) on :
(((hugs back))) I used to dream about changing schools... But I went to the same one K-6, and then the one that fed into 7 and 8, and the one that fed into 9-11. When I went to a different school 12th grade, it was not at all for a good reason.
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
As an Army Brat, I was very comfortable with change. Stability used to make me uneasy, but change was natural.
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
Hello! I don't know if anybody still cares, but I decided to go ahead and finish this story after all.
Sorry for the delay, but the anniversary of my mom's death came around and it was just too hard to deal with that and the insecurities I felt about the bits of my past that have already been revealed here. Plus, the memories I'm probing are kind of bittersweet viewed through the lens of twenty years or so.
Looking back, I see that there was a big change in me the last part of my Senior year. Not sure I really understand it, but here goes.
I didn’t expect it. I didn’t see it coming and I’m not sure what happened exactly. But, during the last half of my senior year, boys crawled out of the woodwork. I thought it was because of the surgery, because my mind had amplified this relatively minor defect. People told me then (and tell me now when they see the pictures), that they couldn’t tell any difference. I still don’t accept that, but have come to realize that my judgment may be skewed. *shrug* In any case, it is at least possible that my change in attitude might account for the difference in people’s response to me. I admit I don’t know.
I won an Honorable mention in the Scholastic Art show, and had my picture in the paper along with my buddy Rick Mathes (who was a Finalist) and one of the girls who joined the Navy. A few days after that, some guy named Keith called me out of the blue. Said he knew somebody who knew me. Anyway, he said he wanted to come visit me (he also knew where I lived >_< ) He showed up on Wednesday, just as we were leaving for church, so we took him along. Drove him home afterwards, too. He had walked about six miles to my house. He was a tall, monosyllabic country boy, who pronounced his name as if it had an ‘f’. I was terrified that my folks liked him.
We got back in the car after taking him home and going in to meet his grandmother. I was very quiet. Once we were on the road, my mother said, “Well.” She tapped her fingers on the car seat. Papa didn’t say anything – he started to sing “Froggy Went A-Courting” Mom and I started laughing, and I was much relieved. That was the weirdest one, but there were others. A string of them, though Froggy was probably the freakiest. This is where my belief that I’m a ‘freakshow magnet’ started. To be fair, the vast majority were only ‘freakshows’ around me. It’s also possible that I saw any sort of interested behavior as freakish, since my underlying assumption was that people would not be attracted to me. At least not anyone I that I also found attractive.
There was the boy who worked in the Library that I had noticed. Blond, wore glasses. Then I happened through the lunchroom and saw him eating with his mouth open. It was after that, of course, that he started passing me notes in Economics – showing off his poetry. “See how your name fits in the third stanza of this poem …” He was sweet, but all I could think of was the crumbs flying. I was way pickier than someone of my cuteness level should be, I guess.
Some of the teachers thought Rick Mathes and I were a thing. We had a tendency to spin around together and embrace in art class if our projects were going well. I liked him a lot, and I was evasive when the teachers asked, because I didn’t want to out him. Not that we ever talked about his sexual preference, but I knew he was gay. Speaking that supposition to anyone could have been dangerous for him. Mrs. Hoilman and one of the English teachers took me aside (separately, and on different occasions) and mentioned that I was too old for Pondscum. This was after he’d given me a pink, heart-shaped box of candy for Valentine’s day. My response was that we were just friends, and the box was PINK, not red, thankyouverymuch.
There was a sophomore named Ricky who was in band, which met as a 7th period class, so we were usually hanging around waiting on a ride at the same time, since the busses all left after 6th period. He was always flirting with me. You know, coming up behind me, covering my eyes in that old Guess Who? game. I always guessed him correctly – he had trumpeter’s calluses.
My mom gave him a ride home sometimes. Once, I slipped my hand around the seat and untied his shoelaces while he was leaning forward talking to my mom (I was in the front seat, he was riding in the back). I did it again after he re-tied his shoes. He grabbed my hand and held it. Actually, we didn’t hold hands, we sort of caressed hands. Fingertips trailing over the wrist, across the palm, between the fingers and back again. It was one of the more erotic experiences of my life up to that point, oddly enough. I think many times people don’t think of how many wonderful nerves there are in the space between one’s watchband and fingertips. You miss a lot when you go straight for the goodies.
I kept Ricky at a comfortable, friendly distance before and after that. It was No Big Deal. He grew up to manage a Dominoes Pizza that served where Ron and I lived when we first married. We got a lot of serious discounts we never asked for. I hope Ricky didn’t get himself in trouble over that.
Ronnie was the same old Ronnie, though, no matter what seemed to be happening to the other fellas within sniffing distance of me. He let me borrow tapes of U2 and Kate Bush. I’m VERY grateful for the U2. I didn’t listen to ‘secular’ music as a general rule, but he got around that. “They’re a Catholic band,” he’d said. *snicker* He was slick when he wanted to be, though most of the time he was just pleasantly oddball-funny. We had lunch together almost every day.
The prayer club was still a big deal to me. Our small numbers increased gradually. Members of the other High School’s prayer club (who went to church with Pondscum) even showed up for a few of our meetings before we had our picnic at the lake. Robert P. , the leader of the other group, came to lead our group a few times. Melanie was there, all excited because a fella named Jamie that she knew from church came with Robert.
Julie spoke of Jamie with sympathy because he was kind to Melanie, often spending an hour after church talking to her and listening to her problems. Melanie was a bit of a Psychic Vampire (tm Claudia Therese), and Julie knew Jamie was being sucked dry. Melanie was interested in him as more than a friend. He was the only guy she knew who was more kind to her than necessary.
A girl named Natalie also started coming to our Prayer club, because of the visitors she knew from her youth group. She went to the same church as Melanie, Pondscum and the others. Natalie was a hoot. She went on and on about how completely yummy Robert was. It was true, he was all kinds of good. Good looking (in that skinny, pretty-boy way I always went for), a good leader, a good artist (I took second place to him in the city art competition, and didn’t mind a bit). Just a nice guy. Not too much later, he started attending church where I did, but he never showed any interest in me. Whatever was going on with me, boys I actually found interesting were immune to it, as far as I could tell.
The next time the other group from the other high school came to our meeting (after our joint picnic), Jamie mentioned there was going to be a dance at his school and asked me if I’d like to go. I was loading my locker, and said, “Sure” sort of absent-mindedly.
It occurred to me that Melanie would be mad, but it was too late. Jamie looked so pleased. He was cute. Turns out, the ‘dance’ he’d mentioned so casually was his Junior Prom. >_< The books slid out of my locker onto my head about the same time I realized what I’d done. There would be repercussions.
The dance itself was an hour or two of awkwardness. I couldn’t back out without hurting Jamie, but for Melanie’s sake I was determined not to have fun. Well, no. Knowing Melanie was hurt by it (and would get back at me somehow) made it no fun. At least I had a dress.
Mom had taken me out to find a dress for this dance that would also work for my own prom. This was a challenge because I was so skinny and flat-chested. I finally opted for a dress that I could also wear to church, if I wore the matching jacket. It was a pale peach thing with spaghetti straps and a much lower neckline than anyone with larger breasts could wear and still manage to look modest. The back of the jacket was lace. I got a lot of mileage out of that dress; I even wore it to my first college formal. I think it was the single most expensive article of clothing I had ever had up to that point. Mom didn’t mind buying it for me, even though I didn’t have a date to my own prom yet.
Turns out, getting a date was the least of my prom-related worries.
Posted by ketchupqueen (Member # 6877) on :
Oh, I'm glad you're finishing it! (((hugs)))
Posted by whiskysunrise (Member # 6819) on :
Me too.
Posted by blacwolve (Member # 2972) on :
Me as well.
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
Thanks. I know it's a bit of a ramble, but I appreciate you guys bearing with my therapy. I'm trying to break it up into smaller chunks.
I was talking the last few posts about how badly I misread some fellas' intentions, or at least how messed up I was when it comes to interpreting the most basic boy/girl social interactions. Eh, I was young and sheltered, though one of my relatives recently pointed out that I wasn't sheltered by anybody but myself. Once more into the breach (of my embarrassing social history, though ... I think it is relevant).
Julie also brought a guy to Prayer Club – a football player named Mike. He had a very good sense of humor, a ready laugh and one of those faces that says ‘I’m only joking’ even when he wasn’t. We welcomed him easily enough to our group (he was second string ).
I have mentioned that I worked in the Science office during Fourth Period. There were three versions of fourth period because your fourth period class determined your lunch time. My lunch was between third and fourth, but the science department took lunch in the middle of fourth period. Sometimes Mr. Bingham would take his lunch in the science office, and send me back to the lunchroom with his tray when the class started up again.
One day, I had to take his tray and the physics teacher’s as well. It was a little awkward, and I bumped into a guy as I was making my way through the lunchroom. He was one of our special students, but not for the usual reasons, evidently. For example, Rhonda, who had just started coming to Prayer club with Beth, had CP. Her family was kind of neglectful (she had trouble brushing her teeth and they wouldn’t help her) so Beth and I would stop by to see her on weekends to make sure she got the help she needed with basic care. She was really neat, great sense of humor. Some people are uncomfortable around people with CP, but one of my sister’s friends had CP and I was used to being with people that faced those particular challenges.
But this guy wasn’t a ‘special student’ because of physical stuff; he was kind of psychotic. I later learned that the kids called him Chester the Molester because of his tendency to grab girls for little or no reason.
Anyway, I bumped him, and my, “Oh, excuse me! I’m sorry I’m so clumsy” (I always overdid apologies) was seen as a pledge of heartfelt interest in being molested. He followed me back to the Science office, but he kept his distance and I didn’t notice. When he knocked on the door, I opened it and he started talking and kind of pressing his way into the room. I told him he had to go, because I had work to do and if Mr. Bingham came in (there was another door that went into Mr. B’s classroom at the other end of the office) he’d be in trouble. He agreed to go and asked for a hug.
It was obvious he wasn’t all mentally there and I made the mistake of thinking ‘mentally handicapped’ means ‘harmless’ and allowed myself to be subjected to a very aggressive ‘hug’. I should have hit him or something, but it just seemed wrong to smack someone with a disability. I could have run into the classroom, but was mortified at the thought of having to explain why I interrupted class.
Those things went through my mind very quickly, a couple of seconds, maybe. Before I could decide what to do, a big hand grabbed the little guy by the shoulder and yanked him off me. My rescuer was Mike the Football Player (second string). He got rid of Chester, who never bothered me again. I mean, he tried to bother me again, but I saw him coming. He was not a big guy, and I knew I could hurt him (was maybe even looking for an excuse to do so). A hard look and a warning gesture kept him away.
Mike proved harder to get rid of. I don’t know why he showed up when he did, if he saw Chester or was just coming to see me, but he came around more often after that. I wouldn’t let him in the office, but he’d peek in the window and wave, and I’d go to the door and talk to him. Mostly I’d tell him to go away, because I had work to do. He was fun to talk to, but not my type. Not one for the big, beefy guys, I guess. I liked my fellas a bit shorter, smaller and altogether more manageable back then. Not sure why I usually went for guys I suspected I could beat at arm wrestling, but there you go. I DID get over that, by the way.
He ended up doing the same sort of thing as Chester, in a way, though he kept his hands to himself. That is, he claimed he’d only go away if I’d kiss him on the cheek, or some such. I never agreed to go out with him, though I did invite him to church with me. My folks picked him up in our car. He endured the service with good humor, and forced a goodnight kiss on me when we took him home. With my parents in the front seat. O_O A bold one, was Mike.
Julie had liked Mike (which was why she’d asked him to the prayer club), but she forgave me readily enough. I really didn’t go for him. As a joke, she and Melanie gave me a necklace with bell on it. Livvy’s coming! Hide your men!
Ronnie just rolled his eyes when I wore the bell. He laughed at my foolishness in opening the door for Chester the Molester, even though I’d had no idea who he was. I usually didn’t mention guys to him, because he tended to poke fun at me over my taste in men and my handling of the overzealous ones. He was right, though. I probably DID care more about their feelings than was actually good for me. Ronnie was becoming very active in my youth group. I was trying to get him involved in the youth drama program, since he had such an interest in acting and making movies. He was ambivalent.
One cool thing about having Ronnie at church was that my mother loved him. She was always teasing and picking on him. She loved to make him blush, because he was so fair you could see the blood travel up his face. She made a game of trying to get the blush all the way to the tips of his ears.
For me, it was just that he was so easy to be around, even though he never really cut me any slack. He would always tell me more than I wanted to hear about Doctor Who, or whatever. Oddly enough, it was Pondscum who introduced me to Douglas Adams. You’d think that would be right up Ronnie’s alley, but no. He gave me music and suggested I watch Monty Python, but he never loaned me books. Ronnie was not much of reader. I’d tease him about his Cliff’s notes, and he’d just say that I did enough reading for all of us.
In the next part of the story, I do something especially stupid that changes everything.
Posted by Noemon (Member # 1115) on :
Isn't there something in the user agreement about cliffhangers not being allowed? I could have sworn that there was.
Posted by JaneX (Member # 2026) on :
Yay! I'm glad you're telling the rest of the story.
~Jane~
Posted by Nell Gwyn (Member # 8291) on :
Wow. I just read this whole thread today, and now I'm riveted right along with everyone else. You're an awesome storyteller, Olivet. Thanks for sharing.
Posted by rivka (Member # 4859) on :
quote:Originally posted by Noemon: Isn't there something in the user agreement about cliffhangers not being allowed? I could have sworn that there was.
There really should be, neh?
Oh, Pa-a-pa!
(Keep it coming, Olivia! )
Posted by whiskysunrise (Member # 6819) on :
Can hardly wait for the next piece. Keep it coming. Posted by advice for robots (Member # 2544) on :
I'm hanging on, but my fingers are getting tired!
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
Thank you, everyone, for your kind words and encouragement. I hope I do not disappoint you. The journey, for me, is more the point of this than the arrival, so I appreciate your patience.
I'll post today's bit in two pieces - one now and one later tonight. Just to keep the post manageable.
Again, sorry for the delay. I've had a chest cold. please forgive any strange spelling or grammar mistakes. I'm medicated.
I just realized something this weekend. At the time of these events, I was 45 lbs. lighter than I am now. Most of you who have met me in person may find that as shocking as I do. I mean, I could stand to lose a few pounds, but 15-20 at the maximum. Perhaps I have some huge blind spot when it comes to the weight I should be, but I think I look pretty good. I mean, for a woman my age. *shrug* I cannot imagine… nevermind. On with the story.
In Christian school, the principal nicknamed me “Bloodhound” because I could always tell where he was in the building by following the scent trail if his cologne. He wore Lagerfeld, which I enjoyed for its tendency to be light. Polo was popular then, but it has always given me a headache. Anyway, this talent came in handy when we wanted to sneak back into class without changing out of our gym clothes. (The dress code required girls to wear skirts, except during P.E.) Word got back to him, and he thought it was neat. Or maybe he was trying to give me a positive nickname so the group would stop calling me “Brainiac”. It didn’t stick.
The point is that I did have an unusually sensitive sense of smell when I was younger (though I did have a sort of scent Renaissance when I was pregnant). I was always affected by smell – the scents of my loved ones, that sort of thing. Tended to have a calming affect on me, as I was a bit touch-averse. Touch aversion evidently tends to go along with … certain other aspects of my personality. I was born into a family of huggers and went to a church of huggers. I was cool with embraces, but very tetchy about certain touches, especially along my forearms. *shrug* I also tended to have a wider ‘personal bubble’ than anyone in family. My mother’s personal space was bare inches from her nose. I swear she used to back me across a room, just having a conversation. We had long talks with me sitting on the kitchen counter, just so I could get some space between us. *giggle*
One night, Mom and I went by to pick Ronnie up for church. I think something was wrong with his car. I had only been by his house a couple of times, and had rarely spoken to his mother. Mom waited in the car while I went up to knock. Ronnie’s mother, Bonnie, answered the door.
“Hi. We’re here to pick up Ronnie for church.”
“Oh, yeah. Come in.”
When I got in, she said, “He’s upstairs taking a shower. Why don’t you go up and wait for him?” She was already leading the way.
Had his mom just told me to wait for him in his room? Why not just wait downstairs, in the sitting room? Their family was different than mine, yes indeedy.
When I got up there, I realized most of the upstairs was actually Ronnie’s domain. His room had it’s own sitting room, all gables and slanted ceilings. It was, I guess, a typical teenaged boy type of place – messy, beanbag chairs and a futon strewn with clothes. He had his own TV with games and VHS tapes everywhere. Scattered gadgetry.
She warned him I was there, so he came out of bathroom mostly dressed. The stuffy room filled with excess shower steam. He greeted me with a hug, like he usually did outside of school. His smell hit me, under that nice, clean soapy smell. It was odd, his personal smell.
I think I had noticed it at his father’s funeral, but played it off as grief-sweat. Then in the months after that, he’d often gone a week or so without benefit of water, so that the funk hung around him in a cloud. But clean like that – fresh from the shower – it was till there. An unnatural smell, almost, were it not for the fact that it most definitely WAS his natural smell. Vaguely metallic and organic at the same time, like kitchen shears used to cut bacon and never properly washed, or a handful of pennies dipped in lard.
Maybe the metal smell was his blood. He was so fair that you could always see it, just under his translucent skin. Maybe I could smell it because he was freshly shaven. I don’t know. I’m sure this is a huge disappointment to those of you who were so anxious to know why he smelled like pennies. It wasn’t pennies exactly, but there was something wrong about it that I couldn’t place.
While he toweled his hair, he showed me a picture of the Ellis family ruin in the old country, which he had framed on his wall. We chatted. He had this cool Thom Baker Dr. Who scarf that was 25 feet long. His treasures were very interesting to me, not at all the sorts of things I thought of as typical. Then again, I was sheltered.
Mom was waiting, so we split as quickly as we could. Wednesday was the night when the Youth met separately, and it was usually a lot of fun. Ronnie was generally subdued, like he wasn’t quite comfortable with the group. At least, he wasn’t as talkative as he usually was when it was just me, or the gang at the lunch table in school.
Mom usually listed to the services from the Tape Room, where the sermons were recorded. After church, she’d make copies for the shut-ins who had requested them. Sometimes if the service was particularly good, people in attendance would ask for a copy, and she would speed dub them while they waited.
More tonight.
Posted by Noemon (Member # 1115) on :
Hm...there are drugs that cause the person taking them to smell like that, I believe.
Posted by whiskysunrise (Member # 6819) on :
It is written very well. Can't wait for the next part. Thank you, for sharing it with us.
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
*Continued from the above*
This particular night, there were a lot of requests for copies of the sermon. Ronnie and I waited for her in the car. It was raining, and the windows fogged a bit. I commented on it, joking that “Mom will think we were up to something.” I really didn’t think she would think that, but I knew she would say something, just to make him blush.
“At this rate, we could have grandchildren,” he joked back. “The church should just buy her a cot.” Well, his joke was something like that. The ensuing trauma wiped whatever it was right out of my head. The point is, it made me laugh.
Ronnie always made me laugh. It was so comfortable and easy to be with him; the weirdness I was noticing from other boys never seemed to interfere. I knew he wasn’t interested in me, which was a big reason why it was so comfortable. He’d talk about girls with me and I figured he went for the buxom type, which was definitely not me.
Anyway, he made me laugh and I kissed him. It was impulsive, even a little pranky. An I-wonder-what-he’ll-do sort of thing.
He kissed me back, and I think that surprised me. Not that I expected him to say, “Eeew!” and wipe his mouth on his sleeve. Or maybe I did. In any case, I never in a million years expected what happened after the kiss.
He said, “I love you.”
I don’t remember what I said, because inside I was panicking. Oh, Crap, oh, crap! Crap, crap, Oh, crap! He said he loved me. Needless to say, I was new to the whole “love confession” thing.
He said he loved me; he said he’d been in love with me for a long time, at least since his father died. He said he’d done drugs and wanted to die, back then, but that he’d stopped because he knew I could never love someone that messed around with drugs. I brought him to church. I saved his life, and he loved me.
I loved him, too. I really did; I just wasn’t sure it was that kind of love. Was it? I just didn’t know. Crap! Oh, crap.
I sat there, trying not to cry as the beautiful fiction of our friendship crumbled in my hands. In its place was my friend’s naked heart, and I couldn’t drop it. I couldn’t bear to lose him; I couldn’t bear what might happen if I hurt him.
That all seems quite melodramatic now, but when you’re seventeen, everything is of consequence. I know we joke about teens making too much of everything, but the truth is that everything you do at that age does have consequences. How you deal with things then affects who you are, who you become. At least it seems so to me.
This incident is probably why, as I got older, I tended to freak out more and more when a guy said he loved me. The first guy I dated in college, for example.
We’d been going out a month or so. We had an understanding that we could see other people (my grandmother had made me promise not to “fall for the first little boy that comes along” and to casually date a lot of boys, so I’d be sure when I found the right one) but neither of us had actually done it. We were playing a board game in my dorm room. The school required the door be open at least six inches, and male visitors had to sign in. In any case, we were snuggled up close, stopping every so often to kiss. After one such kiss, he held me close and whispered something in my ear.
It could have been my name, or it could have been those three little words (they do sound quite similar, if whispered very softly – the consonants and vowels are in the right places). I thought it was those three little words, and I stiffened. My body has always been a million times more honest than my lying, lying brain.
Anyway, he noticed it, and I felt the tension in him crank up a notch. I decided to act like he’d said my name, so I sighed back with his name, and kissed him again. I kissed him until I felt the tension ease out of him. I’m still not sure what he had said, but I think I was right.
A few weeks later, as we said goodnight, he said, “I have to tell you something, but I want you to understand that I mean it in a very Christian way.”
This was a bit worrying, but I said, “Sure.”
“I love you, but I mean, you know, as a sister in Christ. The, you know, the Christlike way we’re supposed to love each other.”
I smiled and told him that I loved him, too, in that same, wonderful, agape way… that Christians are supposed to love… everyone. *shrug* Boys are so weird.
My own Beloved husband even had to deal with that particular aversion of mine. Not surprisingly, he handled it very well. We’d been meeting after the Library closed and talking until 3am for over a week, when he finally gave me a reasonably chaste kiss on the lips. By the second week, he was trying to hold my hand in public. “You don’t understand,” I said. “This is a very small school. If we’re seen holding hands, we might as well be engaged.”
He said he didn’t care, because he was in love with me. I scoffed.
“You do NOT love me. We’ve only known each other two weeks.” He laughed at me.
“When did you become an expert on other people’s feelings, Miss Thang?”
He had me there, but I wasn't going to give up. “Well, I don’t love you.”
“You will.” He smiled when he said it. And dang if he wasn’t right.
But when Ronnie said it that night in the church parking lot, it was new territory for me. I’d kissed his lips and screwed up everything.
Mom came out and made a crack about the foggy windows, like I knew she would. Ronnie blushed, redder than ever, like I knew he would.
We rode home in companionable conversation, but I was a ball of nerves. Everything was different, and it felt very, very weird.
Posted by Noemon (Member # 1115) on :
That had *better* not be the end of the story Olivet! Seriously, tell me that it isn't.
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
I'd say mid way. Seriously, the part that was keeping me up nights... we're halfway there.
Sorry for my long-windedness. I'm using this to work through some stuff more than trying to craft a tight narrative. I mean, obviously.
Posted by Noemon (Member # 1115) on :
Good!
Don't apologize for your longwindedness. I'm not generally a huge fan of landmark posts, but I actively scan the page to see if you may have updated this thread every time I check the forum. I've found the entire thing fascinating, and have apreciated the length. I'm not really looking forward to it being over, to tell you the truth.
Posted by BannaOj (Member # 3206) on :
Wow, I need to do this, but I think I need at least another 10 years of perspective first. And I do identify with a bunch of what you've said so far.
Keep it up.
*Hugs*
AJ
Posted by Altáriël of Dorthonion (Member # 6473) on :
I feel horrible for posting this, but every time I look at the thread title, I read something different... Posted by blacwolve (Member # 2972) on :
Am I the only one that assumed Ronnie was your husband?
I feel like I need to reread the whole thing now from an entirely different perspective.
Posted by beverly (Member # 6246) on :
Very much enjoying! Very much relating as well. Posted by Allegra (Member # 6773) on :
It is like a good book. In a way I want to get to the end quickly, but at the same time I know once I get there I will wish there was more.
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
Yeah, blackwolve, I thought there might be some confusion. I didn't meet my Beloved until my second year in college.
It is an amusing parallel, though. That comes later. I probably won't talk too much about my true love in this; it's a different story.
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
And thanks to everyone for being so kind to me in this thread. Posted by Noemon (Member # 1115) on :
I wondered if that might be the case, blackwolve, but I thought that I remembered her saying at some point that they'd bet in college, so I was pretty sure that it was a different guy.
Posted by Rakeesh (Member # 2001) on :
Oh, wow, it's not the same Ron? I was beginning to get that impression although now that you mention it, Noemon, I remember that too...but this whole time I was thinking Ronnie was Mr. Olivia -of-the-future, heh. Some luck with names, eh?
And hell, thanks for sharing it all. I'm reading it with great interest, it's a powerful and well-told story, I think. Kindness is the least we can do Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
I did refer to him many, many times as Ronnie Ellis, though I admit I erred in not pointing out explicitly that he was not the man I married. I always knew my husband as "Ron" until I came more into contact with his family (where they call him "Ronnie" and his father "Ron").
Ronnie Ellis was interesting because his actual birth certificate said "Ronnie", which may have been a way of naming him after his mother, Bonnie. *shrug* His father's name was Carroll. The Ellis Family is a very tight (but large) Irish family who settled originally in Upper Shell Creek, pretty much on the border with North Carolina.
I think I may have to scan some pictures...
But thanks for not slapping me around too much for being vague. I thought it was clear in the beginning, but it has dragged on too long for it to stick. I should've been more careful.
Posted by ketchupqueen (Member # 6877) on :
Don't beat yourself up. I got it. *superior look* Posted by blacwolve (Member # 2972) on :
Oh, I didn't think it was your fault at all. I was just surprised. It's your story and you're telling it wonderfully, so I'm not going to complain at all about the way you're telling it.
I really hope that sentence makes sense.
Posted by Rakeesh (Member # 2001) on :
D'oh! Of course, not Ronnie F., Ronnie E. Heh. Well now you and KQ have given me an inferiority complex Posted by Ophelia (Member # 653) on :
I admit I'd been wondering this whole time how many people would be thinking Ronnie and Ron were one and the same.
By the way, Olivia, your son left a maraca at our apartment. In case he wonders where it is. Oh, and the wireless issue was totally on our end (fixed now). And dictionary.com has imaum as another spelling for imam, but not imaam.
You may return to your regularly scheduled thread.
Posted by RoyHobbs (Member # 7594) on :
Engaging and thought-provoking, thanks!!
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
kq- You ARE superior!
I just forgot how many people here know just enough about me (like, say, my husband's first name) to bring with them certain suppositions.
Ron knew Ronnie, though. Ronnie was one of those friends that you just don't let go of completely. My own Beloved Ron, the father of my children, was not at all threatened by Ronnie.
He's just that secure.
Again, it really was my bad, but I hope that's all cleared up now. I shall attempt another post this weekend.
Posted by Christy (Member # 4397) on :
quote:Olivia, your son left a maraca at our apartment
*giggle* for some reason I read that as mascara.
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
What's funnier is that he first pronounced "maraca" something like "Formica".
My boys are way too young for mascara. Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
Ophelia-
Yeah, Ron looked it up, too. Imaum. Imaam is actually a proper name, I think.
Anyway, the wee one loved his musical instruments! Though I wondered, briefly, if giving him a tamborine, drum, maracas and a harmonica was not some sort revenge on Ron for the hard-fought and sometimes acrimonious Scrabble tournaments. Posted by ketchupqueen (Member # 6877) on :
No, it's just standard torture of parents by non-parents...
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
Okay, just a bit tonight, because I'm sick and I won't be able to finish the next part of the story tonight. So it's short and boring, but at least I'm still working on it.
Things were pretty much the same at school, except the poems in my locker were written by Ronnie instead of the guy in Econ who chewed with his mouth open. We danced around the topic of the Prom. I told him the truth, which was that I wasn’t sure I wanted to go at all. Not just with him, but to the Prom in general. It seemed pointless to dress up so a bunch of people (most of whom I either didn’t know or didn’t like) could admire me. I mean, somebody remind what these things are for?
I went to several of the college formals, because that was fun. It was the same thing – dress up, have a fancy meal and dance — but by college… I was different. I felt I belonged. I had a sense of being amongst friends and well-wishers (whether or not that was actually the case is another story).
In any case, I was evasive. Ronnie still had his stuff that he did and I still had the stuff that I did. We saw each other at church, but he wasn’t always coming over or anything.
He was a good friend, but the more I pondered what life with him would be like, the more wigged I got. He was funny, but he wasn’t terribly talented in any obvious way. I mean, I figured if he made enough slasher movies, he’d eventually get good at it. But then he’d just be good at something I wasn’t really capable of appreciating.
One day, I finally told him. “Look, we’re going to college soon. Different colleges, in different cities, probably.” I knew he would be going to King – he wouldn’t have met their entrance requirements even if he had the money, which I suspected he did not. I was still working out the scholarships. My Senior IB English teacher was friends with the head of the Fine Arts department, and she had already met me when I visited the campus. Eventually she requested me for a workstudy, and other stuff fell into place.
The military wouldn’t even pay for Ronnie to go to college (which was okay, because he would have rather cut off a finger than be a soldier) because he admitted he’d taken drugs. He could get funding to go to the state school, though. Anyway, I’d be an hour or more away, with no car.
I told him that things were going to change soon, and that I was going to be concentrating on school. I didn’t plan to date anyone seriously for quite a while. I kept it very light; I was careful of his feelings, but honest.
The year was running by quickly, with all the end-of-term dinners and things – I had to go to the Honor Society thing and the Top Ten students thing, Student Government and Advanced Art parties. I hated that stuff, but I was always into meeting my obligations. Ronnie avoided anything that even sounded like an obligation. We were extremely different people.
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
Ronnie was great friend, and in that way, I loved him. But… he smelled funny. It’s sad to say, but that was the crux of it. My mother loved him. He fit in fine with my family; I was comfortable with him.
But beyond that initial moment of curiosity, I had zero desire to kiss him. Not that I minded it, but it wasn’t something that it generally never occurred to me to do. Marriages have been built on less, I suppose. But even back then, I knew I didn’t want MINE to be.
He had feelings for me that I could never return, but neither of us could bear to make that clean cut. Here is where the long, painful dance that was our real relationship began. It lasted a very, very long time.
One morning, while putting things in my locker (directly outside the Art Room door) I saw Chris Range walking quickly after a girl I knew named Angie.
Angie was one of the Lit geeks I sometimes hung out with in the Lit office my Junior year (and occasionally as a Senior, though my home room was far away, by then). Oddly enough, a large number of the Lit Geeks were named either Amy (Aimee, Ami, ad infinitum) or Angie (there was also Theresa, who I referred to as a “Hermione” in Speech and Drama. She doesn’t come into play much in this story, but I really liked her, though we didn’t talk much). THIS particular Angie was athletic, with a light, sun-kissed tan that said she spent lots of time outdoors. She was fresh-faced and never wore make-up. She was one of a very few girls in school who was significantly taller than me (I was 5’8” then, but that was a few car accidents ago ). She liked to ride horses – I think she had one of her own.
Anyway, Chris was walking after her. His stride was impressive, but then, he was like, 6’4” (150lbs). She was walking fast, looking forward with one hand sort of flapping behind her. It was an amusing combination of ignoring him, and the classic “talk to the hand” and “shoo” gestures. It took me all of 2 seconds to register this, raise an eyebrow, and go on about my business.
Most of the Advanced Art class students were Seniors; I have mentioned that Chris was in that class. He was not sorted to my table, so I never talked to him all that much. I was with the ‘arty’ group of students who pursued mostly drawing and painting, fashion and design. He, being more interested in film, was sorted with the more practical art students, screen printers, cartoonists and the like. ( )
Partway into the class, a bit of a row broke out at the other table, between Chris and everyone else. It seemed to me (I had been engrossed in my work and generally ignoring the noise) that he was being picked on. Mrs. Hoilman made him switch seats with Ricky Mathes, which I thought was a bad idea. Ricky, being gay, was the natural prey of most of the Deca Hall rednecks; however, these guys were also artists, and they had accepted Igor, the Basque Thrasher/Exchange student with hardly any trouble (Well, there was once when one of the opined that surely even a Spaniard had to admit that the U.S was the Greatest Country on Earth… I put my arms around both of them and said, “We’re all brothers, here.” They didn’t buy that, but it made them laugh so at least they didn't pummel each other).
Okay, the real truth is that I liked Rick Mathes better than Strange Range. Rick was easier to talk to, because he was gay. There was none of that subtext boy-girl stuff that so utterly confused me. Range wasn’t gay, and by the look of things was in th throes of some unpleasant boy-girl stuff. But, there he was.
I spent a good bit of the class talking to him quietly while I worked, coaxing the story out of him. He told me he was a Pantheist, which he explained as “god is nature and nature is god.” On a hike over the weekend, god/nature had spoken to him, revealing that Angie (incidentally the tallest girl his age in the whole county) was Meant for him.
“And you told her this?” I was shocked. Not that ‘God had told him’ she was ‘the one for him’ – I’d heard THAT one often enough.
Pardon my digression, but this begs for further examination. I believed (and on some level, still do) that the Divine does speak to us, sometimes, if we care to listen. However, I had a hard time buying that god spent so much of his time pre-occupied with telling teenaged boys who, exactly, they could legitimately shag in the future. Certainly it shows that the boys I hung out with were maybe more religious than average (if “on TV” = Average).
In my more cynical moments, it led me to postulate that God really does speak to men through their penises. That at least explained why Prophets and religious leaders of almost every religion were male. Chicks don’t have the necessary antenna to receive the Big Messages.
Please forgive me if that sounds bitter, but if I had a nickel for every time some boy had a ‘revelation’ that I was ‘the One’ , I could buy me a nice cup of coffee. Not the cheap, diner coffee (free refills), but a nice Venti Caramel Macchiato, double shot, with a splash of soy milk.
“Why shouldn’t I tell her? If God said it’s true, then it’s true,” he said.
“Leaving aside the question of Divine Revelation,” (and I wanted to leave it FAR aside) “a girl likes to feel she has some say in these matters. Which is probably the big reason she rejected you, besides it being a really weird thing to say.”
“But why would God lie to me?” He really looked distressed. I punt a comforting hand on his shoulder.
“I promise you, he didn’t lie to you, Chris. Either he didn’t actually speak to you at all, or he did speak to you and the time is not now. If it was a message from God, then it stands to reason that she’ll eventually get one, too. If it wasn’t – and this is honestly the answer I favor – you’ll be embarrassed for a while, but you’ll get over it.”
He wasn’t happy about that little pep-talk. *wince* I had NEVER been so glad to hear the bell ring the end of Art class as I was that day.
As it turns out, this was not the last 'revelation' Chris would ever get, and I was in for a very, very long day.
Posted by RoyHobbs (Member # 7594) on :
Geez, these keep getting better and better... Posted by Katarain (Member # 6659) on :
Chris = Strange Range?
Posted by ketchupqueen (Member # 6877) on :
"Chris Range." *points to post above*
I so get it. Posted by Katarain (Member # 6659) on :
Aah. Thanks. I had forgotten his last name by that time, and couldn't find it by skimming. Shoulda used "find."
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
Yeah, I always called him "Chris" because I usually didn't call people by their last names, and "Strange" just seemed cruel. I should have referred to him in this piece as "Strange Range" or "Chris 'Strange' Range" for consistency's sake.
But I generally didn't use nicknames, though I did occassionaly refer to Pondscum as Pondscum, usually I used his Christian name (though I have chosen not to share it here).
Posted by Noemon (Member # 1115) on :
quote:As it turns out, this was not the last 'revelation' Chris would ever get, and I was in for a very, very long day.
Best line of the story so far.
Posted by Nell Gwyn (Member # 8291) on :
Curiouser and curiouser.
I've never had any guys tell me I was "meant for them." *pouts* The preferred hitting-on method of my experience is more along the lines of, "You're hot, can I have your phone number?" At least divine revelation has the caveat of being somewhat imaginative. Posted by TomDavidson (Member # 124) on :
"At least divine revelation has the caveat of being somewhat imaginative."
In some circles, though, I hear it's almost passe. They'd probably take "you're hot; can I have your phone number?" as a revelation.
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
It was passe... and I was NOT hot. Hot, in most cases, implies the presence of boobies
Boys look at hot girls and think of one thing, generally. Boys looked at me as if there was a grail-shaped beacon behind me, and envisioned a life of happy sacrifice, yoked together with me at the Divine Plow.
I'm not entirely sure it should be seen as a compliment.
Posted by zgator (Member # 3833) on :
quote:grail-shaped beacon
I read that as "bacon" at first. It makes more sense when read correctly.
Posted by Nell Gwyn (Member # 8291) on :
*checks behind her for grail-shaped beacon*
*is disappointed to see none there*
Alas, it appears that my inherent divinity is not self-evident.
And in this case, hot != boobies. A Victoria's Secret model I am not.
:rerailing thread: Olivet rocks! Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
And so I cut off his privates and baked them in a pie. The end.
Posted by breyerchic04 (Member # 6423) on :
fantastic Olivet, that's the best ending ever, now will you go back to where you said you were half way through, and double it?
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
I'm just not sure I can do this...>_<
Posted by breyerchic04 (Member # 6423) on :
Ok, I think most of us understand that, but now we'll have to make assumptions.
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
That sounds ominous. *sigh*
I know you're right, and I know I need to do it for my own reasons.
I guess I'm just being a butt. I'm sorry.
Posted by Nell Gwyn (Member # 8291) on :
Did you serve the pie to anyone? Was it a Hannibal Lecter or a Titus Andronicus situation?
If you can't finish it, don't worry - I'm sure Hatrack could finish it for you, albeit probably rather far off the mark and with lots of puns and silliness. But I hope you can!
*hugs* for Olivet
Posted by breyerchic04 (Member # 6423) on :
You really don't have to, but we probably will all have guesses, and i know I'd like to hope most of mine aren't true, if you'd like I can post those, so you can see where you are taking us.
Being a butt is fun, especcially if you can do it in a slinky red dress
Posted by twinky (Member # 693) on :
Olivet, you don't need to post any more. I'm enjoying reading the story but since I know that the "end" of the story is you going to the Ritz for a fancy dinner date with your husband (even though your husband is not the boy you're writing about), I don't need to know how this part of the story "ends." I can just write "and she lived happily ever after."
Posted by Jim-Me (Member # 6426) on :
*sees hook*
*lets olivet off of it, gently*
Posted by El JT de Spang (Member # 7742) on :
quote:Hot, in most cases, implies the presence of boobies
Not for me. I say I like boobs, like people say "War is bad". It never seems to actually bear on whether or not a girl is 'hot' though. It definitely doesn't hurt though.
I haven't mentioned it before, but you are an absolutely compelling storyteller. I can't remember anything this specific about high school, and I was there a lot more recently than you were. Well, maybe not a lot more recently, but definitely more recently-er.
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
*snort* Hi, JT. *waves*
Okay, here goes. Please forgive the melodrama from before. Some of these memories are uncomfortable places for me, though perhaps not for the reasons you may think.
One more note: I admit it may not have been the same day, but it was within a very short time that the events I will describe took place. For the purpose of the story, I’ll say it was the same day, though I lack certainty on that score.
On with the story:
Everything went on as usual until lunchtime, which started in an ordinary way. I got my lunch, and approached my usual table. When I got there, I noticed Ronnie sitting just down from the end, with enough space for me to slide in beside him. That was usual, I guess. But Chris/Strange Range was sitting at the head of the table. I didn’t remember the tables having seats in that position, so I think he was sitting on a stool.
That was odd.
Chris and Ronnie appeared to be having a very animated conversation, with lots of hand movement and aggressive body postures. The talk stopped suddenly when they both looked up and saw me.
That was also odd.
Now, I’m not stupid, but I must admit (and have repeatedly) to a certain amount of deliberate cluelessness when it comes to the opposite sex. This tendency of mine was much more pronounced at age 17, certainly.
My usual lunch table was populated by a variety of people, but lately, more and more of them had turned out to be male. I was oblivious to the shift. That day, there were no other girls there when I sat down. Chris didn’t usually sit with us, even though he was one of Ronnie’s closer friends, and when he DID it was usually on the other side.
Down the table I noticed Larry, form Advanced art. Quiet guy, who oddly enough resembled Taalcon, now that I think of it (in manner as well as general appearance). I think what reminds me most of Taalcon is the way he had of smiling like he knew the Secrets of Everything, but was too shy to tell anyone.
Bill, he of the clacking retainer in Geometry class, who always wore the same John Cougar Mellancamp t-shirt. I had also had anatomy and physiology, and microbiology with him that year, but he never spoke to me. He was always around but when I spoke to him he’d hardly speak back. He kind of creeped me out.
I sat down, trying to get a bead on what the heck was going on. Chris spoke, and Ron called him names. I was shocked. I’m not sure how long they went on sniping at each other, once they had started again. I finally stopped it.
“Ronnie, what is the matter with you? I thought you guys were friends!” I turned to Chris. “If y’all are fighting, then why did you sit here? You don’t usually eat with us.”
I glanced around the table, but no one offered to explain what was going on. They started up again.
I had lost my appetite.
“Fine. You guys fight all you want, but I’m not going to listen to it.” I turned in my tray, and headed for D Hall, to my locker. As I left the lunchroom, I realized Chris was following me, about six feet behind. I stopped and turned around. He stopped, but didn’t say anything.
I took another step. He took another step. I stopped. He stopped. Then I walked back to him.
“What. Are. You. Doing?”
He thought for a second, all the time with this goofy smile on his face. “I’m courting you.”
I was speechless, for a bit. Then I laughed.
“No you’re NOT. You’re following me, and creeping me out.”
It must have taken great courage to say what he said. I realize that now. In a few sentences, he explained to me that he believed I was the One for Him.
I told him he was nice and all, but hadn’t gotten the memo. Then he asked me to the prom.
“Ronnie already asked me to the prom.”
“But you didn’t say yes.”
“I said I wasn’t planning on going to the prom.”
He shrugged, probably having sussed out that I would go to the prom if asked by the right guy. I think I might have, but it didn’t happen. I was twitterpated over Pondscum, two years younger than me, AND dating one of my other best friends. (I had seen, from their relationship, that he would not make a good a boyfriend, but twitterpation is not a rational condition.)
The boy I liked couldn’t ask me to the prom, because he wasn’t a Senior, so it was kind of a moot point, to me. But not to everyone else, because no one else knew about my secret crush, and almost no one would ever know. Until now, I guess.
I went back to the lunchroom with Chris behind me as if tethered by a six foot invisible rope, and took Ronnie aside.
“I hate that you are fighting over me. I mean, you guys are best friends.” They snorted and looked away. “I mean it. I’d rather never speak to either one of you ever again than have this go on because of me. It’s just stupid.”
I know now that it was a dumb idea, but I offered to go with both of them, sort of like a group date, or something. They were both very much opposed to this, so I ran for my locker, sensing that Chris would follow instead of hanging around and coming to blows with Ronnie.
I managed to avoid them both for the rest of the day, but I had a surprise waiting for me at the end of my optional 7th period class.
Which I will tell you about when I have more time.
Posted by ketchupqueen (Member # 6877) on :
You're doing this on purpose, aren't you?
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
I just think people don't want to slog through individual posts that are overlong. I mean, *I* don't, usually. Posted by beverly (Member # 6246) on :
Um, I am *more* than willing to make an exception in your case, Olivet!
*riveted*
Posted by JannieJ (Member # 8683) on :
quote:Originally posted by Olivet: I just think people don't want to slog through individual posts that are overlong. I mean, *I* don't, usually.
yes, but it isn't really a post, it's like reading a really good book.
Posted by rivka (Member # 4859) on :
Actually, it's a bit more like reading a good fanfic -- with a CLIFFHANGER after every bit, and an irregular posting schedule! Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
Wel, I thank you all for saying such nice things.
I will get right back to it as soon as I take care of some personal business that will make me crazy until at least tomorrow night. So much to do...
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
I had kind of told Ricky T. (the sophomore with trumpeter’s calluses) about my lunchtime nightmare, between sixth and seventh period. Seventh Period was a Spanish class – a lower level one, since my Christian School Spanish hadn’t been transferable – and I believe Ricky was actually in that class with me. In any case, Ricky was beside me when the class left the pod as group.
Pods were separated areas with classrooms off them. Classrooms emptied into the pod, which was connected to the hall, so that no classrooms in A B or C halls emptied directly into the halls. D hall was different, but that doesn’t matter because this was A Hall.
Leaning against the corner of a bank of lockers, across the hall from the pod opening, was Chris Range. I slowed down a bit, but I was basically on him just after I saw him. It was too late duck out of sight. There was nowhere to go. Luckily, my locker had jammed on me three times that day. I turned to my sweet little Ricky, who had fixed it for me once before.
“Ricky, my locker’s doing that thing again. Would you mind helping me fix it?” I made Meaningful Eye Contact as I said it. “I’ll give you a ride home.”
“Sure.” He smiled, getting my drift.
Not that Ricky (who might have been 5’8” when he was twenty and delivering pizza to my Beloved and me) was all that imposing. I wasn’t afraid of Chris hurting me, exactly, but he WAS acting weird and I just wasn’t sure.
“Hey, Chris,” I said as he straightened up and approached me. “I didn’t know you had a seventh period class.”
“I don’t. I was waiting for you.”
*cringe*
“My locker has a problem, and Ricky is going to fix it for me.” I tried to casually explain why Ricky was with me, and that he was going to be with me all the way to my locker and back. My ride always waited outside the A Hall exit, since the others were locked after 6th period. That D Hall locker was a SEVERE pain, since it was on the other side of the campus, but that day I had to go back for some books.
“I could take a look at it,” Chris offered.
“There’s a trick to it,” Ricky said. “I tried to show her-“
“But I just couldn’t get it right. I tried all day. I thought I had it before lunch, but it kept popping open instead of jamming. So I made it jam again.” The top part of the lockers could only be opened by flipping a lever in the bottom part of the locker, which had a lock. Only mine had a mind of it’s own. It either wouldn’t open, or wouldn’t shut. “So, now my English book is trapped in there, and I need it.”
It was a long, awkward walk. Ricky fell in behind us, observing the unspoken high school pecking order, but I felt better knowing he was there.
There really was a trick to un-jamming that thing, and Ricky really could do it. I let Chris try first, out of politeness. He was, after all, a Senior (and probably the tallest guy in school). It would be insulting to make him defer to a guy like Ricky.
Turns out, it was even more insulting to have Ricky fix it after Chris gave it a shot. Oops.
We all walked back to wait on our rides. Chris had a car and offered me a ride, but I told him my mom was already on her way, and would freak if I wasn’t there when she came for me. Which was true.
Ricky gave us some room when we were outside and within sight of all the other kids. He had band, anyway. It gave us a chance to talk, and we did. The gist of it was that I liked Chris, but as a friend. I told him I thought he was on the rebound, and he and Ronnie were going to be at each other’s throats… I really didn’t want to be around either one of them.
Chris smiled and sighed, looking relieved. He said he thought I was right. I was nice to him everyone seemed to be not so nice, and I was safe. He had really just been waiting around to make sure we were cool. I wasn’t sure if he was telling the truth (from the semi-mushy start to the conversation), but I was very happy with what he’d said. I wanted to believe it, so I did.
It was a long talk, and Chris and I were closer after that day. I think that may be why I have hard time thinking of him as ‘Strange Range’. To me he was Chris, and Chris was a good thing to be. Different, yes, but different is sometimes very good. I left the nickname in for context, but I think it said more about everyone else than it did about Chris. Ronnie, for example, was one of his best buddies, and HE used the nickname all the time.
We were friendly after that, hanging out in Art class or lunch or whatever, and he never made cow eyes at me again. The whole thing was sort of embarrassing for both of us, so we just moved on. Years later, I happened to repeatedly use a hairdresser who happened to be his sister-in-law. That is, the younger sister of his wife. She showed me a picture of their baby. I was very happy for him, if somewhat horrified at the idea of people I knew in HS having babies ( I was a Newlywed at the time, 23 or 24).
Meanwhile, I had another offer for the prom. The Amys and Angies were going as group – a big clump of Lit Geek chicks. I loved these girls – they were fun and funny, full of wit and snark and casual geek-chic.
I was sorely tempted, but the prom simply held no appeal in itself. I loved to hang out with those girls, but I would have preferred to do it somewhere fun.
I could have gone if I had wanted, and I considered it right up until the night of the actual dance. They went around asking all the Seniors what they wanted to be in ten years, for the Senior predictions.
I said, “Deliriously happy, for no good reason.” They didn’t use that, natch. I heard second-hand that my peers predicted I would be an artist living in Paris. Heh.
Mine was the one that came true. Well, that may not exactly be true. I was deliriously happy, but I had lots of good reasons. I had met and married a man who loved me and whom I loved more dearly than I had thought possible. We had good jobs and a nice house in the mountains. Robert was born ten years, to the day, after my graduation.
Ronnie had backed off a bit and, silly me, I had thought our relationship was as big a non-issue as my ‘relationship’ with Chris.
Chris tried to tell me otherwise. He brought up the subject as he was giving me a lift home from the Art Class pizza party. There was a plastic skull on his dashboard. “That’s Death,” he said with his characteristic grin/chuckle. “Death is my copilot.”
That didn’t put me at ease. Then, he started talking about Ronnie. “He really likes you, you know.”
“We’ve talked about it,” I said. “I’m not getting serious about anyone. I just want to concentrate on my studies. I’m going away to college and all that.”
He looked at me for a bit longer than I was comfortable with a driver looking away from the road. I was holding Death in my hands, since he’d fallen off the dash when Chris changed gears.
“’Going away to college’? You’re going to Bristol. It’s what? One hour away, tops. I promise you, he’s not thinking what you’re thinking.”
It was true that maybe I hadn’t been clear with Ronnie. He was one of my best friends, and I didn’t want to hurt him. I probably had been leading him on without meaning to, thinking he'd meet someone else. Out of sight, out of mind, right? Bristol would be far enough.
And it was. Almost.
Posted by ketchupqueen (Member # 6877) on :
quote:I was very happy for him, if somewhat horrified at the idea of people I knew in HS having babies ( I was a Newlywed at the time, 23 or 24).
*giggles*
Sorry.
It's just, I will probably still be 22 when the next one is born... Different expectations in different lives, huh?
quote: I was holding Death in my hands, since he’d fallen off the dash when Chris changed gears.
Great line!
But now I absolutely know you're doing this on purpose.
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
Yeah, kq, different expectations. You're a great mom.
quote: Great line!
But now I absolutely know you're doing this on purpose.
Of course I am! But that Death is My Copilot thing really weirded me out at the time. Promise. I never rode anywhere with him again. Posted by El JT de Spang (Member # 7742) on :
I claim all of page four for the Sovereignity of France!
*plants virtual flag*
Posted by ketchupqueen (Member # 6877) on :
quote:But that Death is My Copilot thing really weirded me out at the time. Promise. I never rode anywhere with him again.
Oh, I'm sure! I'd be kinda creeped out, myself! Though I'd probably laugh at the time.
Posted by jeniwren (Member # 2002) on :
*cusses*
I thought for sure it was safe to start reading this thread now. I hate waiting. Patience is a very nice virtue I've no desire to acquire, especially now. I generally try to wait until a series is finished before starting it. Especially if it's really really good. The better it is, the less I want to start it.
I think I'll pretend I haven't read this. It won't work, but I'll try anyway.
If we're just a little over halfway through, how much longer before it's safe to come back to this thread? Any ideas?
(edit: all of which is to say that this is incredibly good reading, and I think I'm disappointed it won't be archived.)
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
Well... I'm going to try to post chunks every day or two. There really isn't much left to tell, though some of it is hard. Takes some time to organize my thoughts in the way I wanted.
(I may reconsider the archive thing, though I like the idea of it fading away. Like a memory. Because that's really what it is. Maybe when I'm done, I won't want to let it go away. *shrug* I'll wait and see.)
Posted by jeniwren (Member # 2002) on :
(I hope you will reconsider the archive thing. I can understand wanting to let a memory fade away, but from this side of the screen, it's a very compelling, memory provoking experience. I remember a lot about HS that I'd forgotten by reading your story. Particularly the boy I dated in my Sr year, who was like Pondscum, very beautiful, but with doe brown eyes. He was (still is ) two years younger than I am. He is now a research scientist studying the nature of pain at U Dub, happily married with a baby daughter.)
I'm looking forward to the next installment.
Posted by digging_holes (Member # 6237) on :
You should publish this or something.
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
Well, thank you. I appreciate the sentiment, but this isn't publishable anywhere but Hatrack, and I know it. I'm cool with it. I just needed to get it out, and I figured if I commited to it here, in public, I'd have to make good. So, here goes.
The end of my Senior year was a whirlwind of activities and banquets and meetings and things. I got half my braces (the back part) taken off a week before school was out, and the other half (the part that showed) on the very last day of school. Missed the Chemistry class party, which hurt the teacher’s feelings. She’d been my cousin Brian’s teacher at the Christian School before it closed, so I think she felt that I should feel a special connection to her. I did, but I wanted those braces off before graduation, dammit. I either got ‘em off on Friday, or I waited until the week after graduation. I was going to camp that week. So screw the Chemistry party.
Spent prom night on the phone with Pondscum, heartbroken over Beth breaking up with him. I was sympathetic, but he deserved it. He hadn’t been very nice to her at all. It’s funny to me how many people treat their boyfriends or girlfriends as a commodity rather than a person. Like it is more important what your friends think of the guy/gal than who they are or how you get along. Arm candy, if you will. I was guilty of it, too. If I hadn’t been afraid of what people would think, I’d have asked Pondscum to my prom, Freshman or not. He’d have gone with me, as just friends. It would have been miserable, everyone would have laughed at me, maybe, but it would have been more honest.
I kept in touch with Pondscum after graduation. He wrote letters to me at college, and I generally answered them. He had a crisis of faith because God didn’t heal Rhonda of her CP, despite all our prayers for her. He decided he was an atheist, in that petulant way some people come to that decision. Like, “I’ll show you, God! I don’t believe in you anymore. Take that!” I didn’t blame him, really. He was hurting. One letter came, signed, “With Love From Above” the next one merely said “Your Friend.” It was sad to see him so tormented.
So,I made a joke of it, because I could never be honest about anything, back then. I sent him a postcard with the opening line, “So, how’s my favorite pre-pubescent atheist?” I totally outed him with that postcard, because his mother read it. Oops. My bad. His father liked me, but his mother didn’t. I suppose I’d be wary of my 15 year old son’s 17 year-old ‘best friend who happens to be a girl’ too. Women are seldom trusting where their children are concerned. That’s not a bad thing, it just is. Last time I saw him he was holding hands with a very overweight bleached blond girl with proto-goth make-up.
I have no idea what ever became of him, but I’m hopeful. No matter how mature we seem, no matter how maturely we think, when we’re that young there are still a lot of paths we don’t even know exist. I gave him one of my smaller paintings. It was an abstract thing with a locked door on a vaguely squashed heart-shape. It was horrible. I called it “My Secret”. It had his name written in it so subliminally even I had to search to find it. He had said he really, really liked that one in particular when he’d seen my collection of color work for my end-of-term art project. So I gave it to him, and I was the better for it. That was the only secret I ever rid myself of while both keeping it and giving it away.
Advanced Art students presented our final projects to the class. Mine was all color drawings and paintings, since most of my best work had been with pencil and charcoal. Color intimidated me, so I had made it my project to produce ten pieces that used color effectively. It was hard for me, and I loved it. My results were only so-so, but as Robert Browning said in Andrea del Sarto (I read it that year in Dr. Pierce’s English class) “Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp, Or what’s a heaven for?”
Rick Mathes’ was mostly paintings, IIRC. He did one that really impressed me. Evidently, it was a scene from Kiss of the Spider Woman, which I didn’t see until years afterward. He worked in the Main Street offices for a while, and even produced one or two of his own fashion designs. He’s not around town anymore, I’m fairly certain. I hope he went far, far away and is happy. I saw him once, at a distance in a crowded Wal-Mart not far from ETSU two days before Christmas. I was visiting family for the holidays. He was with another fella, and didn’t look particularly pleased. But who would be pleased to be in Wal-Mart two days before Christmas? I considered fighting my way through the crowd to say hello, but he was moving fast in the opposite direction. I let him go and wish him well.
Chris’ project was a film. The retired art teacher had a vhs to vhs editing machine that he’d let Chris use. He’d shot it in the woods over several weekends. Basically, a girl went walking in the woods, where she met and talked with a very, very tall woodsman. The Woodsman was evidently very wise, leading her Enlightenment before disappearing mysteriously.
Or so I assume. We didn’t hear any of the dialogue, because in his attempt to give the video a Jethro Tull sound track, he over-wrote the other sound entirely. *shrug* Stuff happens. It was still the product of a lot of work, though I would have liked to know what they were saying. Not because I thought it would actually be a revelation of wisdom, but for the insight it would give me into Chris’ brain. The words a person writes… reveal a lot about them, even when they don’t mean them to. Which is maybe why I find writing so liberating, like walking around naked in my living room. It’s honest and plain –what you see is what there is – even if it isn’t meant to be honest at all. You can’t really hide when you write, and if you try, it only kills the writing. Or so it seems to me.
The real genius of Chris’ film was that he’s stolen the FBI warning from a VHS tape he had at home. We all got a kick out of that. Seeing Chris’ project was the closest I ever came to seeing one of Ronnie’s movies. I don’t recall that Ronnie ever offered to let me see one of his movies, at least not when we were in high school. That miffed me a bit. That and the fact that he never asked me to be in one of them.
Just as well, I suppose, since we all know what happens to most chicks in slasher flicks.
One day as I was going to 7th period, the principle walked up and asked to speak with me. I had never spoken to him directly, though I had of course seen him at the Honor Society dinner and the Top Ten dinner and so forth. Never much cared for the notice of authority figures. Makes me nervous.
“The end-of-year Honors Assembly is tomorrow, you know.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“To keep things within the time we’ve allotted, we don’t want the students to come up on stage to receive their awards.” I nodded. “If you get called up for an award, come to the bottom of the stage and we’ll hand it down to you.”
“Got it,” I said. I think I was still trembling, but getting over being afraid I was in trouble for something. He told me I could go on to class. “Thank you, Sir.”
Somehow, I was still shocked to receive the Art Award. The principal had told me how to accept the award because I was going to get the first one given out, and everyone would do whatever I did. I should have known the things were given out alphabetically by subject, but it didn’t occur to me. I got one other medal, but I don’t remember what it was. Something language arts related, I think. I was a darling of the English departmet, too, though it hardly mattered to me at the time. They gave me a Cross pen for Science League, which I treasured until I loaned it to my (future) husband in college, and he lost it. I suppose I forgive him.
White robes for graduation. No braces on my teeth. Remember the Drama class reference to ‘coming out of my shell’? It wasn’t really a shell – more like a cocoon – and I was nearly out. Still a bit bound down in affected timidity (a hold-over from Christian school’s enforced meekness, I suppose) but on my way. I was third in my graduating class, with two Bs (DriversEd, and Geometry- which I dropped after four weeks but still got a grade for the first six weeks(two weeks worth of missing homework grades). Still bitter over that, just a tad. Isn’t that silly?) which meant I didn’t have to do anything special at the actual graduation. They didn't let students give speeches or anything, like they do some places. Or, you know, in the movies.
A girl named Teresa was Salutorian. She was a Lit Geek and Drama Geek, to boot. Very quiet but super cool. I mentioned her before, when I referred to her as ‘one of the Hermiones’ in Speech and Drama(back when I thought this story would be much shorter). I met up with her again, after our first semester away at college. Remember her.
Ronnie had told me his family was throwing him a graduation pizza party, and he wondered if I could go. Of course I agreed. I was sure it would be a blast, and I’d get to know some of Ronnie’s mysterious ‘other friends’ who helped him with his movies and stuff.
I was six shades of wrong on that one.
[ October 18, 2005, 05:18 PM: Message edited by: Olivet ]
Posted by kojabu (Member # 8042) on :
need more need more nee...
Posted by ketchupqueen (Member # 6877) on :
AAAAAH! More. Soon.
Posted by JannieJ (Member # 8683) on :
AGH I AM CLUTCHING THE MONITOR WITH BOTH HANDS WRITE MORE AT ONCE!
Posted by digging_hoIes (Member # 6963) on :
Is it 50 000 words yet? Posted by breyerchic04 (Member # 6423) on :
Can I bribe you? Do Liam or Robert need hats? What will make you finish this in less than a week?
it really is addictive!
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
Hmm. The Word doc I write it in only has about 21,000 words so far. *headdesk* I had no idea how long it would take to work out my issues. Must be more effed-up than I thought.
Do want to finish it before Thanksgiving. I'm writing other stuff, too and mostly using this as an exercise. No real input from the filter/editor parts of my brain until I post it. Plus, there's the whole taking care of the family thing.
I doubt you can bribe me, but the encouragement helps.
Posted by ketchupqueen (Member # 6877) on :
quote:I doubt you can bribe me,
I don't know. I have a feeling if I caught you really hungry and tired and cooked for you, I could get you to do a lot of things. Posted by digging_hoIes (Member # 6963) on :
They say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, but in my experience it works just as well on women.
Too bad I can't really cook. Though my salsa today turned out pretty good.
Posted by Nell Gwyn (Member # 8291) on :
Oh no! The suspense!!
For a moment I tricked myself into thinking this was the last one. I think it was the graduation bit. I'm simultaneously appalled and relieved that it wasn't the end yet.
Even if you wouldn't want to publish this exact story, you could fictionalize it somehow, and I bet it'd be amazing. You really are a very compelling writer. Posted by breyerchic04 (Member # 6423) on :
oh darn, I guess I'll have to find someone else to bribe with knitted hats, I love knitting kids hats! KQ I'm already starting to think about hats to knit Emma and the baby, but I sort of want them to be matching, even if the baby is a boy, so i'm waiting till you know (or it's born) to decide what exactly to do (don't worry, no pink hats for a boy)
Posted by ketchupqueen (Member # 6877) on :
Jayne hats are gender-neutral. Posted by breyerchic04 (Member # 6423) on :
a jayne hat for a newborn? gah the insanity! I'm about to make one for a male friend (rhaegar the fool actually, the one spinning me in my foobonic album)but I suppose it'd be ok for a baby, I like little cotton hats more.
Posted by ketchupqueen (Member # 6877) on :
I was just teasing. This baby will be born in Spring, Spring here is far too warm for Jayne hats.
Green is my favorite color, though, if we're thinking colors. Posted by breyerchic04 (Member # 6423) on :
hehe, green might work, it'll depend on my mood, inspirations, and possibly the baby's gender.
Posted by ketchupqueen (Member # 6877) on :
Well, I don't like pink. Lavendar is nice, though.
Posted by Boon (Member # 4646) on :
If kq's new baby is a girl, I'm going to send her one of these!
Posted by breyerchic04 (Member # 6423) on :
ok, lavender is great, I love pink, but that's ok, my grandma never made me anything pink until I was 8 because she kept hoping my hair would turn red.
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
I admit it. kq probably could bribe me. She can make an incredible omlette with, like, found objects. Posted by ketchupqueen (Member # 6877) on :
Hmmm, I wonder if I can bribe Boon to not send that outfit. Posted by MidnightBlue (Member # 6146) on :
There's more coming, right?
Posted by ketchupqueen (Member # 6877) on :
Yes, when do we get more?
Posted by breyerchic04 (Member # 6423) on :
You tricked me, I thought this was more!
Posted by ketchupqueen (Member # 6877) on :
I did, too. Let's all get MidnightBlue!!! *gets out pitchforks and torches*
Posted by digging_hoIes (Member # 6963) on :
*prefers tar and feathers*
Posted by ketchupqueen (Member # 6877) on :
*gets some of those out, too*
Posted by breyerchic04 (Member # 6423) on :
Midnight blue isn't invited to live on Jupiter either!
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
There is more, I've just been busy with Liam's birthday party and all that. Sorry. If you must tarr and feather somebody, let it be me. Posted by breyerchic04 (Member # 6423) on :
But we want you to live on Jupiter.
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
Mmmkay. *giggle*
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
At the risk of getting pounded by friendly editors, I'mm going to post this fairly raw. May have some howlers, and I did get a bit maudlin at the end. Not that this is The End, mind you. There is more to come, but this bit is bittersweet for me.
Here goes:
I was all turned around about Ronnie’s graduation party, as I have said. He said he’d come by to pick me up, since it was going to be held at his grandmother’s house in a place called Upper Shell Creek, which is so far up in the mountains that it is nearly North Carolina. Quite a bit closer to Boone, NC than it is to Elizabethton, TN, where we lived (more or less).
His car was huge. He called it a “land yacht”, and the name suited it. It wasn’t just Ronnie who came to pick me up. He wasn’t even driving.
His car was packed with people. He hastily introduced me to everyone as I got in. None of it penetrated, though. I believe his older brother was driving, but there had to be eight people in that car, if you included me. I think there was an aunt and a couple of uncles. The aunt was in the backseat with Bonnie (Ronnie’s mother, if you recall) and Ronnie. I squeezed in between Ronnie and the door. I was probably 15 lbs underweight at the time (or so my doctor kept telling me, all stern looks) but it was still quite close. Ronnie had his arm around me.
He greeted me with a kiss on the mouth. With tongue. While sitting next to his mother. O_O I meeped a bit and withdrew to the few centimeters of personal space I could manage. No one in the car seemed the least bit discomfited by Ronnie trying to suck face with me.
So, I babbled. I talked to everyone. I went on about school stuff that I didn’t even care about. It was a long ride.
Finally, we got there. It was a house way up in a place called Ellis Hollow, his father’s ancestral homestead, at least on this continent. There were folding chairs set up all around, and outdoor tables. Some folks were playing horse shoes. As he led me around to introduce me to his relatives, I realized we were the only two people under the age of twenty in attendance.
He took me into the house to meet his grandmother. She was putting something in the oven, and looked up as we came in. She was small and weathered, but her hair was still salt and pepper, and she seemed to be in the best of health.
When Ronnie introduced me, she said, “What?! This is the girl you told me about? Why, she’s not homely at all! She’s purty!”
Ronnie went absolutely crimson, and I started to laugh. He whispered in my ear, “Don’t believe anything any of these people say.”
“You’d better not mess up with this one, Ronnie,” his grandmother continued, playfully scolding. “Bonnie wants grandkids someday.”
I soon gathered that everyone in Ellis Hollow (or, at least everyone at this party) always spoke with a gleam in their eye and their tongue in their cheek. I was very entertained; I could have bundled them up and taken them home with me. I was sure my mother would love them all.
There was his uncle Henry, who worked as a lineman for the phone company. He often worked with my mother’s cousin, who I only knew by his nickname, Jar Fly. I do NOT know why they called him Jar Fly, but when I found out Uncle Henry worked for the phone company, I had to ask if he knew him.
That started a series of long, extremely funny stories that involved a lot of sharp wit and dangling by the ankles from telephone poles. I was in stitches.
Just as he was about to launch into another story, his wife strolled by.
“Now, Henry! What did I tell you about this girl? She’s a nice girl, and we don’t want to scare her off.”
“Yes, dear,” said Henry, hanging his head in mock shame. “I’ll be good.”
His wife nodded curtly. “What did I tell you to say?”
Henry toed the ground and looked bashfully at her.
“Come on, now, Henry.” She was cooing now, like coaxing a child. “Just like you practiced.”
Uncle Henry took a deep breath and glanced at me. He toed the ground one more time, then said in a very practiced, artificial (and quite theatrical) tone, “Hi. My name is Henry. I am fine. How are you?”
I laughed until my face hurt.
“I tried to tell you,” Ronnie said. “They’re all crazy.”
We ate pizza and tossed horse shoes. We’d listen to Henry’s stories for a while, then his wife would walk by and give him a theatrical look. He’d put on his backward hillbilly persona and say, “Hi. My name is Henry. I am fine. How are you?”
I didn’t want it to end.
But all things do end, eventually, which is sort of what this story is about. It doesn’t matter how they end or when they end, so much as how you live when you are in them and how you remember them when they are over.
At least, that's what I think.
Posted by ketchupqueen (Member # 6877) on :
That sounds like wicked fun. So far. (Dun-duh-DUUUUNH!)
Don't make us wait so long next time. *grumps* Posted by digging_hoIes (Member # 6963) on :
She wants to set a record for longest record, both in words and time, and she doesn't want anyone beating her record anytime soon, or... ever. It's all planned out.
Posted by jeniwren (Member # 2002) on :
Yay, I'm happy! My fingers don't ache so much from hanging on the edge of the cliff, and I am thinking I can make it through the weekend now.
Thanks, Olivet!
Posted by breyerchic04 (Member # 6423) on :
Please Ma'am could I have some more?
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
Things have been busy with Halloween and all that. Haven't written. I didn't really feel bad about it.
Then, I started getting all sleepless and ragged again. Dreaming of bright orange hair and the young woman I was, skin so pale it never bore a freckle. Blue veins running through it.
Wake with a soft curse on my lips, get up and stare into hollow, baggy eyes. Then yesterday I'm driving back from buying new socks for Robert (how do his feet grow so fast?) and I realize REM's Don't Go Back to Rockville is playing on the radio, and my face is cold.
It's cold because it's wet. I've been crying, and I didn't even realize I was sad. Wounds heal, even the old ones, even the self-inflicted ones. But, sometimes they just heal over, and you have to open them up again, maybe even debride them. It hurts more than just dying from infection, but is significantly less permanent.
I'll do it, I tell myself. I'll do it. Open up the ugly, stinking mess that separates what I was born with from what I have chosen to be.
The next bit is funny, really, but I have just recently come to realize there's a lot I don't want to tell that I'll have to, for this to make sense. But I won't have to go there for at least tow more postings, sho where's the rub? I just didn't think it would be this hard.
Next up: Camp and my Birthday party.
Posted by jeniwren (Member # 2002) on :
Olivet, I'm really enjoying this thread and this story, and occurs to me that my enjoyment is vaguely obscene, as it is obviously born out of some pain of yours that I've yet to understand. Taking pleasure in even old pain of someone I like strikes me as wrong.
So if you want to stop, it's okay with me. Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
I can't stop now. I appreciate the thought, though.
It's only really painful when I contemplate quitting. Like one of those pitcher plants where the bee enters and the spines get it so it can't back up?
Do not reverse. Severe tire damage.
I'm actually feeling great as long as I do the writing. I've created a Mystical Misery machine for myself.*sings*Just keep writing, just keep writing...
I'm feeling great. *shrug*
Posted by Rusta-burger (Member # 8753) on :
what is a landmark thread exactly? I've already worked out it's not like when you get to a certain amount of post since Olivets number for this is a bit random, though I thought I'd heard that's what it was a while back so I'm confused.
Posted by Ophelia (Member # 653) on :
It can be a certain number of posts. Or it can be when something happens in your life (wedding, graduation, birthday, death, etc.). Or it can be just whenever you feel like you have something you want to share. There are no real rules when it comes to landmarks. Posted by breyerchic04 (Member # 6423) on :
Olivet's was for 6 or 7 thousand I think, but it's taken her a while. Most it's just when you get to 500, 1k, 2k, 3, and so on, though I don't think anyone has done every single one. There are also people who write them about weddings, graduations, parent's death, stuff like that. They were started by Papa Moose, and now lots of us do them. The catch is they are usually archived in a different section of the forum, so they never go totally away.
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
The first post on this thread was either my 6000 or 7000th post with this screen name. The number of posts listed at the bottom is cumulative.
But, no, it doesn't matter anymore. Posted by breyerchic04 (Member # 6423) on :
Was it 6 or seven though, I don't remember, though I know that you switched to Olivetta about the time I registered, posted under that over a year, then came back to this in July.
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
I think it was seven, but I might be wrong.
Posted by Uprooted (Member # 8353) on :
Well, when you posted your first post or two on this thread I read them and found the story compelling just like everyone else, but for some reason I didn't come back to it until now. There went my whole evening, reading all 4 pages! Olivet, thanks for opening up your memories, heart and mind to us here on Hatrack. I am SO hooked now! You are a wonderful writer.
Posted by dh (Member # 6929) on :
*stares at stunted-growth NaNoWriMo novel*
*grumbles with jealousy at all people with writing talent*
Posted by breyerchic04 (Member # 6423) on :
*sigh, I thought this would be a 10 page update!*
Posted by dh (Member # 6929) on :
Nah, she has to make this last through November and submit it as her 50,000-word novel. Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
So, anyway, I had another half-hearted talk with Ronnie the day after the party. I just flat out said I was going to see other people when the opportunity arose, and so should he. I told him we were too young to commit, and I wasnt going to do it. I have feelings for you, but I dont think they are those kinds of feelings.
In my innocence, I thought that was plenty clear and honest.
Next up on my post-graduation agenda was Camp. The last few years I had gone to a church Camp where my mother had been a counselor. This was the last year I could go as a camper, and I was looking forward to it. My friend Jenny Hirsch was coming in from Texas to stay with me and go to camp.
She and her brother had lived one town over with her mom. Her older brother, Jamie, had been in my class at Christian school. Despite being the most popular guy in class (well, there were only TWO, but still), he had never made fun of me. Ever. In fact, we were buddies. While he made his way through both grades of our split class, breaking hearts and taking names, we became good friends. At least the sort of good friends one can make in a gulag.
I think it was because I always got his jokes. We thought a lot alike. We always guessed each others hints at Charades, and wrote a rather lengthy take-a-turn spoof of Star Wars called The Yoder Papers. When he left Christian school, I was the only one he wrote to. I later heard that his mother had re-married and moved to Texas.
Years passed. My first year at Camp, I sat around waiting for everyone to come from Knoxville. Most of the Campers rode busses from Knoxville, even though the campground was in North Carolina. Where I lived, it just didnt make sense to go to Knoxville first. Anyway, there were only a few of us there before the busses. One was Jenny. She looked very familiar to me, but I couldnt place her. In the course of our conversation, I kept trying to figure out how I knew her. I finally (DUH) asked her her last name. Hirsch.
I didnt know her, but I knew her brother. The resemblance was spooky. Same smile, same laugh, same sense of humor. Her hair was a little darker than her brothers platinum blonde, and she had freckles. Of course, I hadnt seen her brother in a few years. I finally stopped remarking on the resemblance when she told me I was freaking her out.
I can understand not wanting to be in someones shadow.
Anyway, this year we met her at the mall. She had come when school was out and stayed with her brother (who either had not moved to Texas or had moved back as soon as he could). I really didnt know him anymore. He was very tan, but didnt look like the same kid at all. Puberty does monstrous things to some people. Skin was still clear as a babys, hair was still very, very blonde. It was like when Bugs Bunny drinks Dr. Jeckyls potion still recognizable, but somehow brutish. He waggled his tongue and made a playfully rude gesture at his sister as we drove off. I decided he was on drugs.
Jenny and I had a nice little giggle-fest going on, getting ready for camp that night. The phone rang, and it was for me.
It was some guy named Mark B. He was the home health nurse for Bill Andersons autistic little brother.
Remember Bill? Clacked his retainer at me in Geometry? Always wore the same torn John Cougar Mellancamp T-shirt, until after Christmas, when his mother bought him a new one and burned the old one (that is my assumption, anyway)?
He sometimes sat at the same lunch table as I did, but I cannot remember him speaking to me, unless I said something first. He also always wore a sort of hat that I tended to think of as a Panama Jack hat, because the guy on the Panama Jack t-shirts they sold at the beach always wore one. Hed also been in my Anatomy and Physiology class, and Microbiology. The very, very last day of school, I had gone out of my way to speak to him in Micro.
It was a very hard class, only fro the studious or the foolhardy. I hadnt much spoken to anyone except my partner and the class clown (who had a tendency to stick his fingers in acetone and then light them, to much applause). This day was different. We mingled more. I talked to a girl and found out she was going to UT Knoxville. I asked her why UT, meaning what was she going to study. She gave me this blank stare, and popped her eyes.
That was the first time I ever realized that some people really DO go to college just to party.
Anyway, Bill. I walked over to him, trying to think of what to say. He was smart, and, while not really a friend, he seemed to know a lot of the same people as me. Surely we moved in the same circles, why else would he sit with our bunch at lunch? I had to say something.
Bill, theres something Ive wanted to tell you for a very long time, I said. People got quiet, and I got flustered. Why did everyone have to listen? So I said the first thing that came to mind. I really, really hate that hat.
Everyone laughed. He smiled, blushed and said nothing. The girl going to UT Knoxville to major in Partying Down pulled me aside, still laughing. I thought you were going to say something serious!
Maybe I had, too, but this was better, right? Zing! Points on the nerdling who never did me any harm (though his lab partner had slipped their cats intestines around my neck like a necklace, once).
So, Mark B. had called to see if I wanted to talk to Bill. I said I was in the middle of getting ready for camp, though we were pretty much done. There was much passing of the phone around on both ends. Bill talked to me and to Jenny, and Mark talked more to both of us than Bill had probably ever spoken in his life. We gave them the address for the camp, and made them promise to write us. I never got mail at camp, because it was only a week and besides, my mother was with me.
They were as good as their word. Jenny thought they were both terrible dorks. Bill, just on general principle and Mark because he kept mentioning that he drove an Oldsmobile. I never have gotten that whole car thing. A dork in a nice car is still a dork, isnt he?
But I insisted that an Oldsmobile didnt seem like a real brag car anyway, so he must not have meant it that way.
Bills letter had a phrase in French on the back. I think he knew I had taken Spanish, and thought he was safe, but Jenny was in her second year of French. I think it said, Je te vous or something similar. I dont get French. A word can have five million letters and you only pronounce two, so I have probably totally mis-remembered that bit. She said he was saying he liked me, but when I freaked she said she wasnt sure. Im probably wrong so just forget about it.
We wrote them back and thanked them for their letters. It was something to do. After Camp, Jenny stayed a day or so at my house. Mark called and offered to take us out. In his Oldsmobile. Jenny shot me a look (she had these really amazing eyes, like Jenny Gardeners only more blue than green) every single time he said Oldsmobile. We were in stitches, and didnt really want to go anywhere. Poor Bill was forgotten entirely.
It came to light sometime later that Mark had been trying to help Bill get out of his crippling shyness. Hed asked him if there were any girls he liked, then hed looked me up in the school directory and called me for Bill. I was deliberately clueless about Bill, the whole time. Anyway, Bills dad had told him that he would give him $20.00 every time he got the highest grade in the class on an Anatomy or Microbiology test.
So, not only did I break his heart, embarrass him in front of everyone by making fun of his awful hat, but I had also screwed him out of about $160.00 over the course of the two classes. No, I had no idea who had the highest grade on the tests, but Bill or Bills dad knew. The teacher may have announced it or something. It may have been posted on the door. Whatever the case, it never made much of an impression on me.
Oy, poor Bill.
Anyway, eventually Jenny left. My birthday is near the end of June, and I was sick with a nasty head cold. Mark called to wish me a happy a birthday, and found out from my mother that I was sick. So, he showed up at our house with balloons saying Get Well and Happy Birthday and a stuffed turtle wearing running shoes. He called him Flash.
At this point, I was as completely disgusting as anyone with a cold can be, but my mom still let him in to see me. You look fine. This, from my perfect, gorgeous mother.
Mom liked Mark. He was 19 or 20ish, so not terribly older than me. He was a nurse of some sort, though he hadnt been to school quite as long for it as my mother had. I suppose he was the first fella to come around that had a real job. Maybe that was part of it, though I suspect she just wanted me to get out more.
In any case, she let him in my room and didnt leave the door open. That was the first time I had met him in person, though we had talked for hours and hours before, sometimes with Jenny on the other phone, sometimes not.
Before he left, he had braved the germs and kissed me. This is another thing I just dont get, because I have a huge thing about germs. I cannot imagine ever wanting to kiss somebody who, but for the existence of Kleenex, would have a face bathed in snot. Even if the nose isnt running, you know the sound. That special resonance of viscous fluids. When a person speaks, you can hear that their head is full of goo. How is that sexy?
But Mark was all, Mmmmm GooHead. I should have known right then that this would never work out. My 18th Birthday party was planned for the following week. Mom helped me with the guest list and sent the invitations. At least by then my head cold was gone.
Posted by ketchupqueen (Member # 6877) on :
!
You are cruel to us. You give us just enough to string us along, then stop again.
Write more soon!!! (Please. )
Posted by jeniwren (Member # 2002) on :
Yay!! I *almost* posted the withdrawal symptoms I was experiencing because there hadn't been installment in a while. But then I thought that would be a little rude, so I didn't post it.
But I feel better now, having had my fix. Thanks, Olivet!
Posted by zgator (Member # 3833) on :
Maybe he liked you so much that he didn't care that you were full of snot. He just wanted to comfort you.
Or maybe he was just a horny teenage boy that could overlook the snot.
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
Yeah, I know, I know.
But I could NEVER overlook the snot. Still can't. I bring my honey a cool compress, kiss his forehead or his cheek, massage his temples. Over the years I have worked up to a quick, martyrish peck on the lips and managed not to gag at the sound of a blowing nose.
Baby steps, you know.
Posted by ketchupqueen (Member # 6877) on :
Hmm. Usually I won't kiss when one of us is sick, but if we cuddle and it gets past a certain point, I kind of forget about that, even though I'm usually a germ freak...
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
I'm freaky! I'm freaky! I'm freakier than you! I'm freakier than you in every way! [/Futurama paraphrase]
I can't say that I've never forgotten about it, but if he's well enough to snuggle that actively, he's usually not really disgusting any more. Posted by dh (Member # 6929) on :
O_O
That brings totally unwelcome thoughts of various bodily fluids to mind. Please change the subject.
Posted by Uprooted (Member # 8353) on :
*Clamors for more!*
More "Pennies," that is, not more snot stories.
I was actually going to add one of my own, but then I realized that everyone would already be mad enough at me for bumping this post without having a new installment from the author!
Posted by Rakeesh (Member # 2001) on :
Grrr. I doubt Olivet will forget to update this, guys. You blasted thread-posters who aren't Olivet make me think it IS Olivet and thus check the thread only to be disappointed.
*shakes fist*
Posted by seespot (Member # 7388) on :
ditto
Posted by Noemon (Member # 1115) on :
::nods::
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
Sorry, guys. My hard drive crashed, and we have been unable to recover my writing. Most of it was backed up elsewhere. Not Pennies. except in this thread.
I won't have the scratch to buy a new one until the end of the week. I would have been at the library writing more of it today, if I had a computer of my own to do it on.
So, forgive me. I will do my best to re-write the stuff and get something posted asap. For now, the kids are home and need help with homework before dinner.
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
So, I'm in a restaurant with free wireless in the wilds of Appalachia and decided to post the next bit. Sorry it has taken me so long to get back to this. It wasn't at the top of my list of stuff to try to recover or replace after the crash.
Anyway, if anyone still cares, here it is. Thank you for your kindness.
My birthday party was not a well-thought-out affair, though I thought it was at the time.If everyone I invited showed up, there would be five girls and five boys, including Mark and me. Since it was summer, several of my friends were away on vacations or visiting relatives. Beth and Pondscum couldnt make it. I only sent invites to those I knew would be in town. I wanted to keep it small, and I wanted boy/girl symmetry. It was my eighteenth birthday after all, and I fancied myself some species of adult. I invited Julie and Melanie, for whom I invited Jamie (the one from the other prayer club that Melanie liked the one that I had accompanied to his Junior Prom), and Mike, the Football Player (Second String).
I invited Ronnie Ellis and Chris Strange Range, plus Johnnie and Jeanette (the Christian school gals I still hung out with at church (and whom my mom and I had vacationed with, if you recall). Jeanette didnt come, though she gave the impression she was going to be there.
The plan was that we would meet at my house and take everyone to my grandparents house a few miles away. Their house was at the head of a hollow and had a rather park-like expanse of rolling green hills all around it.
Johnnie split before we got that far. I had told her there would be boys there, but I suppose Range and Ronnie were not to her liking, or maybe just the idea of taking my leavings offended her. I dont know. All the party stuff was at my grandparents. She wouldnt even stay for cake.
We waited for a bit at my house. I forget who was late, or maybe we were waiting for Jeanette to show. Anyway, it occurred to me (a bit late, because Im dense that way) that all they boys who showed up had either dated me or tried to date me in the last three months. >_<
I remember the exact moment when this realization hit. When Jamie arrived, he had a gift for me. I opened it immediately, though I dont recall why. I think I opened most of the gifts before we left my house, just to save room when hauling everyone to my grandparents. It was a picture of the two of us at his Junior Prom, and a pencil drawing of my face from that picture. Only then did I remember that he was an art student, too.
A slow, cold feeling spread over me as I realized that two of my other guests had asked me to MY prom. Though I had not gone, it was awkward. Maybe more awkward because I hadnt gone to my own prom.
Ronnie gave me an earring and pendant set, which I still have, and a card with two people about to kiss at sunset on the front. I was careful to hold the envelop over the front of the card as I read it, so he wouldnt be embarrassed. Or so I wouldnt be embarrassed. Or so nobody would be any more embarrassed than was absolutely unpreventable.
That was basically how it went. After I had opened the presents, Mark tried to pull me onto his lap and kiss me in front of everyone. Julie and Melanie smiled and giggled. When we went to the part proper, Johnnie evaporated.
I witnessed and was subjected to several other primate dominance behaviors before the party was over. At one point, Mike lifted me up over his head like a star quarterback after the big game, a show of strength which could not be left unanswered by anyone else. It was like a testosterone-fuelled mosh pit that meandered, amoeba-like, around the lawn. I shrieked and giggled the entire time. When I escaped, mom didnt say anything. She didnt have to, what with that little smirk and raised eyebrows.
Ronnie caught me to myself shortly after, and explained that he intended his card (the one with two open-mouthed people on the front, about to mack) to be a friendship card.
Its okay, Ronnie, I interrupted him. I understand.
God help me, I really, really did.
I begged Julie and Melanie not to leave me alone with all those boys, but they did. At least they took Jamie with them, since they were his ride. A quiet, gentle boy, Jamie had been the least of my worries. Without him, Ronnie and Range became the least aggressive of the bunch. Range because (I think) by this point he didnt think of me as anything more than a friend and Ronnie because he knew there was nothing left to do. They were all very attentive, though. They took turns giving me rides on my grandfathers four wheeler and trying to best each other at insipid tasks, such as spitting watermelon seeds for distance.
Mike the football player lasted the longest, though they all tried to wait out Mark and be the last one to leave. We hauled everyone back to my house, where it became clear that the party was over.
My relationship with Mark lasted two weeks, which was a sort of benchmark for me. He was a bit clingy, and I was going to go to college with no ties to anybody. Plus, he was kind of an agnostic. Funny to think of it now, but my faith in God was so important to me back then that his lack of faith was more than enough to take the shine off the penny.
Faith or no, I knew he wasnt right for me. When he called me while in the process of getting himself drunk at home after our break up, that cinched it. I am not one to be blackmailed by threats of self-destruction. If you want to harm yourself over a girl youve dated for two weeks, you really need a hobby.
Happened to be seated a couple of tables away from him at TGI Fridays several years later. I was with my fianc. Mark saw me but didnt speak to me, though he did talk a bit loud and laugh like he knew I was watching. I vaguely hoped he was happy, and wondered if he still drove an Oldsmobile. I spent the rest of the meal telling Ron about Jenny Hirsch, and our laughs at church camp.
When you leave home for the first time as a young adult, it is something of a paradigm shift, and mine begins in the next installment.
Posted by breyerchic04 (Member # 6423) on :
Yay!!!
Posted by rivka (Member # 4859) on :
How kind of you to wait for my return to continue!
I'm ready for the next part anytime. Posted by whiskysunrise (Member # 6819) on :
I'm so glad that you are writting more. Thanks for sharing it with us.
Posted by JaneX (Member # 2026) on :
Yay! It's back!
~Jane~
Posted by Uprooted (Member # 8353) on :
Thanks for taking the time in the wilds of Appalachia to post this for us!
Posted by Rakeesh (Member # 2001) on :
Hope you're having fun in the wilds Happy New Year! And glad you're returning to this. I was worried you wouldn't, after The Crash. (That'd stop me, I'm pretty sure.)
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
Ive given some thought to where this story needs to go next. There is a lot to tell, and I lot I dont care to tell, truth be told. Im not sure what it says about me, or if I want to say it, but I will be honest, even to the point of possibly putting myself in a worse light than may be strictly true. I will try to make it brief overview.
Before going to college, my roommate wrote me a letter and we met to shop for stuff together, so our room would match. We did it in pink and burgundy ( I still have my burgundy pillow chair and trash can). Emily was nice. We hit it off, I think mostly because we both wanted to so badly. She lived on a farm in Meadowview, Virginia and belonged to an independent church. With doctrine similar to Baptists, shed say.
I also attended a non-denominational church, but I didnt elaborate much. A bit about the Baptism in the Holy Spirit, maybe, with the disclaimer, We dont handle snakes, haha. I soon discovered that the two girls next door were also part of the Charismatic movement as it had been called. Gina Roes had been a lifeguard at Heritage USA. This meant nothing to me, as my church had nothing but the giggle-snorts for the Bakers.
At least, I did.
Emilys New Student Orientation Group had a couple of guys in it who were roommates, named Grady and David. We met at dinner one evening during orientation. There was a speaker, giving advice on how to get along with roommates. He used examples from his own early marriage and was amusing. It was the first I ever heard of people caring which way the toilet paper came off the roll. Me, Id just slap it on the roller and let it be a surprise. But then, I never could remember which side was hot water and which was cold, so that was usually a surprise, too. I think that was because my parents and grandparents homes had been built by our antecedents and differed from the standard in some ways (though they were solid, spacious and nicely appointed, for the most part).
Or maybe I was just criminally unobservant of things that did not interest me.
Back to Grady and David. David was also a holy roller of sorts, as it turned out. So were a couple of guys in my New Student Orientation Group, Rich (Call me Woody) and Scott. We ended up forming a fellowship group, which was nice. Woody got me to dance at the first dance of the year, and I found I liked it. People seemed to think I was good at it, too. Ballet (my only previous dance experience, which I loved), it was not, but I liked movement.
Turns out, Emily kind of liked Grady and Grady kind of liked me. He told David he thought I was cute, and David told him, Yeah, but the Spirit doesnt shine through her the way it does Emily. So Grady thought he could pursue me without stepping on his roommates toes. This was before David found out that I went to a Charismatic church, like his.
I was vaguely aware that some guy with very short, curly hair was often nice to me. Unfortunately, there were three who looked a good bit alike in my Freshman class. I kept confusing them. So, why did that guy save me a place in the lunch line one day, then look at me strangely when I said Hi in passing the next day? OBLIVIOUS, I tell you.
I accidentally locked myself out of our room one day, when I knew Emilys NSOC group would be having their swimming races. I went to the pool, a huge indoor thing, to find her.
It was so loud in there, what with all the cheering and stuff. I tried to get her attention across the pool by yelling and jumping up and own. Grady saw me. I tried to get him to tap Emily (sitting next to him) on the shoulder, but he didnt get it. I walked over and sat next to them, but hey still couldnt understand what I was saying, so I waited until the relay was over. SO LOUD. It was the suck. I have never enjoyed the loud noises in enclosed spaces. Thunder and lightening? Cool. Bagpipes? Also cool, provided I am not enclosed with them. Cant even take sports stadiums any wall at all is too much when it comes to that much noise. Pity my children.
Finally, Emily told me she though Grady liked me, and confessed that she though he was cute, but wasnt mad that he seemed to like me instead of her. She braised my hair and let me borrow her blue jeans jacket for the bonfire that night. Grady sat next to me, but not too close. A girl named Amy squeezed in between us and chatted him up until he monosyllabled her into leaving. Some guys are really good at that. They dont say, Go way but they will grunt and mumble until the girl gets the idea. Amy was either really thick, really determined, or some combination of the two.
He told me she had come on pretty strong, but that she was too dangerous for him. Then, he added that he liked me because I was dangerous. I think he meant a bit of a risk-taker, a bit outgoing, a bit more likely to break the rules than he was, poor sod. But not as all-out loopy and unpredictable as that Amy chick, who had climbed into the window well of their of their dorm room in the middle of the night, and hung out there until the guys whose room also shared the well played a recording of bathroom noises at her until she left. O_O I have no idea why they had a recording of bathroom noises. I may have that story wrong, as it was third hand, but I think that was the gist of it.
So, I told him right off that my Grandmother had made me promise not to get serious with the first little boy you meet and I thought it was a good idea. I was there to learn, so my plan was to date casually and not exclusively. We agreed that we wouldnt be exclusive and that was fine.
Until we actually went out with other people.
A nice Fundy girl (named Rachel or Rebekkah or something like that) had tickets to see Dark of the Moon, and asked him to go. I was SOOOO jealous. I really wanted to see that play. *sigh* I pouted, but only a little.
He told me they were just friends, and all that, and he told me about the play. When I heard the whole bit about raped in church to save her soul from the devil I was glad I hadnt been able to go.
He made a bigger deal of the just friends thing than I really thought the situation warranted, so I joked it off. Okay, then I dont have to do anything drastic.
He sobered. Drastic? Like what?
I dunno. Stand next to her in bright light?
*flinch* God help me, I was such a little bch. He laughed and said I was cruel. This was true, but I think it had more to do with expectations than really wanting to be mean. This is hard to explain, but I need to try.
The context was very different in college. I was so accustomed to not being seen by most people. I had been barely visible in high school, besides the academic stuff. I really bloomed when it was over, so much so that I passed a girl I graduated with in the grocery store six weeks after graduation and she did the most hilarious double-take. You could see it on her face. WTF? How did she get so hot.
My role had always been the sweet, brainy girl-next door, and I had played it well. But for college, I was set to be seen as a pretty, fluffy-brained social butterfly. But with that role came certain expectations overt or implicit. I was beautiful, so I must be catty and conniving, and not terribly bright. I wasnt trying to be those things, but I was aware of the assumptions people made.
I kept the grades a secret. I had this obsessive need to make high marks. I needed that outside validation. Also, I had scholarships to keep, though they only required a 3.0, and Id have had to skip class and drop acid to fall below that. Add to that the fact that I HAD to study to keep my cover as the average but good-looking student (as I imagined it) and it was fairly impossible for me to do badly on the Freshman stuff.
Grady was a King Scholar. Every spring, potential students came to campus to compete for 8 full scholarships. I had decided to apply to King after those scholarships had been awarded, so I hadnt competed. It was a Big Deal. I think Grady sort of enjoyed having a flighty, distracting poof-brained girlfriend, so he could be all Go away, I have to study. The other day, I found a notebook I had in college. On one page, I had drawn a picture and passed it to him while we studied in the library. He wrote all over it. Snatches of Robert Frost, his full name and my full name, written in various styles of script. A lot of dark scribble-throughs, and very clearly in one corner, HALL YOU PAIN I CANT THINK.
Heh. I only just discovered that he also wrote my name with his last name. If Id seen that at the time, Id have dropped him like a flaming potato. This was the guy I told you about before, the one I thought had whispered, I love you to me. Remember that?
I wonder now if our relationship didnt mean more to him than I thought it did. It was just a game, to me. I would not have chosen him if other people didnt say they liked him and that I should go out with him. He was too pent-up. Anyway, if he really cared for me, either he hid it well or I was oblivious. I was always oblivious, but theres also the option that I was right the first time.
Now, I sort of went out with a guy in my art class, too. He was beefier than I usually go for, with soft brown eyes. He said he found me really restful, and we hung out a bit. I was never sure how to respond to guys like that. He couldnt pay his tuition (or else wasnt doing well academically) and he disappeared halfway into the semester. We hung out, but we never went out.
Anyway, the real trouble started when I went out with someone else. The guy who modeled for the drawing class I was in was a funny, smart, geeky Senior, who also took voice. His name was Gary.
I had a voice recital. My mother came with a friend from church, but she left as soon as it was over. The recital had gone over and the cafeteria was no longer serving dinner, and my mom had gone. I was hungry. Gary offered to take me to Waffle House. I had no money, and ordered the cheapest thing I could find.
I was at ease with Gary. He was funny and smart and sharp. I wasnt attracted to him at all, though, which is kind of sad. I could only relax fully around boys I totally didnt want that way. Major mixed signals. Id tease him in art class, smack him on the backside. Anybody would have gotten the idea that I liked him that way, but I didnt.
So, my dating technique was basically to ignore guys I liked and be chummy with those I didnt. *facepalm*
Anyway, Grady was upset. I told him it was just food with a friend. I hadnt kissed him, or even touched him at all. Grady and I still went to the Fall Ball together, and I visited him over the holiday break. But it was strained, because he knew I wasnt kidding when I said I wasnt going to be serious about anybody. Maybe he realized (as I hadnt yet) that I would be serious if the right guy came along. I would not admit the possibility.
In any case, it did not end well.
Posted by El JT de Spang (Member # 7742) on :
I was just thinking two days ago that it's been awhile since an update to this came.
Bout time.
And, re: your dating style, it wasn't that long ago that I learned when a girl tells you she doesn't want to date anyone seriously she is saying she doesn't want to date you seriously.
[editted for criminal overuse of the word "that"]
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
It's probably true, but I was in complete denial that I would ever meet anyone for whom that would be true. I did not think a guy I could be serious about even existed.
I'm planning on finishing this up as quickly as possible. Hopefully before I get a job...
Posted by whiskysunrise (Member # 6819) on :
Yay, it's back. Posted by JennaDean (Member # 8816) on :
Wow, coming in late ... five pages late, and I had to start from the beginning. I just spent a couple hours on just this thread.
That's a good book. Er, landmark. Posted by Shigosei (Member # 3831) on :
You're such a good storyteller, Olivet. Thanks for sharing your life with us.
quote:Originally posted by El JT de Spang: I learned when a girl tells you she doesn't want to date anyone seriously she is saying she doesn't want to date you seriously.
Or she *thinks* she doesn't want to date anyone seriously until the right person comes along. I don't know anybody I want to date right now, but I'm open to the possibility.
Posted by El JT de Spang (Member # 7742) on :
Yeah, even the girl doesn't always know that that's what they mean until they meet someone they do want to date seriously.
Posted by sweetbaboo (Member # 8845) on :
*claps hands happily "Yaaayyyy!"
I love this thread Olivet!
[ January 24, 2006, 12:40 PM: Message edited by: sweetbaboo ]
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
It is gi-normous. Sorry 'bout that. I'm glad you guys enjoy it, though it is kinda hard for me. Now I fear I may rush a little, but I just kind of want it to be over. :/
Thanks for the encouragement! Posted by Rakeesh (Member # 2001) on :
Do whatever you feel like you gotta do. If it's to rush things, or stop entirely, or slow down, whatever. Of course you know what I'm rootin' for, though Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
Ever have cut with a biggish scab on it? One that is healing so well around the edges, where the original cut was shallow, that it itches like a dickens, but you know if you rip it off the inner part will bleed again, maybe scar because of it?
It's like that. You know it's gotta go sooner or later, but when depends entirely on your strength of will.
*hugs* Thanks, big guy. Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
I felt as if I had pulled off the perfect scam. One guy had looked at a pair of my shoes and said, You were a cheerleader, werent you? His tone had been a little smug and dismissive. I had only smiled, triumphant as I answered, Not since 9th grade. They didnt need to know it was in Christian school, back when the school was so small no one was turned away if they could o the cheers. If it had been the usual popularity thing, I wouldnt have had a chance.
I actually enjoyed all the horrible assumptions people made about me, most of the time. Once, a guy named E. Roy was going on and on about how The War Between the States shouldnt be called The Civil War but The War of Northern Aggression." Now, I enjoy a good pointless argument as much as the next person, but he went on for some time, repeating himself obviously parroting something hed heard on NPR.
I like history, dont get me wrong. History is full of stories, details that make it real, exciting. What was it like? Who was there, and how did they deal with it? Those are my favorite questions that history can answer for us, or at least suggest an answer. But, what to call it? Oh, please! Hurt me, beat me, make me write bad checks. Just. Shut. UP.
I asked, politely, if we could talk about something else. E. Roy snarked back, What do you want to talk about? Did you buy something nice at the store? Everyone present laughed, and it caught me off guard.
I grew up with very little money. Recreational shopping was not something I had any experience doing, yet it was assumed that I was the sort of person who would be quite proficient at it. It really threw me. I think I asked why we couldnt talk about the war itself instead of worrying about what to call it. A rose by any other name, and all that.
Then, there was that one time in a coffee shop called The Bonfire. It had these two gas-flame torches outside, and was really an all-night diner that boasted bottomless cups of coffee. Students would gather there, supposedly to study all night on an endless caffeine buzz for $1.50, but mostly they would socialize and b*tch. They called it a bull session for guys and a b*tch session for girls, but they were almost always coed.
I rarely went to the Bonfire, because, dangit, I like sleep. Plus, I would only pull an all-nighter if I really needed a bad grade. I just wasnt built that way. I dont remember why I went there, but I do remember that I was there the night I nearly blew my own cover, if you will.
A fellow with the unlikely name of Bivins Calhoun was on about society and welfare and high taxes and what not. I do not remember, specifically, what made me giggle at him, but he noticed. He asked me what was funny, and I said, That is such a textbook bourgeoisie clich. I was smiling, and I said it lightly, like a poof brain happy to say big word. He wasnt mad. He just smiled back and said, Well, you arent exactly proletariat, are you?
I wasnt far from it, truth be told, but I smiled back. You got me there. Touch. My family wasnt landless, entirely. My father had been in the Army when I was young, so we moved a lot. We did own a place, once, but it was a trailer and we were not there long. My grandparents had homes, and land. But, yeah, my stepdad and mom both sold their labor to make a living. I was there on scholarships, and my mom worked as a nurse to save up enough so that she could pay down my tuition to a level where my work study would cover the costs.
These people thought wearing hand-me-downs made you poor, said hand-me-downs being the burden of the less fortunate. But I had been poor enough top be thrilled when my sister outgrew something. I was even excited when she got new clothes, cause I knew Id get em eventually.
Yeah, I was a big ol Fakey MacFakerson. I was trying hard to be this thing I thought I understood (though I didnt, really) and was constantly surprised that people fell for it.
Things were not all roses with Emily, either. She DID want to pull all-nighters, and claimed she couldnt think to type if I let out hamster roll around in his ball. She even kicked him when I told her Id only have him out for 5 minutes. He needed a bit of exercise.
She punted him far enough out the door that he rolled down the stairs to the first floor. The people in the dorm office couldnt believe that Emily had kicked the hamster. That was one advantage of her homey, farmgirl persona (rounded cheeks and a mischievous gleam in her eye that fairly dripped of sweetness). No one could believe what a b*tch she could be.
She made me go into the hall to spray my hair. I only used a little (one bottle did me more than whole year) and I even got the sweet-smelling Aussie stuff to placate her. Shed slam open the window when I walked back in from the hall to get my books.
It really, REALLY pissed her off when she saw my Western Civ test, the midterm. It was the only class we had together. Dr. Wade was supposed to be the hardest grader of the four proffs who taught Western Civ. I suppose he was, but I LOVED that class. She knew how little I had studied, so when she saw the grade, she popped. I could be the cutie that the boys liked, as long as she could be the good student, I presume.
I dont really know why, but she was miffed at me, ever more so as time passed. I probably did bug her when she tried to study, but it was careless, not malicious. I was giddy with the success of my persona, going to all sorts of social things on campus.
She once asked me if I would do some drawings for somebody or other in her familys Sunday school class. Or maybe it was for a Christmas thing. She asked once and I said I guess I could. She didnt mention it again and I forgot. Rather, I dont think she ever told me when she needed them.
Until, that is, she was about to leave to take them home with her and I didnt have them. I said I was sorry and started trying to throw some sketches together. She was so mad. She yelled about how irresponsible I was, and how she should have known better than to expect me to keep my promises.
I tried to apologize, but she wouldnt hear it and stormed out. This was ten minutes after I said goodbye to my mom and sister, who had come for a visit. After Em left, I ran outside, down to the visitors parking lot. I was hoping to catch them. See, I was eighteen, and right on the edge of that time in my life when a hug from my mother could still make everything better.
They were gone, and whats more, it started to pour the rain just as I got to the stairs that led off the hill. They ran past the chapel. I was crying so hard, I almost ran down Grady who was coming up the stairs.
I was crying, hard. Sobbing, really. I was hurt and angry at what Emily had said. I wanted to talk to my mom and sister, because they would understand. Yes, Id let my friend down, and she had a right to be upset, theyd say. But I was still a good person. I could make it up to her. I cannot tell you how badly I needed to hear that, from someone who knew me well.
Grady led me into the basement of the chapel, where the piano and voice practice rooms were. We sat on the narrow stairs, just inside the door, to wait out the rain.
I told him what had happened. How angry Emily had been, how shed screamed at me and called me a bad name. How angry that made me, that she wouldnt listen to me. How horribly guilty I felt for letting her down, how sorry I was, and how I didnt know if I could make things right between us again.
He gave me some Kleenex and listened. When I finally calmed down, he put an arm around me and asked, What did you do?
I didnt understand. I forgot to do those drawings for Emily.
No, I mean, after she left.
I went running for the parking lot. I was hoping to catch my mom and sister before they left.
A look of honest surprise came over his face. You didnt do anything, or break anything of Emilys?
I blushed with renewed guilt. I picked up her ragdoll and smacked it into her bed really hard a couple times, but I didnt hurt it. I put it back where she left it before I ran here.
That pious mofo laughed at me. Oh, good. I thought youd done something.
O_O
Evidently, with me, the b*tchiness was assumed, absent evidence to the contrary. Everyone, even this guy I had spent more time with than anyone else on campus(with the possible exception of Emily), was evidently convinced that I was Parker Posey.
And it was my own damned fault.
Posted by El JT de Spang (Member # 7742) on :
Just be glad that you didn't do what I did: Pretend to be the person you thought you wanted to be for so long that the pretend version became the reality. Then, of course, you realize that the original you was much nicer, if not as popular. Then do it all over again, but in reverse.
Posted by ketchupqueen (Member # 6877) on :
You know, I didn't find out until I was about 9 or 10 that not everyone wore hand-me-downs? I was just so oblivious. I think that's one reason I got so much crap in elementary school-- I didn't really get why people were sneering at me half the time until much later. (It's sad that elementary school kids sneer at anyone. But I digress.) I knew that some kids had newer-looking clothes than me, but I never really noticed. I figured that everyone was like me-- got some new things for back to school, birthdays, Christmas, and the like, mainly from grandparents with more disposable income, and the rest were thrift-store or hand-me-down clothes. Boy, was I clueless. And by the time I could have learned to play that game, it was too late. So, I decided that I would be proud of wearing thrift store clothes, and became one of those people instead. Still am, in fact-- I love thrift stores, and I wear what I feel pretty or happy in, no matter what everyone else thinks of it. But for a long time, I did that as a defense while secretly longing to be "in the know"-- and have money to do something about it. (Luckily, I've outgrown that part of it. I'm happy with the way I dress. And so is my husband. )
Posted by ketchupqueen (Member # 6877) on :
(Sorry I only commented on, like, one line of two posts. I'm "listening", really. )
Posted by ClaudiaTherese (Member # 923) on :
Olivia, I'm reading. Wonderful writing.
Posted by jeniwren (Member # 2002) on :
I'm reading too. Waiting eagerly for each installment. Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
kq- None of that really changed when I went to college. I had some new clothes for college (partly because of the whole surgery thing and weight loss), but they were standard things. Jeans,sweats, a few tops. Everyone dressed college-student sloppy, not to be confused with real sloppy, but you know.
Another benefit of my peculiar situation was that (after my dad retired and we moved back to the boonies) I had been frequently reviled as "rich" by some of my neighbors. I went to private school, and my non-hand-me-downs came from Sears instead of the Dollar General store.
By college, though... mom was working and I was the only child still at home, which changed the dynamic a bit. She spoiled me a little, because she could. Also, I was very pleasing to spoil because I was truly grateful for everything.
It was basic middle-middle class stuff, unremarkable except mom had an old friend with a store that sold hand made jewelwry, and several friends who would make stuff for us. Why, I don't know. But I had some cool (if inexpensive) bling. The goal was fit just so, to be neither high nor low.
To blend. But it was the late 80s, when torn mesh and bleached jeans were hot. *shrug* It does not take a large budget to achieve the look people had going back then. I got a college sweatshirt (fuchia) wore a white turtleneck and white knit pants, and I was golden. *melts with the pain of fashion flashback*
Posted by rivka (Member # 4859) on :
Yay! More!
(And, I know it was a typo, but I am still giggling about "braised" hair. Does one serve that with a Chianti? )
Posted by ketchupqueen (Member # 6877) on :
I laughed at that too, rivka. That was one of the most fun typos ever.
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
So, one last story to illustrate the beginnings of somewhat sociopathic tendencies. You may think I speak in hyperbole, but Im not sure I do. I began to identify with that cold-hearted image. People would joke about my puffed heart necklace.
Ive heard dont wear your heart on your sleeve but what about around your neck? Shouldnt you be more careful with it than that?
Id slip it inside my shirt and grimace. Its cold.
Just before the end of the first semester of my Freshman year, the theater class put on the Ayn Rand play, The Night of January 16th. My mom was coming to school to see it with me, and nearly everyone else. The day before opening night, I was walking with Grady. It was cold and overcast, but not freezing.
He saw some of the wild kids in front of the students center, and made a comment about how one of the girls was not wearing shoes. But, she was wearing shoeslight tan skimmers.
Now, I am trying hard to reform my know-it-all-ish tendencies, but back then I loved nothing better than proving someone wrong. I told him she was wearing shoes. He disagreed. I suggested we walk closer. He refused. I dragged him a bit closer, so he could see I was right.
This REALLY pissed him off. He excused himself to go do laundry. I called the hall later to ask if he and David wanted to ride over to the theater with my mother and me, and he said no.
He also told me that the guys had been talking about me while they got ready, and E. Roy had said something like, That ones a fury. I liked the sound of that, and laughed. He said it wasnt a compliment, but I couldnt see it any other way. Still cant, really.
People fear what they cant understand, and sometimes fear leads to mockery. I was pleased that they didnt understand me, and a little smug in the knowledge that they never would.
He was truly angry, which amused me. I didnt understand his anger, except on an instinctive level. I think it stemmed from sexual tension, maybe feeling like being proven wrong unmanned him somehow. I had kept my grades mostly to myself, and he knew I didnt study much, so it was easy for him to think of himself as my superior. Sounds horrible, but they tended to take the man being the head of the woman a bit too seriously for my taste.
It hadnt been an argument. I wasnt at all angry, and didnt understand his emotional fixation on whether a girl was wearing shoes or not. My detached puzzlement at his anger only made it worse.
Anyway, we went to the theater one town over and found our seats. David and Grady made their way to theirs seats about the same time as mom and I did. We had a large group of girls from my dorm with us, and Emilys mom, too. Em and I had patched things up, and were getting on quite well.
I later heard that, in the bull session where I had been dubbed a fury, Grady had told David, The best revenge is looking good.
As they took their seats, David looked at me and whispered to Grady, Dude, you lose. I didnt hear about it until much later. As a matter of fact, I had only the vaguest idea that he was upset with me at that point. I only came to understand it later.
The play was a courtroom drama, and the verdict was left to the audience. When it was over, we filed out. Mom and I ended up near Grady and David in the isle.
So, Grady said to my mom. Guilty or not guilty?
Ill never tell, said my mother. Everyone who heard burst out laughing. Ill say this for my mother she knew how to work a room, and she was never at a loss for words. I could have kissed her.
It was snowing at the theater, with a few inches already on the ground, but none had fallen back at school. It was a great night; I loved hanging out with my mom and the girls afterward, the vagaries of boys nothing more than a speedbump in our reality.
Some time later, Grady and I went walking one evening. I think it was after the Fall Ball, our fall semester formal. He was still annoyed with me. To me, he was becoming tiresome.
He was telling me stuff he was not liking about god, I dont even know. I was like, Keep talking, baby, I like to watch your lips move.
I tried to be rational with him, but I think my detachment only made things worse. He was pissed off, and just wouldnt let it go.
That was when I had this flash of insight, I guess. I just wanted him to shut up and kiss me, and suddenly I knew just how to make that happen. I didnt know why it would work, I just knew it would.
I pretended to get angry right back, and I punched him the gut. Not as hard as I could, mind you, but hard enough that he might think my heart had been in it. I could have really hurt him, but I pulled it a little after contact. I was thinking, Look angry, look angry
He grabbed my necklace and pulled. I resisted a little, but let him pull me into a kiss. Then I kissed him back. You know, the whole gradually yielding thing they do in the movies.
It worked. I tried not to smile where he could see me. I was so proud of myself.
Hamlet was my favorite play by Shakespeare, at least at that time. I will quote one of my favorite bits in its entirety, as I believe it is in the public domain.
quote: Hamlet `Tis as easy as lying. Govern these ventages with your fingers thumb, give it breath with your mouth, and it will discourse most eloquent music. Look you, these are the stops.
Guildenstern But these cannot I command to any utterance of harmony. I have not the skill.
Hamlet Why look you now how unworthy a thing you make of me. You would play upon me, you would seem to know my stops, you would pluck out the heart of my mystery, you would sound me from my lowest note to the top of my compass - and there is much music, excellent voice, in this little organ, yet cannot make it speak. `Sblood, do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe? Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play me.
I knew his stops, and I had played him with ease. Let him assert his imaginary dominance, and gotten my way.
It was, of course, the beginning of the end of our relationship. I wanted to end it on my own terms, I suppose. I don't really remember what I was thinking, except that I was a little drunk with the power I had just realized I had.
I use quotes around 'relationship' because he never knew me at all, and I never cared much one way or the other. To be honest, for all I knew, this was how relationships worked. You found someone that others found suitable for you, and you snookered them. It was certainly more fun than risking your heart.
I thought I had a gift. A knack. A natural talent for it. I did, actually.
Though I am not proud of my behavior, I will tell you this: It was awfully hard to stop, once I developed a taste for it.
Posted by beverly (Member # 6246) on :
Man, he was mad at you because you were right and he was wrong? Waah.
Reminds me of Porter's mom. She went to play minigolf on a date. She played excellently and won by quite a bit. The guy took her home without hardly saying two words to her and never asked her out again.
I have no respect for such jack-asses that have to feel superior to the women in their lives.
But I understand you feeling bad about what happened afterward. It still isn't right to manipulate someone, even if they are a dolt.
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
Thanks, bev. That was about the worst part of this story, the hardest to get out. It was hard to be honest about how really evil and cold I acted, underneath it all.
I cant stand it much longer, so Im going to try to make this quick. (No laughing, please ). Sometime before the end of term, Grady and I went driving in search of an ice cream parlor. We got lost, and ended up close to the road that led to my home town, so I tricked him into following it then pretended to be surprised when I realized where we were. It was maybe 9:30 pm, and on a whim we went up to my parents house. I was surprised to find them sound asleep, but I had a key and let us in and gently woke my parents up to meet him.
I showed him my room, which I had decorated myself. It was fairly elegant, I thought, with an antique china tea service on a table by the window (bad idea, I had a cat) and sheer curtains embroidered with the long lines of calla lilies.
My folks were very nice to him, and he was on his best behavior. Afterward he said he thought he understood me better after seeing where I came from. I thought that was funny, but didnt let it show. We left and went downtown, stopping by the historic covered bridge, realizing too late that we had parked next to a car where people were copulating in the back seat. At least, that is how it seemed from the bare feet sticking up.
It was a bit awkward.
When we headed back to school, he said, I want to take you to ____. His home town. It was in Virginia not far from the West Virginia border, directly up the interstate about three hours. There had been less than 20 people in his graduating class from the public high school. The downtown area had one pay phone (that didnt work you could hear but no one could hear you) and the Post Office was a room on one side of the tiny general store. I didnt think places like that were real.
Anyway, he said the interstate ran right through his family farm, so it would be a quick trip. He got permission from David (his roommate, whose car he had borrowed) and we decided to go. I grabbed an oversized purse which I packed lightly and we were off. By then it was nearly eleven, so it could be as late as 2am when we arrived.
He asked me if I felt froggy. I had no idea what he meant. He had to explain the saying, If you feel froggy, jump. We jumped. He told me about places we passed through as we went along.
Wytheville is the county seat of Wythe County. Are you Wythe me? Heh. He was very amusing on this trip, I admit. Sadly, that was as good as it was going to get.
I dont remember exactly when we got there, to a smallish house surrounded by faintly illuminated fields bordered by tall, black pine-shaped smudges. He got to the porch, found the hidden key and froze.
Suddenly, I think this is a bad idea. Lets go back. There was a tremor of laughter in his voice, more nervous than funny.
I sighed. Do you really think theyll freak out?
Uh-huh.
Do you think we can make it back without sleeping? This was honestly a concern. We were very tired. Its up to you.
He turned the key, and left me in the entryway while he woke his mom. She was very gracious to me; I liked her immediately. What was he so afraid of?
She made the bed in his room for me, and brought him some blankets for the couch. I cleaned up, brushed my teeth and went to bed.
The next morning I did my best to look presentable. His father and brothers were there, too. We talked over Sunday Breakfast, after his father read some scripture aloud and said a prayer.
Grady had warned me that they had interesting social structures in that area. It was all about which families were the oldest. His father, he informed me, had married beneath himself according to their cultural whatevertheheckyouwannacallit. They knew the name of the first member of their family to settle the land. I barely knew my own grandparents full names, since most of them had died long before I was born. Oy.
It was alien to me. I was alien to them, but I really tried to be on my best behavior. I didnt know the rules. They asked about my ancestors and the only one I could think of that went back any way at all was the family legend that my great-great-great grandmother was the daughter of The Prophet. (Sometimes they said Tacumsa, but when I first heard the stories it was merely the daughter of a great Shawnee shaman.) I was (and still am) proud of the possibility. I think it has at least a grain of truth.
I think the story was proof of my unsuitability for their son. Not sure if it was racism or that they didnt like being reminded that somebody was here before them. It was so weird to me. I had no idea Anyway, it was okay for one of his brothers to make a joke about having visited the room I slept in sometime in the night (he hadnt) but it was not okay
You know what? I have no idea what there deal was. NOT A CLUE. To this day, it bugs me a little. I was fairly good at figuring people out. But these people were mostly very kind and gracious to my face. Unfailingly polite (when mom or dad were in hearing range, anyway) but I have always felt a bit uneasy about what they said when I wasnt there.
I expressed concern about the people on campus who saw us drive off together, semi-jokingly, and his mother wrote me a note stating that I was at her home from 1:30am until 9am, and that no funny business occurred.
It was sweet and thoughtful, and more than a little creepy.
Gradys mom had shown me photo albums, with labels neatly typed in a typewriter, cut out razor straight and glued in place with no smears. They went all the way up to a picture of him getting in the car to go back to college after fall break, which would have been less than a month before my visit. Three weeks, tops.
I had to get back for a voice recital, so we couldnt stay for church. Grady got a ticket on the way back. I took a picture.
I offered him the picture so his mom could type the neat little label, Gradys first ticket. He declined.
The next semester, a mutual friend happened upon the picture while a bunch of people were hanging out in my dorm room. He also found a candid of him in the middle of yawn, and decided to use them in a prank. I gave him my permission, not thinking that, of course, everyone would assume it was my idea.
He copied them on the library photocopier with notes that read, If you drive like this [yawn] You may end up like this [Grady sitting in a police car]
I guess Im lucky nobody killed me before my 20th birthday.
Over Christmas break he sent me a wee bottle of White Shoulders (the perfume I used to favor at the time). I had been wearing it since my mother gave me a bottle of it that her friend (and my namesake) Olivia had given her. It was 15 years old and had aged nicely. (Mom couldnt wear it because it smelled really bad on her. She didnt find many scents that didnt react to her skin in odd ways.) The new stuff seemed too strong.
In the letter he sent with it, he mentioned that his bed had smelled like me. It had driven him crazy, but he assumed that was my plan. Actually, I had been menstruating on the night of our adventure, and a little paranoid about the blood smell. But, yeah, sure. It was all about him. Why not? *shrug*
He also had postscript: Save the Tape. The packaged had some duct tape on it. He had once mentioned that David was gone, and joked about sneaking me into the room. I had laughed and said, Sure, Ill grab a hat and some duct tape, and well be good to go. I was thinking a hat to hide my hair in and tape to make me less feminine in silhouette, shall we say.
But when he seemed confused about the use of the tape, I balked because I was insecure about being under-endowed. So I said, Oh, I probably dont need it anyway. He assumed I had some kinky sex thing in mind, I think. I have no idea how to even describe how far anything like that was from my mind. Keep the tape indeed.
I Felt bad for not having a gift for him, so I called his mother and asked if I could drive up for a day with a friend to give him his gift. She was amazingly nice about it. Jeanette and I drove up one Saturday after Christmas. I took the wrong exit and ended up trying to call from the broken pay phone. His mother guessed what was going on and gave directions how to get to their farm to what sounded to her like dead air. That was amazingly kind of her.
We made it there. Hung out with his brothers and a friend. We were wearing long blue jean skirts and button down shirts with a brooch at the collar. It seemed way too dressy, once we got there. We watched North by Northwest, one of the best thrillers ever. It was the best thing about the trip. We drove back just after dark.
After school was back in session, they posted the Honor Roll and Deans List on ever public door on campus. Mine was on the Honor Roll, the one denoting students with perfect 4.0 averages. My secret was out.
People actually came up to me, impressed, and said, I had no idea you were smart! Grady said nothing, but was increasingly cold. I was dissatisfied being stuck with him. He wasnt very bright (at least not in interesting, surprising ways). I guess I mean to say that he was dull. He couldnt dance. I mean, hed try, but it was just embarrassing. I think we were only together because people would talk about how cute we were. One chick even asked us to kiss in front of her. O_O
He went home for his grandfathers funeral. I went to a dance on campus that weekend, and danced with friends and other guys who maybe were interested in me, too. If they asked about Grady, I would tell them that we agreed not to be exclusive, which was true. When he came back, he took me to a quiet corner of the library and told me that being with his family he realized that we just had different values. Too different for things to work out well with us.
It was the wisest thing he ever said, even though I dont really understand the reasoning. I am tempted to think he couldnt stand the pressure of going out with a girl who could never miss a social activity and still be 4.0, or maybe the disapproval of his family was too much for him. But he was right.
I would have gone with the flow until I absolutely despised him. It would not have been pretty. The one thing I asked was if we could still be friends. We had the same group of friends, mostly. We ate and hung out with the same people.
He said he didnt think he could, that he had never been able to be friendly with someone he dated after they broke up, but hed try.
He failed. He got quiet whenever I was around. Wouldnt speak at all if I sat down at the same lunch table, or whatever. Naturally, people assumed I had broken up with him and broken his heart in the process. *shrug*
I wasnt too broken up about it, but it was annoying to be suddenly outside your usual group (that wasnt entirely the case, but this is where my connections to the Theater People and Weird Intellectuals began to strengthen). Also, the people closest to me knew the deal, so they were cool.
I dated lots of people much more casually than I had Grady, and it was a blast. I began to make friendships that were a bit more honest, out of necessity. My friend Mouse and I made plans to be roommates the next fall, since Emily was moving to the New Dorm. I met my future husband when he toured the campus as a prospective student.
But this is not his story. It isnt MY story, either. Not really.
Ronnie Ellis was still going to my church. I saw him when I was home, and he made jokes about how I never came to youth group. Bristol wasnt that far away, after all. I didnt have a car, though, at least not on campus. They discouraged Freshmen from having cars because parking was a serious problem.
Over Christmas he took mom and me to play. We exchanged presents. Mom took a picture of us circling each other, sumo style, acting like we were afraid the other wouldnt give up our present if we let them have theirs first. It was a hoot. It was natural and comfortable. In short, everything I was trying so hard to avoid.
One last note about Christmas break. My high school senior English teacher had a little party. He invited a bunch from the class, but only a handful of girls came. The only other one whose name I remember is Theresa, the girl from Speech and Drama. She was the only one who spoke to me much at the party, and it was nice to talk to her.
Midway through the evening, Dr. Pierce announced, Only one of you made it through your first semester with a 4.0 grade average. Any guesses?
I wanted to beat him with a chair. He looked up our grades (at least three different colleges were represented in the group) before inviting us over? Most of the girls went to the local state university, Therese was at a very large, more prestigious place in the Midwest, possibly Northwestern. I had known he taught at the state university sometimes, and my workstudy was under a professor who was a close friend of his, but I was surprised hed gotten hold of Thereses grades.
I was very testy about it. Sulky, even. He acted like hed won a bet or something. He probably had, the evil little man. Therese was the only one who chatted with me after that. She even walked with me to my car, while we talked. She had a bisexual roommate who happened to be called Libby, which was what some folks called me in High School.
There was that comment, and the fact that she had chosen a story about a girl hopelessly in love with her best friend and who eventually kills herself when the friend marries. The angsty lesbian love theme, if you will. I was great at knowing which boys liked boys, but entirely oblivious to girls who liked girls. In retrospect, I realize that most of the girls I got on with well were probably lesbian or bi. I was clueless then, but I think maybe Therese liked me. If Id had a clue, I would have been flattered because she was gorgeous and smart and poised. I also would have been horrified. Heh. And, of course, I could be misreading it entirely; knowing me, its likely.
Ronnie thought it was weird that Dr. Pierce had a party for former students. He said he had dated a few former students. I was surprised (and intrigued) but much too intimidated by him for it to matter. He had told me to read The Death of Arthur by summertime, and give him a report.
Didnt happen. Posted by whiskysunrise (Member # 6819) on :
I love to read this. I know that you are writing it for you, but thanks for letting us see it.
Posted by sweetbaboo (Member # 8845) on :
Hear, hear! Thanks Olivet.
Posted by El JT de Spang (Member # 7742) on :
Still reading.
Posted by ketchupqueen (Member # 6877) on :
*tries not to laugh*
*tries not to laugh*
*laughs*
Sorry, Livvie, it's just the word "quick"...
Posted by Nell Gwyn (Member # 8291) on :
quote:Originally posted by El JT de Spang: Still reading.
Me too. And still enjoying it. Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
The Second semester of my Freshman year never really existed.
I say this because by then I was no longer a Freshman. I went to vote for class officers and such, but I was on the Sophomore list. Too many credits to be a Freshman. That caused me some embarrassment at the end of my second year, when I won the English Departments William Henry King award, presented to a rising Senior who distinguished him/herself with excellence in the English Language. We all thought one of my buddies, Teresa K. would get it. It never entered my mind that I was up for anything at that Honors Convocation. I accepted the award in natty sweats. *shame* Teresa forgave me, but it made me mentally determined to actually graduate with her, so the rising Senior part wouldnt be a lie.
I wasnt a Freshman, technically, but I wasnt a Sophomore either. It was odd, so I never mentioned it unless my name showed up on some list or other where it shouldn't have been.
Strangely, David (remember Gradys roommate?) and I got on just as well as we always had, despite the cold shoulder from other mutual friends. He was a math wiz, but was sort of borderline literate. I helped him study for the core requirements, like the Old and New Testament Survey classes.
We had a list of people we had to know from the Old Testament, and we tried to quiz each other.
Who was Deelee-uh? He asked.
I stared at him blankly.
She cut Sampsons hair.
I am ashamed to say it, but I laughed. Hard. You mean, Delilah?
He turned bright pink. I giggled. I just didnt realize it hurt him so much. I didnt realize that the reason he was still talking to me was because he wanted to date, and being laughed at by a girl you like is the worst the worst sort of invisible injury a young man can endure.
If it makes you feel any better, I suffered for it.
That was the semester I met my match. Both of them, actually, but the one Im talking about was the perfect match of the person I was trying to be. His name was Scott, and he was essentially a sociopath.
He invited me to play computer games in his room during Open Dorm, when the sexes were allowed to mingle in the dorms as long as the doors were open six inches. The RAs called it the Caucasian rule. I did not get the joke.
It didnt go well. His usual material was falling flat, and I spilled coffee (I was NOT a coffee drinker, but I choked it down because he offered) on his keyboard. It was horrible. His roommate laughed and left.
Hes laughing because he knows I would rape him if hed spilled coffee on my computer.
I think I was expected to laugh at that, but I did not.
He was trying to be charming, but I wasnt getting it. I think the things that usually worked on young virgins (his chosen prey) simply did not work on me, like bragging about his car(BMW). To this day I associate BMWs with class A jerks, as unfair as I know that is.
He tried a different tack, by asking me about my favorite books. This worked a little better; at least he had me talking.
I talked a little about the Transcendentalists, since I had a thing for Thoreau, Emerson and Hawthorne at that time. He didn't seem to get that at all, so I moved on my favorite fiction, trying to cloak my love of fantasy in scholarly terms. Yeah, I was a twit to worry about impressing a guy. It backfired spectacularly.
I went on a bit too much about C.S. Lewis and The Chronicles of Narnia, I think. I said Id like to go to Narnia, that I wished it was real. He asked me if I wanted to be an elf or something, and I said, No. Maybe a water sprite. I like the water.
He played up the creative angle by saying he was the first horn in the Spirit of Atlanta Bugle and drum corps. Described the feeling of playing when he was really in the zone, etc. He also mentioned how the director would tell him to go get laid before a performance.
I was horrified that such callous behavior existed in the world. I had certainly never encountered the attitude, but was vaguely aware that it existed from books I'd read and movies I'd seen. Perhaps I was disturbed because it made my studied self-transformation into a heartless man-eater less unique. Not really sure.
The most puzzling thing about it was that he seemed to think this would impress me.
The night wore on and he managed to charm me a bit, make me laugh. The we stopped outside the Lit building as he walked me back to my dorm, and I let him kiss me. The kiss was followed by a very creative and sincerely passionate monologue on his part. Hed never met anyone like me. I was so easy to talk to, to really talk to, and he wished he could just crawl inside me and sleep.
O_O Id never heard it put THAT way before. But that was essentially the end of the evening. He didnt try anything, so I figured maybe it was just awkward phrasing of a more innocent concept. Ha.
Anyway, the coffee kept me up until 3am. I slogged through the next day, sleep-deprived, and by the evening I was convinced I was falling for him.
We hung out a bit, and he asked to take me out to dinner Saturday night. I told him I was going home on Friday and had some stuff to do on Saturday, but I could be back in time to go out. What was I doing Saturday? Let it be a surprise, I said.
See, hed talked about how he liked girls with short hair. I had a perm that was growing out, and had planned to get my hair cut anyway. I had an appointment with my mothers stylist.
At the hair salon, I ran into Mike, the Football Player (Second String). He picked me up and flung me around, and wouldnt let go until I agreed to kiss him on the cheek. Of course he turned his head at the last second, and gave me lip. I acted horrified, but was actually amused and flattered. My mother was openly amused.
He asked me to go out with him, but I said I had to get back to campus.
Shes got a hot date, my mother said through a sly grin.
Youll have more fun if you stay with me, Mike said, laughing.
He was right, Im sure, but I didnt. By the time I got back to school, I was feeling sick to my stomach. Roiling guts do not a pleasant date make. I tried to call Scott on the hall phone of his dorm. No one answered. I tried many times, but no one ever answered. I didnt feel like eating anyway.
I met some friends in the TV lounge of the Students Center. Scott was there, but didnt say much. My buddy Gloria asked about my hair.
I was going to get it cut short, but I decided on just a trim. I really wanted to grow it out, and a short cut would have been too big a setback. I told Gloria about running into Mike, and we had a laugh. Of course, it was mostly for Scotts benefit.
Later, he was playing pool in the game room. I called and asked to speak with him. He got on the line and said, Scotts not here.
I know its you, [rudename]
Sorry, [rudename] is not here. There was background laughter.
I ran into him later and told him he was a coward to act like that without any explanation. Why was he afraid of me? If he didnt want to go out, why not have the courage to say so to my face?
Zing! Direct hit in the Male Pride Zone, score one for Parker! He had to answer me. Not because I'd said it was rude to do what he did, but because I'd called his behavior what it was which was cowardly.
Listen, Ive heard things about you. That youre crazy and you hit guys for no reason.
I smiled, because I knew exactly what had happened. Or close enough that it didnt matter. I promise you, Scott, there is a reason for everything I do. But you couldnt give me the benefit of the doubt. You didnt have the balls to ask.
I saw the doubt cross his face, and shook my head. See you round.
I thought that was it, but it wasnt. One day I was walking to the library, and somebody shouted, Sprite! very, very loudly. I glanced in that direction and Scott and some of his friends laughed.
In the Library, E. Roy came up to me while I was studying. It was rainy outside, and getting dark early. Olivia, Ive heard a rumor that I wanted to ask you about.
Okay, shoot.
Somebody said that you practice transcendental meditation, and that stone in the cross you wear is a focusing crystal that you use to channel a water spirit.
Just then, I kid you not, the lights went off in the library. It was suddenly completely dark. Not sure if that helped or hurt, but it was dramatic.
O_O
No, I said in the direction where E. Roy had been a second before. Thats the craziest thing Ive ever heard.
The Lights came back on.
The cross was a gift from my mom when I placed in a regional art show. The stone in it is plastic. I dont meditate, and I dont think water spirits exist outside fantasy books.
E. Roy smiled. Im so relieved, Olivia. He always said my name like that, even when it was unnecessary like it was then, since we were the only two people in sight.
If you dont mind my asking, who said that about me? Was it Scott _______?
I shouldnt say, but why do you think it was him?
We went out once, and I mentioned I liked reading the Transcendenatlists. You know, Emerson and Thoreau.
E. Roy made a face. His first name was Emerson, and he was at least passingly familiar with his famous namesake. What does that have to do with transcendental meditation?
Nothing, but Mr. kicked-out-of-VMI doesnt know that." Here I rolled my eyes. "Hes saying that stuff because I shot him down.
E. Roy smiled, and in that second I loved him. Now, those of you who have heard the E. Roy stories know what a weirdo-pain-in-the-posterior he was(to me), but he had asked me about a rumor instead of believing it, repeating it, or just staring at me and wondering if it might be true. Thats got to count for something.
I cant confirm who said it, but thanks for telling me the truth.
I sighed. No problem.
I dont know how far the rumors got, or who believed them. It was a small campus, and my situation was such that it was hard for me to go unnoticed. Girls I had never even spoken to hated my guts, and Im sure the why are the pretty ones always crazy meme had some legs. Im pleased to say I dont care about it now, but it was troubling at the time.
Mrs. Radev, my voice teacher, noticed I was down during my lesson that day. She asked. I told her there was a guy that I had kind of liked who had listened to rumors about me and dumped me. Then when he realized I wasnt busted up about not seeing him, he started a few rumors of his own.
Ive told this story before, so Ill make it short, here. She looked me straight in the eyes and leaned in, shaking her finger at me. A love for an unworthy person is like a cancer you must cut it out, if you want to live. The hand became a fist, for emphasis. Tzetzta (she always insisted I call her that) took me to lunch the next day, off campus, and gave me the highlights of her life story. How she had gotten special permission from her government to get two masters degrees, how she had married her engineering professor and how they had escaped to the West. It was amazing.
She was right, though. It only bothered me because I had begun to have feelings for him. The basic truth was the he was unworthy. Not because of anything incidental to him, but because his actions were unworthy.
I later joked to my roommate, I thought I was in love with him, but I took an aspirin, put my feet up and it went away.
And it DID. He tried to lure me back. First, by asking a girl sitting in front of me to dance at one of the dances, while looking right at me. They started dating, and were going to the spring formal together. I later heard that, a week before the dance, he sat down to lunch with her (and a table full of her friends) and said, I dont really love you. I was just using you, but we can still go to the dance if you want.
Fortunately, she had several friends on the baseball team who were anxious to beat the hell out of him. Also, our soccer team had a lot of people from Puerto Rico. That seems apropos of nothing, I know. But he was the Psych professors assistant, which meant he would proctor and grade the psychology 101 tests. He had bragged about how he was going to fail the Puerto Ricans. He also told friends of mine that they failed their tests, when they had not. Oh! He had also alienated all the campus Republicans, who thought him fascist, racist and egocentric.
In short, most of the campus wanted his blood. He left one night, without most of his stuff. His roommate put a note on their door to the effect of Scott doesnt live here anymore. Please dont hurt me.
My friend Brad was upset that Scott had announced Brads Psych grade in front of his whole tennis class, so we went around campus and collected send me more information cards from bulletin boards everywhere. Brad worked in the switchboard office, so he had access to students room numbers, hall phones and home addresses.
I bet his parents wondered why their son was getting brochures about spending a summer working with Benedictine monks, and Peace Corps applications.
I later learned that the original rumor that Scott had heard had come not from Grady (I should have known he wasnt spiteful enough for that) as I had thought, but from David, his roommate. David who was in my fellowship group, and prayed with me on a weekly basis. I just asked him if he knew who had spread rumors about me, and he said, If youre thinking it was me, youre right.
I had not been thinking that at all.
I think youre a mean, evil person, and I hope you get what you deserve.
I asked him what I had done to him, and how I could make amends. I was really sorry for hurting him. I really hadnt meant to do so. It was so funny, to me. After all the sly, manipulative things I had actually done, it was carelessness, not malice, that had caused all the evil chatter. Sort of poetic, in a way. Im soooo much better at hurting people when I dont actually want to do so. Oy.
In any case, Scott was a nice example of how far the anti-empathy I was trying to produce in myself could actually go, and it was ugly. David had shown me that I would probably end up hurting a lot more people than the ones I intended to hurt, if I let my heart grow that hard. It would be careless disregard for everyones feelings, not just those who had hurt me.
After that, I began to pray. Alone in the dark, trembling quietly when no one could see. I prayed for the Lord to take away my heart of stone and give me a heart of flesh. I didn't cry, but...
I believed in the power of prayer; this particular prayer scared the hell out of me.
Posted by breyerchic04 (Member # 6423) on :
still reading.
Posted by sweetbaboo (Member # 8845) on :
quote:I would probably end up hurting a lot more people than the ones I intended to hurt, if I let my heart grow that hard. It would be careless disregard for everyones feelings, not just those who had hurt me.
I really liked this lesson you learned. It's one that I think we all have to learn at some point or in some way.
I enjoy your posts here Olivet. Many times I leave this thread with something to ponder about myself and the way I am living or the way I treat people. Thanks for sharing your experiences.
Posted by Uprooted (Member # 8353) on :
Good stuff, Olivet.
Posted by jeniwren (Member # 2002) on :
quote:After that, I began to pray. Alone in the dark, trembling quietly when no one could see. I prayed for the Lord to take away my heart of stone and give me a heart of flesh. I didn't cry, but...
I believed in the power of prayer; this particular prayer scared the hell out of me.
That's my favorite part of the whole thing, from the very beginning. I may carry that one around with me as a favorite passage of all time, coupled with the three passages I put in my last landmark.
Posted by Swampjedi (Member # 7374) on :
This has to be the most engrossing landmark I've ever read. You've quite a skilled writer, Olivet.
Posted by ketchupqueen (Member # 6877) on :
Very engrossing. As in, MORE!
Also, it may have the record for the longest-running cliffhanger in Hatrack history. Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
Thnak you guys.
Just writing this is a kind of journey for me.
sweetbaboo- I think you're right. I'm glad I learned it when I did, though I doubt I could have articulated it as succinctly at the time. (NO LAUGHING!)
jeniwren... I don't know what to say. Thank you for being so kind.
I'm glad (and a little puzzled) that you guys like it. I appreciate the encouragement.
Ketchup- I don't plan it that way. I just write until it feels like I'm done with a bit and try to end it in a fashion that doesn't sound like a page has been torn in two. This one had my favorite opener so far, though. It was really inspired. *giggle*
Posted by ketchupqueen (Member # 6877) on :
Why would we not like it? It's an interesting story, told well, about someone we like.
*runs away to laugh quietly over "succinctly"* Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
I meant, of course, just the bit she quoted. In my earlier life I probably would have taken a page on just that part.
Yeah, I know I have NaNoWriMo going here (except the 'No' part), but I AM getting to the point a wee bit quicker than I did in my youth. My goal is to finish before I hit menopause.
I ain't gettin' younger. Posted by zgator (Member # 3833) on :
I just went to my 20th reunion. Being there with all my old friends brought back a lot of good memories, but also some regrets of things I had done. I think I've learned from them and at least try not to repeat my mistakes, but...
It's funny, though. I brought up some of them to ask forgiveness and they barely remembered if at all. They had become bigger in my mind than they ever were in reality.
I really enjoy reading this and I'm glad you're doing it.
Posted by beverly (Member # 6246) on :
Olivia, I'm so glad you are doing this, for us and for you. I've loved reading it! And you are going to be so glad when it is finally all down on paper and you have it to reflect on or share with others as you will.
Edit: Gee, I re-read this and it sounds all patronizing. I didn't mean it that way....
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
I will channel mph and take it exactly the way you meant it, sweetheart. Posted by beverly (Member # 6246) on :
Awesome. ^_^
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
It may not seem like it, but I feel very close to the end here. Three-quarters finished, at least.
First, a few details I misrepresented that have been bugging me. Scott did not flee in the night until midway through the following fall semester. He had transferred in that spring, and didnt get the Psych assistant job until the fall. After he dumped the other girl(midway through the spring semester), things were even weirder.
I felt really conflicted about that, because I had considered trying to warn her about him. In the end I did not. I didnt think she would believe me and I didnt want to encourage him. He was always looking at me when he was with her and I was around. I admit I looked back. I was trying to decide if he was being honest with her. Hoping he was. If he wasnt, what could I say? Hi, you dont know me but I think your boyfriend is using you. Possibly to make me jealous. Har-de-har-har.
Anyways, after that he was hanging around me a lot. Showing up at early breakfast on Sunday, walking around in a suit with a Bible in his hand. We talked a little, and he said hed found Jesus.
Now, I was a person of faith and believed in conversion experiences, and knew they were sometimes miraculous. I talked to him mostly out of curiosity. I wanted to know the truth, and God help me, I knew how to get it. Im not sure how much of it was me being consciously calculating, but in the interest of honesty I knew what I was doing, more or less.
He would sit at my table to dinner and talk with me and my friends. Some of them were talking about a class they were taking, where you had to pair up like married couples and list your expectations for marriage, etc. I dont know what all the class involved, as I could not have been less interested if I had tried really hard.
In any case, a friend of mine was talking about a birth movie they had watched, with several baby deliveries. This one girl went on about how beautiful it was, and how she was moved to tears by it.
O_O Well, now. Ive personally given birth to babies at this point in my life, but my attitude toward such films has not changed. Birth is beautiful, if by beautiful you mean powerful. Its one of those things that happen that really change your life. It binds couples or families, and sometimes exposes their weaknesses.
To me, one of the most amazing things about having a childthe birth experience itselfis that it is one time when the natural roles of men and women are somewhat reversed.
Men are bigger, stronger. The best men use their strength to guard and protect those weaker than themselves, build their home or what have you. Women are generally smaller and not as strong, so, generally, we are not as suited to do the heavy lifting, if you will. These are roles that have pretty much endured for ages. Not to say that men are only good for heavy lifting, but that nature has made man and woman different physically. Generally, sexual dimorphism makes us suited to different tasks. (I know a lot is changing in the modern world, but bear with me, please.)
Giving birth is one of those times where the woman has to be the strong one, physically. She has to endure, which is fine most of us are suited to the task.
Meanwhile, the man is essentially helpless. He can give her support, love and encouragement, but he cant do the work. This is what I mean by role reversal. In birthing, the woman does the heavy lifting (and dont kid yourselves, it usually aint easy) and the man tries to ease her burden, and let her know he loves her and appreciates it. He gives what comfort he can.
It is a powerful, humbling experience to bring a life into this world. But beautiful, in the aesthetic sense? Not by a long shot; not ever. Its bloody and usually somewhat dangerous. It is exciting and tense and horrible and wonderful at the same time, but not suitable for picture postcards.
In my opinion, this momentous experience is not enhanced at all by video cameras. Call me what you will.
In any case, he commented that it was really spectacular to witness the birth of a baby. The awed girl asked if hed been there with his mother having a sibling or something, and he smiled and backed off the subject, saying Ive said too much.
He came over to my room during open dorm. I showed him my sketchbook. He doodled a bit - intricate, inter-locking shapes that did not appeal to me. He confessed to me that he had made a habit of targeting and seducing young virgins. He might have been repentant, but my Spidey Sense still placed it in the bragging folder, even though he said it in a context of how he was trying to be a better person. Something about the way said those things
*shrug* I just didnt buy it. Oh, I believed the I made a habit of corrupting young virgins part. Swoop down on a younger girl, then turn on the charm. Say the right things, make her believe. With the pressure of a girls budding sexuality and curiosity to help him, it could not have been much of a challenge. I made the logical leap that he had been present at the birth of his own illegitimate child, or else he wanted us to think so when he mentioned it. I was almost certain I had him figured out, but I wanted to be sure. Not sure why. Morbid curiosity, maybe. Perhaps I was testing my Spidey Sense equipment. Maybe I wanted to believe in his conversion experience as a way to ease my own doubts about the things I had been taught. I wanted to believe that people could change, so I wanted to believe this guy had changed. But I didnt believe it.
In any case, I accepted his invitation to go for a walk. On the golf course. It was dumb, but I was certain I was in control. Truth is, I was, but it was only a feeling that told me I was, just as it was only a feeling that told me he was a big fat liar. I could have been wrong. Objectively, I must acknowledge that is possible I was (and am) mistaken about the whole thing, but I dont really believe that is the case.
We walked a long time, and ended up lounging on the grass. He whispered in my ear that he could have me, if he wanted. I laughed. His statement was ludicrous to me, but I suppose he took the laugh differently.
He was actually pretty cagey about the whole seduction thing. He didnt put his hands anywhere that would get him slapped. He pushed the line and I stopped him, but I didnt leave. In retrospect, I think that gave him the impression that he was actually getting somewhere. I know it was bad of me, but at the time I really didnt understand very well how uncomfortable certain things can be for a guy. I had to be certain in my own mind whether he was still trying to play me; Im not sure why.
If I had been convinced by my intuition that he was sincere, I think I would have given him a second chance.
I made up my mind, though. He was still in the habit of corrupting young virgins; I was just the one that got away. That perverse, power-mad part of me decided that I wouldnt shut him down. I wouldnt make it clear his quest was a lost cause Id just wait and see how long it took the slimy [person] to figure it out for himself.
He finally made his excuses and waddled off in the direction of his dorm. I wasnt completely aware of the subtleties of the game he was playing, but as I watched him walk stiffly away, I knew I had won.
That was it. I had my answer. His confessions were part of the same old game, not part of a new leaf. Even though he had not repeated racist remarks and the like around me recently, he had let a few prejudices about various groups kind of slip through. I just wasnt comfortable around him.
Wenchconners may remember the rambling hot tub story about the guy who asked me for gum and tried to get me to go for a ride in his BMW. That was this guy.
So, it wasnt until the fall that he slipped off in the middle of the night to escape beatings he had brought upon himself by being [donkey] to everyone.
This all happened before my prayer. It was part of what made it clear to me where the path I had begun to follow might lead.
That is as ugly as it got. Turning the tables on that guy, however slight the retribution might seem, was the worst thing I had ever done. I console myself that he was a jerk, and perhaps the fact that he came my way at that time in my life was my good Karma, and his bad. Good for me, because I got to see the kind of person I could become if I kept to the path I had chosen.
I learned from it. I rejected that potential Olivia, and groped in the dark for a better way. A better me. Not sure how THAT turned out, but I guess were all works in progress. At least Im not a sociopath. The really scary part is that, for me, it was a choice I really, truly believe that I could have become something monstrous.
Maybe Im fooling myself, and that was never really a possibility, but if I hadnt honestly believed it was a possibility, I dont think I would have changed the archetype I idolized. I take things to extremes, sometimes. I saw past saucy, man-eating wench right into the heart of amoral monster and decided it wasnt worth the risk.
Sociopaths are supposed to be people who cannot empathize, but I dont think that is necessarily true. I was always hyper-empathetic, growing up. I think my ability understand just what people were thinking and feeling made it easier for me to manipulate them, once I had hardened my heart. I think that would have made me much more dangerous than any Scott Whatsisname (who couldnt fool me because he had no concept of how I saw the world).
That, my dears, is the ugliest, most horrible secret I have to share. Funny, that. Its funny because this story isnt really about me. Its just that you cant understand the story of Ronnie Ellis, the way I experienced it, if you dont understand some things about me.
I think some people go through life looking out only for themselves, concerned only with their own needs or desires and willing to abuse and deceive others to gain their objectives. They are scary because they are often charming and polite for long periods when it suits their objectives. I think we all do a little bit of this when dealing with co-worker or bosses we dont really like, but the extreme is monstrous.
Other people (perhaps those with too much experience with the first type) go through life with a sort of social rabies, expecting everyone to take advantage of them, growling and guarding their interests with self-deceiving moral certitude. Those are the people who will fight for parking spaces and give looks of disdain to anyone who doesnt defer to them. Because they believe they are Good, they have a sense of entitlement and a belief that most people are Evil and out to screw them. (This may be true, but you wonder if it is cause and effect.) I can sympathize with this, too, but its a little harder for me to swallow. I think Im personally a little more willing to accept it when I bring stuff on myself.
This is one of the lessons I learned from Ronnie Ellis: Sometimes people are jerks; you cant help what other people do, but expecting the worst of them only hurts you. Sometimes people love you but are not able to give you what you need; the reverse is also true, but that doesnt change anything.
Because its not about getting what you want, or giving people what they want. Its about accepting who and what you are, and accepting others without regard for personal agenda. I think that is what love is, at least, the kind of love people mean when they say, God is Love or "Love your neighbor."
Next time, Ill tell you about Carolyn Soto and the Worlds Tallest Dwarf.
Posted by beverly (Member # 6246) on :
Wow. Digesting. Not sure what to say. I agree heartily with your insights here.
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
I should probably clarify that, while I think it was once possible for me to become someone as monstrous as I have described, my path has diverged significantly from that one.
Writing this story has helped me see the overall picture of events in my life much better than I ever have before. I tend to get hung up on the details of memory and experience.
They say the Devil is in the details, but I don't think he's the only one.
Anyway, I think our choices make us who we are. Not neccessarily just the big ones, either. The small choices we make every day have a lot bigger cumulative effect than I think we realize.
I don't believe I could choose that path now if I wanted to with all my heart. I'm too different from that relatively unformed, sheltered eighteen-year-old.
It wasn't only my decisions then, my prayers for a softer heart, etc. but the people I have chosen to be with and the overall life I have chosen.
In short, just as memory isn't what it used to be, my potential for serious mischief is also considerably lessened. The less than serious kind, however... Posted by ClaudiaTherese (Member # 923) on :
Oh, Olivia. I just now found Page 6.
Two updates from you.
Wow. (Still reading ...)
Posted by beverly (Member # 6246) on :
quote:I should probably clarify that, while I think it was once possible for me to become someone as monstrous as I have described, my path has diverged significantly from that one.
I thought it was really interesting because I think Porter went through a very similar self-revelation. He used to be fairly amoral in a lot of ways, and at some point he looked at where that path was leading and decided it wasn't where he wanted to go. Posted by ketchupqueen (Member # 6877) on :
I don't think you ever had it in you to become a sociopath. Ever. I'm glad you figured that out, though.
As for birth videos being beautiful, while I'm generally in agreement, I dunno, A Baby Story has some pretty good editors...
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
I think the camera changes the dynamic, though. The men that would ordinarily freak out and say, "Call me when you're done" (I had a doctor tell me about a guy who did that, and he was *dies from the un-shock* not in the family picture for very long) are a lot less likely to do it on camera.
I do agree that the show is interesting, but I think the film in question was a series of up-the-barrel shots of mothers screaming and pushing and babies coming out. *winces*
I think if I'd seen that sort of thing back then, I'd have gelded any man who even [i]tried[//i] to get busy with me.
And, uh, thanks for the non-sociopath vote of confidence. Posted by ketchupqueen (Member # 6877) on :
They showed us one of those in Jr. HS; I think it was intended as birth control...
Posted by pH (Member # 1350) on :
Olivet, we've had this conversation before, but it is SUPREMELY eerie how similar we are.
I've had some things happen that are very, very similar to what you're describing here.
-pH
Posted by zgator (Member # 3833) on :
quote:a series of up-the-barrel shots of mothers screaming and pushing and babies coming out.
If I couldn't visualize it before, I sure can now.
My wife had a c-section, so I ended up at the other end. Not that I wouldn't have been down there, of course.
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
Thanks everyone!
pH, I know! I sometimes feel that way when reading your blog. Not a lot of identical experience overlap, but a lot of the same manner of seeing/relating to/being related to. We're ... similar. *giggles madly*
On with the story... I guess I'm kind of touching on my relationships with a few people. I'm not sure how relevant they are, but they feel relevant. Reading over it, I wonder.
At least I know Carolyn is a character in Ronnie's story, however briefly.
Carolyn Soto was a Senior when I was a Freshman. One night early in the year we had a hall meeting in the dorm office. Im not sure what was going on, but our RA and the Head RA met with our hall in this little room right off the lobby. I it had one chair, but we didnt care because we were hungry and there was Crazy Bread.
This was my first ever experience with crazy bread. *tummy rumble* I ate it whenever I could in college, and it never stuck to my thighs. *rueful sigh*
Carolyn Soto was on my hall, and she was late. One of the Seniors talked about her being weird, somebody asked questions and soon they laid the juicy gossip on us. As a Freshman, Carolyn had left her dirty clothes in the hall bathroom for quite some time. She didnt realize that she had to wash them herself because at home her housekeeper had always done it. She had come to King from the U.S. Virgin Islands, where middle class people on up often had servants, and boarding schools had laundry service.
Someone had had to teach her how to use the coin-operated machines in the basement, and the laundry room became a standard part of the Freshman tour. This had been hanging over her for her whole time at King, whispered about and speculated upon behind her back. This really pissed me off.
You encounter this almost anywhere you go. High School. New work environments. Whatever. Why is it that people who Know How Things Work Around Here are often so smug to the new people? Theyre better than them because they know where the bathrooms are?
My mother had taught me how to do the laundry at home, but there were a lot of things about living on campus that were new to me. Everyone was always nice about helping the Froshies find their classes or whatever, but now I wondered what was being said in private. They had told us that the school had a very fast, efficient grapevine and that if youve been seen walking with the same person three times around the oval, people would congratulate you on your engagement.
Anyway, she showed up and had some crazy bread with us. I could tell she was a little confused about eating it with her hands. I joked with her about it, and we talked a bit. Emily and I took a liking to her. Rumor had it that she never hung out with anybody much, though she had dated a fellow named Wade that graduated the year before. They were not still in touch.
One night shortly after that, Emily remarked to me that she had heard Carolyn had no plans for the weekend. She suggested we knock on her door and drag her over to our room for a party. I was all for it.
When she opened the door, I burst in, sliding past her in my bunny slippers. We forced her into sliding-down-the-hall-in-your-sock-feet races, and generally tried to jolly her up. She was a bit shocked at first, and more than a little wary, but we were persuasive and convincing, mostly because we were entirely sincere. She and Emily both played piano (Carolyn went on to get a Masters in Music, at least I lost touch with her after that), and I set my goal to make her laugh every time I saw her.
I think her personality wore on Emily a little (or maybe it was my personality), and Carolyn and I ended up being buddies while Emily fell out of the picture. I invited her to a weekend lock-in with the youth group at my church, and she agreed.
Ronnie was there, and he had brought Chris Range. It was a hoot. Everyone else pretty much left us alone. They had gotten there early enough to have some fun with the peel and stick nametags. Each had taken a defining characteristic and paired it with something close to its opposite.
Ronnies read, The Worlds Palest Nubian and Chris was The Worlds Tallest Dwarf. We hung out a while, and they made Carolyn The Worlds Shortest Giant. They kept trying to come up with one for me, but each was more offensive than the last.
Worlds Fattest Ethiopian? Chris suggested. Er, Anorexic!
I blanched.
Skinniest
No, thank you.
Ronnie looked dubious, but gave it a go anyway. Smartest Moron?
I think they finally came up with Worlds Prettiest Hag but somehow I never got around to putting it on.
Range, Ronnie and Carolyn discovered a mutual love for Monty Python movies, and amused me for the remainder of the night with their reenactments of various scenes from memory. I was mostly unfamiliar with the material, and thus became the audience.
I laughed until I hurt, and kept laughing. You know youve had a good laugh when youre short of breath, your eyes are watery and the muscles in your cheeks feel like youve been through G-force testing.
It was a great time. I had brought Carolyn partly to get her out a bit and partly as a buffer between Ronnie and me. I had heard that he made jokes about my frequent flyer miles from school to church, because I hadnt been at church as often during the week when I was at school. Though I often got rides for Sunday services, sometimes I just went with people at school to churches that were closer. It was tough to see him.
Carolyn had a good time, but there was no love connection for her, either. It didnt matter, because we got what we needed a chance to be ourselves around people who were real. Yeah, Chris and Ronnie were geeks, but so were we. It may have been the first time I ever saw her get excited about doing something with people in a group like that. She knew they werent privy to the school gossip, and wouldnt harsh on her behind her back, I guess. I suppose I shouldnt presume to speak for her, but that was my impression. I could be wrong.
Not too long after that, I noticed Carolyn on the hall phone with a phonebook on her lap, making several calls to get rates for taxi rides. She didnt drive. I had a drivers license, but no car. Actually, I did have a car that my brother had picked out for me, which I bought with some money from my trust fund. It was junk, and they didnt want Freshman to have cars on campus anyway. There was a tremendous parking problem for commuters.
Anyway, I couldnt offer her a ride. I didnt know where she was trying to go and found it more difficult than you might think to ask her. She was a very private person, and I think we were friends because I didnt push. I let her tell me stuff when she wanted, and I made sure she knew I didnt judge her (which I think was a big a part of her being so private that history she had on campus).
Later that day, I was sitting outside reading, and she came up. I greeted her and we talked a bit, but she seemed like she had something on her mind. Finally, she started to get around to whatever-it-was.
Were friends, right?
Yes. A cold chill ran through me, wondering where this was going. I covered it with a bit of goofing. Of course we are. Duh.
She smiled, but didnt laugh. Can I ask you a personal question?
I put my book down. Of course you can. What is it?
Do you wash your own hair?
(O_O)
I will not look shocked. I will not look surprised. Normal question. Perfectly normal.
Why, yes. Yes I do.
We got into it a bit. Her hair was very coarse, thick and curly. She kept it short, but really had no clue how to get it into the proper shape after washing. She had always had to go the hairdressers a lot, and her mother wasnt paying for it anymore.
I loaned her my shampoo and told her pretty much how I usually did it with caveats that she might find other variations worked best for her, since my hair is fine and straight. For the styling, I suggested a small round brush and a blow-dryer, possibly with a small curling iron is some part of it wouldnt cooperate.
She continued to look great after that, still very well-groomed and pretty. She had this flawless milky skin, straight white teeth and a prominent smile. Her eyes were large and dark, with thick lashes. I doubt she ever had to wear any make up besides a little lip color for a special occasion. It isnt the kind of beauty that shows up in photographs, because in photos you cant really tell about the details of complexion and the like.
Near the end of the school year she came up to me and turned her head, posing her arms like she was a hairspray model.
You did your hair again? It looks good.
I didnt just wash it! I CUT it myself!
I was impressed. I still am. It looked good. All I could say was, Wow.
I was planning to visit my old Spanish teacher from Christian school over the summer. Her mother had become ill, and she went back to Puerto Rico to care for her, and had written asking me to visit. I bought the tickets months in advance, and was excited about it. So I blabbed, because that is what I do.
Carolyn gave me her phone number and address in Saint Thomas, and said I should call her when I got to Puerto Rico and we could plan a visit. The island-hopper flights were cheap. She was about to graduate; the end of the spring semester was a flurry of activity for everyone.
I was in the play, Shenandoah. Just the chorus, mind you. I dated the lead, but he was 26 and finishing school after a stint in the Navy. He made a good go of being as innocent as the majority of us, but I bugged when he got grabby. I had a great time on the show, though.
Once, one of the guys in the chorus (whose starting point was behind me before the curtain went up) got it into his heat to pick me up under the arms while Mrs. Mattice, the director, introduced the play. Shed read us the riot act for being too loud backstage, so I tried not to shriek while he swung my around over his head. Geez, I had fun on that play.
I saw Carolyn that summer, and we stayed in touch off and on for years, though I lost touch about the time she was getting serious about a guy and trying to cope with sharing living space with her weird brother.
I had met Wendell when I went to visit her on Saint Thomas. He came to dinner with his pajamas stuck to him like a six-year-old who doesnt know how to dry himself, and kept a running narrative (of events around him, or his fantasies I dont know, because I stopped trying to listen when I heard my name).
They were each others only friends growing up because they werent allowed to play with kids of mixed blood (or something, I dont know for sure), so when she went to college, he was all alone and became the way he was. I dont know. I hope he was able to integrate into society better in college, but I never heard for certain.
I think Carolyn did just fine. I hope she did. She was pretty, and became really bubbly once she was out of her shell. Her music was beautiful and soothing - - it sort of reminded me of Enya.
She was also the only person to ever beat me at trivial pursuit. At least, the only one I didnt marry.
I met my Beloved that Spring, when he was visiting as a prospective student. He glowed I couldnt take my eyes off him. *sigh*
I hope youll understand that there is much about my relationship with my Beloved that I wont go into here. Its mine, its sacred to me and not something I feel like sharing with a lot of people. (I know that most of you reading and posting here are friends and well-wishers, but it just feels wrong to give some things away.) I will say that he got inside the wall I had built around my heart. Im not sure how he did it, but my love for him and my association with him have saved my life.
Next time, those moments when everything is clear, and a little bit about the life that happens in between. Were very close to the end, my dears.
Posted by ClaudiaTherese (Member # 923) on :
Olivia. I'm so glad you are continuing with this.
*back to reading
Posted by ketchupqueen (Member # 6877) on :
You didn't end on a total cliffhanger! Good for you! Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
Thanks guys. I have another segment to post, but I need to fiddle with it a little and my writing time was eaten up by emergencies today. Bleh. But thank you. Posted by breyerchic04 (Member # 6423) on :
Olivia, I had a night where two friends who had more or less just "met" recited Monty Python for hours, and i was the one who didn't know it. Lovely night.
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
Yeah, that was a total hoot.
Busy weekend for me, so I'm only going to post the next little bit (I have more written, but won't have time to read over it until next week). I feel very close to the end, here. I'm itching to finish. It's like a scab that is almost ready to go, but you know it still might bleed a little. It's a little painful to scratch it off, but satisfying at the same time.
On with it, then.
Times when things are clear. Moments when something clicks in your head or your heart and everything seems simple. Very little of my life made sense in that way when I was younger, but there were times when I was close, during prayer or meditation.
I suppose I called it the Holy Spirit, when I was a practicing Christian. Its kind of indescribable. Like that thing in the Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy series where Douglas Adams describes seeing the universe with a You are here showing how insignificant you are. Only, instead of being scary and making you suicidal or crazy, it makes perfect sense. Its really quite comforting.
I find it to be a place that is more and more reachable as I get older, though its still fairly rare. A drink of cold, cold water on very hot day; a chat with a friend who really understands you those are the things that compare.
I had a moment of clarity like that when I visited the campus at King. I simply knew it was where I should go. I had no word on the scholarships I had applied for, and I would have to turn down a full ride to the local state college that I was offered from my High School. (It was offered to the top students and offered to me only when the four valedictorians and my sweet acquaintance Terese refused.) I had to act on faith, and it worked out.
Not sure why I was meant to be there, other than the obvious. Which brings me to another moment of perfect clarity. The weekend of my Beloveds graduation (he was a year behind me, but also finished his degree in three years) I had been on my own for a year, and had had serious doubts about commitment. I was a child of divorce, you know. I wondered how I could be sure that my Beloved was a better choice than the almost infinite others who were always circling.
Some time ago there was a Last first kiss thread here. I didnt participate, because I kissed several other boys after the first time I kissed my future husband. I had promised my grandmother Id play the field, after all. There was the guy I made out with backstage when I was in the play The Crucible (*shrug* he was cute it was a nervous thing), a few other boys when my future husband and I were still casual, and one guy at a SciFi convention when I was newly engaged and as terrified of the idea of marriage as a child of divorce can be. *facepalm* A SciFi Convention (talk about shooting fish in a barrel) .
I was confused. I was afraid my mother was right and my Beloved would turn out to be like my father. I did not know exactly what she meant by that, but I knew it couldnt be good. My head was spinning, and everything had been over-analyzed to the point that nothing made sense. I almost made the biggest mistake of my life.
Just before Rons graduation, I was sitting with him quietly, not thinking of anything. Suddenly, it seemed to me that the ceiling disappeared and the room was filled with infinite stars. Tiny points of light in an immense velvet darkness. Just like that, I saw where I belonged. It hasnt been any easier a journey than my time at King, but was right. Simply meant to be.
I think we all have a path we are meant to follow. Not that fate or destiny or whatever you want to call it means that it will be easy. Usually, some parts of it seem quite difficult; you just have to trust that what you need will be there when you need it, because this is the Universe and You Are Here. This is where you belong, this is what you have to know, what you have to do.
It was fate that I met the people I did. The [rudeword] hymen-hunter, the people who made assumptions about me, the people who didnt. I met Tsventanka Radev, and she was inspired to mentor me so much more in life than in voice training. I knew I would never be a great singer, and she had to know it, too. But she gave me the best advice I ever had, and showed me, by example, how to live life with passion and take each moment as it comes.
A love for an unworthy person is like a cancer you must cut it out of you want to live.
She told me about her conductor, a good communist, who had pursued her after her husband escaped to the West. She had divorced her husband, and had pretended to be angry and surprised that he had defected, even though they had planned it. Two years passed before the conservatory was performing in Greece, and she escaped. But before she left, she told the conductor the truth, that she still loved her husband and was going to the West to be with him. He could have turned her in, but he did not. He let her escape to the West, to be with her true love.
This, she told me, was a man worthy of her love, though she had not been free to give it.
I have been blessed to have been loved by a worthy man, and to have made a life with him. I would not do it differently.
Next time, Ill tie up some loose ends, and fill in a few gaps that have to be fixed before I can wrap it up. Thank you for your patience.
Posted by Uprooted (Member # 8353) on :
I've had several of those "meant to be there" experiences in my life as well. It is a very powerful and compforting assurance, because there is a peace and security that comes from knowing that no matter how difficult the path may be, it's the right one and leaving it is not an option. More than that--I didn't want to leave it.
Posted by breyerchic04 (Member # 6423) on :
This is still a lovely story and I'm still reading.
Posted by ClaudiaTherese (Member # 923) on :
Olivia, the story is maturing like fine wine. Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
Thank you all for saying such nice stuff and sticking with me. It's such a relief for me to get some of this stuff out.
Uprooted- I've been thinking about this idea a lot lately, and I think this must be true of most people when they follow the path that they are meant to follow. It may be hard, but if it's right, then the hard doesn't matter so much. It gives me an idea that death itself is not so fearsome, being itself a part of the path.
Onward!
Gaps. I was trying not to tell my whole life story, so I left quite a bit out. Lots of people, relationships, interesting stories. I tried only to use the ones that made sense in the context of my relationship with Ronnie Ellis. Those things that shed light on what comes later, or at least on how I experienced it.
So I guess it really is about me after all, since I doubt it would have been the same for anyone else. We are all unique little snowflakes (I know that is a myth, heh) and all that. Snowflakes? Freaks, maybe. Scot-the-jerkwads mother had three kidneys, mine was missing a vertebra... some people can feel and taste things that others cannot. We're all unique little freaks, bundles of strengths and weaknesses, experiences and assumptions.
This thing (story?) is just my way of trying to share how something felt for me.
Now that I am close to the end, I realize there are some things I left out, partly because Ive shared them on Hatrack or other places in the past. Some old timers might remember my spirit of inappropriate laughter story, but I have to tell it again for this to make sense.
I had a hard adolescence. I mean, easy adolescence is an oxymoron, but mine was much harder on the inside than the outside. I felt alienated in Christian school, to a degree I never really expressed here. No one ever really knew when I contemplated suicide, though my mother knew I was having a bad time of it.
During that time, my mother and I were asked to come to a special prayer group. The purpose had something to do with the Shawnee Prophets curse. Our family lore said were descended from him, my great-great-great grandmother supposedly having been his daughter. I have never verified this, so I dont know if it is true. I want to make that clear, because my relatives were fuzzy on the specifics, and I personally doubt it (though there is a definite resemblance in some older photos Shawnee/Southern Iroquois features (broad cheekbones, slanty, hooded eyes) are fairly unique).
In any case, they wanted us to pray with them as a scion of the shaman. I think, looking back, that that was probably only a secondary reason, possibly an outright excuse, but I cannot say for certain. The small group included our pastor and his wife (he was also our optometrist, oddly enough), our family doctor, his wife and the associate pastor and her husband (he was a veterinarian).
When we finished with the prayers on that topic, the group asked to pray for us. Not that unusual, either. They all knew that our family had a history of polycystic kidney disease, and they all believed in divine healing, the laying on of hands and, well, 100+ year-old curses. *shrug*
I was sitting in a wing-backed chair, and everyone prayed for me first. It was the tradition in that circle to touch people when you prayed for them. I had never had a serious problem with the practice, though it was not always super comfortable for me.
No one touched me inappropriately, mind you knees and below, arms shoulders and head were the usual places. Upper back would have been okay, too, but the chair didnt allow that. Most of them were essentially on their knees around the chair where I sat.
It was pretty standard until one of them said something like, Spirit of fear, I bind you in the name of Jesus.
I say something like because my memories of the entire evening are very dim when compared to other things that happened around the same time in my life. This is typical, for me, of highly emotional memories. Emotional distress is like a fog, and over-exposed piece of film. Washed out and vague.
What they were doing was a thing they called deliverance in Charismatic circles. Not a possession/exorcism thing, but the idea that spiritual influences can attack people when they are weakened. You get sad, a spirit of depression can latch onto you. That sort of thing. Frank Perettis first big novel basically fictionalized the concept.
Anyway, they started naming things, binding them in the name of Jesus, commanding them to leave me alone. I was pretty okay with it at first. I figured they were trying to help me. They were grown ups I respected, so I figured they knew a lot I didnt.
Spirit of fear well, okay. I was afraid of a lot of things. What the kids at school would say about me if I wore the wrong thing, afraid to speak up about anything Yeah, I was pretty fearful. It would be good not to be afraid. That was all they were saying, right?
Spirit of depression Okay, sure. I had been depressed. There had been times my life was so miserable Id prayed to die (it passed pretty quickly when I escaped Christian school, but teen angst is an awful thing). Adjusting to my parents divorce and still very resentful of my stepfather (I was a total bitch to him, and he loved me like his own anyway Ill think of him as my true father until the day I die, but it wasnt always that way) it had all been hard. They just wanted me to be happy.
Then one of them said, Spirit of Matricide, I bind you in the name of Jesus! They were all praying out loud, all at once. Sometimes in a form of tongues they called a prayer language (I think it is actually quite similar in function to the nonsense mantras of meditative practice) sometimes not.
Anyway, it got loud, and everyone was binding this mother-killing spirit by the blood of Jesus, and it kind of scared me. Id been depressed. Id been afraid. I had even said I wished I was dead, or that my parents would die, as angry 13 year-olds will sometimes do. But I knew I never really wanted my mother to die. That was just crazy.
Now, I know a lot of you would have jumped to the just crazy conclusion a few paragraphs ago, but this was the environment I was in, the people I had trusted with my life, my health, my sight. My mother was there, too, just praying with them like before, but not with the same conviction. Its really hard to reject a religious community that youve been a part of, with your family, for so long. I didnt do it until years later, and it was very hard, even then.
What I DID do at that moment was laugh. I started giggling. It was crazy. Besides, Ive been known to giggle in surprise, giggle when someone jumps out from behind a tree at me. I even giggled once when part of piano fell on my leg. (It was a smooth transition giggle-tears-crying, and after the pain faded, giggling again. Maybe it was all those loony toons. Piano falling on somebody = funny. I dont know.) Im a nervous laugher, too.
So, I giggled.
Immediately, someone shouted, Spirit of inappropriate laughter. I BIND you in the name of Jesus!
O_O
I am NOT making this up.
By this time, they were pressing me into the chair pretty firmly. It was loud, and I was scared. I wiggled a little, but they only pressed harder and prayed louder, like they thought I was manifesting a demon. I think that is exactly what they thought. It scared me, and I struggled harder.
When I realized I couldnt get away from six adults holding me down in a chair, I stopped fighting. I was crying and doing some praying of my own. I knew they thought they were casting demons out of me. I respected them; I didnt want them to be wrong, because it would call the whole of my beliefs into question.
Therefore, I came to believe that they had cast demons out of me. Or, spiritual influences, which is different than possession, supposedly. Whatever. Seems like some really wack [poop]. I guess it is. It was just really, really hard to make that judgment when you had nothing to compare it to.
At some point, they did the same thing to mom. I dont really remember if it was before or after me. I think they cast a "spirit of lust" out of her, which pisses me off to think about it. My mother was gorgeous. She rarely wore make up or dressed up. She was always modest. But she could go to the grocery store in baggy jeans and a sweatshirt and (I kid you not - - I saw it happen) the guy delivering Sodas with a hand truck would stop and hold the automatic door for her. O_O She didnt need a spiritual influence to turn a mans head, but she was a faithful wife and a modest woman. Spirit of Lust my pasty, dimpled [rudeword].
Must've had a roomful of monkeys working overtime to come up with THAT one. *smirk* Or maybe they were right, and my mother turned heads because of a "demonic influence". You could make the case that I am deceiving myself and they were right all along. I could fictionalize it either way and still fit the facts.
I went around in a daze, wondering if my mother hated me, or thought I was planning to kill her. It was nightmarish. The real world took on a dreamlike quality, and I wondered if I might pick up a demonic influence if I listened to the radio. Its hard to even think about, but it is relevant to what happened later.
That whole experience left its mark on me. After I was away at college I became less and less comfortable coming back to that environment. The Associate Pastor had moved on to other things, and my doctor went to different church, so I only saw him if I was sick. Saw the Associate Pastors husband when my cat needed shots, off and on over the years. I dont hold it against them, but at the time I was very raw.
The pastor left to lead another church one that was larger and apparently more prosperous only to discover that their pastor (who had also left for greener pastures) had left the church a few million dollars in debt. Also, there was some scandal with a woman in the church trying to pursue him. He found out his daughter (who had always tormented me was, in fact, the worst of the lot) had been molested by his father. Last I heard he was back in optometry. His nephew, who always led the worship services, took over the church. He and his wife are true believers, and the church is, as far as I know, doing fine under his more moderate guidance.
But the optometrist was still the pastor until well after I stopped going, sometime in the early 90s.
I took my Beloved to church several times there. He hated it, but didnt dump me. It was kind of a boyfriend litmus test -- see if they could stand my crazy church. Jeanette caught my eye the first time I brought him and gave me a big thumbs up. I dont know why it mattered to me but she was still something like a friend. Ronnie met a few boys I brought from college to visit my churchI remember one in particular, before my Beloved came along.
I dont remember the guys name, but he had a black belt in Tae Kwon-Do. He was short with strawberry blond hair and mustache. It occurred to me (only when mom pointed it out) that he was similar in appearance to both Ronnie Ellis and my stepdad (I called him Papa by then).
One time mom and I swung by to pick up Ronnie Ellis for youth group. He told me about his time at ETSU. He said he kept dating tall, skinny brunettes until he realized he was still trying to date me. I had no idea what to say to that. It was the last time I ever spoke to him in his top floor room with the slanty ceilings. I think I was afraid hed tell me he still loved me if I was alone with him.
So I was never alone with him again.
Mom would run into him in town, and pass me news. He left ETSU and worked at Pizza Inn for a while, saving his money. Mom and Papa tended to hit Pizza Inns Sunday buffet, so she saw him a lot. She always told him what was up with me, and always told me what was up with him. We still had a friendship, but it had to pass through my mother first. It was easier that way.
Eventually, he went to film school in Wilmington, and I didnt see him much after that. There are not many gaps left, but I do want to tell you one more story that will give more context to the religious sea change that most of you know is coming.
quote: I have spoke with the tongue of angels, I have held the hand of a devil. It was warm in the night; I was cold as a stone.
I did a little more than hold the Devils hand, but not much.
Posted by pH (Member # 1350) on :
The spirit of inappropriate laughter almost made me spit tea all over my laptop.
Damn you, spirit of inappropriate laughter! *shakes fist*
-pH
Posted by breyerchic04 (Member # 6423) on :
it's getting there, you realize you have to write the last part in July right, you have to hold it out till then.
Posted by Christy (Member # 4397) on :
While it made me sick to my stomach and gave me the chills. Would have sent me right into my shell to never come out again. Especially from people you respected. Did your mother ever say anything about it? I assume she continued in the church?
Posted by ketchupqueen (Member # 6877) on :
The "Spirit of inappropriate laughter" thing would have made me laugh harder. Which would probably not have been good.
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
pH - Exactly... I not onlyhave one, I'm a carrier.
breyer - So I'll have been at it a year? I don't think I can do that...
Christy, my mom was kind of mum and supportive. I think she felt obligated to not make a stink about it at the time because I was in school there, and she was working there to pay my tuition. But, I think she gave some weight to it... I don't know. She was very active in the church, and I think she weathered the fads pretty unflappably. She was best buddies with the wife of the man who eventually took over (not so long after that) and the former leadership was somewhat out of favor. I think they blamed it mostly on the Associate Pastor, since she was the one who brought the concept to the church. She didn't last long and things blew over. I never heard my mother badmouth people. If she was upset or had nothing good say, she would be quiet.
She was seldom quiet, but after that night, she was playing things close, I guess.
I should probably point out that the focus wasn't on the idea that we were bad, it was just seen as a way to be free from our fears or whatever. As a thought exercise, I can see how it could be beneficial, symbolic of spiritual changes. But, "Spirit of Inappropriate Laughter" came straight out of somebody's nether regoins.
kq - I might have, too. Maybe I did, at first, I don't recall. But they got louder and more forceful with me, and dang if that didn't kill the funny.
quote: Church Nazis: We Kill The Funny, DEAD.
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
The Devil. Capital D + evil. That is the name we gave a guy who was briefly at my old church. I think his given name was David, which seems to be the name of at least 30% of men my age. I have also known a disproportionate number of Scot(t)s, but when in doubt, go with David.
This was during my last year at college, during the Holidays I believe. I was home for Thanksgiving, or Fall Break, and went to a Youth Group meeting at my church. It was kind of a prayer meeting, and when they got down to the praying for everybody bit, I slunk out of the sanctuary. There were a lot of people there that were new. Most of my friends were married or attending elsewhere by then. Jeanettes younger sister Jennifer was there. I had always gotten on well with her. One summer we had done several skits together at various youth functions.
I was uncomfortable having them pray for me (note to self: I keep misspelling pray as prey and it seems oddly appropriate), but I wasnt sure why. I think now it was because I didnt want them touching me, but at the time I refused to acknowledge that particular quirk of mine. It just wasnt normal to be so stand-offish in that context people would assume I was troubled or something. Maybe try to cast a demon of Unsnuggleness out of me.
I think that was it, partly, but mostly it was because I was no longer comfortable with the church, its beliefs or its people. Many reasons for that, but the biggest was this: I was in love with a man who simply would not fit into this religious box with me. I hadnt liked the box all that well for some time, but it is really hard to leave what you know, I guess.
Some time that year (before my mission trip to Brazil, I think, but possibly after) My Beloved and I had been together, just sort of quietly thinking. Out of nowhere I had muttered (half to myself and half to him), Are you my husband?
I know this is a bizarre thing to say and the tense doesnt seem right, but that was exactly the right way to say it. He blinked once, smiled and said that he was. Then he asked, Will you marry me?
Sure. Next Tuesday good for you? I made it a joke, you see. Deep down I think I knew the truth of it, but it scared me. It became kind of a running gag between us. He would send me cards or letters, leave me little notes about whatever, all with the closing Will you marry me?
I taped a few of the prettier cards to my door next to the message board. People would read them and gasp, Youre engaged?!? And I would always laugh and say, Thats just the way he signs everything.
OBLIVIOUS. Deliberately oblivious.
He was so absurdly perfect for me. He was kind and thoughtful, eager to please me and incapable, it seemed, to pressure me to do anything. Eventually I realized that I wanted to make him happy, too. I loved him, and it scared me. So I tried to weasel out of it. I tried to make an issue of religion. He bent like a reed; he wouldnt fight me. Hed just respond with cool reason and get me to examine possibilities I had not considered.
My mother saw that he was smart, and feared that he was manipulative (the words, like your father always slipped into the comparisons). Papa just smiled and said, Shes not gonna get rid of that one so easy. Heh.
I just want to pause here to say that my stepdad (Papa) is the wisest most loving father I could have had. He loved me, even when I corrected his grammar and made fun of his manners -- he wouldnt even let my mother punish me for it. He just loved me, and I came around. Its because of him that I was able to recognize a good man when I found one (though it was a near thing). I am truly to have a man like my papa in my life. The voice of reason and practicality, tempered with love.
So, there I was, hiding from the youth groups prayers, thinking about the meaning of life, and terrified by the idea that it was either more complex or far simpler than my religious education had led me to believe.
The youth group had gone weird. The youth leader had moved away and the church had made David the Devil and his best friend Associate Youth Ministers, even though they were teens themselves (my age at the time, 19-20). Attendance was up, because girls thought they were cute (especially the Devil, with his long blonde hair and big brown eyes). He sort of looked like John Malkovitch in Dangerous Liaisons, if Valmont had been a blonde.
His best friend, whose name entirely escapes me, had more of a Richard Simmons feel to him. His hair was longer and curlier, he was taller and thinner, too. There was quite a bit of that vibe, though. The kind of guy that you just want to shake and say, Freakin admit youre gay, and get on with it! But I would not have articulated it that way at the time.
The Devil found me sitting in the kitchenette just off the back of the sanctuary, and asked me what was wrong. I said that I just wanted to be alone, to pray by myself for a while. That was what I was doing, more or less. My prayers were more like desperate pleas for guidance.
We talked a bit, and I admitted I was not comfortable with the youth group any more. No sense in lying. He was pleasant and friendly enough, but I was not comfortable seeking spiritual guidance from some guy my own age, whom I had just met. My mom had talked him up quite a bit, but I was leery.
Skip ahead to Christmas Break. The Youth Group went caroling at nursing homes, then to a Christmas party at the Devils house. His younger brother was also in the group, not that he enters into the story at all. Their father wasnt home, and everyone went to the basement to play Nintendo and gorge on snack foods and sodas. We had all met at the church and gone on the rounds in a couple of cars, so I was stranded until it was over. The combination of so much sugar, starch and video games was making me queasy. I felt so old for that youth group stuff. My contemporaries were essentially gone.
I asked if I could use their phone and slinked off upstairs to find it. Mom didnt mind me being late, she said. Plus, she didnt know the way to his house and couldnt pick me up. Just relax and have fun. *sigh*
I sat on a little love seat and held my head in my hands. I felt sick and tired and out of place. We were supposed to keep the party in the basement so the house wouldnt be wrecked, but I wasnt wrecking anything; I was having a sugar-low breakdown. I hoped it would pass if I could stay still and quiet.
Of course, the Devil found me. We talked a bit, and he somehow managed to turn what I said about my crisis of faith into guilt about having a non-believer for a boyfriend. Was that what I said? My head felt like it was stuffed with cotton.
We prayed together, hands touching. I started to cry, and he comforted me with a hug. But he didnt let go. I pushed away a little, and looked up at him. I was dizzy.
I dont know if many of you are as sensitive to blood sugar crap as I am ( Im not that sensitive now, but back then I was between 57 and 58 and weighed around 115 lbs). I didnt really see what was going on, at the time. Even now, its a bit muddled.
I was emotional, yes, and the boohoos had a slight physiological component, Im sure. But the big deal was that I was going through a very typical young adult thing, where youre trying to reconcile what you grew up with what youve grown into. I think so, anyway.
So, yeah. I know you already know what happened. He kissed me, and I kissed him back. I was just *lost.* I imagine if you hit someone hard enough in the head and then kissed them, theyd be about as addled as I was.
The party wound down and the Devil took me back to my car at the church. He had to go in for something (he had a key) and I needed the restroom so I went in, too. I dont remember why, but I called My Beloved on my calling card from the church phone. I tried to tell him what had happened, but mostly he guessed, I think. I wasnt super articulate. I was confused, but I promised I wouldnt let him kiss me again that night.
I drove home and cried myself to sleep.
The funny thing is, that it is all so ridiculously clear to me now. I was upset and hurting, and had been somewhat taken advantage of by somebody who should have had my spiritual best interests at heart. At the time I was caught up in questions of right and wrong and guilt and so forth, but clearly he was in the wrong to have kissed me. I probably should have slapped him and ratted him out, but it was quite murky at the time.
We saw each other a few times over that break. I went with him to a nursing home to visit his grandmother with Alzheimers, the youth group went to some concert or other as a group.
We had talked a lot about matters spiritual and our own testimonies before the Christmas Party Incident. He had told me that his mother had molested him on the day she left the family, when he was thirteen or so. He had told me about how his best friend had been afflicted with a spirit of homosexuality, and how he had been delivered after saying something along the lines of If you love me, David, the why wont you [rudeword] me. (Side note: the best friend ended up marrying Jennifer, but they split up after he kept bringing in young boys off the street, calling it Gods work. I dont know the details, but Im angry that misguided religious beliefs put my friend in such an unpleasant marriage. I heard all this second hand from mom, who didnt know the guy had ever been afflicted with a spirit of homosexuality, but I connected the dots. I admit I could be wrong.)
It was also raw and open, discussing those things in a context of spiritual meaning, that I had begun to trust him before the kiss. I admit that. I also admit that he was kinda hot, so Im not saying I was as clean as the driven snow.
I talked with Jennifer and asked if he had ever gone out with other girls in the youth group. She said he hadnt, though many had tried. *shrug* I had been disinterested, so maybe that was it. I dont know. Jennifer seemed shocked when I told her, and it DID undermine him as a youth leader.
He loaned me a Frank Peretti book because I had said I wanted to be a writer. He said we needed more good Christian writers, like Frank Perreti. I made it less than a hundred pages into the thing, and was very disappointed. I told him so, which took the shine off the apple a bit. Later, he put his hand on my chest over the clothes; he didnt move or anything just kind of cupped me. I stared at him. What are you doing? I should have known better than to be alone with him, but I think that was after we visited his grandmother. It took me by surprise. *sigh* At least I was dressed in layers.
He said, Dont you like it?
That is not the point. I stared him down until he removed his hand in shame. *giggles* I admit it was kind of a power trip for me to make him take his hand away instead of me pushing him off. I had the impression that he thought he could try stuff with me because I had a worldly boyfriend. I wanted him to be embarrassed, and I was a little afraid Id end up beating the mother-@#2# if I touched him at all.
He gave me a cd for my birthday, which I returned for store credit, unopened. My Beloved gave me a new stereo. Nyah. (Allow me my pettiness, childrenI so seldom feel the right to be catty, yet I am unrepentant of the preceding paragraph.)
Long story short, that was pretty much it for me and that church. The Devil stayed on, but I dont really know how long. Mom ran into him some years later; he was engaged and going to another church. My Beloved and I were married over a year by then, and living in Chicago (land ).
That had not been the only time someone in that church had shown a willingness to blur the line between friendly, spiritual touches and the less spiritual kind. There was a father of one of my friends in the youth group who would kiss me on the neck instead of the cheek, and put his hands inside my coat when he hugged me after church. *shudder* My mom finally asked why I didnt put on my coat until we were outside, and I told her. She helped me run interference.
I later learned that the guy was volunteering at the Girls Group Home (the new youth ministers, a husband and wife, ran it at the time), and I got the woman to herself and told her about what he had done to me. She said she was sure he was free of those spiritual influences, if hed ever had them in the first place. I was fallen, see, because I didnt go to church anymore; my word was suspect.
I told her that I only told her to clear my conscience; if anything happened, it wouldnt be my fault for keeping quiet. I have no idea whether anything happened or not.
The whole church was kind of exasperated with the guy. He would speak in tongues during the service, and do other stuff under the influence of the spirit that made folks roll their eyes. People talked to him about it, because no one bought that his little shenanigans were of God. Eventually they went somewhere else, but I was long gone by then.
Not that the church was bad. It was really full of good, earnest people. Most of them just wanted to know God and to do the right thing. But every church has its slimebags, or its people who are so proud of their righteousness that you want to slap them in the head with a week-old perch. But I digress.
Church was a big part of my life. When I was in high school, I was asked to help prepare and serve communion because they saw me as pure and devout. I was. It was painful to leave that behind, but my path took me in a different direction.
You could make a case that they were right about spiritual influences; I think it is close to the truth, a way of distilling basic human truths into spiritual language of that particular section of Christianity. But some of it is, quite obviously, utter crap.
Ronnie Ellis was in film school, and the youth group was just plain Not For Me anymore. When I finally made the decision to leave those beliefs behind me (I had left the people and the church behind me quite some time before that) it was not with a heavy heart at all. My path simply didnt go that way.
I still believe there is divine power in the universe, and I still hope to follow the path it puts before me. I dont know where it will lead. I mean no offense to those who walk paths of different faiths (I have a faith, I think, but not a religion). I respect people of true faith, and I find they have several key traits in common, even when they do not belong to the same major religion.
This is only important to the story in a secondary way. I want you all to get my approach to events, and how events have changed that approach.
Next time I plan to tie up a few loose ends I left hanging from earlier installments, and tell you how my mother came to love my husband almost as much as I do.
Posted by jeniwren (Member # 2002) on :
Two main impressions:
The spirit of inappropriate laughter thing made me laugh. It also reminded me of when I had my blessing after I was baptized when I was 9. I remember the weight of the hands on my head, trying to pay attention to what was said, but finding it drifting. Nothing strange about it that I remember, I just don't recall finding it very moving. 'Course, I was only 9.
Second impression is that a sr pastor must be some serious kind of dumb to make a teenager a youth minister. Seriously.
I love how you write about your husband.
Posted by El JT de Spang (Member # 7742) on :
Still reading.
I don't know if you've read Lightning, by Koontz, but you remind me more and more of the protagonist in it. Although I haven't read it in a few years, so maybe I'm reaching.
Posted by ClaudiaTherese (Member # 923) on :
quote:Originally posted by Olivet: I was emotional, yes, and the boohoos had a slight physiological component, Im sure. But the big deal was that I was going through a very typical young adult thing, where youre trying to reconcile what you grew up with what youve grown into. I think so, anyway.
So, yeah. I know you already know what happened. He kissed me, and I kissed him back. I was just *lost.* I imagine if you hit someone hard enough in the head and then kissed them, theyd be about as addled as I was.
You describe that cotton-woolled, WTF? mental state very well.
quote:and tell you how my mother came to love my husband almost as much as I do.
Can't wait! Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
Loose ends. Hmm. Im going to tell the last bits of Gradys story, what I know of it. We didnt speak much in the rest of college. He asked me once of I had stolen Davids notebook as a joke. But I had not. There were a rash of thefts of notebooks left in the cubbies outside the cafeteria near the end of my last year.
Mine was stolen not long after his. It was annoying, because it was right before finals week and the notebook had my notes for Man and the Arts, Philosophy and Lewis, Tolkein Williams (taken for Religion credit, SCORE!). Luckily, I didnt need my notes. The act of writing them cemented the information into my brain well enough (though I planned on trying to forget the Philosophy after the final). Man and the arts I mostly needed to listen to enough classical music to identify particular pieces, which the notes would not helped with anyway.
Lewis, Tolkien, Williams (Sayer was added to squeeze a femme in, though she wasnt an Inkling) was a great class. I LOVED it. It was a class I shared with my Beloved, but, sadly, also with Grady and his roommate, David (who was still pissed at me for not falling for him, I think). I liked him well enough, but he hated me. Or at least felt the need to giggle when I was the only one in the class willing to admit to knowing what a succubus was. :rolleye: I got over it.
The thing about that class was that we had a choice about our final paper. We could do the typical lit/crit thing, standard format, standard length OR we could write something creative. A short story (at least 2000 words) or 5-7 poems. I was beside myself.
I had been taking an independent study with the female Dr. Woolsey (there were two, a married couple, both English profs). It could have been better. My writing was very rough. I was trying hard, but maybe too hard. I dont know. Anyway, she liked my poems. I was embarrassed by them, truth be told. They rhymed. *wince* How unfashionable was that? But I enjoyed writing them, fiddling with meter and so forth.
So I wrote poems. My Beloved took me to the park (where we would often go to lounge on blankets and read assignments or play catch with old pillows, whatever) and there I sat next to a stream called Steeles Creek, and wrote my unfashionable, heartfelt and truly enjoyable poems. I turned them in to Dr. McDonald (we later named a son after him, we both thought so well of him). He had been my faculty advisor from the beginning, and he was the faculty member over the school newspaper (I was co-editor) and generally a phenomenal teacher. He was a man of true, living faith, as well.
His tests were never easy, and he never cut anybody any slack on stuff, though. Once, when I had to do a presentation for Shakespeare while I had a bad urinary tract infection, he offered to let me present it after fall break. I said I just wanted to get it over with. I was greasy and shaking with fever, maybe not thinking through that decision clearly. Heh. I tanked. If my notes hadnt been really good and detailedAnyway, he knew I was a good student, but he didnt play favorites.
I shuddered at the thought of him reading the poems, even though the grade on them would be a basic 0-10 scale thing, with a +5 meaning it got full credit and anything above that counted as extra credit points. There was also a little matter of the class reading. The class would meet off campus at a pizza place, eat and read our work aloud. It was voluntary, of course, but I was determined to force myself to do it.
Im great at forcing myself to do difficult things. Or I used to be. I think I still do it. Ill discover I have reluctance to do something, and if I cannot find a good reason why that thing should not be done, I make myself do it. Sometimes I go much farther even than I need to, like Im grinding my reluctance under my heel. *shrug* Its just one of those things I do.
I was thrilled when I got the poems back, with positive notes (and full points), but horrified at sharing them. Especially where Grady and David could hear them, because I just sensed that David would find a way to laugh at them. I had hurt his feelings and all, but man! They say women hold a grudge.
Everyone showed up, everyone seemed excited to participate. That was fine. There were many more short stories than poems, so it was a longish exercise. Most of them were enjoyable. I remember Gradys was an interesting metaphysical thing about a guy in a car accident going to hell with loud music playing. Or something. It sounds dumb when you say it that way, but I was impressed. I didnt think he had it in him.
Me, I was waiting for the crowd to thin. It did. The restaurant got ready to close, so we met back in a classroom (and lost a bunch of people in the process). Grady had already read his, and I was hoping hed fade. No such luck. I cant remember when David read, but I had the sense that they were waiting me out. I was scared of reading the stuff, but it would have been easier without them. The group dwindled to less than ten people, most of them my fellow English majors. One was named Debbie, and her husband Gray, who had graduated a year or two before and wrote absolutely hilarious short stories, was there, too.
Debbie and I were buddies, but I was intimidated by Gray. He was going to be a minister and was very comfy with public speaking; his campus short story readings were always great. People would talk about them for days.
I read all but one of my poems. (I had one that made no sense even to me.) People asked me questions about them, even Gray. Two of them were kind of related poems with opposing themes of day and night, each with a central human character. Gray asked me why I had chosen a child for the day poem and a woman for the night poem. It was a good question, and I surprised myself by having an answer.
Daytime is bright and open you can see so much, and what you see is what you get, mostly. Small children are often just like that guileless. Night is more mysterious, and the moon is often a feminine symbol.
I hadnt really thought about it until he asked, but it made sense in retrospect and sounded like I knew what I was doing. O_O
People came up to me after we broke for the night, and gushed about the poems. Some expressed profound surprise that I had written something like that, which I decided to take as a compliment. Even the next day, people who had not been there came up to me and said, I heard youre this fantastic poet.
Now, I didnt let it go to my head. I knew that the people who judge such things would sniff at rhyming poems, especially ones about frivolous things, like bees (that one was my favorite, as I recall).
The year after I graduated, though, the faculty put together a chapbook of animal-themed poetry, and I was the only contributor who had never been on the faculty, which was kind of cool. My (by then) fianc was taking a printmaking class, and got to do a woodcut to go opposite my poem. That was neat.
Anyway, even Grady broke his usual rule of not speaking to me unless he absolutely had to, to congratulate me on the poems.
Just before the end of school, I was eating a bit late (breakfast, I think) and was shocked to find that he had joined me at the table. He was engaged(or soon would be not certain of the timeline there), to a very sweet education major named Becky. She had lived across from me in the dorm the year before, and I liked her well enough, though Gradys inability to be friendly with girls he had dated in the past made it difficult for our interactions to be anything but awkward. Funny, that.
Anyway, it was weird for him to sit with me at breakfast. No one else was there I had barely made it before they stopped serving. I recall he asked me about the future, what I planned to do after graduation.
At that point I was not officially engaged, but I would be within the month. Anyway, THAT was none of his business. I told him that I didnt know what would do, but that I thought I might like to go back to Brazil. There were so many homeless, orphaned children there. I had seen it first hand, and I wanted to help. I thought I might take a year off and then go to graduate school. I still wanted to be an academic, back then.
We chatted a bit. He still had a year to go before he was finished with his degree, but then he would probably go to seminary.
It was awkward, this friendly chat, but I have never really figured out why. I guess it was just so very strange for him to speak to me, that I just knew he had to have some hidden motive. Closure? A determination to show no hard feelings maybe?
Maybe it shouldnt have seemed weird at all, but when someone seeks you out and asks pointed questions about the future when they have been deliberately avoiding you for two years? *shrug* I was puzzled, and amused.
Graduation Day had many festivities before the actual graduation. There was a chapel service, and a meal for families at the student center (they even used tablecloths!) before the main event. There had also been a senior dinner the night before, so after the Chapel service, my family decided to go off campus for lunch. I had to make a pit stop in the Student Center ladies room before we left, though.
My family waited by the main doors, but before I could get to them, Grady and his father entered my immediate path. His family was there for Beckys graduation, since she and Grady were engaged by then. He stopped me. Dad, you remember Olivia.
We greeted each other politely. I was holding my cap and gown over one arm, carefully. I had spent a good deal of energy getting the wrinkles out. His father noticed.
Youre graduating? I thought you were the same year as Grady!
I glanced down and counted to three. I will not be smug. I will not be smug. I will not be smug. I looked up and smiled my best self-deprecating smile.
I was. I saw past them that my family and my fianc had seen me, and were coming over. I just took some extra classes and worked really hard.
That wasnt even really a lie. It HAD been hard to keep up with my classes and edit the school newspaper, too, especially while I was auditing the second year of koine Greek (it conflicted with a class I had to take to graduate, but only on one day a week, so I got permission to sit in on the other two classes).
We made the other introductions as my family and my Beloved came up, and Mr. Davidson suggested I check out UVAs graduate program (I did, but decided I didnt own enough black turtlenecks). Gradually, it became obvious that he thought we were going into the dining hall for the family meal, but we were not.
Nice to talk to you! Well see you at the graduation. Both true.
Last cool thing I didnt know if I was going to get honors or not. The registrar had had to call the CLEP people to get my score on the Psych 101 test, to see if they could give me credit. If they couldnt, I couldnt graduate because it was a core requirement. (The whole Scot thing had made me leery of taking the class. Besides, my sister had an M.S. in Psychology, and I had borrowed and read all of her basic textbooks in prep for the test). I believed I had nailed it. I had technically passed it in the summer, but my school required a score a few points higher for credit. You had to wait at least six months for re-testing, and the results took a few months, too.
If I wasnt actually graduating then, they would let me walk but not give me the degree until December. Also, whatever honors I had earned would not be announced. It was a smallish private school, only one graduation ceremony a year.
I had found out the day before that my CLEP had been a full ten points higher than the school required, this time around, so I knew I would graduate. What I didnt know was how I had done on my finals, so I did not know if I had done well enough to keep my standing.
She was a very inspiring speaker. We were outside, and it looked like rain. The outside thing had been good when it came to the entrance march, led by Dr. MacDonald on the bagpipes (in his full academic regalia his doctorate was from Aberdeen, I believe). As I have mentioned before, Bagpipes outside = good; Bagpipes inside = temporary deafness/possible permanent hearing damage.
I had to sit next to E. Roy. He was the last of the Gs and I was the first of the Hs, in the B.A. in Liberal Arts and Humanities section. My luck.
I was the first person to cross the sate to have honors announced. Summa cum laude. My knees felt weak. I was blinking away tears as I shook Dr. Macs hand. My brother-in-law whooped. I heard Mrs. James say, wow.
There were only about five summagraduates total, maybe less. I was a 3.98 by then, not a 4.0 (a got a B in choir for being late too many times, and B in Prophetic Lit for not turning in something in that I did actually turn in, but fixing it would have meant talking to that lecherous professor again, so I said WTF, smell ya later, dude).
I wonder if its healthy to remember that sort of thing. *shrug*
I was so happy, and proud. It was the happiest day of my life until my wedding day, and has been bumped down the list a few times since then.
Only in writing about this have I considered what the family of my former beau made of that. Looking back, Im sure they thought I was brainless, or nearly so, when they met me. Book by its cover, and all that.
Anyway, I still visited campus occasionally, since Ron was still there. I had a job in the same town, working for the federal government, before the ink was dry on my diploma (figuratively speaking).
Grady graduated, and married Becky. Someone said they had a daughter or two. I think they were house parents at an orphanage in my hometown, for a while, but I never ran into either of them. I may have been in Chicago by then, I dont know. I worked with a fellow who had gone to high school with Becky, and he ran into them in Wal-Mart once. Said her husband was going bald. *shrug* It happens.
I suppose Ill have to wait until next week to tell you about my mother coming to terms with my true love. Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
Just a note to say : I lied.
Today is the first day of spring break, and I will be busy with the fam all week so I will not be posying anymore until next week.
It slipped my mind because I kept thinking it was the week before Easter, not the week before the week before easter. My bad.
Posted by pH (Member # 1350) on :
quote:Originally posted by jeniwren: Second impression is that a sr pastor must be some serious kind of dumb to make a teenager a youth minister. Seriously.
The church I was at had a youth pastor who was in his twenties. But at the time, I was dating a guy who was either a youth pastor or the leader of a youth group who was twenty. So it probably happens semi-often. The having a teenager leading a youth group, I mean. Not the youth group leader dating the youth. Although...that probably happens a lot, too.
-pH
Posted by zgator (Member # 3833) on :
My B-i-L's sister dated her youth pastor. She was only 14 or 15 at the time and he wasn't a teenager, so it didn't go over too well.
Posted by TomDavidson (Member # 124) on :
quote:Not the youth group leader dating the youth. Although...that probably happens a lot, too.
It's happened in practically every youth group I've seen, except for those few that specifically chaperoned all events and/or required a certain age of their youth group leaders (for, I presume, exactly that reason).
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
Before that (and after) that particular church always had a married couple as youth leaders, and married couples or individuals teaching the tean Sunday School classes. I'm not saying they planned it that way, just that that is how it worked out.
Also, I'm a little creeped out that no one has said anything about the last post. Was that whole graduation thing just too creepy, or something?
Posted by sweetbaboo (Member # 8845) on :
I am still enjoying reading all that you have written. I think you are very insightful/honest about yourself, which isn't always an easy thing to do.
Posted by Uprooted (Member # 8353) on :
Believe me, you've still got a loyal reader here--I just didn't have anything interesting to say after the last entry! Definitely looking forward to the next installment after spring break.
Posted by blacwolve (Member # 2972) on :
I'm still reading loyally. I just can't think of anything to say that would at all fit the level of emotion you're putting into this. So I'm keeping quiet.
Posted by Irregardless (Member # 8529) on :
Wow... when I started reading this thread yesterday, I thought surely it'd be finished by the time I got to page 7.
Anyway, great writing, Olivet.
Posted by Shigosei (Member # 3831) on :
I've been reading every one of your posts and have enjoyed them all! You certainly are a great storyteller. I doubt I could write about my life and have it be half as interesting as what you write.
Posted by ClaudiaTherese (Member # 923) on :
*catching up
----
I am impressed by your frankness, Livvy. You see yourself clearly.
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
I thank you all for the ego-stroking, though I have sort of embarrassed myself. I really didn't mean to beg for feedback... I just wondered if people were avoiding saying anything for reasons of discomfort. *wince*
The kiddies are back in school, and figure I'm within five posts of the end, and that is a liberal estimate.
I don't think it's going to last until July.
My mother didnt like my Beloved. I think she sensed that he was the first guy I was ever really myself with. I was relaxed with him. He was gorgeous and smart. He met all of the conditions except one he was not as devout as me. Okay, all of my conditions except two, but that was the only obvious one.
He was a Presbyterian by habit, but a devotee of Taoist philosophy in practice. He insisted that Taoist thinking did not preclude Christian belief, and I accepted this. Actually, I think it is true, though a lot of Christian practices seem odd from a Taoist point of view.
Anyway, mom had always imagined me marrying a missionary, or something. As a child and even as a young adult, I saw myself in the hazy future, surrounded by children that were not my own. I cannot say if that was vision of where my true, righteous path lay or if it was merely the best I could hope for back in the days when I assumed I was too homely for true love.
I know that sounds insane, but it was true, to me. I blindly accepted that I was that something was wrong enough with me that real love was not a possibility. The thought of marriage without love sickened me, so I thought, hey, Ill take care of the orphans. Even in college when it became clear that I had quite a pretty face and a slender frame with nice legs, I truly believed I might not be able to have children. I didnt think I was really a woman, in some insidious way that didnt show. It wasnt just the flat chest. I didnt think I was a real woman, and part of it was because I didnt understand the way real women act.
I know how crazy that sounds.
Im not sure what mom had against him, other than that she could see I loved him. See, girls are supposed to fall for men that are like their fathers, right? My sister had fallen for a handsome man with an addictive personality. I had fallen for a handsome man who was exceedingly smart. Mom could only see ways he was like my father. Smart, and manipulative.
Dont get me wrong she was right about that. My Beloved was at least as smart as my father, with his 180 IQ famously underappreciated by the Army, and (in the interest of fairness) probably better at talking people into things than my father ever was.
He had been carefully using his persuasion me concerning religious beliefs, using logic and my own assertion that true faith should withstand the scrutiny of reason (thank you, C.S. Lewis! Heh). He did it ever so gently. It was a dialogue, give and take, and I began the passage from what I had always believed to what I have found to be true.
Its still happening. If I ever arrive, you can shoot me.
This upset my mother. She showed it in many ways. The first time he came home with me, she made stuffed peppers for dinner. It was one of her things she fixed for company more often than for just the family. I never cared for it always, always gave me heartburn. I want an antacid just thinking about it.
Afterward, she asked me how he liked dinner, and I mentioned, as softly as possible, that he had issues with bell peppers (much as I do). She felt bad. I told her liked it anyway, but that she didnt need to worry about being fancy for him he was brought up on country cooking just like me.
The next time he came over, we had stuffed bell peppers. Again.
Also, my mom had a habit of teasing my friends tickling them, joking around and whatnot. She tickled my husband-to-be until he was well and truly frightened of her. She had him down on the floor, and he was horrified when he realized he might actually have to overpower her to get her to stop. O_O I finally managed to drag her off of him, and I felt bad because I had kind of started it by tickling him. Tickling was kind of a family sport, at my house, but we never carried it past the persons tolerance.
It was the very first time I understood the claims people made about excessive tickling being abuse. It had never been abusive in my family, but seeing the horror of my mother unleashed on a suitor she didnt quite approve of (but would never openly admit this) was eye-opening.
My Beloved admitted that my mother frightened him. Even more than my church did, with its hand-clapping hymns and behind-grabbing tongue-talkers.
Mom also got to hear the bad stuff, you know? When I was upset about something, I tended to talk to her. When things were smooth between my beau and me, she didnt hear it so much. This was also true of my Beloved and his mother, and may lie at the root of many mother-in-law problems of people in general.
The first time his family came to campus, he asked if I could meet him at the cafeteria and have dinner with them. I met them and had a great time, but a group of people had asked me if I wanted to tag along to see a movie, and I had jumped at the chance. David (he of the spreading rumors fame) had asked if I wanted to go along with a bunch of us and I had been glad of the olive branch, hoping we could be buddies again.
I realize now that he didnt want to be buddies. The bunch included my friend Scotty R__ (who later used my photos of Grady to make a poster for which I was blamed), Grady, Scott H___ (another fellowship group friend since my Freshman year) and a mutual friend named David (a different one from the one who asked me - everyone I knew at school was named David or Scott, see).
My future mother-in-law happened to be walking past as we left. Seeing her sons girlfriend get into a car with a bunch of boys didnt help her opinion of me. She also had to point it out, jokingly, to Ron. *sigh* Yes, Im running off to have sex with all these guys (at least one of them was gay, I think nobody on campus was really out). It never occurred to me how that looked.
Mom brooded and hoped Id drop him, I think. She also seemed to be of two minds on the subject. After all, my Papa liked him, and my biological father didnt two points in his favor as far as she was concerned. My sister and brother-in-law also liked him.
The thing about my husband is that it takes him time to warm up to people. Hes pretty plain vanilla until he accepts you and relaxes. My sister and her husband had seen the real guy. My mother had managed to horrify him to the point that well, his elbows could have been stapled to his ribs when she was around. His anti-tickle stance.
I graduated and started working for the government. I stayed with my brother a while (he had been a Captain in the National Guard, called up to Desert Storm, and his wife had left him for his best friend He got a discharge just before Christmas, and I moved in to keep an eye on him more than anything) and then got my own place.
Mom was mixing her signals about Ron, big time. Id mention his good points, shed counter with Your father was also [whatever I had said]. It was infuriating. Then one day she gave me a pink satin corset shed had before she had children. Its too small for me has been for years but youll look so cute in it. O_O
He graduated and went to Atlanta. He was working for a temp agency at IBM. The idea was that he would find permanent work and I would transfer down. The downside was that he had to live with his family. His mother and his mothers mother were constantly on his case about one thing or another. He was so smart they had sent him to gifted school and everything so why didnt he have a real job yet? His cousin Billy had worked fast food in High School and was now managing two stores without ever going to college yadda yadda.
He couldn't wait to get the heck away from them.
This actually improved my mothers opinion of him, oddly enough. My folks and I attended his graduation, but I had to leave before it was over in order to catch a flight back up to Wilkes-Barre, PA. where I was in training. His honors were announced when he crossed the stage. He had graduated with a four year degree in three years, cum laude. Afterward his grandmother asked him to explain the Latin honors, and when she understood them she said, So why were you the low man on the totem pole, then?
Mom told me about it later, on the phone. She said shed seen my Beloveds face fall, and wanted to smack the ancient queen of the harpies on his behalf. How could she say such a thing to her own flesh and blood? How could she treat that beautiful child that way?
Mom had a really over-developed mothering instinct. She still had misgivings about the two of us together, though.
During the preparation for our wedding, mom and I went wedding dress shopping. I was trying to make it a nice atmosphere, but she still made it clear what she thought.
Dont you think well have pretty babies? Maybe even a redhead! She had always wanted a red-haired baby.
I think its more important to have happy babies. It was June, but I had the urge to turn on the heater in my car.
I later learned that she had said to my sister, Well, Ill be there to help her pick up the pieces. This enraged my sister. She tried to tell my mom she was wrong about my fella, but mom wouldnt listen.
Even my brother tried to talk me out of marrying so young. I was twenty-three, and he married a nineteen-year-old that spring. But I was too young.
Papa gave me away. My father walked out of the hospital to be there at my wedding. I mean, he pulled the IVs out of his arm, put his clothes on and sneaked home to put on a suit and come to the church. I didnt know he was there until I saw him in the last pew as I walked down the isle on my stepdads arm. My father was not a good man, and not a super father, but he never intentionally hurt me. Just like I didnt intend to hurt him. He was one of the gods of my childhood, but he didnt know how to be a father. I loved him, and I knew he loved me, too.
I owe it to Papa that I was ever able to have a remotely healthy relationship with a man, but my father gave me things, too. Both them were given to me by god/fate/the universe, and Im grateful for them both.
After my Beloved and I married, we would occasionally meet mom and papa for dinner occasionally. Shed always tell my husband to drive carefully. You have precious cargo. It was sweet, but carried a certain subtext. *wry laugh*
On those little get-togethers, mom began to see how we really were together. How he would help me with my coat and open doors for me and such. She could see that he really cared for me. It helped a little.
We moved to Chicago. While we were there, we told them they should come visit. She wanted me to give my brother my old car that I had overpaid another relative for, but I told her to sell it to him for enough to buy the tickets. They made the plans six months in advance.
We planned to visit both our families in April. My mom called a week or two before the trip. She said she had a surprise for us. We talked a bit and she asked, rather cryptically, to speak to my husband. O_O They talked a long time. His side of the conversation was full of, Oh, thats okay. No, I understand types of things.
When they hung up, he told me she had apologized to him for thinking ill of him. She had come to realize that she had been wrong about him, and she wanted to ask his forgiveness for being so stubborn. O_O
See, this is another amazingly cool thing about my mother. I think she had the normal human reluctance to admit when she was wrong, but she still never failed to do it explicitly. She liked spelling things out, admitting her wrongdoing and asking forgiveness.
I just never hoped I had come to think of our relationship as distant, because I just couldnt share with her about my love for my husband. It had been awkward for more than a year, at least.
After that, every time she talked to Ron, she repeated the apology, and how glad she was that I had a man who loved me so much. O_O It is perhaps not surprising that my mother was a talker.
On our visit, the surprise became clear. She had some guests from church over for dinner with us. They turned out to be Bobby Boston and his wife Cindy. Bobby had been at King with me, a commuter who was already married. He didnt spend much time on campus, but he went with me on the summer mission trip to Brazil, where we got on famously.
Bobby was a talker, too.
They had moved to my familys home town and joined their church. Mom and papa had helped them move their stuff, and had them over for dinner. Bobby saw a picture of me and my husband on the wall, and asked about me because I looked familiar. He had not recognized my name, because my family always called me by a nickname.
When mom used my given name, though, it clicked into place for him. Bobby and I had had long talks about marriage and stuff, and I had talked to him quite a bit about Ron, while we were on the mission. He was safe to talk to because he was married and obviously in love, you know? I wondered what it was like to be married, and all that.
I mentioned that Bobby was talker, right? Well, he held forth to my mother about what a great relationship Ron and I had, how he could just see his love for me in the care and attention he gave me. How he started sending me letters to Brazil before I had even left, so that they would be there for me shortly after I arrived, etc.
There is no doubt in my mind that his speech was passionate and all-inclusive.
Mother had been forced to see My Love from a new, outside perspective. Once that had happened, she could see it for herself.
I admit, she may have gone a bit overboard. Ron now walked on water. He was her favorite son-in-law. If I griped about something hed done, shed say, You know he only does that because he wants to take care of you or some such. Ron was the golden-haired hope of the family, and I was Blessed by God.
That was all true, of course. Still, it was a bit unnerving to have it put that way. *giggle*
Their visit to Chicago was a blast for all of us. My husband's little brother Mark was visiting us that summer, and their visits overlapped by a few days. It was a great time. I could see that my mother's entire attitude toward my husband had truly changed. He was even able to relax and enjoy their company.
Mom always kept us up on thing sgoing on back home. Ronnie Ellis had gone to film school in Wilmington.
My father died that August, and when we visited for the funeral, we were ready to move back to the area. My mother was about to go on dialysis, and I was the only child without children to care for, so it made sense that I would be the one to help her. There's always a child who will do those things for parents that the others won't ot can't. I don't know if they are usually as happyto do it as we were. My transfer came through by Thanksgiving. We were two years married by then.
This is hard. I may be rushing it, but I'm so close. Thank you for listening.
Posted by ludosti (Member # 1772) on :
I'm enjoying reading your installments. You really are a great story teller.
quote:I assumed I was too homely for true love. I know that sounds insane, but it was true, to me. I blindly accepted that I was that something was wrong enough with me that real love was not a possibility.
I know exactly what you mean. It's how I felt (and still do sometimes). Posted by jeniwren (Member # 2002) on :
quote:I know that sounds insane, but it was true, to me. I blindly accepted that I was that something was wrong enough with me that real love was not a possibility. The thought of marriage without love sickened me, so I thought, hey, Ill take care of the orphans. Even in college when it became clear that I had quite a pretty face and a slender frame with nice legs, I truly believed I might not be able to have children. I didnt think I was really a woman, in some insidious way that didnt show. It wasnt just the flat chest. I didnt think I was a real woman, and part of it was because I didnt understand the way real women act.
I know how crazy that sounds.
I so much don't think that sounds crazy. Not because it's accurate (it's not), but because I suspect that only female meglomaniacs fail to go through this doubting-of-womanhood. Maybe I'm wrong, but I know I did. I was well into 30 before I really felt like a woman, feminine and pretty, no matter how anyone else defined those words. Secure in my femininity, I guess, might be a better way to put it. It took that long to really internalize that who I was was really okay, even though I wasn't particularly 'girly', as in wearing dresses a lot, knowing what to do with makeup, or how to dress my hair. I think it really helped that I learned to cook. Strange, that.
Posted by BannaOj (Member # 3206) on :
quote: Anyway, mom had always imagined me marrying a missionary, or something. As a child and even as a young adult, I saw myself in the hazy future, surrounded by children that were not my own. I cannot say if that was vision of where my true, righteous path lay or if it was merely the best I could hope for back in the days when I assumed I was too homely for true love.
I know that sounds insane, but it was true, to me. I blindly accepted that I was that something was wrong enough with me that real love was not a possibility. The thought of marriage without love sickened me, so I thought, hey, Ill take care of the orphans. Even in college when it became clear that I had quite a pretty face and a slender frame with nice legs, I truly believed I might not be able to have children. I didnt think I was really a woman, in some insidious way that didnt show. It wasnt just the flat chest. I didnt think I was a real woman, and part of it was because I didnt understand the way real women act.
I know how crazy that sounds.
Replace "Orphans" with "animals" and it is me. Not crazy at all.
*hugs*
AJ
Posted by pH (Member # 1350) on :
For the longest time, I was for some reason terrified that people would mistake me for a boy. And of course, I was taller than just about every boy I dated until I got to college, so I felt big and hulking and not dainty or feminine at all.
In fact, even now, I still joke around about how I have the body of a twelve-year-old boy. So I, too, can sort of understand doubting womanhood.
-pH
Posted by Uprooted (Member # 8353) on :
I'll never forget walking down the hall as a freshman in high school and hearing some hall monitor lady behind me yelling "young man, young man" and nearly becoming apoplectic about it--I finally realized she was yelling at me to show her my hall pass. (I had short hair at the time, a Dorothy Hamill cut, and was wearing the teenage uniform of those years--straight leg jeans, button-front oxford type shirt, earth shoes.) Umm, from the front it was fairly obvious to the poor lady that I was a girl when I turned around, but that incident did wonders for my sense of femininity.
What I wouldn't trade to be that skinny now! No one would mistake me for a guy at any angle.
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
Even at my thinnest, I had a very feminine backside and shapely legs. I was physically... pretty obviously female.
I just didn't think so at the time, I guess. It's nice to know I'm not the only one who felt that way.
The weirdest thing, for me, was that I was almost always a male in my dreams. I still remember dreams I had from when I was five of or six. Once I dreamed I was wearing those kneepants and stockings and a cravat (I didn't even know what those things were, then). Kind of 17th century. My brother, or a close friend, threw a piosonous snake at me, and I died thinking that no one would know I was murdered. I had another where I was obviously a Native American brave. A bunch of us were attacking a cabin. I entered and was shot in the chest by woman with a shotgun.
The first time I ever kissed someone in a dream, I was aware of being a woman but I was in disguise as man and another guy kissed me.
I was never unambiguously female in my own freaking dreams until after I'd had a baby. O_O
When you add to that that the first of my agemates to show interest in me was a female, I was sure I was a freak. Always been attracted to men, though.
Was it Madonna who said, "I'm a gay man trapped in a woman's body"? Bwhahahahahah-snort-hahaha
pH- I'm not as tall as you, but I remember being a head taller than everyone my age. It sucked.
Posted by JennaDean (Member # 8816) on :
This is a beautiful intallment, and I love how you call him your "Beloved". I agree with Jeniwren - it's probably true that every woman doubts that she measures up to the standard of "Womanhood". At least I did, until I became a mother - that's so empowering.
quote: When I was upset about something, I tended to talk to {Mom}. When things were smooth between my beau and me, she didnt hear it so much. This ... may lie at the root of many mother-in-law problems of people in general.
I think you're totally right there. One of the best pieces of advice I got was to not spill my marital troubles to my mom - because when I'd forgiven and forgotten, she would still remember who had offended her "baby". It's saved me more than once.
Posted by The Pixiest (Member # 1863) on :
Olivet, I just wanted to let you know I've been reading this with fascenation from day one. You've got a fan in me.
Pix
Posted by Shigosei (Member # 3831) on :
Sometimes I'm male in my dreams. I can kind of understand how you feel, because I don't see myself as all that feminine. However, it's somewhat deliberate in my case. Oddly enough, I don't want to be very feminine (I don't want to be very masculine either). I guess I'm just weird that way.
Posted by jeniwren (Member # 2002) on :
Shig, from the one time I met you and granted it was quite a while ago, honestly, I thought you were lovely. Feminine in your own way. I'm not just saying that...my impression was that you were a strong, smart young woman. Lovely with a femininity all your own. (Repeating myself...) Graceful.
Personally, I would rather we defined femininity on someone like you than on the Paris Hiltons of the world.
Posted by rivka (Member # 4859) on :
*agrees with jeniwren's assessment of Shigosei* Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
Some women don't need make-up and frilly clothes to be feminine, Shig. I haven't met you, but from your pictures I'd have to agree that you are one of those.
Me, I just need falsies and a bucket of spackle.
In all seriousness, though, I think it's a matter of coming to terms with womanhood as each of us defines it for ourselves vs. the Oppression of Barbie, or whatever we are led to believe it means to be a "woman."
Posted by pH (Member # 1350) on :
I always thought it meant you couldn't be "one of the guys." And also you had to be megacurvy and spend ten hours a day making your hair and makeup perfect, even if you were going to school, and then you had to bring your makeup bag with you to touch up throughout the day. I also have never had pin straight hair, which was devastating during the years of the "Friends"-inspired Rachel hair.
-pH
Posted by Christy (Member # 4397) on :
*also agrees with jeniwrens assessment of Shigosei, but understands the desire not to be very feminine*
I do that myself. Weirdly, I think I could use a little more femininity as of late. Being a mother has sucked some of the femininity out of me even though it has encouraged some of the girlyness.
Posted by Shigosei (Member # 3831) on :
Wow. Thanks...it's very kind of you all to say what you have. Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
I hate doing this, because I just wrote it and really haven't gone over it at all... But. I have to get this out. I want it to be over, yet I still hesitate.
Also, I hated to interrupt the cool discussion going on. It pleases me to see us all taking about being feminine or not, and what we think that means. So feel free to carry on.
This next bit is raw and fairly unedited. I'm just a pull-the-bandaid-off-fast kind of person, so I'm sticking it up the way it is.
#
In August of that year (1994), my father died. They found him sitting on the side of his bed when they came to check on him because he hadnt shown up for dialysis that morning. We arranged for a pet sitter and drove back to my hometown, from Chicago.
While we were in town for the funeral, we realized that we liked living in the mountains. That part of it was more my Beloved than me (I really enjoyed the city), but I had to admit that I would like to be closer to my family. Especially under the circumstances.
My sisters husband had had an affair with my brothers second wife (remember the one years younger than me, back when I was "too young" to marry?). Although they had decided to stick with their respective spouses and try to work it out, it caused a lot of tension. Suddenly, my brother didnt want my sister to buy one of his houses (where they had been living on a lease-purchase agreement, but were having trouble securing financing), and began eviction proceedings. My mother was about to go on dialysis, and I was the only child of hers with their emotional [poo] together enough to be of any help at all.
So I put in for a hardship transfer and we moved 700 miles back to, essentially, where we had been before. Only this time, we bought a house (shortly after my sister and her husband bought a different home). This is as good a place as any to note that I have a personal horror of doing business with family or close friends. The thought of buying a car or house from a relative makes me want to curl up under a table and hum with my fingers in my ears.
I was sort of the Black Sheep of my family, but I have come to believe this is a tremendous positive in this case. I had certain advantages growing up, is all. Anyway, I was the one child my mother never had to worry about for whatever reason, and I was glad to not be having any personal traumas when she needed me.
She didnt really need me. I mean, she did the home dialysis herself. She was an RN, and could handle it just fine, but in another way she did need me. She needed to feel a little looked-after and cared about. I could do that.
One of our family friends from church was a lady we called Miss Tressie. She usually handled communion at church, and I had worked with her when they had me doing it. Also, she and mom just did stuff together, even though Tressie was a widow old enough to be her mother. They got on well, and when ever Tressies daughters visited, wed all have dinner or whatever. I remember Peggy Ann and my brother and I had a wine and cheese type of thing (with no actual wine, as I recal) where we read stories and poems and such. It was on a New Years Eve, which was also a blue moon. We went outside afterward and watched how the full moon made such deep shadows and silvered everything all at once. It had been impressive.
Tressie also had a daughter named Donna, and Mom and Donna got on famously. At first it was just that Donna was so glad that her mother had my mom around to look after a bit, even though she wasnt under any obligation to do so. Mom just liked being with Tressie.
Anyway, mom and Donna soon became the best of friends. Two wild, outgoing alpha-femmes in their forties, who should have been like oil and water, actually mixed quite well.
One morning around six am, Donna called my mother. She didnt say, hello or good morning or anything. Her first words were, What is your blood type?
She said she had been praying for her, and that the Holy Spirit woke her up and told her she should give mom a kidney. Well, now. Donna was not much of a churchgoer, but she had prayed for mom anyway because she liked her a lot and knew she was sick. Donna lived in Kentucky.
She pressed mom for details about what she needed to do to give her kidney. Mom didnt know, but said shed pick up a brochure or something. Then she forgot about it.
Donna didnt give up, and started to get a little angry at being put off about it. Mom knew that the operation would tough, and was just as happy to wait for a kidney through the usual channels. Donna finally took time off work and went with her to the Dialysis Center, where she got all kinds of looks from people.
She was adamant. She made them do the preliminary blood work, even though they kept telling her the chances of a match were not great. (It was a hereditary disease, and all of her children had the early signs of it, so we were a wash.)
Donna never doubted. She said, We will be a match. God wouldnt tell me to do this if we wouldnt be a match.
They were a match.
We had a cook-out at our place a few months before the surgery. Donna stayed out on the deck to smoke, and I went out to talk with her. I told her that I appreciated what she was doing for my mother, but that I would understand if she backed out. It wont be easy for you, and I just wanted you to know Id understand.
She laughed at me. Threw her head back and let out a big, braying belly-laugh. Listen, hon. God has never asked me to do anything in my whole life. Never. How could I not do this one thing He ever asked of me?
I asked her how she was sure she had heard the voice of God. She said, When He tells you something, you just know.
I couldnt argue with that.
The surgery went smoothly, and soon my mom was feeling very good. She was pinkish again where she had been a bit gray-green. Donna sat in her hospital bed and joked about how she wished the doctors had saved her floating rib so she could make bone meal for her plants. O_O
They remained close. Donna even moved to be close to Tressie and my mom. My boys were ring bearers at her wedding. Their relationship was a funny one, though. I remember when they came to visit me when I was pregnant. I heard them talking back and forth animatedly, and when I walked into the room with their tea, I heard one of them say, Oh, shut up, you old sea hag!
At least I dont dress like whore. Is that skirt or belt?
I was mortified.
The looked up and saw me standing in the doorway, pale as paper, looking back and forth between them, and laughed. Its okay, hon. Evidently, this was friendly banter. I had never heard my mother speak that way to anybody, or anybody talk that way to her, and it meant they were friends. O_O
In 1995, she had the transplant. In 1997, I had Robert. Mom told me she had not thought she would live to know my children, so we all felt that it was a blessing. She loved my boys so much.
She worked for a while as an RN, but her leg problems (see below) became an issue after a while. She helped me with Robert quite a bit, even though it wasnt as easy for her as it had been when my sisters children were small.
One day, she brought me a business card that Ronnie Ellis had given her. It said Firesong Productions, but the number on it was one I recognized as his mothers number. Hed finished film school. I called him and we chatted. We decided to have dinner with him partway between the towns where we lived.
He was older and heavier, and had a beard. It looked good on him. He talked to us about his fianc (who hed met in film school). She had gone back to Hong Kong after graduation, but he hoped she would be back soon. He never mentioned her again in the years after that, so I dont think anything came of it. I was too chicken to ask. He told us about the horror movie he was making, and told us to call him if we wanted to watch the filming. I thought that sounded fun, but we never got around to it.
I wondered what he thought of my Beloved, with his reddish hair and having the name Ron and all. I wondered if he thought I had merely found a stand-in for him, the way he had said hed been dating tall, skinny brunettes in college, like he was trying to find me in another form.
Though I know in my heart that I love my Beloved in a way that was not possible for Ron Ellis and me, I have to admit you could make a case for the substitution argument. It could easily be interpreted that way from the outside. My Beloved and I talked about it after we met him for dinner, and Im happy to say he could not have been less threatened by Mr. Ellis. Whatever Ronnie wanted to think was fine with my Beloved, because we knew the truth.
In 1999, my Beloved and I moved to Georgia. It was a promotion and a pay raise for him, plus, no more constant travel. His old job had him out of town 3 to 5 days a week, every week, sometimes weekends, too. We had looked for non-traveling work for him, even looked at buying businesses in the area, but the truth was that there was nothing in his field locally that would allow one of us to stay home with the wee ones. So we moved. In September, I had William. Mom came down and stayed a bit, but she had trouble on the stairs.
See, the drug therapies that they use to suppress the immune system also break down connective tissues after long exposure. She had spontaneously torn both hamstrings and had several other muscle tears since the transplant. Because of her compromised immune system, they had casted them and let her heal without surgery. It took a very long time.
Another side effect of the steroids was what they sometimes call pie face. Mom retained a lot of fluid and it made her look round-faced. She also happened to gain a bit of weight where she had always tended to be slim. It was very hard for her. She had always been beautiful, outside and inside, but now she didnt recognize the face in the mirror. She began to have to wax her face.
She took all these side-effects with grace, but I know it was hard. We were separated by distance, but we still talked on the phone regularly. Id tell her about the boys, and shed tell me about the happenings at church and what was going on with her friends.
We visited frequently, but I didnt run into Ronnie Ellis. We were too busy with the kids, who were both under school age at the time. I did once happen to meet the Physicians son who had asked me out in High School, now a pudgy, balding Family Physician sharing his fathers practice. Liam had an ear ache or something. Time, she doth fly, ne?
I didnt see Ron Ellis again until my mothers funeral. I will tell you about next time, which will be whenever I work up the courage to open this document again. Pray for me, friends. This part kind of hurts.
Posted by JennaDean (Member # 8816) on :
I'll bet it does, Olivet.
Still reading & enjoying it. Good luck.
Posted by rivka (Member # 4859) on :
quote: I have a personal horror of doing business with family or close friends. The thought of buying a car or house from a relative makes me want to curl up under a table and hum with my fingers in my ears.
Once upon a time, I would not have understood this. But now I do!!!
quote: This part kind of hurts.
*hug*
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
Its time. Been almost two years, so youd think this would be easier. It isnt. Im just going to push through this. It is hard for me, so Im going to ask a favor of you guys. If I happen to have a funny typo or something in this post through the end of the story, please resist the urge to make a joke of it. Im digging through wounds here, so if my proof-reading is sloppy all Im asking is for you to cut me some slack.(I readily admit that I'm overly sensitive where this story is concerned; rest assured my sense of humor should return soon )
I should also tell you that many of the events I will describe did not happen in the exact order presented. I talk a little about post-partum depression and a bit about my mothers health separately, but much of it happened at times relative to each other. It was just easier for me to talk about it by topic rather than timing.
Thanks for listening.
#
About three years before my mother died, her brother (who had a kidney transplant about a month before her) died suddenly of a heart attack. He had not been doing very well. His colon had ruptured due to long exposure to the meds, and hed had to have an emergency colostomy. He was almost well enough for them to attempt a colostomy repair. I went up for the funeral and stayed a week so the boys and I could be around for her birthday. It was summer and they were out of school.
December 18th of that year (just before the opening of LotR:FotR I remember because I had talked to mom about how I wanted to take her to see it when we came up for Christmas), she had a similar problem with her colon, and was in the hospital with a colostomy.
She made a fuss and forced them to release her so she could be home for Christmas. She wanted to be with us, see the boys open their presents (Mom was always big on picking the perfect gifts for everyone). By lunchtime on Christmas Day we had to call an ambulance to take her back to the hospital; she couldnt sit up to be taken in a car.
I had tried to help her with the colostomy care, but she insisted on doing it herself. Something went wrong and she fell. I helped her to bed and cleaned up, but when I went to her she said, Dont look at me.
Now, my mom was a beautiful, vivacious woman. I think the word formidable also fits. The drug therapy had been hard on her, hardest because of how it distorted her body and her face. She had to take diuretics to lessen the fluid the other drugs caused her to retain, but she couldnt take enough to be rid of it because of concerns they had for the kidney. Her nice clothes didnt fit right because the donated kidney was put in the front of her abdomen, not in place of one of her non-functioning ones. They were all in there together, and her non-functioning kidneys were enlarged to more that twice the normal size.
She was on anti-depressants for a while, but she kept up her good humor and tried to put a bold face on it. She was quite a joker, sometimes.
Six times a day she took a handful of pills, about every four hours. This worked okay in later years because she didnt sleep much. What sleep she did get was sitting in her recliner in the family room, toward the end.
Most of the time, she could fool me when I called. Over the phone, she sounded cheerful enough, but she had stopped volunteering stories about people from church and what all she had been doing. I had to pry stuff out of her, mostly because she didnt take a lot of interest in things. Also, she wanted to spare me, I think.
I was glad that I was the one child of hers she didnt worry about. She told me she knew I was going to be okay, and she was so glad I had such a loving husband and two beautiful sons. She told me (and I only later began to wonder if this was kindness or unintentional cruelty) that I was her favorite; she knew I could so anything I set my mind to do.
I would call her and talk about the funny things the boys had done, or when one of my chapters was runner-up for an editors choice award on an online workshop I had joined.
I couldnt tell her I was in trouble. I was. About the time I weaned my youngest, my hormones went wacky and I fell into the grip of a crushing depression. My life was good. My family loved me. I lacked nothing.
But everything was hard, and I was miserable. I did everything people say to do. I exercised. I took my kids to the playground. I cleaned house and did everything that was expected of me. I joined the baby-sitting co-op and co-chaired the neighborhood Halloween party.
Yet, I was physically incapable of finding joy in any of it.
Thats the part that people who have never experienced that sort of depression dont seem to get that even I didnt get. I thought if I just did something different - if I found the magic combination of activities I could pull myself out of it. I was wrong.
I dont know if it is different for people whose depression has environmental triggers, all I know is what happened to me. I had no environmental triggers. I had adjusted to being a stay-at-home mom and made friends in the neighborhood well before the onset of my symptoms.
I still searched for reasons. I went to counselors of various kinds. I took herbal supplements. I exercised until I was exhausted. I basically tried everything except meds.
One day, my husband was home sick, and I three people to take care of (he was the only one who could use the bathroom by himself). My hair kept falling in my face. I was frustrated; I was angry, angry that I couldnt seem to fix the elusive thing that was wrong with my seemingly perfect life. I had begun to think that my kids might be better off without me, because I knew they could sense my unhappiness, even when I forced myself to laugh and tickle and play with them. I knew it was fake, and I knew they werent stupid. I was afraid I was harming them by just being around them, even though I hid my secret misery pretty well.
My hair kept falling in my face, and I ran up to my room and started opening drawers, looking for something to hold it back. I happened to open a drawer and see a shiny pair of scissors. I grabbed them and started cutting hunks out of my hair. My husband saw and grabbed my hands to stop me, but it was largely too late. One trip to Supercuts later, and my eldest uttered the (now infamous) line, Mommy has Daddy hair!
That little act of self-loathing also got me in to see my OB/GYN, who was very sympathetic. He told me sometimes pregnancy alters your hormones permanently, and that I should try some medication (50mg Zoloft) to see if it helped.
Now, my first pregnancy had changed me. I knew that. I had always been high strung and emotional, but after the big boy was born (and even during the pregnancy) I was calm, happy and unflappable. I had a brief, six-week bout of the baby blues about the time I weaned him, but it had passed without any real intervention other some weight loss and exercise. It didnt come back.
I had expected that to happen with baby number two, but it didnt go away no matter how hard I worked at it. So, I figured my doctor might be right and I had just been reset to a different level.
The meds made me calm, kind of indifferent at first. Thoughts of hopelessness left almost immediately, but I felt out of touch with everything. I didnt like that, but I kept taking them.
It was months before the magic started to creep back into my life, but it did. I was once again able to feel the joy, the love that life had always offered me.
Being a stay-at-home with two wild boys was still tough, but it was fun tough again. Only then did I tell any of it to my mother. I couldnt bear to have her be worried about me, too. My sister was divorced, her husband having left her just after their bankruptcy was discharged (for a crazy woman he met on the internet, who later (non-fatally) stabbed him). She was struggling to pay her bills and raise her children now that their father had evaporated. My brother was considering bigamy at the time, I think. (Both of them have straightened things out quite a bit, and are leading normal, happy lives now.)
I kept up the go-go-go lifestyle, devoted entirely to my kids and my husband. I think it was my perfectionistic tendencies coming out. I was trying to be the perfect mom and wife, to make up for everything wed suffered because of my illness.
And make no mistake, that depression I fought was as real and as physical as any illness. My chemistry was off, and as hard as I fought it -- as hard as I tried to everything exactly the way it was expected of me -- I still needed the medication to help me in that fight. People have different opinions about these things, and I confess my situation was unique. I can only tell you how it was for me, and that is the truth of it.
Even with the meds, I was a little off. Happy, yes, but I felt a bit like my emotions were wrapped in bubble wrap. The better I felt, the more I hated the meds, which is fairly typical, Im told. I knew there was a chance that I could come off them and be fine, but I also knew that maybe I would be on them for the rest of my life.
And, you know, I was really okay with that. My boys needed a mom capable of feeling the love she showed them, and that, my friends, was worth it.
I was so focused on taking care of everyone else that I neglected myself. I lived on the crusts of my kids' sandwiches. I got so worn down that I got viral meningitis and had to be hospitalized for a week and on bed rest for at least two more. I only managed one more week of bed rest, because my mother-in-law was fed up with the boys and my Beloved didnt have anymore vacation time until the end of the year. My mother was unwell, and couldnt be around sick people with her compromised immune system. I lied to her and said I was better. I trudged through a week or so, still in quite a lot of pain, but the hubby took over and let me go to bed when he got home.
I still remember the first morning I woke up and felt no pain. I was afraid to move, afraid the pain was hiding somewhere, waiting for me to wake it up. I finally moved and found that I still felt well. It was the week of our anniversary. I made a big dinner and baked a cake, even went to the grocery store with a preschooler and an over-active toddler to get some candles (it was also very close to the hubbys birthday). I walked on clouds for at least a week the absence of pain left me euphoric.
After that euphoria passed, everything settled into a better over-all outlook. My fouled brain chemistry seemed to clear away, but I was afraid to even consider quitting the meds.
I didnt know which Olivia would walk out the other side of SRI treatment. I mean, I had had a suicide plan, down to how much to tip the maid. I did not want to see that part of myself again, ever.
Posted by The Pixiest (Member # 1863) on :
((Olivia))
Posted by jeniwren (Member # 2002) on :
I don't know what to say in response to something so obviously deeply felt, open and exposed and vulnerable. Thank you, Olivet for having the guts to write all that down and share it. I don't think I'm capable of writing so honestly, so I doubly respect what you've done here. And triply respect that you've shared it here. Thank you.
Posted by Miro (Member # 1178) on :
Thank you for sharing your story with us.
Card has said a number of times that stories are what make us who we are, what make us human, and that shared stories are what make a community. I agree with that. Strong, personal stories like yours are what make Hatrack such a special place.
I'm glad you made it through. Posted by ludosti (Member # 1772) on :
I can imagine how hard it was for you to write that. I admire your strength and I really appreciate that you wrote it - a lot of what you said about depression resonnated with me, as my experience has been similar. Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
Thank you guys. As much as I needed to do this, I'm not sure I'd have done it without your kindness. Posted by ketchupqueen (Member # 6877) on :
Posted by El JT de Spang (Member # 7742) on :
What's SRI?
Posted by ludosti (Member # 1772) on :
It's a class of depression medication - it stands for "Selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors". Basically, it reduces the amount that serotonin that is reabsorbed by the nerve cells in your brain. Here's an article about how they work.
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
Yeah, they call them SSRIs, but I never could remember the "selective" part. *blush*
I just remembered what the infectious disease specialist said to me while I was in the hospital with viral meningitis. It was something along the lines of "You young mothers don't take care of yourselves. I get about 40 cases of viral meningitis a year, and most of them are run-down young mothers of small children."
I wanted to ask him who was going to take of everybody else while I was taking care of myself, but I didn't. Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
#
I missed my mother, long before she was gone. I had to wheedle to get her talk to me on the phone, even. She didnt seem interested in much after the colostomy repair failed.
She had worked so hard to be healthy, to walk without a walker or assistance. To prove she was well enough to be put back together. It was her goal, and she fought for it. She hated the colostomy worse than anything. I hate to say it, but my papa didnt make that any better.
Dont get me wrong, he helped her and worked with her selflessly. Its just that he couldnt keep himself from commenting on how the bathroom smelled afterwards, and stuff like that. Mom never said anything, but I know how deeply she hated the colostomy and I think Papas attitude was part of it.
After the colostomy repair failed, she had the same recovery ahead of her as she had some 18 months before, but no goal. They wouldnt risk it again.
I would ask her if shed done her exercises, and shed hedge. Not yet, but I will.
When we visited, I noticed she made a point of doing her exercises when I was in the room. She couldnt really be left alone, though. Soon, Papa took early retirement to care for her.
I regretted living so far away, and told her so. Shed just smile and tell me that I had to a family to take care of now, and I had to do what was best for them. On these visits she started giving me jewelry or little mementos. (She'd divided up anything of value among the three of us kids almost ten years before. Stuff like china, crystal, an antique clock and an antique pump organ... not a lot, really.) One thing in particular, that both my sister and I had coveted for some years, was a dried edelweiss strung on a velvet choker. She had acquired it one of the times we had lived in Germany.
The first time I wore it where my sister could see, she said, Oh! Mom let you borrow the edelweiss?
I just nodded, because, despite being a big fat liar, I couldnt say the lie out loud. I still have the stupid dried flower, and I still wear it, even though I think my sisters claim to it is the better one. Mom let her wear it to her 8th grade graduation, when I was nearly seven. That was when I began to covet it, and I know my sister had loved it long before that. Its such a fragile thing mashed and kind of ugly, as flowers go but it has lasted a very long time. To my mind it is a symbol of my mother, the quintessential alpha-femme, and in that sense I feel it belongs with me, at least for now.
I wear it when I need to feel close to her, or when it goes.
Mom could still fool me on the phone, a little, but in person, she was very obviously ill. Her mouth hung open and she didnt even realize it. Her face was often like a mask with no expression, but she could make faces when she thought about it. Her hands would shake very badly until you asked her about it, then she could hold them as still as a rock.
The fluid retention had made her skin very thin, very easy to tear. My babys infant grasp reflex had made her arm bleed. I had been horrified, but she brushed it off. The side effects were just part of still being alive, she said.
She was very glad to be alive to know my babies without the kidney transplant she wouldnt have lived to see them. I was glad of that, too, though they never recognize pictures of her the way she was before the transplant. She aged at least two decades in less than one.
Her mother, my grandmother, began losing her mind after my uncle died. She would ask where her husband was, meaning her first husband, Hannibal (my biological grandfather), who died when he was barely forty. She would call my mother mama sometimes.
Sometimes she would recognize all of us, sometimes not. My grandfather took care of her, but occasionally she had to go to the lockdown part of the hospital. Shed actually been violent on occasion, not understanding what was going on, or who he was. I went to see her a few times and she always knew me, though sometimes shed ask me how school was going and sometimes shed remember that she had great-grandchildren. They even let us all visit her occassionally, including the kids. She remembered them then, or at least acted like it.
She became really ill just after Christmas. We were in town, and I had been to visit her. My grandfather was in the hospital to have some tests prior to a hernia repair. It was an odd coincidence, because mom had given us my grandmothers room number, but when we got there she had been released to a nursing home and they had put my grandfather in the room that had been hers.
Anyway, she stopped eating and they wanted to put in a feeding tube. It was explained to her in a moment of apparent clarity, and she refused. The decision was still my Grandfathers but he abided by her wishes. She was back in the hospital by then, and he was out. This all happened in the week between Christmas and New Years.
We all gathered for a death watch. Even in the final hours, she knew me. She opened her big, caramel-colored eyes and she said, Libby. That is what she always called me. My brother and sister and everybody came, all the cousins and their kids, too. Except my sisters daughters were visiting their other great-grandmother, and she wouldnt bring them back early. When they came home, she was dead already, but they made the funeral. They were crushed that they didnt get to say goodbye one last time.
Their other great-grandmother is not in the best of health right now, and that is all I have to say about that.
Mom went to her mothers funeral in a wheelchair. She was obviously upset, but my mother was always the type to be quiet when she was hurting or angry. In most of her life, she had not been quiet overmuch.
After the funeral, she told me shed had a dream where she saw her brother. He was sitting by the edge of a stream, dangling his bare feet in the water. She told him she missed him, and he said, Dont worry, little sis. Ill see you before too long.
The dream had pleased her, but it upset me. When she realized that I was upset, she said, You never know how long before too long might be, honey. Im not planning on dying.
But I think she was. I think she knew she couldnt last very much longer, and I think she was much calmer about that idea than I could be. Shed just lost her mother, and she knew I didnt want to lose mine. We both knew it was a selfish thing.
The whole family was together for the fourth of July. Ron and I bought fireworks, and he and my brother and step-brother Jeff set them off together for us all to see. Theyd stop and give the kids and the rest of us sparklers, and a good time was had by all. They were fabulous. The food was good. Mom was healthier than she had been in a long time, and the happiest Id seen her since my grandmother died.
She hadnt even needed the bug repellant mosquitoes had stopped biting her years before, because of the meds, I can only assume. Think about that mosquitoes wouldnt bit her. Theyd fly by, turn up their wee proboscises and move along. She would joke that there were more drugs in her blood than there was blood.
Allow me a selfish digression. I wont harp on the point, but I need to state it clearly. I have the same disease that she had, and it scares the hell out of me. I dont want to go like that. I could not help but see her and think I was seeing my own future. She would tsk and assure me that, as her nephrologists had told her to ease her mind about her children's futures, By the time you need help, things will be better. There will be artificial kidneys and new treatments.
I knew she was right. Her own father had died a mere two years before dialysis was available, and I had seen his sisters dialysis machine myself as a tiny girl -- it took up a whole wall in her bedroom.
My mother had done her own dialysis through a fluid port in her abdomen, not even needing to have blood removed from her body to clean it. A few years after her transplant, it became common practice to do a bone marrow transplant first in cases where you had a living donor. That reduced or eliminated the need for the drugs that had both kept her alive and slowly killed her.
So, see, this is about my mortality as much as hers, and about my kids as much as it is about me.
In mid-July, she was back in the hospital. This time there was abdominal pain, and they found another abscess in her digestive tract. Over the nine years since her transplant, the steroids and other drugs had turned her insides into cheese cloth, more or less. A new hole wasnt a huge surprise, but it was a challenge because she was weak. They did surgery right away, and she improved quickly.
By the time we could get up for a visit less than a week later, she was out of ICU and in a private room. We chatted and let the boys come in for a few visits, but mostly the hubby took them to play with their cousins while I stayed in the room with Mom and Papa. I gave her a manicure and a pedicure. I drew a picture of my papa while he sat watching a ball game on the TV.
After a few days, I had to go back home. Ron and the boys had been planning a camping trip for weeks, and summer break was almost over. We packed and headed out.
In the hustle, I left my Zoloft behind.
The place we go camping is at a lake high up in the North Georgia mountains. It has camping pads, bear-resistant trash cans and flush toilets, but no showers. We take a canoe and paddle around; we swim in the lake; we hike around the nature trails. Its always fun, but consistently stressful for me, what with my need for personal cleanliness and attachments to technology.
We were up there almost two weeks. It was great fun. A wilderness Ranger came through, a kid all of 22 Im sure, who immediately became the boys hero. He gave them a glossy hand-out about black bears, and sat by our fire and talked about his job. Hiking through the wilderness for months at a time seemed like the best job ever to my boys. They wanted his autograph.
On the way back to civilization, I turned on my cell phone (doesnt work on the mountain). I had a message from my papa. Your mama aint doin too good. She had some pain and trouble breathing, and they have her back in ICU. You might want to come back up when you can.
His country patois, much like mine, gets worse when hes upset. Id never, ever gotten a call like that from him. He said hed called my sister, but I was the only one who knew how to get hold of my brother. I called him and he went by on his way between Colorado Springs and Greensboro (he was being transferred, but still holding down both jobs until his replacement could be found in Colorado). He told me to let him know when or if he needed to ask for family leave. I told him I didnt know all the details but I would let him know as soon as I did.
My Beloved made plans to get the kids ready for school, and try to keep on top of his work and still get home in time to get them off the bus. I drove up alone, with several cds I had burned with favorite songs and a few songs I hadnt heard much from various soundtracks we had.
I told the hubby I was off the Zoloft, that I hadnt taken it since before we went camping. We both agreed that I was not spiraling, or showing any bad signs. Zoloft doesnt stay in your body as long as some of the SSRIs, and my dose had been pretty darn low, anyway. Maybe the timing was bad, what with my mother being ill and all, but I figured the least I could do, if my mother was going to die, was to feel my grief.
I suppose I was going through Knoxville when Into the West played. Im no musician, and Im no singer (despite the vocal training I've had). It just isn't my gift. But music moves me listening to music is often a spiritual experience for me. Sometimes not, but I am usually subject to the power of music.
Ijust had a feeling this was it. It was her time to go. I brushed off the feeling and arrived without mishap. I went directly to the hospital, and they let me in the ICU. Papa was there.
Mom knew me but couldnt talk because of the respirator. They had put these weird, over-stuffed mittens on her, and she tried to get me to take them off. I thought they were there because her hands had been trying to draw up, but really they were there to keep her from pulling the respirator out.
They even told me the readings said she was breathing fine on her own, but the respirator needed to stay in just in case she had another episode. I didnt take the mittens off, and I still think I should have. She was an RN, for crying out loud. I think she knew this was it, and she wanted to talk to me.
But I was hoping this wasnt the end, so I obeyed the rules. Its not that there were things we hadnt said mom and I are both talkers, and never hesitated about the important things it was just that she wanted to say them again.
Maybe I didnt help her take out the respirator because I didnt want to hear her say goodbye.
Thats all I can stand for now. It is awkward to cry in a public library.
[ April 27, 2006, 05:02 PM: Message edited by: Olivet ]
Posted by amira tharani (Member # 182) on :
Wow... Thank you for sharing this story, Olivet.
Posted by Nell Gwyn (Member # 8291) on :
(((Olivet)))
I don't know if I could be as brave as you are. I admire you.
Posted by Noemon (Member # 1115) on :
Man. That was hard to read, Olivet. Powerful, painful stuff.
Posted by ketchupqueen (Member # 6877) on :
(((hugs)))
I know how hard it is to share things like that. Thank you.
About the disease: it's true that there are new advances all the time, but I know that doesn't make it any less scary. My husband's aunt has the same kind of breast cancer that killed her mother 25 years ago. She was just a little girl at the time. Even though she KNOWS that treatment has made huge strides, it still scares the living daylights out of her and all her sibs, because they saw what her mother went through, only to die anyway, very painfully and very young. All I can say is, I'm glad you're strong enough to handle it, but it's okay to have those fears, and I think it's good that you can acknowledge them.
Posted by El JT de Spang (Member # 7742) on :
There's a line from Scrubs that really struck me when I first heard it. Dr. Cox tells JD, "Listen. Everything we do here, everything, is a stall. That's it."
I thought that was a shocking perspective to put on modern medicine. I have the same fear as you; going out like my grandmother went out: Alzheimers. Losing my mind is a terrifying thought. I can totally sympathize with what you are going through.
Posted by rivka (Member # 4859) on :
(((((Olivia)))))
Posted by Belle (Member # 2314) on :
quote:So, see, this is about my mortality as much as hers, and about my kids as much as it is about me.
I understand how true that is, after now having to face my own mortality. It's a very scary thing.
This has been hard to read, maybe because I care so much for you, so I have trouble reading about the raw emotions that I see coming through the words you've written, but I'm glad you wrote it.
I love you to death, sweetie. Never forget that.
Posted by ClaudiaTherese (Member # 923) on :
Olivia, I love you so much. You are so brave to face your demons, sweetheart.
You are your mother's daughter. Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
That afternoon, the Internist came by and told us he was hoping to use some sort of imaging equipment in connection with an injection to see if he could locate an abscess in her abdomen. They couldnt risk cutting into her again to look for the problem, because she was still so weak. He sounded fairly hopeful.
Then another doctor came by and told us that her blood cultures had bacteria from her digestive tract in them, indicating a source of infection in the area. They would keep her on the strong antibiotics to keep the infection in check, but that in her condition compromised immune system and all that it was unlikely that the antibiotics alone could cure the infection in her blood. If they could find and drain an internal abscess if there was a localized source for the infection then maybe
I didnt know what to say to my brother and sister, except to tell them what Id heard. She was breathing on her own, but they wouldnt take her of the respirator. She had an infection, but they didnt know where it was coming from or how to treat it without opening her up again.
I spent my days and evenings either in her room or waiting in the ICU waiting area while other people visited her (there was a limit of two family members at a time). Starr, my step-sister and her daughter Joy (who has a little girl, Mindy, a month or so younger than Robert) came by a lot. Joys fianc worked at the hospital, and he visited, too. Jeff (my step-brother) came by almost every day after work. He had always been there for both mom and papa, and I was glad they had him. Hes good man.
Joy came by to clean papas house and she and Starr were with me a lot. They are great people, my papas blood kin.
They would run us out of the room around 8pm, and sometimes I wouldnt go back to Papas house right away. Id go see my sister sometimes. One night I went to the movies. Did you know that you can buy a movie ticket and coke, watch your movie and leave a theater without speaking a word? You can.
I think, maybe this is part of why Ive never really been a singer. Different people carry tension in different parts of their bodies, you know? I carry mine in the shoulders and the throat. Swear to God. Remember how I said that music moves me? I almost always have an emotional reaction to music, and when I do, more often than not, this little drawstring in my throat clenches tight and nothing much gets out.
The only songs I ever got to sing at recitals were lullabies in languages I dont speak. Heck, I even choked up on Guten Abend, because when I was wee (and my dad was stationed in Germany) my German nanny sang it to me. A freakin lot of good the voice lessons did me; when I could feel the music, it throttled me. *sigh*
Driving back that night, pondering what the heck happened to M. Night Shyamalan, my phone rang. I pulled off the road, coughed like a cat hacking up a fur ball, and answered. It was CT.
I dont know how long we talked, but I remember she said, Sometimes all we can do for those we love is to bear witness to their suffering. Something along those lines, anyway. It was a message I needed to hear. I wanted to hope. I wanted my mother back, but I knew that the woman I had known as my mother had been mostly gone for over a year.
See, I had been keeping my troubles from her, but I knew something was afoot when my sister started calling me when she was upset about stuff. I found I was almost as good as mom in helping to talk her down from one of her blood-sugar rants. Shed forget to eat and every tiny inconvenience would become part of a global conspiracy to do her ill. Id sympathize for a bit, tell her how much I loved her and talk her into eating some crackers. Because you cant come at a blood-sugar bitch-fit head on. You cant just say, Geez, sis, eat some cheetos! If you do, you get screamed insistence that she is NOT having a low blood sugar crisis her life just SUCKS and she wishes she could just DIE and THEN everybody would have to clean up their own &^%%$##% messes! Of course, a handful of cheetos later she is so very embarrassed when she admits, Gee, I was having blood sugar crisis, wasnt I?
Its still better to go at it sideways. Sometimes you have to call her daughter on her cell phone and say, Please go fix your mom a sandwich and dont skimp on the protein.
See, even in her low blood-sugar psychosis, my sister knew that mom couldnt help her anymore. I wonder if shell kill me for saying that, but I think its true. We had already learned how to live without her it was just that we didnt want to.
CT came to visit me. Seriously. She flew into Knoxville and drove to the hospital on Saturday morning, even though she knew shed have to leave Sunday afternoon. Hatrack was a big part of that whole experience, for me.
You guys prayed for me, encouraged me. If it hadnt been for Hatrack, I wouldnt have known Sara, or the grace she brought into my life when I needed it so badly. I am still humbled by the idea that anyone, even my very best friend, would go that thoroughly out of her way for me. Yes, I had tried to offer her support when she was going through the loss of her mother, but I knew I didnt deserve this.
I guess thats the thing about friendship it gets its power from the fact that it doesnt have to be deserved.
We had lunch at the hospital, and they let me take her in to meet my mom. She was pretty heavily sedated something they had started to keep her from pulling out the respirator but she opened her eyes and seemed to know we were there.
My whole family loves Sara, by the way. She impressed Papa in a lot of ways, and even surprised him with the gift of a nice wooden chess set he and Jeff played a couple times while I was there. He had not expected a Host Gift. I think my brother was smitten, too. (He made a point to come through every weekend and every time he could as he passed between Colorado Springs and Greensboro, so he happened to be there when she was visiting.)
I took her to a place called the Blue Hole, an old swimming hole near my folks house that is maintained by the National Park system. It was clear and sunny that day, and we had it to ourselves. We didnt swim, but we enjoyed the beauty of it and the roar of the falls. Being able to share a place like that with Sara, when everything around me seemed so unstable and so full of pain, was a true blessing. Difficult to describe, I guess.
You feel the stones under you, hear the falls and the sun warms you. It's like something says, "This is the world, and you're in it. Whatever happens is part of it, too, and part of you." I know it sounds dumb to say it like that, but there is something comforting about moments of stillness in a beautiful place.
Afterwards, my step-brother Jeff expressed concern that we had gone there by ourselves on a Sunday morning. He was concerned about "girls" going there alone. (It's something of a 'party' spot in warm weather.) But we were fine, and it was good.
It was hard to say goodbye, even though I knew she had to go. I was still kind of stunned she had come at all. Such is the grace of friendship.
The following week, the internist finally realized that the procedure he wanted to do wouldnt work because her recent surgery would show up as a hot spot regardless of infection. They found a new infection in her blood, this one caused by a fungal agent of some kind. That brought the blood infection total up to three. The long-term care doctor called us out into the hall, to tell us what the future looked like.
Soon, they would need to put in a port for the respirator, probably a feeding tube and a few other things related to long term care. Decisions had to be made soon.
Gather your family together, if you can, and we will meet with them all, he said.
I think everyone can be here by Monday morning, I said. It was Thursday, I think.
The smallish Indian doctor nodded, and his two residents stood behind him, looking uncomfortable. You need to involved everyone in the decision, and begin talking together about what your Grandmother would want.
Shes her daughter, Papa said. Her youngest.
The doctors female resident seemed a little surprised, and gave me a look of sympathy. We scheduled the meeting with the doctor for Monday at 9am. I made the calls and my brother scheduled an indefinite family leave. His employer was understanding; I hoped they were close to finding a replacement for him in Colorado. Colorado to N.C is one heck of a commute.
Papa and I talked. He said she had a living will. Some of the ICU nurses agreed to look through her chart and her older charts (they stacked up almost 4 feet high) for the Living Will, but told us that in Tennessee it was still up to the family. We trashed the house looking for a copy.
I knew she had a living will. She was an R.N. and had occasionally worked Home Health for hospice patients before her own illness made her leave nursing. Everyone in the family knew that she had said many times that she wouldnt want to be kept alive on a feeding tube and respirator. Heck, my mom was a talker anyone who had ever been stuck in a line with her at the Post Office probably knew her thoughts on the subject
But, dammit, I wanted that piece of paper. I didnt want the burden of the decision. What if there was hope? Mom had always believed in miracles, after all.
*shakes head* I knew in my heart what was going to happen. I could see it when I closed my eyes. No one would want to say it. My step-siblings, even my papa would feel that it was up to us, her blood kin. They wouldnt want us to feel like they had been the ones to force the issue, you know? We all knew what Moms choice would be, but the steps wouldnt feel it was their place to say.
She loved them and they loved her, but I knew the family culture. I knew they would not speak. I also sensed that my older brother and sister wouldnt either. There was still some bad blood between them, though it was mostly in the past neither one would want the other to intimate that they did not love mom as well as the other did.
Okay. I know that sounds crazy, and I could be way off on the why, but I was certain neither one of them could say it. I knew it like I know the sun will rise in the morning. I knew it would fall to me.
And it pissed me off. Just a little, but it did. How could I speak for my mother? But how could I not?
See, no one would ever say I had it in for mom, or that mom and I werent as close as mom and whoever. I was the only one who could say it without someone having a visceral reaction. Not that it would be said aloud, mind you.
If my sister spoke up, my brother might not think Well, she has to be the drama queen but my sister would probably believe he thought so. And vice versa.
Papa as much as told me that he wouldnt say what had to be said.
We all know what she wanted to happen in this situation, but I dont want you kids to think I took the choice away from you. Shes your mama.
I called Sara from papas phone. I cried to her like a baby. In the morning, Im gonna open my mouth and kill my mama. How can I do that? How can I?
Sometimes we have to be an advocate for people we love. Speak for her.
She was right. I could speak for my mother. I would speak for my mother; I was strong enough. I was my mothers daughter.
It happened just as I had seen it in my head during that long dark night. We followed the doctor and his residents to a meeting room. It was packed with my siblings and moms adult grandchildren, step and otherwise.
The doctor explained that they could prolong moms life, possibly for months, but the chances of her beating the triple blood infections were worse than slim. He laid it all out. Our options were to stay the course, begin much more aggressive treatments (feeding tube, etc.) or withdraw invasive measures and let her go. None of the options had much different chances of her survival, and if we stayed at the same level of treatment she would need a tracheotomy soon because of the risk of infection with the respirator running through her mouth. He would commit wholeheartedly to whatever course the family chose, but there was little hope of a meaningful recovery.
When he stopped talking, for a long time there was no sound in that over-packed room but our breathing and sniffles. I waited.
Papa and most of the steps looked at me (I was the only one of moms kids still at home when she married papa, so they knew me more than my brother and sister all of them had been out on their own before the marriage, too); my sister and brother didnt look at anybody, heads down.
Finally, I spoke. I could breathe and all, but my vocal chords were tight. I didnt think I could make a sound, but I did. We all know what she wanted, dont we? Is there anyone who didnt hear her say she didnt want to be kept alive on a respirator? She threatened to haunt me if I ever let them put in a feeding tube.
People giggled. It was true; wed all heard her say it. It was just something mom would say, and when she said it -- instead of being horrified -- we'd laugh. It was just the way she said those things, with a giggle in her voice that made you laugh along. Others spoke up, too, and we started talking, all of us. After a few minutes, the doctor asked what our decision was.
I said it through tears, but I said it. She would want us to let her go, so that is what I think we should do. Once I had said it, everyone voiced agreement. The doctors left, and we hugged each other and cried. I know it was the choice she would have wanted, but I was glad we were all in agreement.
Thats why I told the Spirit of Inappropriate Laughter story. See, from a certain point of view, the Holy Rollers were right. I mean,when they said I had a Spirit of Matricide. Maybe they knew something I didn't, in some twisted version of the future. I certainly hadn't thought I could do what I did, but I was wrong.
I did kill my mother. Not with my hands, but with my mouth and with my heart.
It was the most loving and the most horrible thing I have ever done.
Posted by ClaudiaTherese (Member # 923) on :
Oh, Livvy. Sweetheart.
---
So beautifully written, so painful, so honest. And I know how all of this is colored by your own history and future as a mother.
(((Olivet)))
Posted by Uprooted (Member # 8353) on :
I don't have words . . . that is a sacred story.
Posted by Dagonee (Member # 5818) on :
((Olivet))
Posted by Anna (Member # 2582) on :
Oh my - I shouldn't have read it at work, now I'm on the verge of tears and I can't cry. I just feel like hugging you really tight. Mom used to say the exact same thing your Mom did - that she would haunt me if I ever asked her to be put on reanimation past hope of recovery. And it used to make me laugh, too. ((((Olivet))))
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
Thank you all. I'm a little overwhelmed. I guess I just want to be honest, and when I get to the end be able to say that I told the whole truth as best I could. I don't want to make you feel sad; I just want to tell it like it was and hope those who read it understand. Thank you for hearing me.
Posted by ketchupqueen (Member # 6877) on :
(((hugs)))
I am sure my mom has a living will. But now I need to have that conversation with her. I need to have it now, while it's easy. While we can laugh about it.
Thank you for sharing, sweetie. Posted by sweetbaboo (Member # 8845) on :
I think you are brave in facing difficult situations head on and I admire that in you. Hugs.
Posted by Anna (Member # 2582) on :
It's not bad sad, if you follow me. What you wrote is very powerful.
Posted by Farmgirl (Member # 5567) on :
((Olivet)) Wow. Just Wow.
I can only hope to be half as strong as you if I ever have to be in such a position. I admire you so much.
Posted by ludosti (Member # 1772) on :
(((Olivet)))
I can only imagine the difficulty of speaking for my mother when the only choices are heartrending ones.
Posted by Noemon (Member # 1115) on :
((Olivet))
Thank you so much for sharing this with us, Olivet.
Posted by imogen (Member # 5485) on :
(((Olivet)))
Thanks for sharing. And what an amazing woman you are. *hug*
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
Thank you guys. I appreciate your kindness.
I'm a little afraid I may lose you here. This is kind of a long post, so I have broken it up a bit. I will probably post the rest later tonight. This is where it gets tricky. I still question whether I did the right thing, sometimes. I know what she would have said about it, no question, but I still wonder.
We went back to the ICU. They let us all in, instead of limiting her to two family members. We had to wait in the hall a bit while they took out the respirator, then they let us back into the room. I was puzzled, and a little amused, despite feeling so raw. We were all wrung out, I think. I know I felt kind of bruised and empty, like an old tube of toothpaste. We all piled in around her bed, most of us touching her. I stood at the foot of her bed and laid a hand on the blanket over her foot. Everyone was standing there expecting her to die, like, right then.
The same way I knew what I would have to say in the meeting, I knew that my mother was not going to die that day. I just knew it. *shrug* I looked around at my family, and some part of me wondered who would have to leave first, or sit down or go to the bathroom or have lunch. There was a duplicity to it. She was going to die, and we would have to go on living. The pain was there, low and immense, but part of my brain hovered over it, detached. This separation of feeling and thought was not new to me; once upon a time I had rather excelled at it. At one time I had made a choice to let myself feel things; at another, I had used Zoloft to dull my lows and bring joy back into my reach.
Now, the Zoloft was gone I had been there at my mothers bedside for almost three weeks and off the pills for a week before that, at least. The bubble wrap was gone, and I was this naked pink thing shivering in the wind. That wasnt all of it, though. The part of me that had always been there, the strength Id forgotten I had, was there, too. It was right for me to feel this; it was right for me to bear witness to my mothers last days, feel the pain of my guilt and my loss and honor her.
We were all crying I was crying, too. I was crying more with guilt than grief. I knew in my heart she was not going to die in anything like the time anyone expected. So, I began to wonder. I knew she wasnt as weak as they thought, if they expected her to just die like that after having a respirator that she wasnt even dependant on removed. So, what if I was wrong? What if we should have fought harder for her? I knew that wouldnt be what she wanted, but I wondered if she might be wrong.
Did I really want her alive so badly that I would go to any length just have her back at home in that cursed recliner if that outcome was even possible. I had been told by people with degrees that it wasnt possible, yet those same people seemed to think shed just stop when they took out that tube, and I knew they were wrong about that. It would be a while before I would abandon these questions. (Two years and counting) Ill let you know when I stop second-guessing everything about those days.
I saw my sister shift her weight, her hand high on moms left arm. We talked to her and told stories about her. She didnt stir. We later found out that they had kept her sedated until long after there was any hope of her waking up to speak to us. I knew they kept her on fluids, but I didnt know what the other bottle was. She could have morphine any time she seemed to be in pain. She never woke up, not really.
Eventually people had to go to lunch, or work, or the bathroom. They let us come and go as we pleased and were very respectful. When it got dark outside, we negotiated who would stay the night with her. Joy wanted to, I think to keep Papa from wearing himself out. I stayed with her until 10pm or so. Her brother Chris and his wife Emily came by that night, and so did Tony, my other stepbrother, who hadnt seen mom or papa in years.
He had been living at home, partly, when mom and papa married, but only for a few months. He was super nice to me, and always called me sis, even from the very beginning. I think he dug the idea of having a kid sister to look out for, having always been the youngest himself. He was a bit of wild one. When someone broke into our house and took a few things, he was the one that papa suspected. *shrug* He was never anything but wonderful to me. He was close with mom and papa for quite some time, until he divorced and re-married. I dont know if he was ashamed (we had all really liked his first wife) or if his second wife didnt like us much, but we didnt see him a lot after that.
There wasnt much room in there to sit (one chair, a metal trash can with a solid lid and the window sill) and I left a little after Tony did. I missed seeing Emily faint, when she saw moms catheter bag was full of blood. Joy and I had gotten used to the sight, I guess. Poor Emily shes such a sweet girl. Mom always liked her.
Papa stayed the second night. The next morning, they told us they were going to move her to another hall. ICU is prime real estate for people who have hope of living, I guess. I think they were hoping shed cooperate and die before it became an issue, but she hadnt.
We laughed about that, because it was just like mom, to do the unexpected. Even when unconscious, evidently. I dont mean we were having a party, exactly, but sometimes you either laugh or you cry. Sometimes you do both. The doubts nagged at me; she was still so strong, why hadnt I fought harder? Because I knew she didnt want me to. I knew that was the truth, maybe the only truth that mattered.
I wanted my mama back, but she wanted to go. I cannot tell you how many times I nearly broke, nearly went screaming to the doctors that it was a mistake, that we wanted to fight for her. I wanted to tell them they were wrong, that she wasnt giving up, that she could beat those microbes feasting on her blood, if we just helped her a little. Sometimes I shook with the need to scream.
So, they moved her to a different floor, where the nurses were all new to us, and didnt read that she had a latex allergy. It felt so incredibly stupid to tell nurses not use latex. Dont want the dying woman to get a rash. Joy and Starr and I washed her and rolled her frequently. She had bed sores, and now that they had taken her out of the bed with the air bladders that rotated her to prevent pressure points, we had to do it. If she moaned, we called for morphine. Mostly she didnt seem to be in pain.
I have to say that it did me good to do those things for her. Dip a sponge on a stick in mouthwash and wipe out her mouth, wash her hair and her body, put powder on her in places that might get sweaty. She never would have let me serve her like that, even though shed have done it for me in a heartbeat.
Sometimes Id go with Starr and Joy when they had a smoke break. We had to go all the way on the other side of the parking lot, because the law had changed and you couldnt smoke on hospital property, even in the parking lot. Also, it was the only place our cell phones could be turned on/get signal.
As she was leaving one day, Starr kissed Joy, her daughter. Joy flinched and wiped her face. Ew, that was a wet one!
Was not. They joked and giggled and teased each other, the way moms and daughters do.
When she started to hug me, I made a big show of licking my lips and puckering, to make them laugh. Mouth-smack-y noises and everything. It became a running joke among us we still do it at family gatherings. Make the lip-smacky noises, that is, not plant wet kisses on each others faces.
I want to take a minute to tell you that my steps (sister, brothers, father, niece) each and every one of them, took me aside (individually) during those weeks and told me that they wanted me to know that I was part of their family, even when mama was gone. They wanted me to know that I would always be welcome, no matter what. Now, in some situations one might be tempted to take that to mean the opposite - that they were just being polite and saying so was actually a way of illustrating what separated us.
But my steps are not the type who would do that. They say stuff because they mean it, good, bad or indifferent. Being around them is like drinking cool water on a hot day. They dont play those games.
I was with mom all day every day, and even stayed late into the night with my brother or papa, but they kept telling me to go home and get some rest. I never managed to stay longer than 11pm, but I always came early, too. I had nothing else to do. The boys were in school. They had come up the weekend before the family meeting, but had to go back. I told Ron Id call him when she passed, but there was no point in them missing a week of school only to have to miss more for the funeral. It had become clear that she wasnt going to be lucid again.
Tonys wife Tammy came around a lot, which bothered me. She hadnt seen mom in years. Two years running, mom had gotten Christmas gifts for their family, but they never came by to visit, and that had been at least two years earlier (shed given up on getting them gifts because they didnt ever visit).
One day were all in the room with mom, Starr and Joy and Tammy and me, when Tammy started in with the sponges and the mouthwash, digging around in my moms mouth and kind of humming to herself as she did it. I dont know why it bothered me so much, but I was not the only one who found it awkward. Joy said something to her, half-jokingly, and we sort of exchanged glances.
I think this knack of laughing about things that really bother you, making a joke of it so seamlessly I think that may be a cultural thing. A mountain thing. My mother had it down, and it was a comfort to be with Joy and Starr. We all come from the same stock, I suppose, but Joy was like mom in that she could handle those awkward things better than most, and end up relaxing everyone into a giggle. This time, though, it didnt quite work.
Tammy kept at it. I have no idea what felt so obscene about her cleaning my mothers mouth like that. I was strung out from not sleeping, on edge. I think some part of me didnt want her to touch mom because she hadnt loved her, yet it didnt bother me like that when the nurses helped us. My saving grace in that situation was that Im sure no one knew how badly I wanted to punch this woman. I dont usually come across as the violent type, and Tammy was only trying to help. She didnt know most of us well enough to chat a lot, and had cared for the elderly before
I excused myself to the rooms little bathroom and turned on the water in the sink. I screamed. It didnt make a sound, but I screamed until my throat was raw with it, and my face red. My eyes were bloodshot. I washed my face and went back out like nothing happened, but I had managed not to beat the living crap out of my well-meaning step-sister-in-law, so it was all good.
Joy had brought a CD player and we played music for mom. Once when everyone had gone (and Tammy had gone to another room to visit another person she knew in the hospital), I played Into the West for her. I cried, and begged her to forgive me. I felt guilty for her death and guilty for not wanting her to die. Still do.
That day she was visited by a few old friends from church, the pastor and his wife Debbie (who had always been a great of moms) and one of my old friends from when Ron and I had lived in a neighboring town. I may have told you about Jim and Jenny. Both of Jims parents had died before I met him, and Jenny had also lost her mother at a young age. For the first time, I had an idea what that might have been like. She took time off work to see me (It was me she came for, not my mother, though she had liked my mother a lot).
The last time she really opened her eyes and seemed like she really saw anything, it was when Frances (an old friend from church) came by. Her eyes were going yellow in the whites.
They moved us down the hall to the room on the end, because we asked. It was bigger with more places to sit, and moms little room was always stuffed with people. Finally, the others let me stay the night. It had been several days by this point, and I think they feared she would die when I was alone with her. Im not sure why.
I guess maybe it was that I was the youngest, and they all felt the need to shelter me. Inexplicable, isnt it? I was as strong as any of them, and I thought they knew that. But I was the baby, and coddling me gave them something to do.
Posted by KarlEd (Member # 571) on :
(((Olivet))) I wish I were there to hug you in person.
Posted by jeniwren (Member # 2002) on :
quote:I dont usually come across as the violent type, and Tammy was only trying to help. She didnt know most of us well enough to chat a lot, and had cared for the elderly before
I was getting uncomfortable just reading this, up til this point when it sort of clicked. I wonder if Tammy was not also uncomfortable, so she did what made her feel comfortable, unconscious of how it might appear to the rest of you. Whenever I know I have to be with people I don't know very well (or know just well enough to not know what to talk with them about), I often plan something we can do physically with our hands so that any awkwardness of talking (or not talking, as the case often is) can be eaten up by the doing. More often than not, it's a way not to know people. Or rather, for them not to know me. Cover it up with doing so I don't have expose my inadequacy.
Not that that's any excuse or anything, I just have wonder at your restraint, and at your ability to step back now and see, then relate it to those of us who've never had to go through anything like it (yet). And by relate, I mean make it relatable.
Your story has really touched me, I guess is what I'm trying to say.
Posted by sweetbaboo (Member # 8845) on :
I agree, very touching. More hugs to you Olivet.
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
jeniwren, I'm sure you're right. I've been in that awkward position, too. I just wanted to be honest about what I felt, even the irrational bits.
Here's what I was going to post last night. I'm going to have oral surgery in a little bit, so I may not really feel up to posting more until next week.
#
When my sister heard that I was staying the night, she came over, too. The larger room had a couch that made a bed. One of moms doctors came by. The one that had done the emergency colostomy, I think. She had also known my uncle, and we talked a bit. That is when I learned that mom was still on a sedative. The doctor said she would have had her taken off of it, if she had known; maybe mom could have talked to us, then. She was truly sad to see mom dying, and it really touched me. She stopped the sedative, in the hopes that mom might rouse a bit; there was always someone there to ask for morphine for her if she seemed distressed.
Early in the morning her nephrologists came by. He commented that her kidney function was only now beginning to go. We had to suction her more and more frequently, because of the fluid in her lungs.
The next night, my brother stayed with her. He read my novel, what I had of it. When I came in the morning to take him to breakfast, he backed me into a corner in the elevator, rested his forehead on my forehead, looked me in the eyes (it was close enough to do the Cyclops thing) and told me it was really good. He shook my shoulders told me I had to finish it.
My brother has my moms flare for the dramatic. Also, her 1mm personal space. Heh. He bought my breakfast and we talked about online forums, religion and other stuff. He had to buy the food, you know, because we had fallen into the same way of relating to each other that we had had as kids, back when I was six and he was seventeen. I half expected him to carry me on his shoulders or steal my nose.
It was incredibly comforting.
We went back up to the hospital room, and he stayed with me until 9:30(am) or so. He showed me how to use the suction machine (though I already knew, I let him show me), and told me when shed last had a morphine shot. He was exhausted and needed to go home for sleep, but he was dawdling. Shes been off the machines for around a week by then (it all blurred together for me, but I think it was either six or nine days) and he knew it would not be long.
Im not sure if it was that he wanted to be there or that he didnt want me to be alone with her when she died. Because he and my sister had decided, unconsciously, that they had to protect me from Bad Things. It had been part of their role in my life since we were kids, resurrected now when all of us were scrambling to find something Useful to do.
When your parents die, it scrambles the order of the universe for you. It sounds stupid to say it like that, but I believe this is the truth. They are the bedrock of our existence; it is impossible and somehow illogical that they could just be gone.
Judy (my sister) had taken off work and said shed be at the hospital soon, so he risked leaving me alone. He was so tired; I assured him Id be fine and sent him on his way.
I had an activity bag with me. I had been lugging it to the hospital a lot. It had sketch pads and pencils and paperbacks Id bought one day when they kicked me out of ICU. The bag had been my constant companion when stuck in the ICU waiting room, or in the hospital room alone. I had chatted with others in the ICU waiting room, early on.
There had been a boy (I say boy but he was in his 20s) whose father had a heart attack, whod asked to see my drawings. We nodded in the halls as we went back and forth to ICU. His father had recovered.
Once, early on, I drew a picture of my mom lying in the bed. The pencil marks are so light I cant scan it. Im not sure why I drew her like that; it was a terrible thing to see her that way. My love for her was still the same, even though she wasnt quite the exotic goddess shed been most of her life. I wish she could have known how beautiful she was to me, even dying.
I washed her hair with some waterless shampoo, and cleaned her up a little. Her arms were black where the blood had leaked under her skin from various needles, but most of them still appeared to be healing, as was her surgical incision. Its amazing, the way you can have a scratch on your arm that heals just fine while inside, your organs are failing. Her legs and feet were still shapely and hairless. I had to suction her again, almost immediately. The fluid from her lungs kind of bubbled up and out her nose. The doctor had told us that she was basically drowning.
I believe Ive told you I almost drowned twice, and was smothered unconscious once, thinking I was going to die. Im not really afraid of going that way anymore, so I wasnt as horrified at the thought as you might think.
Finally, I sat down and picked up my book. It was a pulp paperback, one with enough action to hold my attention. I was just getting to a very interesting part that the story had been leading up to for some time, when I just put it down. Head went up, book went down. Just like that.
Mom was still breathing, just as she had been; nothing was different, but I got up and went to her side. I held her hand, and said, Mom?
She breathed again, and I looked at the clock. I looked back at her, waiting for the next breath. I love you.
She didnt breathe. The nurse came in.
Almost gone, she said, cheerily. I just looked at her. She was talking about the fluid IV. Then she saw the look on my face.
I think she stopped breathing, I said.
She got her stethoscope and listened to her chest for a long time. While she was bent over, listening, mom breathed one last time. They call it agonal breathing it looks strange, reflexive. The mouth opens and the neck muscles kind of pull. It doesnt look natural, because that isnt the way people breathe every day, but really it is natural. Usual, no. Natural, yes.
I think that was the last one, the nurse said. She was blond, and maybe a little older than me. I think she assumed (as a lot of people my age seem to do) that I was younger than I am. Sympathy radiated from her; I dont remember hearing what she said, but I remember that she spoke to me. By the time I noticed her lips moving and listened, she was telling me that she would call someone to do something. The paperwork of death, I guess, and the removal of the central line and catheter. They take out the tubes and all that before giving the body to the funeral home.
She didnt say all that, but it was what she was talking about. I do remember that she said, Do you need to call someone?
I nodded and grabbed my cell phone. I called papa and told him she was gone. I probably told him how she dies, too. It was this weird, slow-mo thing for me. I had known, even though there was no logical explanation for how I could have known, when her spirit left her body. A light went on in my head. Head went up, book went down. Just like that, just in time to say I loved her one last time.
I tried to call Steve, but his cell was in the dead spot (there was a cellular dead spot along the highway to my grandfathers home, where he was staying about 8 or 9 miles worth), Id have to wait and try again. I was about to call my sister when she walked in the door.
She walked straight to me and hugged me. I hugged her and told her mom was gone. After a few minutes, she told me shed had a dream that morning. She was driving a truck, and mom was in the back, telling her, Youd better hurry, I have to go.
There had been a big story on the local news about a guy who had been found dead of natural causes, but hed been dead a week or so when he was found. The ambulance didnt want to transport the oogy corpse, because it would have to be out of commission for weeks while it was cleaned and made useable for the living again. Something to do with the state of decomposition. The family had agreed to let the Sheriff haul the body in the back of his truck.
So, yeah. Im from a town small enough that the Sheriff could think its a good idea to haul dead people to the morgue in the back of a pickup, but large enough for said hauling to cause a scandal.
Anyway, she had missed mom by minutes. I think it was meant to be. I think I was supposed to be alone with her when she passed. I dont know why I believe that, but I do. Being there, and feeling what I felt well, it is a sacred memory for me.
Posted by sweetbaboo (Member # 8845) on :
I agree Olivet that being there at the time of passing is a sacred event. I have similar feelings regarding my Grandma's death. She had some kind of rare stomach cancer that they didn't catch until the day before she died, when she was already dying and we'd already made the decision to take her off the fluids and everything. I relate to the feelings of "just letting her die". I wonder myself about that and have to remind myself that it's what she wanted. Your whole experience is reliving that for me.
Know you're not alone in living and loving and letting go. I've been crying right along with you through your whole memory of this. Thanks for sharing what is so obviously difficult and painful.
[ May 05, 2006, 10:19 AM: Message edited by: sweetbaboo ]
Posted by Rakeesh (Member # 2001) on :
I haven't been reading your updates on this until today, Olivet. It's just the way I am, really. If it's a story I really, really enjoy in any medium...well, I try and wait until it's finished, or at least until there is are large segments of it completed, so I can make a real sit-down of it, y'know?
Sometimes I can't restrain myself, though, and read chapters, or blurbs, or previews, that sort of thing. But I end up enjoying it more (if it's fluffy) or gaining more out of it and enjoying it (if it's not) if I wait.
I'm glad I waited, even though you're not finished yet. Your story was echoing sometimes in the back of my mind when it was (relatively) light, back in the <5pages days. I think it would have been clamoring quite a bit, had I been reading it piecemeal while you updated it. I would have had to restrain myself from requesting more frequent updates, which given the intensity on you would have been rude in the extreme.
Anyway, I don't think words like sacred and precious are remotely inappropriate to this story. I am very grateful for what you have shared so far. It is the kind of story that I think might make those who read it-including myself-better people, even in small ways. Reading it evokes some of the same difficult-to-describe feelings as I get when I read Hart's Hope. That's the story I've read most recently that felt that way, that and yours. Some music, too.
Thank you very much again. You are a lioness, and I am grateful to know you, even if only slightly.
Posted by Christy (Member # 4397) on :
Wow. Still digesting. There's a lot of pain, but a lot of good in these last posts. I'm amazed at your strength for writing them down and filtering through your thoughts.
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
This is a long one. I just couldn't find a place to break it up. Sorry about that. :/
It's a bit like trying to tell the thing in one breath, because I'm ready to end it soon. It's finished; I will post the end tomorrow.
#
We had a list of people to call and their numbers taped to the window, and my sister and I split it up and called everyone that hadnt already been called. I think I actually called Sara before some of them, and left a message. My mothers death had been a marathon of sorts; time seemed to dilate between the time we stopped treatment and the time she actually died. I dont know about the others, but I hardly slept.
I read a lot. I tried to write some, but found that I couldnt do it. I did hash out an outline of a story where the slightly arrogant protagonist gets beaten severely with his own severed arm. My brain was a stew of guilt and anger as well as love and closeness with my family. We needed each other now, but only time would tell whether the center would hold.
Mom was the center, you see she was the one we called, the one we got news from about everyone else. Now, wed have to actually talk to each other. This seemed a little more daunting than it should have.
Soon, the room was full of us. We waited for hours before they came to take out the tubes and sign the death certificate. I tried to get papa to go for some coffee with me while they pulled out the tubes. I had thought it might be hard on him.
He half smiled at me, kindly and said, Why? Are you squeamish? Ive seen it all.
I blushed and Joy giggled a little. Of course it was obvious he wasnt leaving her until it was done. It had been a long hard few years for him. He needed knee replacements and he had injured both his shoulders lifting her and caring for her in that time. He certainly didnt need me to try to protect him from certain realities. Its easy to forget, sometimes, how strong the people you care about actually are. What is it, I wonder, that makes us want to protect people from things that they are actually better prepared to deal with than we are ourselves? I was trying to do to papa what my siblings had done to me.
Moms transplant nurse (I believe her name was Jan) had been by to visit a few times, and had asked us to let her know when she passed. My sister and I went looking for her and found her. She had also been our uncle Rondals transplant nurse, and she told us stories about how mom and her brother had harangued each other when they were in the transplant center together. Once she realized that their horrible insults were disguised, jocular affection, she had found them both extremely amusing.
We withdrew a moment to let her say goodbye. When she was done, she turned back to us.
She was such a beautiful person we always looked forward to the days when her visits were scheduled. Ive never seen a person more alive. Tears were streaming down her face, and I knew she was speaking from the heart. You know, were sad to see her go, but I bet there are a lot of people in heaven that are happy to have her there. Rondal and her mama.
Now, I dont know what I believe about the afterlife, exactly, but I do know this: there is no place in this world or the next that wouldnt be happy to have a woman like mother. She could make a friend of a fence post.
Papa told Jan which funeral home would be handling the arrangements, if she wanted to attend, but she said she wouldnt go.
I never attend funerals, not even family. Not ever. She hugged us, said her final goodbyes and words of comfort, then she left.
At the time, I thought it a little weird that she would not attend funerals, but now it doesnt seem so strange. She was easily one of the best, most upbeat nurses that mom ever worked with or had occasion to meet. I think that in order to be that way she needed to keep hope inside her. Maybe so many funerals would wear down that part of her. In any case, I respect her decision.
The clean, impeccably neat little man from the funeral home came to claim the body with a gurney-like thing covered in dark green velvet. I remember saying goodbye to everyone, knowing wed meet back at papas house, and later go to the funeral home. I remember getting into my car in the parking lot. The sun had been spotty that day, and as I stood in my car door I thought it smelled like rain. I remember that I had been early enough to get a closer parking space than usual, and I was not far from where papa had parked in the handicapped area. (I did tell you he badly needed knee replacements (but had been putting them off because mom needed him) didnt I?)
I remember thinking that was it. I had been coming to this hospital every single day for weeks. I knew faces. I knew which days the cafeteria served what and whether papa would want to go out to lunch when they served chicken. I knew there was a young, mentally handicapped groundskeeper that I tried to avoid because he would follow me places and it creeped me out a little.
It was so weird to think that I wouldnt be going back after lunch or dinner, or staying the night, or getting up early to relieve someone else. I remember the black interior of my car was hot and comforting, and I didnt turn on the AC.
But I remember nothing else in sequence at all. I have no idea if I drove straight home, or if we met at the funeral home first. I must have called my Beloved at some point (though I would not have done that and driven at the same time). We had waited hours for the doctor to confirm her death; Im sure I talked to him several times during that time. I know I called Sara, even before some of the people on the list.
Its a bit of a blank, really.
I remember that my grandfather came by the house with buckets of chicken and side dishes from KFC, and the quiet, white-haired man from the funeral home came by with chairs and a book to sign. I think he brought paper plates and plastic cups, too. He put the flowers on the front of the house. It was always pink flowers for the death of a woman and white for the death of a man. He also placed the Slow Funeral signs on the street, I suppose.
That had to be after we finalized everything from mothers pre-paid funeral, and told them what to put in the paper about relatives and things. One thing they offered that we decided to do (even though she had not requested it), was a video that used pictures of her. We had to pick 21 pictures of her, and decide on a song and scenery. We picked mountain scenery because she loved where she lived, but everyone was quiet about the song.
I had always been the quiet one, at least to my family. In Christian school I had had the fortune to be placed with students quieter and more backward than I was on class trips, which afforded me my first opportunity to be the first to speak. Id be at the weird kid table when the waiter came by the third time, and in exasperation, Id order something and then everyone else felt safe enough to order. That was tough at first, because I had read the press release that said I was shy and had believed it, but it got easier until at last I couldnt understand what the big deal was. It was not the end of the world if you chose badly.
I could remember my mother singing, How Great Thou Art and it had strangely been stuck in my head through a great portion of my college experience. At odd moments, Id hear it in my head. The same way a jingle will take hold of your brain and drive you crazy, but it was comforting. I looked down the list; it was there.
I tapped the paper, suggesting it to papa. That was what we chose. I was so tired of choosing, so tired of being the one to speak first. I felt as though I could be happy if I never had to speak again.
The pastor of their church and his wife brought more chicken. Papa had brought out a Rubbermaid box bigger than a footlocker full of pictures, and we all sat down to sift through them. Twenty-one for the video, which they would come by and pick up this evening, and as many others as we liked well enough to display on magnetic boards around the receiving room. Wed narrowed the top choices down to fifty or so, and laid them out on the table. All the siblings and grandchildren gathered around to help narrow them down. We had a few of her as a child, and tried to choose ones that showed the stages of her life, ones of her with friends and family. Papa chose her nursing school graduation photo for the newspaper announcement. She had been so proud and happy valedictorian after having gotten her GED at forty. Shed proven to herself and to the world that she was no idiot. Those of us who knew her well already knew that, but people say terrible things about beautiful women, sometimes.
There was one of her with her friend Olivia Owen (my namesake) in Germany, and one of her posing in a bikini in front of my fathers car (his mother had taken the picture, to send to him overseas). One of her, much later in life, doing the hula in a modest grass skirt at a church cook out; one of her joking around with the residents at a nursing home where she had worked.
It made it really clear to all of us just how different mom had become in the last few years. We also decided to take a few framed pictures and stand them around on tables in the receiving room. My sister Judy agreed to go early to the funeral home and set it up.
Someone suggested that we put a picture of Donna out there, too, as a way to thank her for the nine years we had with mom that we would not have had otherwise. We thought it was a good idea. Someone said, Well put a picture of her in a two-sided frame, and Libby (me) can write a poem or something for the other side.
O_O
Well, I did; that night, even though I was sure I could never come close to expressing what needed to be said. My brother had a bunch of printers and stuff with him, because he had to take a lot of his work stuff with him in order to take the time off. He printed it for me so it would look nice in the frame. After the funeral, I gave the framed one to Donna, because she said she would like a copy, when I had time.
When the announcement came out in the paper, people started calling. I had just gotten out of the shower and went to play the messages, when I heard a voice form the past. Johnnie, my friend from Christian school. Shed kept in touch with mom somewhat over the years. She was crying on the phone message. Im so sorry, Liv. I loved your mom so much, Im so sorry. Call me.
I did call her, and we talked. I told her about the pictures, and she said, I hope you picked one of her in a bathing suit, she had such a beautiful figure.
Mother had never seen herself that way, exactly. She had always been most aware of her flaws. I suppose if shed thought as much of her looks as everyone else did, she wouldnt have been the same person at all. But Johnnie was right it was time to celebrate moms life, and remember her.
Johnnie came to the funeral, looking even slimmer than in high school. Her freckles were gone, replaced by pale white skin. Her hair was even darker black than I had remembered, and she still had those clear blue eyes and thick dark eyelashes. Four children and all those years, and she was still so beautiful. It was good to see her. She was one of many girls that my mother had taken special interest in. Everyone had called my mother Mama Ann, even the kids her children dated. She just had so much love to share; everyone wanted to be around her the same way people look forward to sunshine on a summer day. Being around her was just nice.
Soon, the place was packed. A lot of the people I didnt know. My Beloved had the boys all dressed up in their good clothes, and was keeping them occupied so I could stand in the receiving line. Hed brought me clothes to wear from home; I assume they were black. I had been unwilling to pack funeral clothes when I drove up.
Debbie, the pastors wife, came through the line and asked permission to put my mothers dance sash in the coffin with her. She had been in a praise and worship dance troupe at the church. We agreed that it was most fitting for it to be buried with her. She had been a natural dancer and athlete, most of her life. As a teen she'd walked on her hands to get the mail. Down the steps, across the walk and back, with the mail grasped between her toes. She'd done backflips and cartwheels in the yard with us until her late twenties, when dad had asked her to start acting her age. He was 11 years older than her, and she always looked so young for her age that I think he felt conspicuous.
Joy and Judy and I had picked out the clothes for them to put on her body for the viewing and funeral. We had decided on red. She had always liked red and the dress we picked was red and black; not her favorite, but it was high-necked to cover the bruising around her central line.
The boys came up to hug me, and they looked at her. The fellow had done a decent job, but no one ever really looks like themselves when they are dead. I think its because they arent.
Robert looked at her and said, Its fake.
No, I said. Thats Nonnie. They just put make up on her because shes dead.
He pointed to her hand. That hand isnt real.
The swelling was gone, and the skin on her hand had shriveled in a way that really DID look fake. Well, I said. It isnt Nonnie, anyway. Not anymore.
Donna came and stood with us. I have lost her number and address, which is horrible. I had it on my computer so I could never lose it, but I didnt have it backed up. I havent called her. I didnt send a Christmas card. *sigh*
My Beloved took the boys away again. It was getting closer to time for the service.
In the sea of faces that the receiving line had become, I saw Ronnie Ellis for the first time in years. Here I was, standing by my fakey-dead mother in the same funeral home where he had stood by his fakey-dead father all those years ago.
His hair was a little thinner, but not much. Still a wispy shock of swooping orange hair, same pale, translucent skin and faded blue eye. He gave me closed smile, and I hugged him for all he was worth. He smelled the same vaguely metallic and fleshy. I have said before that his scent tripped something in my brain, something that made loving him that way impossible for me, and that was still as true as ever. But I did love him, and was more glad to see him that he realized, Im sure.
Hed seem moms obituary because it was next to that of a coach hed known in our high school days, otherwise, he would not have seen it. He knew her by the picture, not the name, because everyone called my mother Ann which was her middle name; her first name was Vesta which was what the obituary had said.
He had spent a couple years in Los Angeles, sub-leasing a house with a friend. They had made a horror movie, that he was trying to get Blockbuster to distribute. Did you ever notice that there are always a lot of cheap, indie horror flicks on the New Releases shelves at Blockbuster? Thats what he was going for, I think.
Anyway, he said hed spent the last two years at Vanderbilt, fighting cancer of the Kidney. He had been on steroids, some of the same drugs that had caused my mother to get so big, and he was easily twice the size I remembered. Hed had the same oncologist as Lance Armstrong, and was now happily cancer-free, but financially ruined. He was back to living with his mom and working; hed just gotten off work. He apologized for his clothes, which were no more casual than most people had worn, and said he couldnt stay for the service. I asked him to wait a few minutes because the line was dwindling and I wanted to talk to him.
He said, Okay and gave me one of those impish little closed smiles I had once been so glad to see. I was very glad to see it again.
By the time I got free, my Beloved Ron was talking to Ronnie Ellis, and introducing the boys. I begged a pen and a business card from my husband, and gave Ronnie my email address. I also got his in return. It sounds like it was awkward, but it wasnt; at least not for me. There was no question in my mind that I wanted to catch up with my old friend, and I knew my husband was not at all threatened by him.
I didnt see him leave.
The funeral was like most I have been to, where they speak of the persons life, how well they loved or were loved, and how we should not be sad for them because they are with those they loved that have gone before. When Pastor Charles spoke, he recalled to our minds how she was always that woman that the church could depend on to do anything and to get anything done.
There are people you meet who quietly see a need and meet it, just doing what needs doing while people like me are wondering what should be done about it, and whether people would be mad at me for doing it, or whether I knew how to do it. They just get things done, and you never even notice until its over.
Well, that was NOT the kind of person my mother was. She would see a need and shout, Hey! Lets do this! You can do that, because youre so good at it, and could you help with this? Then she would do whatever didnt get done, but everyone doing everything else would be happy and laughing and thinking, Wasnt that just the most fun ever?
THAT was my mother, and no one who knew her as well as Pastor Charles could tell a story about her and not get a laugh. No one could remember my mother at her best and not be happy at the thought. She was contagious like that. She was once a cheerleader in High School, but she was really a cheerleader all her life, to everyone around her.
As the service ended, I was buoyed up on a sea of men; my Beloved, my boys, my brothers (the natural one and both steps), and my papa. My sister was there, too, but it seemed to me that both of us were somehow made more precious to the men in our lives by the loss of our shared mother; stunted little saplings next to a huge, ruined tree of womanhood.
I dunno. That sounds so stupid, but that is how I felt. Im not big on hugs, when I have a choice, but I needed and loved every one I got than night.
I exchanged phone numbers with Johnnie, which seemed fitting. She was the one that all the Christian School gang kept in touch with over the years, a hub to that group the way my mother was a hub to our family. My moms cousin Joanne (I was always told the stories of how I loved my No-Nan when I was a wee girl) asked me if I could have a picture of my mother when she was young. I told her to pick one, and she picked one of her not too long before the transplant, which was the only thing that ever made my mom look old.
I gave it to her, frame and all, because I knew we had others and I knew how well she loved Joanne.
Before he could leave, I caught my cousin Brian. I saw my cousin Sheri and her husband and my Aunt Bille (my late uncle Rondals wife), and greeted them. It was awkward. We had been so close as children, but with our grandmother and our related parents both dead, we didnt know what to say. Brian gave me his number. I have talked to Sheri since then, but not Brian. I keep telling myself when I get our Star Wars fan film we made when were kids transferred from 8mm to dvd, Ill call them all together.
My mother was my age when we made that movie, and good-naturedly agreed to be both Obi-Wan and Darth Vader characters. Yes, THAT sort of mother.
The graveside service was the next day in the same cemetery where my father and both sets of my grandparents were buried. It is on a hill that was visible from the house we had lived in until my mother had married Papa. It had been built by my mothers father, Hannibal. I remember that when my grandmother Mary had died I couls see the tent and the flowers from my bedroom window for days.
It was almost over. I was so tired. The funeral home provided a family car, and all of the sibs rode together with papa. They parked it on the flat part of the cemetery loop, so he could walk easily to the graveside. I had gone with him the day before to pick the plot; she had asked to buried with her parents. There had been a double plot come open at the foot of her parents grave, but papa chose the plot next to her father. I think maybe he didnt want to think about being buried next to her. I dont know. Whatever his reasons, I respect them.
The graveside service was not long. The boys were good, and my Beloved was my strength. I was all in. When we left, I noticed a great swarm of carrion birds, circling one side of the cemetery hill. It was eerie. I wondered if they had been attracted by the couple of recently opened graves. Mothers had been one; the other belonged to the wife of the man who papa had met to pick a grave. It had been strange to be there, watching two newly-widowed older men mark their wives graves with those little flags. It was just something that had to be done. A small act that seemed so profoundly painful, but they both bore it quietly.
People had been so nice. I remember an older couple came by, mostly to see me. Their daughter had been a friend of mine from the neighborhood near the cemetery. She was older than me and I always thought she just sort of tolerated the wee girl who tagged along with her. She was somewhere that she couldnt make it back in time for the funeral, but asked her parents to visit on her behalf.
It was so kind of them, and it made me think that maybe, like mom, I had managed to touch a few peoples lives in a positive way positive enough that they would remember me fondly, and want to comfort me in my grief. I suppose we all touch the people around us, but I saw myself as separate, shy, at times odd or unfeeling. Maybe I was that way, sometimes, but it is wrong to think that one bit of a person is all there is, even when that person is you.
We left the next day, after writing, addressing and stamping all the thank you notes for flowers and food and kind condolences. My brother told me that now it was up to us to keep the family together, because we couldnt rely on mom to tell us each others news anymore. I was hopeful that we could do it.
So far, so good.
The time has come now that I can remember her and not be all weepy about how much I miss her, but make no mistake I DO. You know, in most of the things written about grief, people eventually seem to have some sort of visitation experience. Dreams or the like. I was talking to my sister the other day, and she mentioned how bummed she was about Mothers Day coming up, and how she wished she could tell her mom how much she loves her. She said that just when she had that thought, she felt a kiss on her head and mom say, You can still tell me; Ill listen.
I wanted to scream. Not because I dont believe her, but because I would dearly to hear from my mother, even if I was just imagining it. I remember when my father died, a while later my sister had a dream in which dad told her that her youngest knew how to get out of her car seat. The dream was right, and Judy had to get a new car seat after her toddler escaped from her seat on the way to preschool.
I didnt say anything, but I wondered if I was too much a skeptic to ever have such an experience. Then, a few years later I had a dream. I was pregnant with my fathers first grandson, and I dreamed I went to visit him. He lived in some twilight place that didnt seem like heaven but certainly was not hell. There were candles lighting all these little paths, because it was a special occasion. Anyway, we talked and talked. It felt like hours. The only thing I clearly remember him was, I love you, baby, but its time to go. Then I woke up, comforted like I had not been before. I had a similar dream before Liam was born.
But my mother? No, not yet. Sometimes I think I hear her voice singing when I sing, and sometimes I see her hands when I look at my own. I have a little red mole on my thigh, just in a place she did as well.
But its not the same thing.
More about Ronnie Ellis tomorrow.
Posted by ketchupqueen (Member # 6877) on :
(((hugs))) Still with you. Thank you for seeing this through. Posted by breyerchic04 (Member # 6423) on :
Olivet, you write some of the best emotions i've ever seen.
Posted by Dragon (Member # 3670) on :
wow.
I started reading this because the title intregued me and I was procrastinating... but you've captivated me. Your writing is beautiful; I feel like I've just spent the past few hours living your life in fast-forward. It's amazing, I can relate to so much of what you've written about your adolescence, and looking towards my future, I know I'll never have your strength.
Back on page two I read something, not sure what it was now, that reminded me of John Irving's A Prayer for Owen Meany, and the feeling never quite left me... I'm not sure if I'm actually recommending it to you, but it's an amazing book, and if you have read it, I think you'll know what I mean. I get the same sense reading your words as I did reading the things that Owen says in the novel... that sense that God, or some higher power, IS there and no matter what we might go through in our lives, it all happens for a reason.
(((Olivet)))
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
kq-You have no idea. This is one of my first steps on the way to becoming Someone Who Finishes Things -- a bigger step for me than maybe you realize. Thanks for sticking with me, kiddo.
Thank you, breyer. I wish I could explain how much you have encouraged me by reading and commenting on this all the way through. *hug*
Dragon-- O_O A Prayer for Owen Meany is, by far, my favorite Irving novel (though I haven't read his most recent). My oldest's middle name is Owen, after that character (and my namesake, Olivia Owen). I think I do veiw the world in that way, honestly. It may be a function of me remembering more stuff and drawing lines of connection through life that I otherwise wouldn't. I don't know. In any case, I am humbled by the comparison. Thank you.
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
This is the last post of the story. I hope you don't think less of me for it.
#
I exchanged a few emails with Ronnie, shortly after we came home. The boys were in school a lot of the time, and I was considering taking a class. The only thing that interested me was an overview of filmmaking. We chatted about that a bit. He also told me he was impressed with how well-behaved my sons were. Oh, if he only knew! I told it was all due to their fathers influence. I believe he had used mild forms of bribery to keep them in line at the funeral.
I asked Ronnie if hed be willing to read a short film screenplay I was working on (based on a short story written by Slash, with his permission). He made excuses about how many screenplays he already had on his hard drive, and I realized he though I was asking him to direct the thing. That had not been my intention; I had just wanted feedback from someone who knew how things get made. I didnt clarify, because I didnt want to hurt his feelings. I had never had much faith in his abilities in his chosen profession, though I had never been allowed to see any of it, so what did I know?
I did express an interest in seeing his movie, and asked him to tell me when I could buy one, so he wouldnt think I was asking for a freebie. He said the thing with Blockbuster was still in the works, and he would let me know.
We came back to visit as often as we could. Papa had surgery on his knee just after Christmas, then his shoulder in the summer and the other knee in the fall, and I tried to be up to visit shortly after each one. I liked baking him special sugar-free desserts. Pies, mostly. He really liked the strawberry-rhubarb, when it was in season.
He took us all over the border into North Carolina to pick out a headstone. He showed me what he had been thinking of, and I agreed. He picked out a design of praying hands to go on the stone. I was a little more inclined towards the one with a song bird, because mom always had birdfeeders by the windows, so she could watch them, a worn copy of Autobahn Field Guide to North American Birds nearby.
I didnt say anything, though. Papa knew I had a suggestion, he could see it in my face. One of the downsides of choosing to feel things, for me, is that I have a glass face. If I feel it, it is there for the world to see. The thing is, I didnt want to deny my mothers or papas faith, by slapping a bird on the stone. My mothers faith had often astounded me, and kept me going through some hard times, when I was young.
I didnt want to swoop into that final act of my mothers life and erase that symbol of her faith, like some super hero of doubtfulness. (Agnosti-Girl!). So I kept my big mouth shut, for once in my life. Looking back on it, Im not sure why I felt it was so important, but papa had given me a lot of input on everything about moms last days, and I wanted this to be his.
Later that visit, we went into town to pick up some groceries. I hated descending on papa with my whole family and eating up all his food, so we always bought a few things for everyone, as well as fixings for the sugarless treats I usually made for him. As we approached the check out, I realized I had forgotten to pick up some cheese, so I went back for it.
As I made my way up to my Beloved, who was checking out through and automated lane, he made eye contact and pointed to one of the other lanes. Ronnie Ellis and his mother were also there, buying groceries.
He re-introduced me to his mother with the words, You remember her.
She did remember me, even though it had been ages upon ages since Id seen her. She was just the way I remembered, as if time had stopped. Ronnie and I talked about how stuff was going. The Blockbuster thing was still tentative, but he thought it was going forward. We talked about Kill Bill and the movies that inspired it, including Battle Royale, which is banned in the U.S. Naturally, he had a copy.
I told him that my Beloved and I should make arrangements to have someone watch the kids the next time we were in town, so we could really get together and talk, or maybe watch a movie together.
My boys were bouncing around me by then, and I introduced everyone to Bonnie. Life was so busy for me, and Ronnie was obviously feeling bad about being back with his mother. I didnt care. I had an idea what he had been through (though not a clear one), and his finances didnt matter to me. I suppose I was still an old flame to him, though, and I had to respect his desire for distance. Or, maybe Im reading WAY too much into his body language. I suspect that I was right, though he never could lie to me.
I hugged Ronnie goodbye, reluctant to leave him; perhaps I suspected that our night of kid-free movie watching would never come.
Last July, I took the family up for one last visit before school started. My brother and his family were there, too; we were all gathering for a birthday party for my sisters daughter Melody. My family stayed with Papa and my brother brought his brood over from Greensboro, where they had finally settled in a nice house. Big enough for you to come visit with the boys, now that were all settled, he said.
Papas neighbors had a bunch of puppies that they had tried to animal control to take. They had taken the mother because the owner said she had tried to bite the baby-sitter, but they wouldnt take the puppies. There had been ten or so, but they were now down by five.
Two puppies came running down the hill to us when we arrived, whimpering for food. I scrambled them some eggs, figuring they could use some soft protein. It was something mother would have done she was always looking after strays of all species. Mothering her plants, animals, her own children and any who happed by.
The kids wanted to play with them, so I tried washing them. I had washed the first one twice with flea killing soap, and the water still rinsed reddish. My brother went for some Seven Dust flea powder, and that seemed to work better. His son Ethan went up to the house, looking for the others, but only found two more (one stuck in a hole by the porch) and a bad smell. The owner was gone for the weekend. She had left a couple of cans of food out, which was all gone, and some dry food, which the puppies couldnt eat. They didnt have all their teeth.
The kids all played together, with sticks fashioned into swords and bows and arrows; they played with puppies and raked leaves; they went walking in my Grandfathers woods.
My grandfather had to have two-thirds of one lung removed shortly after my grandmother died. They had found cancer during the work-up for the hernia repair he needed. By the time of this visit, though, he was all fixed up and cancer free; still maintaining his home and land. He even had cataracts removed (he and papa exchanged driving services during the course of the various procedures they had needed), and is entirely self-sufficient. He even has a girlfriend.
The puppy owner finally came back and gathered the puppies. She said she was taking them to a no kill shelter. The kids still had each other to play with, and that was great. Papa had a big family Reunion for all his brothers and sisters and their families, and he made sure to invite my brother and sister and me. We were quite a group, all of us together like that.
I managed to sneak off to visit my mothers grave, something I had not done since her funeral. I told myself I wasnt avoiding it I just didnt have time. I drove up there with the boys, and had them race each other around the cemetery loop. Its a small cemetery with only one entrance, and I could see all but twenty feet or so of the loop from my vantage point.
I tried to talk to her, but all I could say was how much I missed her and werent the boys growing up fast? It didnt seem fair that I couldnt have her around anymore, when so many people still have their parents. That is partly selfish and partly not; I wish the boys still had her around to love them. I know she would treasure them in a way they dont get from their other antecedents.
But life isnt fair; it just is. I have been unusually blessed by the people that are in my life, and the family I have, though we are separated by distance and, quite often, ideology. It doesnt matter so much. I think I became a glass-half-full kind of person when no one was looking.
When we left, I knew we were still a family. Perhaps a strange one, where so many of us had no blood ties to each other, but still a family. Whatever it is that connects us is easy and real, and it did not pass away with my mother.
I drove home on a Tuesday; school started the next week and we had to get everyone ready. On Thursday, I noticed that I had a message on my cell phone.
I got a shock when I heard Papas voice, just telling me to call him back when I could. He usually called the house phone. And the message was a little cryptic, for him.
I called him back, shaking. I knew it had to be bad news, or he would have told me what was up on the message. He was subdued when he answered.
Wasnt it Ronnie Ellis that you used to go to school with?
Yes.
Well, honey, it was in the paper that he died yesterday. Theyre receiving friends at 7:00pm, with the funeral at 8:00pm.
Oh. My watch said 4:45pm; I could never make the 300 mile trip in that time. What does it say happened?
It just says he died at home, after a brief illness. They found him yesterday.
Thats all the obituaries ever say. Brief illness, long illness, survived by
Theres no way I can go.
I know, Blue Eyes. That was always his endearment for me, dating from the time I began to call him Papa-san (as I may have mentioned). He always made my birthday cards out to Blue Eyes, and would greet me with, Hows my blue-eyed girl? Now, it was just his way of comforting me, letting me know that, even though he couldnt always fix things for me anymore, I was still his little girl. But I knew youd want to know.
Thanks, Papa. He gave me the funeral homes website (it was a different one than the one that had handled his fathers and my mothers funerals), and we said our goodbyes.
I hung up the phone and started to cry. My Beloved came in and I told him that Ronnie Ellis was dead. He told me I could leave in the next little bit and still make it for the graveside service in the morning, but Id have to drive alone because someone needed to go to the meet-and-greet with the boys teachers in the morning.
It felt like a cheat, but I couldnt go. It shocked me that he was gone, just like that. He was my age, and had been through so much. I had thought things were looking up for him, and then hes just gone.
My Beloved held me and let me cry. Ronnie Ellis was the first of my close contemporaries to die, and it was just so very raw. I would lie awake, remembering everything I could of our friendship, and the details of our long association came back to me in the darkness.
Finally, I got up and went to the spare room and my computer. I looked up his obituary on my hometown newspapers website, and almost posted it here, so I could talk to you guys about him.
Then I decided that, no, it wasnt about me. Oh, look at me, see how sad I am! No. I wanted you to know him the way I did. I wanted to show you my memories and say, This is how it was for me; this is who he was to me. I loved him, after a fashion.
There are a lot of things about him that I do not know, and memory even one like mine is a faulty thing. But now you know who he was, and who I was, and how it was for me to know him. He touched my life; maybe not the way he once wanted, but he did.
When I began this, sitting in my darkened house with my sleeping family around me, I didnt know it was going to be as much about me and my mother as it was bout Ronnie. Ten months later, I sit in a public library, amazed that I could open myself like this on such a public forum. If youve made it this far with me, that amazes me, too.
Writing this story has healed me, in some ways which is why I did it. It is all part of the journey, life, death and everything else. Its all part of the same thing, isnt it? We dont have a sign in our heads every morning that says You are here or Battery Power Fifty Percent. We just dont know.
Once, when I was at church camp, I stood at the back of the chapel at the end of a prayer meeting. It was still full of people gathered in groups, praying for each other. I was with my dear friend, Lee Piety (no lie that is his name). We had finished praying, and I was savoring the moment. There was so much love in that room. I had been taught to call it the Holy Spirit, but the best way I can describe it now is Love. People praying for each other as the Spirit moved them, as I could feel it around me in the stillness and I wanted to remember how it felt.
The camp director came up to me and stood beside me, quietly watching. My mother had been a counselor there for a summer before I came, and was also there then, but she was with her group. The camp director spoke to me, and I dont know if mom had blabbed about me, or if he was moved by the Spirit to say what he said or if it was a bit of both. Actually, I spoke first. Its a nervous habit.
This is really something.
Yes, it is, he said. And this is for you, Livvy. You will remember this and hold it in your heart. You can keep this experience with you in a way that most of us cant.
The string in my throat was tight again, and I only nodded. His words felt like the truth. I do remember, and I cherish it.
Ronnie Ellis and my mother are still with me, because I remember them. It is my peculiar gift that I remember them well. I have shared these memories with you, and I hope that through them, these people I have loved have touched you, too.
Thank you all for giving me the excuse to do this; it has done me good.
Posted by Jim-Me (Member # 6426) on :
Thank you, Olivet.
Posted by breyerchic04 (Member # 6423) on :
I love this because I can see myself writing it in 15 or so years, different situations, different people, but very similar healing process.
Posted by sarahdipity (Member # 3254) on :
This is favorite Hatrack thread and certainly the only 8 page thread I've read every post on. It was so beautiful. Thank you.
Posted by KarlEd (Member # 571) on :
That was very moving, Olivet. Thanks for taking the time to share it.
(((Olivet)))
Posted by sweetbaboo (Member # 8845) on :
Thank you for sharing your memories and loves with us Olivet!
Posted by ketchupqueen (Member # 6877) on :
That was so beautiful. Posted by jeniwren (Member # 2002) on :
Wow. That was an incredibly moving read, enhanced only by the fact that it's all true.
Made me cry, and I don't think it's that time of month yet when just about anything will do that. So it must be you and your gift for storytelling. It's not just the writing...it's the way it was organized and paced. You began at the beginning and ended at the end and I sit here in awe. Yet at the same time, I hate to even post these thoughts because it feels like I'm diminishing it. It's like critiquing someone's natural movements through life as if it were a play on the stage. And I hate to do that...yet I also want to share with you my true reaction so you know that it was more than just healing for you and hours of writing. It's the sort of storytelling that changes people.
Anyway, I hope you'll reconsider letting Pops put this up in the Landmark archives, because this thread should never fall off and be lost.
(((Olivet)))
Posted by Tante Shvester (Member # 8202) on :
Oh Honey! I'm all goosebumped from your story. You have moved me, and, I'm sure, everyone who has read it. Bless you. Posted by Kristen (Member # 9200) on :
This was a remarkable story. It is an honor you feel so comfortable with Hatrack to share your memories with us.
It was incredibly moving and I hope that you benefited from writing it as much as we did by reading it.
You are also an amazing writer as you make the writing of such a painful and intricate story seem effortless, when I know I do not have the capability to embark on such a task.
Posted by Noemon (Member # 1115) on :
That was absolutely breathtaking, Olivet. I feel honored at having had the opportunity to read it.
Posted by blacwolve (Member # 2972) on :
Thank you.
Posted by El JT de Spang (Member # 7742) on :
I've been reading all along, but I haven't had a chance to read the last 3 entries yet.
Posted by larisse (Member # 2221) on :
Wow... just wow. I've been waiting to post in this thread, because I have tried so many times before and have always fallen short. There are so many wonderful threads on Hatrack. So many worthy to be called Landmarks, but this one is definitely one of the best of the best.
Your story is so bittersweet and wonderful, Olivet. I not only feel priviledged to know some part of you, but your Mother, your Papa, Ronnie, your husband, just your whole family. I feel priviledged just to be a small part of that family being a part of Hatrack. Thank you for sharing your story with us. Thank you for allowing us to carry them in our hearts and minds.
Posted by Dragon (Member # 3670) on :
Thank you so much for sharing this story, and these wonderful people with us. I feel like I now have vivid memories of wonderful people I've never met, and that's a wonderful gift.
Thank you.
Posted by signal (Member # 6828) on :
I've been following this thread since the beginning and now that the story has come to its end, I just wanted to say, thank you, Olivet. Our stories may be far from parallel, but there are enough similarities that much of what you shared hit close to home with me. I'm greatful to have learned so much about you and I feel like I've somehow learned just as much about myself. Thank you.
Posted by amira tharani (Member # 182) on :
Thank you, Olivet.
Posted by ClaudiaTherese (Member # 923) on :
Olivia, I'm so sorry for the loss of your friend.
What an amazing story, come round full circle again.
Posted by imogen (Member # 5485) on :
Oh, Olivet.
You've made me cry.
That's not a bad thing.
Thank-you. Seriously, and deeply, thank you for telling that story.
Posted by Christy (Member # 4397) on :
I wanted to do more than echo everyone else in saying thank you for writing your story, but I can't find the words. Its odd, I feel overwhelmed, myself. Like I know more about you than I deserve. *giggle*
Your story touched me, thank you. You are an amazing person.
Posted by Derrell (Member # 6062) on :
It was very compelling. A truly powerful story. Thank ypu for sharing it.
Posted by Olivet (Member # 1104) on :
Thanks everyone. That it touched you guys means a lot to me.
Posted by Uprooted (Member # 8353) on :
quote:Originally posted by Olivet: I have shared these memories with you, and I hope that through them, these people I have loved have touched you, too.
![[Smile]](smile.gif)
![[Wink]](wink.gif)
![[Big Grin]](biggrin.gif)
![[Confused]](confused.gif)
) I would shrug and go on about my business. I was uptight, determined to prove myself in ways that had nothing to do with how I looked. ![[Grumble]](graemlins/grumble.gif)
![[Frown]](frown.gif)
Sorry.![[Embarrassed]](redface.gif)
EWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!" ![[Razz]](tongue.gif)
![[Eek!]](eek.gif)
He was a tall, monosyllabic country boy, who pronounced his name as if it had an ‘f’. I was terrified that my folks liked him.![[Wave]](graemlins/wave.gif)
![[Evil]](graemlins/evil.gif)
![[Taunt]](graemlins/taunt.gif)
![[Roll Eyes]](rolleyes.gif)
At least divine revelation has the caveat of being somewhat imaginative. ![[Group Hug]](graemlins/grouphug.gif)
*hugs* for Olivet
![[Kiss]](graemlins/kiss.gif)
![[Blushing]](graemlins/blushing.gif)
I meant, of course, just the bit she quoted. In my earlier life I probably would have taken a page on just that part. ![[Cry]](graemlins/cry.gif)
Thank you guys. As much as I needed to do this, I'm not sure I'd have done it without your kindness.