Father’s Day

For my first 6 years, Father’s Day was a bad joke.

The biological one left just a couple of weeks before my first one. I finally get to hear SOME of the other side of the story during the July 4th holiday weekend when I visit his family. I fully expect an apologist version, including comments about how crazy Mom is. Problem is that she’s even crazier than they think. And yes Mom, I know you’re reading this.

There are two pictures with Lloyd, Mom’s second ex-husband, that escaped her wrath, but you could tell from the look on his face that I wasn’t the reason he was there. Lloyd’s name for me was “Now what?!” and I’d be sprayed with his hatred every time he opened his mouth. And the day Mom said I’d never seen Lloyd again if I didn’t want too, my only response was “good.” And I didn’t.

The only picture of the third ex- is in a folder locked in a file cabinet. Mom verifies his registry on the Oklahoma Sex Offender Registry and one a month calls up his parole officer. He knows she’ll shoot to kill if she ever sees him again, and she won’t care how many witnesses there are, and she said so in court at his sentencing. His parole period ends in August 2015, but he’s a Lifetimer on the SOR, Level 3 Aggrevated.

Jake, the current one, has been the only fatherly figure I’ve had. Forget the superficial stuff, he actually calls me by my name and he’s genuinely happy to see me. That in itself would put him over the others, even if everything I had was a Harry Potter room under the stairs.

Until this summer, I had a microphone in my room so they could hear if I was having a night terror, and often Jake was the one who woke me up. (The job is Patty’s now, but I haven’t had a terror with her.) If Mom was in the terror she couldn’t wake me up, sometimes it worsened because I’d hear her voice from two places, where she was in the terror and his ‘voice of God’ booming from outside.

Jake’s voice was always the hero’s voice, when I’d hear it I knew the terror was over. I thought I was going to college to find a younger version of him, but no one there. Jake said any guy like him would probably have to be at least 30 and did a tour in Iraq or Afghanistan.

He’s still a little unsure about Patty, but then he grew up in the early 1960s. He was 8 was Kennedy was shot. Given all the prejudices he grew up with and the military reinforced, I think he’s doing an awesome job of adapting to the 21st century. Maybe when we’re ready for kids, we’ll get a donation from him, but we’re not there yet.

Growing up, I wished there was some way of making him my father in-full, instead of just step-Dad. He has given as much for me as he has for his biological children, and he didn’t have to. Whenever there’s been a problem, he’s been there. And that’s why I call him “Dad.” Happy Father’s Day.

Paranoia is hereditary

There are times I wonder if paranoia isn’t a psychological issue, but instead a mitochondrial-DNA connected trait, passed from mother to daughter down like a set of china or a special wedding dress. Grandmother thinks everyone is out to get her money, she’s a ten-thousandaire at best. Mom’s compact-SUV has bumper stickers like “Sure you can trust the Government, just ask an Indian” (and she works for the US Government) and “Just because you’re PARANOID doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you” on it. My own version of paranoia is wrapped up in my fears and phobias. I’m hoping not to pass it on to my own children.

So this morning Patty had me stretching and running before I was awake. We only ran a mile, but I was still sore from yesterday so it wasn’t pleasant. We get back home about 7:45, and Mom is cooking breakfast, which is unusual because her Saturdays usually start after noon. “Marcie, please check the caller ID on the landline.”

At 7:33am, Earlene Sawyer had called. Mom’s first ex-mother-in-law, my paternal grandmother, had called. “If you call the old cow back, tell her I … never mind … the heifer would do it again just to piss me off. Call her or don’t, your option.”

Now I can tell from years of living with her, when she says something is “your option,” this means that she wouldn’t do it if it were up to her. But she could have easily never mentioned the phone call and I wouldn’t have known about it, because I never check the landline unless my phone battery died. So I’m guessing she wants me to call the woman who washed her hands of me 20 years ago, even though she wouldn’t do it herself. “How about I eat first, then decide?”

“Okay, but don’t call them from your cell phone,” Mom warned, “unless you want them blowing it up everything someone gets a hangnail.” So if I have them only calling the landline, Mom can keep tabs on their contact with me. But is she trying to protect me or doing “reconn on the enemy”? And at That Moment, I realize that I’ve inherited the family paranoia.

Patty looked like she had something to say, but wasn’t sure if it was her place to say it, or maybe was worried about having Mom mad at her for saying it. So when I finished eating, I caught Patty’s eyes and had them follow me back to the landline phone. I poined at the phone and looked back at her, and she nodded ‘yes’. Patty thought I should call, so I’ll humor Mom the first couple of times and decide from there later.

Earlene (it’s hard to call a complete stranger “Grandma”) answered on the second ring, so she was clearly expecting a callback. She sounded pleasantly surprised when it was me; I think she was expecting Mom instead. She asked about damage up here, mentioned they had a lot of rain there too, it was small talk like we’d always known each other. She invited me down for a family cookout on the afternoon of July 6th, gave me directions to her home, and said I could bring a guest so longer as it wasn’t my mother. “Nell is so full of venom that I rather deal with a rattlesnake. Not that we don’t deserve some of it, but I’m not ready to deal with that yet.”

I got off the phone, gave Mom the basic run-down, and left out the part about her. “Please take Patty with you, even if they asked for you alone. With them people, you’ll need an extra set of eyes and ears you can trust.” And with that, Mom went to our room, got little Sis, and went back to her bed. (Jake and little Bro were elsewhere, I didn’t ask before they left.)

[I almost didn’t write this, because I knew Mom would eventually be reading it. Patty said I should, because this MY therapy, not Mom’s. Oh well, off to bed, there’s church tomorrow and I can’t show up bedraggled.]

Not the reunion I expected

I’ve mentioned by step-Dad Jake a few times. He is the only man who can walk up to me and touch me without getting a nasty reaction. I don’t mean touch as in “show me where on the doll” touch, I mean literally. One of these days I’ll be strong and confident enough to type out what happened, but I’m not there yet.

Jake has been there since I was almost 7, but I wish he’d been there at conception instead of the man who was. Jake has more than earned the title of “Dad,” something my biological father didn’t want.

My biological father left my mother when an 8 week old baby in May 1993. He claimed the Air Force reassigned him and that he’d work to get my mother, who was also USAF at the time, moved to his duty station. Days later, he filed for divorce instead. Since then I had seen him only three times, and all three times were against his will. I knew his signature on the child support checks better than I knew him.

Where most of y’all will be celebrating Memorial Day tomorrow, we had Decoration Day today, the fourth Sunday of May. The graves of all those gone before were decorated, not just military. Some families and even some very small schools have reunions on this weekend. Its Día de Muertos, except redneck, on a Sunday in broad daylight, and no one is expecting the dead to walk among the living.

We had three cemeteries to visit after an almost 2 hour drive through beautiful green hills and valleys but with spotty-to-non-existent cell coverage. We saw Grandpa at the first one, Grandmother wasn’t all that happy to see him, but everyone else was. He’s 70 and is still the “hippy” he was in 1970 when Mom was born. He never had the same employer for more than 4 years until he started his landscaping business ten years ago.

The second cemetery was Grandmother’s family, and they were their usual stiff and stodgy selves. Apparently when she met Grandpa, Grandmother was in some kind of rebellious state and stayed there long enough to have two kids. Mom’s older brother never left Mother’s “apron”, never married, and no kids, and lives next door to her, so the only grandchildren she has are us “rotten little shits”. He drove down separately, because he doesn’t like visiting Grandpa, I don’t know why she didn’t ride with him.

The third cemetery Mom visits is because two high school friends are buried there, and to see who of my bio-father’s family has died recently. So, like I’ve done the past ten years, I wandered over to that area of the cemetery. There was a new grave, and the name I recognized as my paternal grandfather. He died on April 27, oddly its was the same day I started this blog, but had no idea of his passing.

If Grandpa had died, I think I’d know how I’d feel. I’d crying, I’d be sad, I’d be missing him and remembering him, and I’d be telling all the goofball stories about him I could remember. Here was someone who should have been a similar part of my life, and it was just another tombstone, no big deal, the cemetery’s full of these, someone else’s loss and not mine.

“They should have let you know,” said a woman’s voice behind me. I turned and looked, and there I was. Well, not exactly, an almost 30-year older version of me, gray but with the same round glasses and the most of the same face. “My mother was angry that I included you in the obituary, Marcellona. I’m Anita. I’m Terry’s older sister, and I am sorry they left you out of their lives.”

I was deciding whether to be rash or rational. She continued, “It took Daddy’s death to make me re-evaluate what we did, and what we didn’t do. And I’m sorry for not being there when you needed us.”

“It’s been almost a month,” I said, “when were you planning to let me know?”

“I thought an in-person apology might mean a bit more than one on the phone. I’ve been waiting 5 hours to see if you’d be here in person. If I hadn’t seen you today, I would have called Nell (Mom) and drove up to OKC tomorrow.”

“You know she probably wouldn’t have answered the phone, right?”

“I know she wouldn’t have answered for Terry, she might have for me, she definitely would have listened to the voicemail. And yes, I know your mother’s temper. She loved using her red hair as an excuse for her temper when she was younger. Probably still does, right?”

“Not so much,” I lied. She’d find out soon enough. “She has mellowed some with age and with a decent love in her life.”

Anita looked a bit shocked. “This I have to see. She’s over at Tonya and Kevin’s graves, isn’t she?”

As we were walking, she said, “You’re still Terry’s only child that we know of. You may have half-brothers or half-sisters that we don’t know about.”

I stopped. “Anita, I don’t even know how many cousins I have. From your side, I don’t know any of their names. I wouldn’t have known I was short one grandparent had I not walked over there and looked. I wouldn’t even be talking to you if it wasn’t partially like looking in a mirror. Over the years, you’ve gone out of your way to make sure I wasn’t part of your lives. I now recognize that it was y’all hurrying up to leave the cemetery a couple of times because you saw Mom coming, and at least once staying in your cars until we left. And you know what, I don’t miss y’all at all.”

“She’s ice to your fire, isn’t she Nell?” I turned about, and there was Mom. “Where you’d be throwing things, screaming, and threatening to kill someone, your daughter uses icy tones and cold logic to do her damage.”

“Yes, she does. And y’all earnt every bit she gives ya for what y’all’ve done to her.” Mom was slipping back into her “hillbilly” tongue, the pot was about to boil over.

“You’re right. All I can say is I’m sorry, I won’t do that again, and I would like to try to make amends.”

“What about Barbara? Or Terry? Are they wanting her ‘back in the family’ too?” Mom isn’t even trying to hide the fury or the venom. “How about the badly misnamed Grace? Does your mother know you’re going behind her back?”

“ENOUGH!!!”

I didn’t know I had it in me. The silence was only interrupted by the echoes of “enough” off the mausoleums. Everyone in the cemetery turned and looked at me.

“Your past grievances against each other are not mine. If you wish to bicker, please leave my presence to do so.”

Anita still had a deer-in-headlights look. Mom was smiling her proud smile. “That’s my girl,” she said as she started walking back to the minivan. “Anita, my condolences on the passing of your father. Marcie, do you have your phone?” I pulled it out of my pocket and showed her. “We’re going to get gas, we’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Anita and I re-traced our steps back to her father’s grave. “I do appreciate the in-person apology, but it has been almost exactly 20 years since your brother walked out of our lives. And you and your parents and your siblings have denied my existence at every turn despite his signing the support checks.”

Anita grimaced and bowed her head, “My parents funded the annuity that paid your support. Whatever your mother’s assessment of Terry is, she’s probably still giving him too much credit. He received an Other Than Honorable discharge from the Air Force in 1997. He’s been in jail for drug possession in Texas. He’s in jail in Arkansas now for bad checks. This is why you’ve seen us hiding, but not him. And we were afraid if you knew what he was like, you’d be like him.”

She’s thinks I’m cold and rational, apparently unlike either of my parents. Be cold and rational, own This Moment. “So you left me, without half of my family, under the guidance of someone you knew to be a hot-tempered borderline lunatic? Because you were ashamed of someone who is a complete stranger to me? Is this making sense to you, because it isn’t to me?”

“We never thought. We just didn’t. And I’m sorry.”

“I have a busy summer job starting on Wednesday. I have enough stress without adding this at the moment. I’m going to need time to process all of this.” We traded phone numbers and an email addresses. “I won’t be incommunicado, but don’t expect me to welcome you with open arms either. You’ve isolated me for 20 years, and it might take that long to break down the walls.”

And I walked back to the minivan, climbed in the passenger seat, put in my earbuds, and just stared out the window most of the way back home. I still don’t know what to make of it. But my love will be here in 40 hours, and that’s what matters most to me.

Mom says wisdom is knowing which bridges to cross and which ones to burn, but she’s never said anything about bridges to build. And that may be the biggest difference between us.

Last Trip to Weatherford

(Originally posted in two parts.)

We were at the OKC Memorial Marathon this morning. Patty ran the 5K Walk/Run, which was non-competitive against other people, but Patty was racing the clock. She wanted to beat 35 minutes. She did it in 34:12. She turned the corner at 7th and Broadway, and the clock just rolled over to 33:00, and she SPRINTED the rest of the way. One of these days I’ll be able to show the video here.

She recovered enough by the time we got back to Mom’s house that we made it to church. Yes, CHURCH. I still need to help maintain step-dad’s image for his business, and that includes attendance with my “best friend from school.” He says he’s retiring from the business AND the shmoozing with the Holier-than-Thous when he hits 62, unfortunately that’s 4 1/2 more years. Patty still has to blend in with the church crowd at home too. She has the clothes for it and knows the paces already, so we Sunday-ed up and put on the show for the little old White Republican women in their big ass hats.

The church isn’t a mega-church, like the dot-com churches or First Southern Del City. It’s small enough that the reverend actually does know everyone’s name, but it’s big enough that it has a private charter school. I’m happy the school wasn’t there when I started high school. I could hide my androphobia easier at a 5A-high school (250 or so per grade) than in a class of 10, especially when the girls in that class of 10 were supposed to be subservient to the boys.

As it turns out, their summer middle school is in jeopardy because the math and the science teachers are both pregnant and expecting just after Memorial Day. A call for substitutes was made during announcements, if you knew someone that might could fill the role, put their name in the plate. By the time the plate got to us, there were several slips in it already (we’re about halfway back in the north third, preacher faces west).

During recessional, Mr. Ed (the education director for the school) catches us just before leaving the building. He said my name came up repeatedly as a possible sub, and he remembered I was a pre-Pharm major, so how was my math skills, did I know anything about geometry, etc.; I don’t think he realized how condescending his tone was. I mention I had Finals, but I’d be home May 9th and would be happy to demonstrate what I know of algebra, calculus, analytical geometry, but I was current with the highest grades in math and biology. Then I pointed out that my best friend Patty here was also at SWOSU and she was 2nd in math and leading in chemistry.

Patty looked a bit puzzled at first, and then said, “Well yes, I was going to be looking for a summer job, but this is a 120-mile drive from home.” Mom volunteered, “You could stay the summer with us and still go home on the weekends.” Mr. Ed pulls out his smartphone, taps a couple of buttons, and asks, “Can you both be here on May 10 at 9am for a skills test? You both look and sound like you could do the job. We’re paying $9/hr for 32 hours for 9 weeks, the summer term is Monday thru Thursday, 9am to 5:30pm, from June 3rd to August 1st.” Mom pipes up, “I’ll get them here.” And Mr. Ed rushes off.

We load everybody up in the minivan: Step-dad (driving of course), Mom, Patty, me, Bro (7, not yet icky), and Sis (4 and The Boss). “Okay Mom, explain?!”

“Easy, I know you both need summer jobs. This is air-conditioned, you’re not at a customer’s mercy for tips, this looks awesome on your resumés, you won’t have to wear heels or worry if you’re sufficiently fashionable, and I get to have you both here. There’ll be less BS here than at a public school and at most jobs, because they won’t tolerate kids ‘sassing their elders’, even if you’re only 2 or 3 years older than the high schoolers.”

Patty asked, “Aren’t you worried about them finding out?” And Mom smiles, “I know you two. You’re both smart enough to know have to behave in front of them. They didn’t find out at SWOSU, and these people will be looking for it even less than there. But you will have to act the part from the moment you step in the front yard until you’re safely back through the front door.”

I ask, “Isn’t 9 a bit LATE in the day to start?” Step-dad answers, “They’re doing little-league baseball practice from 6:30-8:30, before it gets hot. It only took them two roasting summers and 3 kids going to the hospital for them to figure it out. The boys get a shower and get to eat before classes start.”

“Is Bro doing baseball this year?” I ask. Sis says, “No, he’s still in T-ball one more year, cause he’s too wittle.” And the fight is on. It really is amazing that humanity even survives.

We got home, ate, finished up laundry, packed up, and drove here. And that’s today done. Good night.