Lost

Obviously I haven’t been writing much lately. We lost Simba the big fat Kitty in November, and I kept putting off writing about that. Now I just don’t have the energy to do it. I miss my cat. I’ve had a fat, male orange tabby cat since 1986. First Chester, then Simba. And for a little while we had both of them. We still have an orange tabby, but she’s a she, and she has issues…definitely a different personality type from the boy orange kitties. I want another male orange tabby cat, please. I know it’s stupid. We already have two cats, two dogs and a horse, and I keep saying “no more animals”. But I miss him terribly and I want him back, or another one like him. At the very least, I wish I’d had the chance to say goodbye to him before he left.

Speaking of stupid things, I did one recently. Sent a friend request to someone on FB that I haven’t talked to in, oh, thirty-five years maybe? It wasn’t stupid because of the number of years that have passed since we communicated last; there are other people from that time in my life that I’ve reconnected with recently and it’s fun to catch up on how our lives turned out, finding out how we’ve changed, how we’ve remained the same, how much we still have in common, or not.

But this one was different. This person really mattered to me during a time in my life when the number of people I could count as true friends was extremely small, and I was in the process of moving away and losing those friends. At the time I thought I was losing them forever. Thankfully, that wasn’t the case with a couple of them (you know who you are.) The night before we moved there was an end-of-the-year party at school, and I spent that evening with him. So, sort of on a dare, I gathered up my courage, what little of it there was, wrote a nice little note, and hit the ‘send’ button.

And nothing happened.

“Is it too much to hope that somewhere inside she knows she matters?”

I guess it depends on who she matters to, doesn’t it?

the deli

Yesterday we went to lunch at a local deli. When we first moved here over 20 years ago, there were several locations of the local deli, including one downtown where I worked. Over the years the owners have sold first one location, then another, until now there are only two (I think) original delis left.

I was surprised to see that the menu hadn’t really changed at all. You still order by number, and number 5 is probably the perenniel favorite. It’s something like a battered, deep-fried chicken breast served on a bun with bacon, ham, cheese, lettuce, tomato, mayo or mustard. Basically it’s a coronary. Then there’s a super version of it, although I can’t remember what makes it ‘super’, that’s, well, quadruple bypass.

Hubby ordered the usual Reuben. I had a chili taco salad.

This particular location has seen better days as far as its decor is concerned. It’s dark, a bit seedy. The space was probably a shoe store when the shopping center was first built. Remember Thom McAn Shoes? Had those great big display windows on either side of the entrance. My dad bought me a pair of black and white saddle oxfords from good ‘ol Thom, in ’75 I think. I was in the eighth grade. All the cool girls wore b&w saddles. I used to love to look in the shoe store windows.

Well, at the deli the windows on one side are for dining, sort of a raised platform dining experience. The opposite window has a hand-painted board with Tom and Jerry extolling the praises of the soup, salad and sammiches.

It’s been years since I’ve had a taco salad from the deli. When I worked downtown our whole team would troop down the block to the deli, and my best friend and I would always order taco salads. There was interesting elevated platform dining in that restaurant too. We’d always try to get a big table in the upper level so we could be loud and goofy and not disturb the peace. Sometimes there were 10-12 of us piled up there, munching and complaining about management and stupid project requirements and unreachable goals and deadlines designed to be missed. It was kinda fun.

Of the mob of us, only 1 still works for the company and his job is to be the go-between for the system users on one side and the foreign, off-shore contractors (that used to be us) on the other side. Some of us were able to transition into web and internet development, or network administration. The rest of us filled in where we could until we quit or were advised to seek employment elsewhere. A few have moved away, including my friend.

So I sat there, eating my taco salad, the sights and smells of the deli bringing to the forefront of my mind all those people, all those lunches, ups and downs in our careers and our personal lives, Several of us had children the same year; now those babies are college freshmen. There were separations, divorces, remarriages, more babies, life and death itself, all celebrated around the tables at the deli.

The taco salad I had yesterday was just as good as it always was.

The memories were oh so much better.

Taylor and Maria

See that guy in the video up there? His name is Taylor Cameron Carpenter.

If you Google him you find out he’s a “rock star organist”.

When he was about 14, he was our church organist while he attended Arts high school in the area. When I think about those years now it blows my mind to realize he was only 14. His technical skills at the organ, or piano, harpsichord, whatever, are exceptional. But what always amazed me was his ability to improvise. I’m not talking about a typical improv an organist would do to get from a hymn in one key and meter to another hymn in other key and/or meter.

In December 1995 a dear friend of ours died from a rare form of cancer. She and her family were ardent supporters of the arts. Her memorial service was not only a tribute to her life, but also a musical celebration of her life offered by Taylor. It was mentioned that our friend had a flair for the dramatic when it came to her artistic talent. She was a painter, sculptor, singer, decorator. Everything she did was uniquely her own, and sometimes got her into a teensy bit of trouble. Like the year she decorated the fellowship hall for Christmas by hanging the Christmas tree upside-down from the ceiling. It was a fad for a year or two, as I recall. But she embraced it! There was the tree, hanging down in all its glory, and people were talking! You would have thought she’d desecrated a sacred icon, instead of twisting an adapted pagan symbol into something completely different, as Monty Python would say.

So, in her memorial service our pastor compared her to “Maria” from “The Sound of Music”, and referred to the song “How do you solve a problem like Maria?” when speaking of her.

Once the memorial part of the service was complete, it was time for Taylor’s musical offering. I remember him playing “In the Bleak Mid-Winter”, which had been one of her favorite carols. There were a couple of other pieces that I can’t recall specifically. One was probably a hymn.

But THIS, I remember: As Taylor played, a simple melody was forming above the frenzy of notes flying from his hands and feet. It was familiar, but not quite above the threshold of recognizability. At first the notes were elongated, making it harder to pull them out of the mire. But as the tempo increased, and the melody rose from the bass line to the upper registers, there it was: How do you solve a problem like Maria?

Of course, my friend’s name wasn’t Maria. And now Taylor is world-famous and goes by Cameron.

But for that one moment in time, on a cold December afternoon, Taylor and Maria danced.

And it was magic.

remember

As Garrison Kieler would say, “It’s been a tough week in Lake Woebegon.” Everything about this week has been difficult. Not all bad, just difficult.

The election: Will the next president actually bring about wealth-redistribution? I guess it’s a good thing I don’t have any! Maybe I’ll get some. My nephew found this somewhere on YouTube and posted it on Facebook:

The Redistribution of Wealth Isn’t Appreciated For What It Is Until It’s Practiced!

“Today on my way to lunch I passed a homeless guy with a sign that read “Vote Obama, I need the money.” I laughed.

Once in the restaurant my server had on a “Obama 08″ tie, again, I laughed–just imagine the coincidence…

….When the bill came I decided not to tip the server and explained to him that I was exploring the Obama redistribution of wealth concept. He stood there in disbelief while I told him that I was going to redistribute his tip to someone who I deemed more in need–the homeless guy outside. The server angrily stormed from my sight.

I went outside, gave the homeless guy $10 and told him to thank the server inside as I decided he could use the money more. The homeless guy was grateful….

…At the end of my rather unscientific redistribution experiment I realized the homeless guy was grateful for the money he did not earn, but the waiter was pretty angry that I gave away the money he did earn even though the actual recipient deserved money more.

I guess redistribution of wealth is an easier thing to swallow in concept than in practical application…..”

As Forrest Gump would say, “That’s all I’m gonna say about that.”

Facebook: Dang, but I’m becoming an addict. I’m keeping up w/ family, the kids I hang out with at church, friends, including Alecto and a friend I made back in ’77 at the Virginia Governor’s School at Mary Washington College. It was amazing how much we remembered about our month-long stay in Fredericksburg, and how similar we are in interests, philosophy, etc after all these years.

I’m also learning new names and new faces that belong to my new soon-to-be step-siblings, and their children, and their children’s children. Lots of new names to remember.

The movers are coming Saturday to pick up the furniture from mom’s that’s going to her new digs. I remember when I met movers who brought furniture from mom and dad’s house to here. Seems like only yesterday.

It’s officially November 7. My dad died on November 7, 2004, at around daybreak. His stroke occurred on November 3, Wednesday after Election day. I remember so many tiny details about that week, and at the same time there are hours that have totally escaped the confines of my mind. Probably a good thing.

The past month has been one of the worst fibro flares I’ve had in ages. And then there are the allergies. I need to find some local honey. It’s supposed to help with allergies. Anyway, we have funky weather here in North Carolina. it’s supposed to be 76 degrees tomorrow, 46 degrees on Saturday. I don’t do drastic weather changes.

So, here I am at 12:56 am on Friday, November 7, 2008, wondering if I’ll get any sleep tonight or if the memories are gonna keep rattling around in my head, making noises and begging for attention, thus keeping me awake.

On a lighter note, the tale of the pink hippopotamus is about to enter a new phase as she gets acquainted with the other hippopotamusses and they all gather to cross the grassland in search of a new home. Pinkie has lots of hippo-siblings to meet, as I operate a stuffed hippo refuge wherever I go.

Sometimes I think hubby wishes I would forget about the hippo comment. I’ve been love-struck for hippos since way back when he teased me by making reference to the similarities between a hippo’s backside and, well, you get the idea. That one little comment was enough to launch me on a career of searching and collecting all things hippopotami.

And ya know, the holidays are fast approaching so of course it’s time for me to start singing my favorite holiday ditty:

I wanna hippopotamus for Christmas, only a hippopotamus will do,

Don’t wanna doll, no dinky tinker-toys, I wanna hippopotamus to play with and enjoy….

 

Feel free to sing along if you know the words.

Of course, I remember every one of them.

tale of the pink hippopotamus

Long ago (last weekend) in a strange and foreign land (the mall) there lived a pink hippopotamus. Actually ‘lived’ isn’t quite right….

Long ago in a strange and foreign land, a pink hippopotamus was being held hostage in a glass prison by an evil claw. Many brave villagers attempted to free the poor hippo from the prison where the evil claw held her captive along with many other exotic animals. Alas, none was able to vanquish the evil claw in battle, and the pink hippo sufferred in silence until, one magical day (last Saturday) a brave warrior and his family came to the strange land in search of sturdy footwear (running shoes) for the brave warrior.

The search was long and fruitless, so the entire family stopped at the local tavern (the food court) in search of food, drink and a respite from the throngs of other villagers also searching for trinkets and tasty bits. Upon aquiring grog and meat pies (Sonic and some Japanese stuff) the weary troupe settled down for a brief repast. As they enjoyed their meal (yeah, right….mall food) and observed the antics of some of the younger villagers, the matriarch of the family (that would be, um, me) was taken aback at the sight of the imprisoned pink hippopotamus.

It should be noted here that the family matriarch holds a special affinity in her heart for the noble hippopotamus, having been summarily equated to the beast many years ago by her young suitor, now her soulmate and patriarch of the family. It should also be noted that the comparison between beast and maiden was made in jest and endearment, whereas now the similarities are a bit more, um, veritable.

In a brave attempt to free the pink hippo from its glass prison, the brave warrior offerred to challenge the evil claw to a duel. (Actually, I dared the Wubby to try and get the hippo from the claw game and gave him 4 quarters.) The battle ensued. Both sides fought heartily, and although the young warrior was indeed brave in his quest against the evil claw, he was defeated. He returned to the family to regain his strength (finish eating the Japanese stuff) and possibly prepare for one final bout with the enemy (if anyone had any more quarters.)

After fashioning one more weapon to use against the evil claw (yep, I had 2 more quarters mixed in with the Dominican pesos in my wallet) the young warrior went back into battle, his sister the princess attending to him as he fought. The elders could not bear to face the carnage, so they looked away and prayed for the safety of the warrior, princess and humble hippo.

Moments passed. Tension mounted. Would the warrior vanquish the claw and free the hippo? Or would the evil claw again best the warrior and take his weapons?? (Would we ever get out of the mall????)

An eerie silence settled over the tavern, until, suddenly a cry of victory arose from the warrior as he snatched the hippo from the jaws of death and delivered it to his matriarch.

(Actually, after grabbing the hippo with the claw, dropping it into the drawer-thingy and pulling it out of the whatever-you-call-it, he tossed it across the food court to me and, as I reached out to catch it, I managed to hit hubby in the head with it.)

Having rescued the pink hippo, the family continued the quest for appropriate footwear and also aquired some recent broadsheets for perusal at a later date. As matriarch and princess wandered from one merchant stall to another, villagers looked on in amazement at the happy hippo. The princess, though, was somewhat subdued by the presence of the hippo among the clan. (You know it’s embarrassing for a 14-year-old girl to be seen walking in the mall, with her mom who is carrying a stuffed animal.)

Gathering their parcels, everyone left for home, where the pink hippopotamus now lives in freedom from the claw and has been befriended by the large family feline who, upon seeing the lovely fluffiness of the hippo’s pink coat, became immediately enchanted by it and now likes to cuddle up with it as he settles in for a long after-dinner nap.

And so, patriarch, matriarch, warrior, princess, feline and hippo now live in harmony in the ancestral cottage.

Until sometime soon, when we pack up all our stuff and move down the road.

Poor hippopotamus might wish she was back in the mall before it’s all over.

tree

We’ve lived in this house for 19 years. When we bought it there were 3 trees in the front yard: a miscellaneous pine that had been a Christmas tree but was dying fast, a Bradford pear, and a maple tree.

The dying pine was the first to go.

When our son was about three we decorated the maple tree for Easter. I picked him up so he could hang a plastic egg from the top branch.

The Bradford got bigger and bigger over the years. Hurricane Fran took part of it. Later another portion split away. Then an ice storm finished it off.

The maple tree is beautiful now. It’s leaves are tinged with orange and red, almost like God took a dry paintbrush and dabbed tiny bits of color on the edges of the leaves. Every day the color grows brighter and the green fades a little more. The robins and the hummingbirds have moved out for now, but will most certainly return in the spring.

I look at the tree, see how much it’s grown over the years, and compare notes. My son has grown from a chubby baby to the young man he is now, learning to find his way in college while still managing to find his way home on a fairly regular basis. My little preemie girl has grown into the beautiful, tender-hearted young woman she is now. Hubby has picked up a pound or two, his hair greying in that way that looks distinguished in men and frumpy in women, still the high school freshman I met in Mrs. Calloway’s English class, got to know better in Miss Watkins’ physics class the next year, fell head-over-heels for the year after that. It watched him struggle to find his way, to a career and to God.

The maple tree has witnessed our grief as, one by one, grandparents and then parents left us until my mom was the only one remaining. It has witnessed our joy at the births of our children, their various birthday parties held in the yard or the driveway. It stood as a silent witness as I left each morning for work, hoping for a better day than the one before, and as I came home each evening disappointed. Now it gives its shade for me to sit under to read. It’s branches are high enough that I can mow the grass under it without having to duck to avoid being swiped in the face. My husband, son and daughter have grown so much over the years into the people who bless my life now. I look at myself and wonder if I’ve grown any, in any way that really matters.

But the maple continues to grow and change with the years and seasons.

We’ll be moving soon, just a mile or so down the road. It’s exciting to think of how this has all come about, with my mom finding someone to love, someone to love her in return. It’s also a bit overwhelming to think of moving after so many years, of the logistics of combining and rearranging not just two households, but three, as she moves into a new (to her, anyway) home, we move from this house to her house, and this house gets more sprucing up for someone new to move in. We’re planning to lease this house since the market is so bad, maybe selling it when things improve.

There are some things in the yard that I’ll transplant at least parts of: some iris I got from my sister-in-law, primroses from my aunt, stuff like that. And the monster wedding bell plant.

I can’t take the maple tree with me. It will stay here and watch over the house, observing the new people who will be living here just as it has watched over us. it will tell them about us, and maybe offer them comfort in their daily trials. Comfort it learned as it took care of us and our trials.

I’ll miss the maple tree.

I hope it misses me too, just a little.

the E string

(I’m headed to the mountains tomorrow morning to help chaperone 40 teenagers at camp for a week. Pray for all of us. We do this every year; it’s always a hard week, physically as well as spiritually and emotionally. But the end result is that we all come away better for having been there.)

A funny thing happened Friday evening. I was vegged out, trying out a new sock pattern and watching Turner Classic Movies. Operation Petticoat had just finished and Father Goose was about to start. TCM has this musical ditty that they always play before a movie comes on, when they are showing the rating for said new movie. So I’m sitting there, knitting away, and the little musical ditty comes on, and out of nowhere my brain says “That note is an E. Furthermore, it’s the low E string on a guitar.” Oh, really?

I’m guitar-impaired. I get it in my head, but my fingers aren’t really interested in learning patterns. They wanna know exactly what notes they’re playing. A handicap of growing up as piano-playing fingers. Lately though, the fingers have been branching out some on the keyboard and learning to play by pattern recognition rather by printed note. This makes the ears start paying more attention to what they’re hearing, listening for those patterns and translating them into chords on a keyboard. So maybe that has something to do with why my brain said what it did about the E. Of course I had to put the brain to the test, and yes indeed, the note was the low E.

In college I had to take “Physics of Music and Acoustics”, which was basically a class on how to purchase a killer stereo system. My professor was of the opinion that “perfect pitch” was instinct as opposed to a learned response to stimuli. I disagreed, wholeheartedly, and we had some lively discussions on the topic. I didn’t give the concept much thought after that. I just knew it was something I didn’t have, mainly because I wasn’t a singer.

Well, so what?

Maybe this: I think the professor and I were both right. I was right in that perfect pitch is a learned response to stimuli. He was right in that it’s more than just an learned response to stimuli.

As my kids like to say, “What that even mean?”

When I heard that note and my brain said “that’s the E string”, I first noticed a feeling in my chest, a specific sort of vibration that touched me in a very visceral, emotional way. Then I noticed that the pitch sounded like the low E string, and because I do at least know how to tune a guitar, I knew to call the pitch “the E string.” Even if I didn’t know what to call the pitch, I recognized it as the low string on a guitar because I enjoy listening to someone playing the guitar.

Another thing I’ve noticed about myself recently is that I can hear a piece of music and immediately know that it’s in the same key as some other piece of music. And I’m not necessarily talking about music I’ve studied in the past. I hear it in my head, and in my heart if you will, and I know immediately how to identify what I’m hearing in relationship to something else I’ve heard before. How? Don’t know for sure, other than my knowing that music affects me in a very profound, emotional way. It’s something primitive, visceral, instinctive…

I haven’t always been able to do this. Maybe it’s a product of maturity?

And why am I even thinking about this anyway?

Sometimes, when something is true, you know it is so because that truth touches you in both an intellectual and an emotional, or spiritual, way. You hear something, or see something, or maybe even touch or smell something, and a universal truth makes itself known to you. Every time I smell slightly scorched scrambled eggs, I am taken back to my first baby sitter’s house, Mrs. Easter. Her house always smelled like scrambled eggs in the mornings. The truth of what scrambled eggs smell like transcends time and space, taking me from almost-50 back to almost-5, across the state line to the house that, back then, seemed a mansion to me. We drove past that house last week on our trip up the mountain to the funeral home. While it is still standing, the house suffers from serious neglect. There are posted No Trespassing signs. The playroom that used to house a pool table and a ping-pong table is falling down and looks barely large enough to hold one of those itty-bitty smart cars.

There are lots of people who say that what is true for one person may not be true for another. That truth is relative. That all truth is relative. Those folks may or may not be able to identify the E string when they hear it, but if they can then they know that the pitch of the E string doesn’t change.

I wonder, whose house does their mind travel to when they smell scrambled eggs? I’ll bet there is one.

the final revelation

I’ve been thinking about how to tell the rest of this story. These events occured prior to Martha’s death; I didn’t learn of them until twenty years later.

(taking a deep breath…)

Remember Martha’s sister Mary? Well, Mary came down one evening and asked my mom to help her with a problem. There’s no good way to say this: Mary came home from work that day to discover a baby boy in their garbage can. He was Martha’s and he was dead. Martha had delivered him that morning, by herself. She them smothered him to death, wrapped him up and put him in the garbage can. Mary wanted my mom to help her clean him up and bury him on the hillside behind their house, and it needed to be done quickly before Mrs. West came home.

So that’s what they did.

I can’t begin to imagine what this was like for my mom. She was thirty years old, plus or minus a year. She had been dragged to this God-forsaken place in the middle of nowhere, plunked down next door to these crazy women, caught up in their nightmare of a world. When she confided in her husband, he didn’t believe her. She told him she and Mary had buried the baby’s body behind the West’s house. I think he may have suggested she get some therapy.

Remember Rex the german shepherd?

(It’s not what you’re thinking…)

A short time later mom and dad were in the front yard when Rex trotted down the hill carrying a very large bone in his mouth. It was probably a beef bone. But seeing that dog carrying a bone finally made my dad see the light, so to speak. Mama said he blanched and practically passed out.

Later, on a Saturday morning, Mama piled me in the car and we headed to town. She bought me a piano of my own so I wouldn’t go next door to practice anymore.

When she told me the rest of the story, she asked, “Don’t you remember all of the strange out-of-state vehicles coming in and out at all hours? There were always strangers at the West’s. They were most likely into prostitution and drug and gun distribution.” I vaguely remembered, but mostly I remembered playing the piano for Mrs. West in her living room, with Martha there listening. Both of them would gush over me and ask to hear more. I was happy to oblige. They were there. They were listening.

We moved away in June, 1974. To this day, my mother has never been back.

Can’t say as I blame her.

Lurking below the surface of consciousness

Daddy worked for a heavy equipment company. He was a used parts salesman, and his job was to go wherever heavy equipment was being used and abused, determine what part or parts had failed and then locate replacements. When I was three or four years old (yes, I have some very vivid memories from a very young age) one of our neighbors was explaining to me how the shrubs in her front yard were being destroyed by caterpillars. I had no idea what she was talking about; the only caterpillars I’d heard about were the ones my dad worked on and those things would flatten her shrubs, possibly her house too, and I told her so.

Since Daddy’s job involved going to where construction was occurring, we moved a few times. We were living in southern West Virginia in 1970. His sales territory then included mining operations through eastern and central West Virginia, and the areas of the West Virginia Turnpike that were under construction then. Also Interstate 64, I think. His territory was changed in early 1970 from West Virginia to strictly mining operations in eastern Kentucky and far southwest Virginia. We had to move, but my mom was working as secretary to the dean of students for a small, private and very exclusive girl’s school and wanted to finish out the academic year before leaving her job. I was in third grade and had already changed schools twice in first grade and twice in second, so she and I stayed in WVa while Daddy moved and started lookiing for a place for us to put our mobile home when we moved in June. Yes, one and all, I lived in a trailer in West Virginia. And not a doublewide; it was probably before the days of the doublewide.

Daddy located a great spot for us to rent in CG’s hometown. It was a relatively level lot in the very hilly town limits, owned by the widow Mrs. West. I don’t know much about the West family, just that they had been a prominent family in town until Mr. West passed away. They may have owned a funeral home; for some reason that resonates with me. Anyway, she lived in the house about the lot, with her daughter Martha, another daughter Mary, and Mary’s son Bradley. Daddy lived in a hotel in another town until we moved the trailer in June of 1970. By the time my mom and I arrived on the scene, he had become quite friendly with the Wests, probably a little too friendly for my mom’s comfort level. Once we were settled in, Daddy gave the Wests a key to our place, and we had a key to theirs. There was another family next door below us, also a prominent family in town in that the father was a popular business teacher at the high school. They had three children, a son and two daughters. One of the daughters was a year older than me; the other a year younger. They didn’t socialize with the Wests AT ALL and the girls were often curious about my comfort with the Wests. The little boy Bradley West was, maybe five years old at that time, and was a holy terror to everyone except me. I don’t know why. The Wests also had two very large, intimidating dogs. One was a German shepherd named Rex. (That’s important.)

So, I started school in the fall of 1970, fourth grade. CG and I were in the same class.

I can’t exactly remember how long it was before things started getting weird. At some point my grandmother, three hours away, became ill and we started travelling on weekends to see her. Since Daddy had given a key to the Wests, he asked them to look after our place when we were gone.

Over time, I could see and feel tension building between my parents. Daddy would come home late, or would come home on time and my mom would leave. Sometimes one or the other would just go outside and sit in the car. Aha! A memory I can tie to a year…….I had a sleepover in 5th grade, so it was probably fall of 1971. The girls from next door, other side, came, as did another friend who lived just over the hill past the West’s house. We were playing something horrible like beauty queen. Daddy wasn’t there during the “pageant”, but came home later and the tension was palpable. I remember this event because I wore a skirt that I had made in our little pageant, and that skirt made another appearance at school for a band concert the next year. It was long, pink and white checks, with pink rick-rack in different widths sewn across the bottom. (Oh, another memory just popped to the surface: the music for the beauty pageant included the unforgetable “I’d like to teach the world to sing”…..and probably Kum By Yah as well.)

Lost and Found

One day my mom noticed that the lazy Susan spice rack in the kitchen cabinet was missing. She knew it was missing because it was habit for her to open the cabinet door and give the spice rack a twirl before actually looking for anything on it. On day she opened the door to twirl the rack, and there was nothing there to twirl. Pretty obvious to her. Not obvious to my dad. She told him it was missing; he didn’t quite believe her. Later on, more things disappeared: one of my mom’s scarves, a yellow sweater of hers that had been a gift from the WVa college girls, a brooch.

Another aha moment for me: only my mom’s things were taken. I don’t know why that never occurred to me before. Probably because I’ve never actually written this stuff down before and sometimes I have to see things in print before they make sense in my head.

So, my mom’s things are disappearing from our home. She’s telling my dad, and suspects that someone is breaking in when we aren’t there. He doesn’t believe her. I’m speculating here that mom had some idea of who was taking her things, but no hard evidence. She suspected Martha or Mary. Daddy didn’t want to believe that anyone in the West family would steal from us. (Well, maybe Bradley since he was a terror.) Thus, the tension between them.

I instinctively knew something was wrong, just not what it was. When my mom told me about this twenty years later, the minute she said the words “You knew Martha was stealing from us, didn’t you?” I realized that yes, I had known all the time.

One thing I did now right off was that Martha was, well, just not quite right. Maybe her check-digit was incorrect or something. Who knows? She very nice and sweet, just, well…weird. She was maybe 20, didn’t work, didn’t go to school. Just hung around the house or walked around town a lot. Eventually she was walking around town, sporting a diamond engagement ring and claiming, just like “Delta Dawn, what’s that flower you have on?” that her betrothed was coming to take her to his home. (OMG!!!! I should have written this stuff down before now. In the song, Miss Delta was going to “his mansion in the sky”, right?)

Guess who’s ring Martha was wearing around town, showing off to anyone who would listen?

So, Mary and Bradly and Mrs. West go out of town, Martha winds up shot dead in the living room of their recently cleaned house, and my mom’s things, all of them, are recovered.

(I’m sort of dizzy. Pieces clicked into place today that haven’t quite made sense up til now. I’ll have to think about this before I write the rest of the story; the part that only my parents and the West’s knew. The horrible part. And no, I didn’t forget about Rex.)

In which the triggering event occurs

(Note: I changed the picture at the top of my page. Now it’s a picture of the view from Cielo.)

This is what I remember:

It was a frigid winter day. The sky was overcast and maybe spitting sleet. I usually walked to school, but on this particular day my mom drove me because the weather was particularly nasty. It might have been that school was delayed an hour and I lucked out in getting the ride since I would have been leaving when my mom left for work instead of earlier (if she was working then; I’m not sure.) I got in the car and my mom backed out of the driveway, turned and drove up the hill. We rented the lot our mobile home was located on from the next-door neighbors on that side, a widow with two adult daughters. One daughter had a young son.  The widow and mother and son were out of town visiting relatives, leaving the other daughter home alone. As we drove up the hill my mom noticed the full milk bottles sitting on their front porch. She told me to go knock on the door and tell Martha (not her real name, obviously) to get her milk before it froze. I knocked; no one answered.

After school I walked home as usual. Again, I don’t remember if my mom was working then or not, so it’s possible I was home alone until after 5:00. Whatever. My dad came home from work, and my mom mentioned that the milk was still sitting on the front porch next door. Can you believe it, a place that delivered fresh milk in glass bottles, in the early seventies? Personally I didn’t understand what the big deal was regarding the milk or Martha’s not answering the door, but there was evidently a great deal going on outside my comprehension. I was told to STAY PUT while my parents went next door to check on Martha. They were gone a while, and when they came home there was a flurry of activity. Phone calls mostly, and my mom in tears. Which upset me. My mom gave me half of a little yellow pill and told me to swallow it so I would stop crying. I didn’t know why I was crying right then, except that I could see my mom visibly shaken and upset. Daddy came into the bathroom, took me by the shoulders and said, “Martha is DEAD.” Just like that, with emphasis on the word “dead”.

My parents had a key to the neighbor’s house and had used it to get in. I was in and out of their house all the time when everyone was home. They had a piano and we didn’t, so I’d go up there to practice. Sometimes I would just go to hang out. The place was interesting, to say the least. I’ve never, before or since, seen a messier place. Months of dirty dishes in the kitchen, months of bills and papers piled on the built-in breakfast nook, dirty clothes and toys everywhere. And there was a very unique smell, sort of spoiled food and dirty diapers, charred something-or-other and talcum powder, and stale perfume. When my parents entered the house, they found it cleaned up. First sign of a problem. They went through the foyer, into the living room. Martha was on the floor, shot in the head. I think they said she was tangled up in the curtains. The gun was there, but it wasn’t clear whether the shooting was a suicide or homocide. Mom and Dad had to contact authorities and somehow get word to Martha’s mother and sister. I think Martha’s death was ruled a suicide, but I’m not sure.

So, what was the big deal? There was plenty, but I didn’t know about it all until twenty years or so later, when I started having nightmares about this town and this family and our family, and asked my mom if she knew of any reason why I would be having nightmares. She took me to breakfast and told me the rest of the story. And there were some very good reasons…