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Category: Memoir
Widow Home Part II
This place was my first fancy meal, in a trailer-turned-Taj-Mahal where we ate steamed whole artichokes dipped in melted butter and T-bone steak. This place was Peggy and me, sixty years apart in age, sitting Indian-style across from one another, in a mobile three blocks from McDonalds hands clasped in front of us in prayer gently singing we are siamese if you please, we are siamese if you don’t please. At that time my voice was so soft it was barely there. And while my vibrant, open, excited child’s-mind could capture these memories I have just shared with you, the reality is that I could not even mutter a thank you. Often one-on-one with Peggy I would freeze. The intimacy of the energy that was with us being too much. Tapping a place I knew little about—the relationship between woman and woman.
Throughout every moment with Peggy, or with Tina, my great Aunt, I felt pampered, like a princess-child. Like I could take on the world. Like I was somewhere else completely. Like I was someone else completely. My higher self. I could rest. I could wake and see magical things. I was in a magical world. Like a girl in a Disney movie. Like a girl on TV, in a normal home, with a normal family. Where things looked good and smelled good and felt good on your skin. Where you were rewarded for your hard work—an orange and crème popsicle for doing the dishes. Where nothing was out to get you.
After two nights or so my dad would pull up out front in the pickup-of-the-week. It would be seven p.m. on Sunday, getting dark, a school night and Peggy would say something about that and arms would raise and for the first time in two days my little white arms would get cold from standing in the sea air watching my dad defend himself, sawdust and oil on his pants and hands, him talking about a late start and needing to finish bucking the alder and I haven’t even sold it yet and I’ve got to go meet the guy tonight, actually and me noticing the blue tarp over the heap of wood in the back of the truck. Peggy would give me a dry kiss on the cheek and though there was a certain carefree comfort I felt with my dad, my eyes might sting with a tear or two as I watched that mobile-home-castle get smaller in the mirror reading objects in mirror are closer than they appear and thinking I sure hope so.
Widow Home Part I
“The divine source of all life
is the fulfillment of all potential.” – Iyanla Vanzant
After grandpa choked out that night at the Best Western in Ashland Peggy had taken to moving from one end of the town to the other, and she never claimed it, but was it to escape his ghost?
First it was sell the A-frame where she and Ralph raised Moonbeam—the place with the immaculate carpentry, the knobby-pine cabinets and the gazebo in the back. Her first move was a humble move, I felt. It wasn’t the Peggy I knew to move into a mobile home, but she did. And she had a fucking tower built on to it. It was a sand-colored place with bamboo and a rock yard. Not much from the outside but on the inside it was like something out of Memoirs of a Geisha. It only had maybe two bedrooms but Peggy placed several of those oriental-style room dividers throughout, adding mystery and charm to my sixty-someodd (as she would say) year old grandmothers first Widow Home. A Widow Home being, I would later decide, a place where a woman dug into her own soul like digging into a second-hand bin of silk scarves, saying who’s in there?
This place was me opening birthday presents on a warm October day. My dad with his light blue plaid collared shirt tucked in and spotless corduroys. Who dressed him that day anyway? His eyes were bright and redless. Even my great grandparents (the good ones, not the ones who touched me) were there and I ran around in my little red and white dress that grandma Gladys made me on her sewing machine. Peggy called her “Mother”. I liked to play with the sag on her arms and she would laugh and smile sweetly. This was a woman they called practically perfect. This is a woman my 27-year-old self is certain still hangs around, acting as my own personal guardian angel. After all, it was she who in her dying bed made a reluctant Peggy promise, promise she would care for me if and when someone else could not.
Off-Track II
Days off
these days
are for
longing,
skipping,
long walk walking
poetry
bars for breakfast
potatoes and eggs
kicking stones
friends like squirrels
and birds
and gnomes
homes where nobody’s home
but working and I’m thinking
have fun in there
whisper-staring through the
front window at a dusty dining
room table, at the tall burgundy
taper candles still
in their wrappers
wicks never been lit
Days off are for judging
watching my feet on the
concrete
pine needles, the straws
from convenient store cups
the occasional cigarette butt
and I’d be lying if I left out
that I still, out of habit,
hope for a
long one
poor
trash
girl
Days off are too hot,
pleasant when they’re rainy
optimistic or full-of-shit
Quiet
Loud
I regulate
the sound
Days off are liquid
coffee grounds in
the wastebasket
and why do they
make those things white?
Days off are songs
on the radio that make
me say man I wish
I could wail like that
Days off are
long and
mysterious
these days
Off-Track
Days off
these days
are for
longing
skipping
long walk walking
poetry
bars for breakfast
potatoes and eggs for supper
remembering Grandma Faith
and how it was she who said ‘supper’
loving great-grandmother but hating the
word supper because of all the dirt, red air,
evil stares, soggy tomatoes, oily cups of coffee
and greasy pianos that were my childhood with her
The Ol’ Hometown
There is nothing
I love more
than your morning
stretching out
from the sea
to the hills
and south,
pouring in
through
the trees
lighting up
the forest floor
daring the
people to
stumble from
their trailer doors
for pots of coffee
at the Fisherman’s
Restaurant and
for mountain-people
drawl over KCRE
radio
My hometown
watches soggy
bottom toddlers
grow up fast,
JR this JR that
Often people
hit big trees
with their
cars and die
He was a good guy
He was a good guy
We scan the paper
for friends and foe
just drunk and in
the tank or
worse maybe
He was a good guy
Mysterious people
get engaged and
have babies
and they get
their pictures
in the paper
their shining faces
are from out-of-town
and I think
what are they
running from?
They come in
for good jobs
with the city
and never
leave
But every
day they wonder
why not?
Save the sunsets
and sea lions
their aint
much to speak
of here
We All Remember (Cabin Kids)
We all remember
the running and playing
how we cursed darkness
and dinner bells,
tumbling in at
dusk’s very
last moment
before the sky winks the
day goodbye
catching your breath
before the
closed cabin door
waving goodbye,
Johnny, an unassuming boy
hollering have a good night!
hands-sapped,
knees-scraped,
buttons burst,
braid unravelled
We all remember
our hair stuck
to our foreheads
or long streams of sweat
dripping down, traveling the
length of our nose,
those ninety-degree
summer nights
We remember our
parents saying
I wish I could bottle
that energy and sell it!
before ashing in their
beer can,
white flakes
falling
on a
plate
of
franks
and
ketchup
The Time, Mother
The time you changed your name from Darlene to Brenda
The time you gave me a blonde baby doll and told me I had a brother on the way
The time you tied a friendship bracelet on my wrist and said now I’ll always be with you
The time we stopped to pick a rose on the shoulder of the highway…and it came with a bee
The time you made long, dangling hippie earrings–for a living
The time my room flooded and you cried because you felt bad
The time you bought ten hamburgers from McDonald’s and for the first time we all got full
The time we looked at a house we couldn’t afford and we all picked out bedrooms anyway
The time you took me to the Bayshore Mall and bought me an eggshell-colored Easter dress
The time you put barrettes in my hair (I don’t remember it but I saw the pictures)
The time you sang You Are My Sunshine to Cloud and I looked out the window and held back tears
The time you volunteered at my school library and I was embarrassed because of your short, slutty shorts
The time you lit a cigarette, looked at me and said don’t ever do this
The time I stole 2 cigarettes from you and you never found out
The time I realized our hands and fingernails look exactly alike
8:05 p.m. the time you gave birth to me, far too young
The time you failed to meet the expectations of your adopted mother
The time I knew exactly how it felt
The time your dad died and if you hadn’t already lost all hope, you really did then
The time you tried to wriggle your way into societies mold but it just didn’t work
The time you introduced yourself as Moonbeam and it all made sense to me
The time you socked my dad through the pick-up truck window
The time we left you in the dust
All the times you left me in the dust
The time you cried and said you’re sorry
The other time you cried and said you’re sorry
The many other times you cried and said you’re sorry
The time you googled me everyday for five years but never called or emailed
The time you said I’m so proud of you and in my mind I said for fucking what?
The time you said Enough already! and I said Okay
6 Word Memoir
They
called
me
monkey
or
fish
I Want To Be
I want to be forgiven
for what I’m about to do
to you
catch and release
you’ll be guy number five
I’ll be your girl number two
your first
your last
your mystery
I want to be whipped
into shape
taught a lesson
fondled and driven
to madness
wined and dined
I said wined and dined
I said wined and dined
I said tell me
to put on a dress
I said ask me
to take down my hair
I said
I want to be whipped
into shape
I want to be tamed
lead me
guide me
I want a man
I’ve never seen a man
I’ve rarely seen a man
I thought I saw a man once
but he walked into the day
and by night he was all gone away
I saw a man once
who had It
I saw a man who
could tame me
but he didn’t want a thing
to do with this woman
with this body
with this piece of work
right here
I want to be forgiven
I want to be whipped
I want to be tamed
I want to be a girl
who is chased
but women like me
are so bold
so brass
women like me are
more of a man
than you’ll ever be
chew on that
and when
you’re a man
come back to me
cause I want to be
whipped
hard
I want to be tamed
and pregnant
I want to be
forgiven
TERAH RACHELLE VAN DUSEN 