Usually take one last pass through town, Stop the car and touch the ground, Watch those streetlights swayin’ in the breeze, Decorated store fronts, Rusty old gas pumps, Try to fill my mind up, With somethin’ before I go, Picture postcard memories, You know they always make for good company. –Turning Home, David Nail
Picture Postcard Memories. Somehow that line has stuck with me for days. Just a silly line in a song, but I can’t get it out of my head. In a lot of ways, I think like that. In postcard memories. Have you ever seen the movie, Elizabethtown? The girl, played by Kirsten Dunst pretends to take photos of people, of places, just to remember. When I saw that movie, I realized I’ve done that my entire life. Although, I do it in my head, so as not to end up in a round padded room, being asked to find the corner.
I have been thinking a lot about this lately. When I’m having a bad day, I try to search through my mind for happier times, simple times, just memories that make me smile. I’d like to write some of these memories down. For me to remember, for my kids maybe one day. Just so I never forget. Thought I’d try a few today. Maybe I’ll keep doing it. We’ll see. You all know how I say I’m going to do something and then I never bring it up again. But it’s a thought.
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We told Morgan for months that she was going to have a baby brother. Each time we told a random person and that person said anything to her, she’d say: nopes, no baby bruder. We thought she was just having trouble adjusting. Turned out she was right. Bailey, despite the doctor being SO SURE she was a boy, was born a girl.
She was born near midnight and it was around lunch time the next day, when my mom brought Morgan in to meet her new baby sister. I can picture her little eyes sparkling and her screechy voice when she came in the room and saw me. HI MOMMY!!!! All decked out in a new outfit from my mom; red shorts and a red striped Dora shirt. She suddenly seemed like a full grown child, compared to her teeny tiny, new baby sister.
She got up on the bed with me and held her baby sister. This Ian, she asked, because we’d told her for months that would be her brothers name. No baby, it’s not, I said. This is…well she doesn’t have a name yet, but she’s your baby sister. No brother. Sorry honey. No Ian? Okay.
A little bit later, she got off the bed and started looking around. She looked under the bed, in the bathroom, heck, she even looked in my bag that was by the bed. When she walked out of the door, I called her back in the room and asked her what she was looking for. I looking for Ian mama. He’s lost. I will find hims for you.
She thought we’d misplaced him. Like he was a shoe or something. A missing item to find.
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The pool was shaped like a kidney bean. We were in Waikiki, Hawaii on the last day of our vacation. In the deep end there was a weird window, about two feet down. We’d been going down and making faces at it for a good hour. My step-mom was in the room with her eighth migraine of the week. My dad was somewhere.
I bet my brothers to moon the window. Told them, I’d pay them a dollar each. I could have offered them a piece of gum, they were easy marks. Eight year olds are easily buy-able. At ten, I could pay them next to nothing, or just dare them to do anything and they’d do it.
They each took a turn, going underwater and mooning the window. Seconds later my dad showed up. He rarely yelled, but he yelled loudly that day. Get out of the pool right now. Come with me.
Turns out, it was a bar. With a window. To the deep end of the pool. Weird, huh?
He made us apologize to a bar full of hysterically laughing people. The bartender gave us each a Shirley temple. Even added extra cherries. Little tiny boy butts are nothing. I’ve got kids at home. You have no idea the things I see, he told my dad. Whoever thought of putting this window in, was smokin something crazy.
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Our last night in Las Vegas. We’d been there for three days. Three fun filled, easy days. Neither of us really wanted to go back to the hotel. It was admitting the end of our trip.
Sitting at the Bellagio. In a back hallway, in comfy chairs, eating gelato for an hour and a half. Talking about nothing and everything. Being shocked that we couldn’t hear a single sound, except the few other people doing the same thing. We could have been anywhere. In fact, from the second we went into that hotel, until we left it, we never heard a casino. It was a perfect end, to a perfect trip.
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I was fourteen. Summer. Camping. Half Moon Bay. I got up at dawn to go to the bathroom. It was cold and foggy and the sun hadn’t even considered coming out yet. I knew I couldn’t get back in the pop-up trailer without waking everyone else up, so I decided to go on a walk. I walked and then sat and watched the fog roll off the ocean. Listened to the waves crash. Peace. I felt more at peace in that moment that I had in years. I sat there alone and watched the sun come up. Then I walked back to the camper, where no one had even gotten up yet.
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Morgan being held by my Grandpa on his 80th birthday. She was only six days old. Perfection she was, full of that newborn awesomness. I can picture everything he wore that day, her too. If I think hard enough, I can even smell them both. I ignored his words that he might not be strong enough to hold her and placed her in his arms. He was pale and shaky, one of the last few times I’d see him standing and walking around. She’s barely six pounds Grandpa, I said. She won’t break. I watched him take a finger and gently run it on her nose, watched him kiss her head. Angel kisses, he whispered. What, I asked him? Those red strawberry marks on her eyelids. Oh those will go away in a few weeks, I said. Or that’s what her doctor said.
Angel kisses, he repeated. This child was kissed by angels.
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I can’t live these memories a second time. I wish I could, but it’s just not possible. But the stories in my head? Are something I’ll never forget.
any more relaxed and she’d be dead, he says to me the other night. My brother called me a few nights ago to ask if he was hearing what he thought he was hearing, that my step-mother was kicking him out of the house. She’d said she couldn’t relax with him and the dog there. Mostly she blamed it on the dog. The dog she claims she is uncomfortable around. It’s a four month old puppy. She just can’t stand the noise it makes when it walks. (Which is funny, since her dog clicks on the hardwood floors every time she walks, because they never cut her nails.) She can’t relax. Blah, blah, blah, bullshit.
Mostly, she just doesn’t want him living there anymore. Six months or so ago, when his company started doing poorly, they cut his pay and hours in half. They fired 60% of their staff, so my brother was just happy to still have a job. He had to give up his apartment though and move in with my dad and step-mother. First time he’s lived with them in twelve years, since he was sixteen years old. It wasn’t like he was living their for free, he was paying rent. More than I knew even. Anyway, now he has found some buddies to live with and he’ll be moving out this weekend. The house he’ll be moving into is a mile from his job instead of a 40 minute drive. His company has picked up, he is working tons of hours again. This will be better for him.
I’m livid. Not because of just this. Because of everything. Because it’s just another thing added to the long list of things that suck about them. I’m livid, because they did this to him. I am used to being a low class citizen in their world. I learned at a very, very young age, that my place in the family, came after the fish. I could give you a million examples, but it pains me to write any of them down. They have moments of treating him like that too, but mostly he ranks right above the dog. This is just too much. My dad probably knew this was coming and didn’t even bother to warn him. To give him a heads up. To say, hey son, you may want to start looking for a new place to live. Nope, he wasn’t even home with this conversation happened. She cornered my brother a few days ago. My dad is the biggest freaking wussy in the world. I doubt the man takes a crap without her approving it.
I’m used to being called a bitch, she said to him. He didn’t even call her one. You know what? The word fits. It is her. She’s used to being called one, because she is one. He didn’t even say the Valium and wine line, although it cracked me up when he told me about it. It’s true. She’s an alcoholic. She drinks a bottle of wine a night. At least. She’s a verbally abusive drunk. Then she passes out. It’s what she does.
I’m angry. I’m so freaking angry. Nothing I could do or say would change anything. They’ve already written me off. I am too much like my mother according to my step-mom. Truly, that’s BS. I am much more like my dad, than my mom. Really she doesn’t like me, because I’m a girl. Because I was the oldest and I’m a girl, so I’m a threat. Doesn’t matter that I was a week over six years old when we met. She’s never liked me. Treated me like crap ever since then, while acting all fake and caring in front of other people.
They don’t care what happens in my life. I only talk to my dad once every say six weeks. He only calls me from work. He NEVER calls me from home. The only exception to that is Christmas. I am normally worth one call a year from home. They don’t know my kids. They’ve only met Harrison once. Hell last year, I took my kids to see them, the day after I’d had a miscarriage. They were fine when I was there. When I got home, neither of them called me for three months. Didn’t call to see that we’d made it home okay. Not to say, hey we had fun with the kids. Not even to check on me. I normally call my dad after 6 weeks or so if he hasn’t called me. That time I didn’t. I was depressed and I truly just wanted to see how long it would take him to call me. It took three months.
Even though I technically have a father, he doen’t really exist for me. He is alive and lives in Northern California. But I don’t really have a dad. I have grown used to this. I hate it, but I am used to it. This was just another blow for my brother though, one more thing to show him, that he sadly doesn’t either.
This is rough and I’m sure it makes no sense. I’m not even going to edit it. Today, I am make no sense and I’m a bit rough around the edges. I’m angry. Mostly though, I’m sad for my little brother. He’s only getting shit right now and he deserves better. He deserves the world. I’d give it to him if I could, but I can’t. And that makes me angry.
Yesterday, 6:20am:
My bro: Happy St. Patrick’s Day, my sistah. Time to get to drinking.
Me: Dude, it’s 6am. If you want to live to drink, leave me alone.
6:20pm:
My bro: Now it’s beer time.
Me: Enjoy! Have one for me. Or maybe two.
My bro: Or 4?
Me: Just remember where you live and you will be good.
My bro: I will. Plus, I have to work at 6am.
8:20pm:
My bro: What r u up tooo irish woman?
Me: Dude, we ain’t Irish. We’re Polish, remember?
My bro: On dad’s side yes we are. We have to be. I have a red beard yo.
Me: Good point.
My bro: We’re both ginger daywalkers (WTF? Seriously, no clue.) how can we not b irish?
My bro: Plus I love whiskey. hehe
Me: Whiskey isn’t green beer.
My bro: It’s irish whiskey. It’s all good as long as you think green thoughts while yoo drink.
Me: Allrighty then. Have fun. BE SAFE.
10:10pm:
Me: How many fingers am I holding up, sir?
My bro: 12. at least.
Me: Yep, you are correct.
My bro: Thanks ossifer. U have a good afternunn.
Me: No driving, K?
My bro: Am home. Bar is block from my hommme. Walked home. Only hit one car.
Me: Cool. Night then.
My bro: Night to you two.
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