Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Day 10
Day 10
I’m boring my co-workers to tears, probably, with my giddy anticipation of my friends’ arrival. Yes, they know it’s my birthday, yes they know it’s my 40th. Whoopee. Well, I’m excited, anyway! Though married to Jim for three years, now, my friends have really never had any ongoing contact with him, as I moved to California to live with him and out of their immediate spheres of daily life. What will they think of us together, I wonder? Can they see in him the things I love? Will they like our house? Our choice of location? Will things have changed so very much that—God forbid—we have nothing in common anymore? Nothing to talk about?? Nah…
The “spring cleaning” has begun. I know my friends won’t judge me too harshly if everything isn’t perfect… still, I want it to be perfect! Those toilets will never do! They must be scrubbed… purified if possible… I turn a critical eye on the formal living room. It is beautiful; a study in cheerful, bright colors, and beautiful watercolor prints. What’s wrong, then? Something’s missing. I’m annoyed that I can’t put my finger on the missing component. Ah, well, it’ll come to me. It always does. I just hope it happens in time to rectify whatever it is.
Living in the desert brings with it some housekeeping issues. The fact is, everything you own is pretty much dusty; it comes in through open and closed windows and doors. And so I dust. And vacuum. And scrub. All the while, the formal living room nags me… what the hell is missing in there?? Jim has been extraordinarily helpful, doing all he can, knowing it is so very important to me. The house is really looking lovely, and my thoughts turn to the impending visit. What will we do? How can I ensure they have a good time? Should I write a speech? If we go gambling, will I have enough money? Will they think I’m poor? Oh, God, what if they pity me?? I couldn’t bear it!
Sheesh. Why agonize over these things? This isn’t an interview—these are my friends! Still, my programming holds, and I worry.
1970
Mom and I have just moved into a "new" house. A rental in south central Austin, with three-- count 'em: THREE!--bedrooms and a tidy fenced yard. The neighborhood is new to me, and seems so very large in comparison to the quiet cul de sac where we'd lived for the two years prior. Are there kids my age in the neighborhood? Will they be my schoolmates? My pulse races and my face flushes deep pink as I consider whether there might be any... cute BOYS nearby!
At church the following Sunday (Mom does not attend but insists that I do), I find that my best buddy Julie also attends my new school. Joy! A few phone-calls to the school during the weekdays afterward ensure that Julie and I will be in the same class. And so it was that I joined Mrs Fisher's 5th grade class, not knowing it was for the slightly challenged students, and realizing it far too late. Mrs Fisher slept a lot during class, and her students' most difficult task all year was to keep from running riot so loudly that it attracted the attention of the teachers nearest our classroom.
Perhaps the most curious component of the school-year was the discovery of another student in my class with the same name as mine. We resembled one another, slightly, at least to the extent we were both blue-eyed, brunette, Caucasian females. It didn't take long for the family grapevine to produce the even more-curious fact that she and I were third cousins. Seated alphabetically, we were side-by-side for most of the school-year. Lacking the automatic popularity granted to identical twins, we were the next best thing, though, and revelled in our marvelous names and cousin status, eventually becoming the best of friends. Julie was much shyer than my cousin, and as the days passed, she seemed to fade from the schoolroom and, indeed, from my immediate circle of friends.
My paternal grandmother fell ill in the early Spring. The family had long known that my parents' failed marriage was my abusive, drunken father's fault, and so my Mom and I had remained close with her former in-laws and siblings-in-law.
One evening, as we boarded the hospital elevator that would take us to my grandmother's floor, we heard someone call, "Hold the elevator!" Mom, who always knew the right thing to do, pressed the appropriate button and the elevator door opened again to allow the entry of two other people.
I heard my mother take a sharp breath, and before I could determine why, heard a deep voice say, "Sprucie! It's my little girl and LOOK how she's grown!" My spine turned to ice and I took a step backward, reflexively looking up. Oh sweet God, it's HIM.
My father stood before me, smaller than I'd remembered but bigger than life, a grin fixed on his face; the grin terrified me, I didn't know why.
Beside him stood a tiny woman. Her eyes were fixed on me, but she didn't speak. Her hair was stringy, her clothes were filthy, and she seemed to me to be even more frightening than my father. "Well come on, Nance!" my father's voice boomed, and the tiny scary woman joined us in the elevator. I held my mother's hand, a rarity at my mature and worldy age of ten, and tried desperately to will myself out of existence.
I’m boring my co-workers to tears, probably, with my giddy anticipation of my friends’ arrival. Yes, they know it’s my birthday, yes they know it’s my 40th. Whoopee. Well, I’m excited, anyway! Though married to Jim for three years, now, my friends have really never had any ongoing contact with him, as I moved to California to live with him and out of their immediate spheres of daily life. What will they think of us together, I wonder? Can they see in him the things I love? Will they like our house? Our choice of location? Will things have changed so very much that—God forbid—we have nothing in common anymore? Nothing to talk about?? Nah…
The “spring cleaning” has begun. I know my friends won’t judge me too harshly if everything isn’t perfect… still, I want it to be perfect! Those toilets will never do! They must be scrubbed… purified if possible… I turn a critical eye on the formal living room. It is beautiful; a study in cheerful, bright colors, and beautiful watercolor prints. What’s wrong, then? Something’s missing. I’m annoyed that I can’t put my finger on the missing component. Ah, well, it’ll come to me. It always does. I just hope it happens in time to rectify whatever it is.
Living in the desert brings with it some housekeeping issues. The fact is, everything you own is pretty much dusty; it comes in through open and closed windows and doors. And so I dust. And vacuum. And scrub. All the while, the formal living room nags me… what the hell is missing in there?? Jim has been extraordinarily helpful, doing all he can, knowing it is so very important to me. The house is really looking lovely, and my thoughts turn to the impending visit. What will we do? How can I ensure they have a good time? Should I write a speech? If we go gambling, will I have enough money? Will they think I’m poor? Oh, God, what if they pity me?? I couldn’t bear it!
Sheesh. Why agonize over these things? This isn’t an interview—these are my friends! Still, my programming holds, and I worry.
1970
Mom and I have just moved into a "new" house. A rental in south central Austin, with three-- count 'em: THREE!--bedrooms and a tidy fenced yard. The neighborhood is new to me, and seems so very large in comparison to the quiet cul de sac where we'd lived for the two years prior. Are there kids my age in the neighborhood? Will they be my schoolmates? My pulse races and my face flushes deep pink as I consider whether there might be any...
At church the following Sunday (Mom does not attend but insists that I do), I find that my best buddy Julie also attends my new school. Joy! A few phone-calls to the school during the weekdays afterward ensure that Julie and I will be in the same class. And so it was that I joined Mrs Fisher's 5th grade class, not knowing it was for the slightly challenged students, and realizing it far too late. Mrs Fisher slept a lot during class, and her students' most difficult task all year was to keep from running riot so loudly that it attracted the attention of the teachers nearest our classroom.
Perhaps the most curious component of the school-year was the discovery of another student in my class with the same name as mine. We resembled one another, slightly, at least to the extent we were both blue-eyed, brunette, Caucasian females. It didn't take long for the family grapevine to produce the even more-curious fact that she and I were third cousins. Seated alphabetically, we were side-by-side for most of the school-year. Lacking the automatic popularity granted to identical twins, we were the next best thing, though, and revelled in our marvelous names and cousin status, eventually becoming the best of friends. Julie was much shyer than my cousin, and as the days passed, she seemed to fade from the schoolroom and, indeed, from my immediate circle of friends.
My paternal grandmother fell ill in the early Spring. The family had long known that my parents' failed marriage was my abusive, drunken father's fault, and so my Mom and I had remained close with her former in-laws and siblings-in-law.
One evening, as we boarded the hospital elevator that would take us to my grandmother's floor, we heard someone call, "Hold the elevator!" Mom, who always knew the right thing to do, pressed the appropriate button and the elevator door opened again to allow the entry of two other people.
I heard my mother take a sharp breath, and before I could determine why, heard a deep voice say, "Sprucie! It's my little girl and LOOK how she's grown!" My spine turned to ice and I took a step backward, reflexively looking up. Oh sweet God, it's HIM.
My father stood before me, smaller than I'd remembered but bigger than life, a grin fixed on his face; the grin terrified me, I didn't know why.
Beside him stood a tiny woman. Her eyes were fixed on me, but she didn't speak. Her hair was stringy, her clothes were filthy, and she seemed to me to be even more frightening than my father. "Well come on, Nance!" my father's voice boomed, and the tiny scary woman joined us in the elevator. I held my mother's hand, a rarity at my mature and worldy age of ten, and tried desperately to will myself out of existence.
# posted by Aunty Social @ 10:30 PM 
