Letters

Seeing my Dad reclining on the couch fighting sleep makes me smile. There is work that needs to be done, so I sneak off into the front room. I can feel the blood pump through my veins. I become startled at how slow it is. I blink & I am face down into the blue carpet...drooling.





How long have I been laying here?





I find I can't get up to my feet. I'm on my hands & knees panting. I realize my time is running out. I am not frightened at all. I am very excited. My head is about to explode with joy, but my body doesn't respond.





I hear my Dad ask me when will my family return home from shopping. I try to respond in a way that won't frighten my Dad. In the strongest voice I can muster, I crock out "Soon, Dad..soon." He is pleased with my response & goes back to his couch induced sleep.





I am calm & happy as my body starts to break down. My letters to my family have been written. The clothes I will wear have been set out. The only thing I worry about is their pain. I did my best to explain in my letters how excited I was & how happy I will be with my new adventure. The letters would help them cope. I have done all that I can do to prepare them for my death.





I blink once more...& again I am face down in the dark blue carpet. I feel the wave of death getting deeper. My belly is excited. It jumps with wild abandon...just like it did the time I went down those crazy water slides at the park. I can't contain my happiness. My eyes close as I start to descend down that eternal water slid.





"CAW-CAW!"





What the heck?!





"CAW-CAW!!"





Opening one eye I see a jet black crow by the side of my face. I ask her what she wants...I'm kind of busy dying here.





"What about the notes to your friends?"





CRAP! My friends! Oh no! They need notes too. I roll to my back as the crow moves to stand on my toes....her feet a fleshy and cold. The words I have in my head refuse to move to my mouth. I need help...but my lips are starting to numb. The great bird cocks her head, understanding my plea. Her beady black eye moves slightly off to the left, I follow her gaze & find my child's crayon laying on the floor. It takes every once of strength I have to grab at it. With the crayon held in my weak grip, I frantically start to write my love notes to my friends.





My pulse slows & my breathing comes in short bursts. I start to panic as the names of my friends leak out of my brain. So many names. Men & women I love. Stupid lack of oxygen is giving me death brain farts. I see each friend as clear as day...but their names have escape me.





Scribbling on bits of paper I find scattered on the floor, the crows start to gather. One by one, they swoop gracefully down to the floor. They hop & chatter. excited. joyful. I tell them to wait. Waitttt. The crows start to caw at me, begging me to play with them.





"Give it a rest! I'm trying to write here!"





A crow hops on my chest & ask me why I panic.





"If you haven't noticed I'm dying here & I have to write these notes to my friends. They need to know how much I love them. They have to know how unique they are. They have to know how much I admire them. So stop the Caw-Caw pow wow & let me write!"





The crows scatter & watch...still cawing to themselves...I am now unnerved...those dang crows...never can take direction.





By now the names of the friends escape me...I am left to address them by nick names. The Hugger, The Crafter, The Nurturer, The Fiesty, The Saint, The Mother, The Bishop, The Giggler, The Beadmaker, The Musicman, The Dreamer, The Godfather, The Writer, The Classic...name after name. Paper flies. My crayon turns to dust. A crow drops another crayon onto my belly. My writing become weak squiggles as my life drains into the carpet.





Soon the paper runs out. I try to write on my clothes but it won't hold the words.





"But my friends...they have to know."



My crow scoots a black marker towards me. It bumps my pinkie. I look at her. "But I'm dead."





Not yet...your not done...we'll wait.





The panic leaves me. With all the strength I can muster, I remove my clothes. I continue to write my love notes to my friends on my flesh. Words of encouragement, love, humor soon begin to blacken out my skin.





I finish my quest. The crows gather all my paper notes & begin to cover my body. I sweep them up w/ my arms & I am amazed by all the notes I have. The paper is warm & soft. I close my eyes.





"I'm ready to play now."





My crow friends dance and hop. Their caws lift me up & away.





"Caw-Caw_Caw-Caw"


Beep-Beep-Caw-Peep-Caw-Beep







I awake to the weird chorus of the alarm clock & a pack of cackling black crows perched on the tree outside of my window. By the hazy light coming through the crack in my window blind I know it will be another gloomy January day.



Pushing up from my pillow I notice that I had been drooling...so...gross.



This...... is my morning.

What...the...Heck. Seriously?

These dreams are nutty!



My friend "The Nurturer" will have a hay day dissecting my weird a$$ dream. She thinks dreams holds the key to our lives. The can unlock our pain, joys,sorrows & fears. We just need to learn how to interpret them.



I, "The Skeptic" thinks it's a bunch of flaky crap...although...fun flaky crap.



I sit on the edge of my bed listening to the sounds of the wise crows. I think about how I have been seeing them a lot lately, sitting in trees.... picking at the neighbors garbage bags. Most people don't like crows. But I do. Black crows are one of the smartest birds out there in bird land. The best part of the crow....their personality. They are jokers. They will dive bomb other birds...even birds LARGER then them....just so they will be chased. They play tag...TAG! Who doesn't love tag?!



I get 2 distinct massages out of my dream. (The Nurture would be proud I'm putting so much effort into this dream crap) The first message;



Tell my friends & family how much I love them. Be more open with my admiration & love for them.



Second message...and the most important one;





















Stop drinking chocolate milk before bed.

Sexy fine mental issues

I have issues.

Raised by older parents, partying with older people...it messed me up as a girl. I spent most of my youth shopping at women's' stores. I couldn't stand stores like the hip Fashion Bug or the "teen" isles at JC Penny's. Oh no! I shopped at The Silhouette, a swanky little store for OLD LADIES! (Think Clearwater Creek...but a bit fancier)

I didn't realise I had a problem until my Aunt came out to visit me (which...she never did before...it totally freaked me out!) after my mom died. My Dad & my Aunt drag me out to the mall to go shopping for new school clothes since mom was no longer shopping with the living. I go into my favorite store & go hog wild! I come out with soft, green dress pants, a cream turtle neck & a matching green sweater w/ cream colored leaves on it. It was beautiful....for a 50 year old!





Here's a little detour. Ya'll know by now...I love pictures! Enjoy this small picture gallery dedicated to my love of turtlenecks pared w/ sweaters. I wore them all the time....yes, I even wore sweaters in the summer.




Rocking my blue knit sweater at my 15th. birthday.













I'm 15. I'm cranky. I hated how I looked. Notice my bangs. My mom was horrified that I sat for our Christmas picture with "greasy spikes for bangs.". And I....didn't care.

Sexy Freshman sweater combo

Still 15...not as cranky. Here's Dad & I on spring break after Mom died. Notice...the sweater. We went to the Virgin Islands...& I wore a sweater. I even wore it over my bathing suit....did I mention we went to the very hot Virgin Islands? Those were the days I didn't sweat.

18....wearing my fathers turtleneck & sweater. Cuz nothing says awesome then a retro mans sweater......and sausage roll bangs.

This has concluded my pictorial stroll through my sweater years...carry on.

I was confident as I strolled out of the dressing room! My Aunt gasped. She thought I was joking. She argued & argued with me that the clothing I wore was...get this...not appropriate for a 15 year old girl. I looked like a 35 year old soccer mom. Of course that was the look I was going for, but she still refused to buy it for me. So we were at a stand still...either I buy the funky teen crap or nothing. I voted nothing & walked out of the store.


My Aunt & Dad argue about me...the problem child. How dare you wear a sweater young lady! Slut it up for Heavens sake! Be a un respectable teenager for once in your life!


My Dad finally stood up for me & said if I feel comfortable in a sweater set then so be it. He went back & bought the outfit for me...as my Aunt wrung her hands.



So this old lady grew up. I now can wear what I want. And I do...oh yes, I do! First & foremost...it has to be comfortable. I have SIDs....... Sensory Integration Dysfunction so comfort is a must, not a want. SID basically means if it feels weird...I'm off all day & can't function.


Some times I can't sleep cuz my tum tum hurts.... because I'm having a bloated day & my waistband is killing me. So I strip off the offending tight undies. OHHH YEAHHHH my husband says...then he cries silently as I put back on my baggy sleep pants sans the tighter then heck undies.


I can't move...honestly move.... if my waist band is too tight, my butt is squeezed, my thighs are squeezed (let's stop here & give thanks for stretchy jeans! Oh my heck what a Godsend! remember when you would have to warm up your thick jeans? Auuggg, I shutter at the thought!) my bra is off center a millimeter, my socks have bumps in it, my neck is squeezed or my armpits restrained. Oh my goodness I'm a child!


So I now walk around town in this......

O' my plum, velveteen sweat suit! How I love thee! You are like butter! & your waistband doesn't make me fart!


While I'm at home I need my house shoes. I have 2 pair...1 for summer & these...






for winter. (Note my winter thermals. RAWWWRRRRR) My shoes help me get through the day. When I can't find them I cry "MY SHOES! WHERE'S MY SHOES!!! I...CAN'T......FUNCTION!" "Shoes? SHOooOOooES?" (like...my shoes will answer me...I need meds!) Then I flap my hands as if I'm shaking off the dish washing water. I frantically pace, I moan & kvetch all the while flapping my hands until I find them.


My husband screaming "KIDS! Find your mothers shoes! FIND THEM!"
The house is in a panic. "For all the love that is holy...Find your mothers Dang SHOES!"


I find my comfortable, loved shoes & sigh.


My husband then cries a little.




I hope I never get too fug-tagualr with my wardrobe. I rely on friends that say "Seriously Jen? That won't do." I have a husband who is not afarid...no...he is afraid...but he does tell me when something might look...."off."

I hope as I get older I can continue to merge fashion with comfort. Lets face it....life is too short to have your butt get flossed everyday. I don't want to be the women who smells like mothballs as I wear my velveteen track suits. BUT...I do want the be the women who wears velveteen track suits....good luck peeling those babies out of my cold, clammy hands!



But I have confidence in my future. Really, I'm already out in public with plum sweat pants....I can't regress anymore....... can I?

Age isn't a number

It's an attitude. yadda,yadda, yaddaaaaaaa

I'm pretty dang old for being so young. 37 to be exact. Yeah, that's right...I said 37. Ain't no shame in a lady revealing her age! (cue mother choking on dirt as she rolls in her grave!) I grew up around old people. My parents were considered "very old" when they had me. Of course that was in the 70's & any women over 35 having babies were considered geratric...no...really.







And back in the day a lady NEVER revealed her true age. For SHAME! Oh no...a true lady would do the honorable thing and LIE. Lie about her age. Since I was surrounded by "old" people I saw a lot of this. I heard my mom lie many times. I learned early on not to correct her about her age in front of people......I never knew a stare could burn your skin!







Random old person: "Why Gail, you are too funny! Your skin looks great! How old are you now?"



Mom: "Oh you are so sweet, why I just turned 37." says the 45 year old



Little Jenny: "Mom! You're not 37 you're fortyyyyyyyy....."



Mom: cue death stare



Little Jenny "AAhhhhhhhh, my skin! It's on fireeeeee"







I always got a kick out of these obviously OLD women lying about their age. Even as a kid I could tell they were lying! After attending one swinging old folks party, I commented to my mom how horrible Billy Jean looked for being 35. My mom said Billy was really 54.







It was then I swore to myself that I would end this archaic law of age lying! For Billy Jean looked like a train wreak as a 35 year old women but she looked great for 54. I felt embarrassed for her. Did she really think telling people she was 35 would make them magically see her as 35? No, of course not! It made people walk away saying "wow! She looks like sh%$! for her age!"





But here is my dilemma.....I'm 37...and only getting older.
I have bad circulation (I'm a slow bleeder...which pisses off tecs trying to take my blood...I hate pissing off people who stick needles in my arm) so I am always cold.
I'm so cold, I wear thermal undies.
My back is trashed.
My bladder threatens to detach itself from me & bounce down the highway,
I have to cross my legs every time I laugh, sneeze, cough or run...in fear the bladder jiggles it's self free....I really don't need that thing skittering across the floor. "Hey, did someone lose a bladder? I have a bladder in aisle 5, lost bladder is aisle 5!"
My eyesight is shot to hades,
Things pop & creek when I move.
I fart at random times...which always catches me off guard.
...did I mention I'm only 37? Great Scott! How will I functions at 65?





Even though my body ages...I still feel like I am 15. Gawky & weird...out of place. I randomly say really stupid & disturbing things. I sometimes I snort when I laugh. I like stupid humor (The World Vs. Scott Pilgrim is a must see! Theatrical genius!) I jump up & down when I'm excited...well more like jiggle up & down...I don't want to give bladder an excuse for bailing early.





In short...I am a immature 37 year old women.

Most of the time I embrace it. I try to think of myself as a slightly less hairy Robin Williams. Why Robin you ask? Well lets just say one night long ago, at a hot party at my friends house. I...a 17 year old weirdo did NOT play spin the bottle...I turned on HBO & watched Robin....all by myself. And I had a very good time by myself. So much fun that my cries were heard down stairs by the party people that they rushed upstairs to rescue me from the bear trap I obviously got my foot clamped into. There they found me on all fours , tears streaming out of my eyes, trying desperately to breath....yes, he was THAT funny! Very bad & very funny. So I admire the heck out of him....I like...totally understand Robin Williams....well I don't understand the binge drinking faze he had....or the coke fueled rages...or the melt downs....or the mental problems....oh heck, the man made me laugh, that's all that counts!


Hopefully.... I can fully embrace my lame, immature self, because pretty soon I'll truly be old. And let's face it...which is cooler? To have Grandma scour at her grandchildren & say things like "Damn kids these days! Be useful & get Grandma her scriptures & Metamucil float."





or





"Hey kids, Wanna have a farting contest?"





I think I'm going to have to go with the farting Grandma.





Which reminds me....I got to have a Fiber One bar cuz you can't have a healthy enough colon!

There are.... days

Many days I walk , teetering on a thin rail hovering over vast dark water. One foot in front of the other, I am aware of the blackness that churns beneath me. Often times I feel her blackness caress my foot. When she slowly rises to meet me, I shake her off. But there are times, she snakes herself slowing around... up my body. The blackness is smooth and warm. An old friend begging me to let her in. There are days I refuse her, but I blink & she has silently slithered into my veins without invitation. She settles in my belly, warm, comfortable, destructive. She blinds me & holds me captive. She confuses me with her familiar warmth and her screaming cold. How can 2 polar opposites exist in one body? How can this pain be so heartbreaking beautiful?

There are days she sneaks silently up behind me. I can't feel her lurk. Wordlessly she descends upon me. Wrapping her steel arms around my waist. Embedding her nails into my skin. Tangling her fingers into my hair. One moment I am happy & chatting with friends, then next moment she has me in a death grip flinging me backwards. Opening up the ground & encasing me in thick mud. I hate when she does that. You brat, here I was minding my own business & you yank me out of the scene. That's not fair! But she just hold me tighter. Squeezing the air out of my lungs & soon I forget we are fighting.

The days she eases into me are the days I can fight her. Resist her pull. I shake my head free of her lies. I breath in truth. I fight an internal struggle. Some days I emerge bloody & triumphant. Some days...I lose. I hold up my hands & surrender. I sink down with her. I allow her to hold me down under the black water. I can see the life swirl around me. Can anyone see me down here?

Have you ever made friends with your enemies? Have you ever been so terrified of them you develop the utmost respect for them? Have you ever bowed to their power? If you can't fight them, join them? There are days...I join my enemy. I allow her to weave her fingers in between mine. Her darkness shrouds me. We go down together. I am miserable and mindless. My own words eat into my head. Devour my spirit. Like any bad drug I want it to relieve it's hold on me, yet it's all I know. Some days, I'm afraid for it to leave me. Afraid she will leave me, that's how wickedly clever she is. She kills me & I don't want her to leave. How's that for a sick relationship?

No prayer, no Dr., no friend, no lover, no God can pull her from me. I have trying all these "solutions." I have screamed, I have kicked, I have raged, I have prayed on bloody knees & with a destroyed heart....and nothing. Nothing will take her from me. Try as I might, I can not rid her.

So now, she walks with me. She is all around. Under my feet, in the corner of my brain, on my breath. She is me & I am her. The fear I have of her... still lingers. She is deadly. She can destroy. She can not be trusted. But then again....I can not be trusted. I watch her out of the corner of my eye. I hold her close. I weave my fingers between hers....& I hold my enemy tight. When she takes me under that warm black water.... I wait her out. The moment she loses her grip, I push myself up for a gulp of air. I find the hand of that friend, that lover, that God & I allow them to pull me completely from the watery grave.

There are days I fight myself & I win. But there are days....there...are..... days.

Please read with the lights off

Come on in kids & I'll tell you a tale. A tale of things that go bump in the night & ghostly whispers that rattle your insides.

MMMuuuaaahhhhhh!

First I must tell you , I don't believe in ghosts....kind of...sort off...well sometimes I do. I strongly believe that our brains are the one freaking us out most of the time.

Most of the time

I can explain "scary things" away...just like I have the ability to explain "spiritual things" away. (That's not such a good thing when one struggles to hold on to The Religion.)

Ghosts may or may not exist. I have seen, felt & heard things that to the average emotional train wreck could be viewed as "unexplainable ghostly activity." All those times...I have been able to use my very black/white thinking to dig deeper & figure out what is really happening. My brain/overactive imagination...on scare mode, was usually the culprit.

There have only been 2 time in my life that I could not explain away what has happen to me. 2 times that I have felt my blood turn to ice & my body scream from every crevice. 2 times I have felt...shear, blinding, terror.................

This story is an account of one of those times. Do you dare to read further?

Love Affair

Anyone who know me, knows I love, adore, devour old houses. I was 6 when I moved into a sturdy, stone barn built in 1850. I soon fell in love with the wonder of old homes, thanks to our stone barn in Poedunkville.

When I was 14, my friends & I went to my towns 4th. of July fest. The focal of the festival was an old, run down, dilapidated house. The food, beer tents & carnival rides were set up on her sprawling grounds. I was instantly in love with her. I begged my friend to take a tour, but they were much more interested in the Whirlly Gig. So I wanderer over to the front door & was let in. For 2 hours I stayed in the house. Peppering the chagrined older women with questions. I adored the musty, moldy smell of the place. She had once been grand. The largest, modern house in the county. She slowly, over time lost her crown. She was abused, burned, vacated, flooded, infested. And now....she sat. Just a handful of volunteers who loved her.

Mr. Doles office. Main floor





Mr. Doles bedroom. 2nd. floor





I told them that I would volunteer. Eye brows raised. Necks craned for the nearest knowledgeable person. "Can a kid be on our team? She's a bit young." The answer I received was "Honey, we'll take all the help we can get!"




So for the next 6 summers I worked the house during our Lake Side fest. Preparations would take weeks to clean & prepare the house. Our little group of volunteers had virtually no money, no city support & hardly any neighborly support. Some even argued for years to tear her down. (I would have strapped myself to her grand staircase before I let anyone touch her.)

J.J. & I taking a much needed break at the foot of the grand staircase.





My friend & I were the youngest people on the team. We were a rag tag bunch. A handful of powerful older women, a few of their aged husbands. There was Bob...who never spoke, just rocked back & forth on his feet & mumbled. Bob came hand in hand with Tim. A wirey 20 something year old man. Both Bob & Tim were mentally impaired. But that didn't matter to anyone. They work as hard as anyone else & loved the house just as much as we did.

J.J., Tim & I modeling on top of a very cool, very vintage Tin Lizzie. J.J. & I are dressed in real, honest to goodness flapper dresses circa 1927.



Tim was constantly scurrying around the house. I would catch him smoking cigarettes & I would yell at him...chase him out of the house. He gave me gum & took me on adventures around the house. Once he swear he saw something hanging in the burnt rafters on the 3rd floor. The third floor was quite...desolate. It had five rooms. One of the rooms was to unsafe to go into. The floors couldn't hold the weight of a field mouse. Next to that was a small room that use to lead up to the tower/turret at the very tippy top of the house. But the tower burned in a fire, so only the stair room with steps leading to now where was all that remained. There was an old work room. A chapel for the family, and a maids chamber. Years ago the part that held the large maid chamber burned. Behind the locked servants door, was half a room, no window, dark & singed for the decade old fire. Tim & I grab flash lights & headed into the black as tar room. I shined a flash light as 90 lb. Tim shimmied up the rafters to find...........an old cloth. Nothing special. Nothing cool. Just some old tattered cloth. We laughed as we tumbled out of the room covered in dust & old ash. Slapping each other on the back, teasing each other for thinking we found some treasure.



I tell you that because I was never afraid of the house. I rummaged around in pitch black burnt rooms. I would sneak into the house at night just to sit in the windows looking at the lake.

One of the many window seats. I would sit in the turret tower on the 3rd floor on my breaks during the fair. Successfully freaking out the people the people below. The "girl in the window" routine actually got people to buy tickets. They hoped to catch a glimpse of "the ghost in the window."

I worked alone in the vast mansion while the crew went to lunch and I never felt threaten or scared. On the contrary, I felt safe.




The Jen's bringing the glam to the dusty mansion.




I was 20 the last year I worked there. My life would soon pull me away from the house. I felt it was time to go. I had so many great time at the Dole. I cherished my memories there. I was excited to move on but terribly sad to leave my old friend behind. Her days were beginning to be numbered. I was afraid she would soon be deemed to unsafe to show to the public. I wished I had millions to donate. But all I had was my hands. All I could do is scrap her floors & place worn decorations around the house one last time.



The summer night was warm & thick. There was only one air condition unit in the house. And that was in a front porch turned dressing room/ staff lunch room. The rest of the house dripped with humidity. 7 people including my friend J.J were down on the main level working away. Cleaning, making posters for the fair & pulling out the decorations. J.J & I were hunched over a poster when one for the volunteer's, stooped with age cried out "If I have to climb those damn stairs one more time I will shot somebody! Auuggg, I need the dried flowers from the 3rd floor. I will pay anyone one great sums of $$ if they skitter up there & get those flowers." No one moved...we all just giggled. "You...Jenny! You are a full century younger then me, get your backside up there!"




I gladly went for her.




Up the grand staircase I went. Standing at the top of the 2 nd floor, the summer sun set made the ceilings explode with reds and yellows. Oh how I loved this place. I made my way over to the next stair case. Up, up, up to the 3rd floor I rose. I see the dried flowers sitting on the old work table in the butler/work room. The light from the windows illuminate the dust that swirls around in the air. Grabbing a wooden bucket, I plop the dead, dusty flowers into it. As I walk back to descend the staircase all I could think was "I really need to buy some new flowers cuz these are gross"


The menacing staircase leading up to the 3rd. floor.





What happens next...last for only 4 seconds at the most. But the memory has lasted a life time.


In my left hand I hold the bucket. My right rests lightly on the mahogany handrail. It's smooth and graceful under my fingers. I begin to descend the stairs.



One step.


I am hit with a swoosh of freezing cold air. It startles me, because the house is swimming in summer soup.



Next step, my foot hovers over the next step.




THWACK!


I am thunked on the back which such force it knocks the air from my lungs. I was hit...internally.... square on my back. My ribs felt like they buckled.



The force of the hit sends me falling down the stairs.



The bucket of flowers sail through the air. Bang! bang! Bang! Down the steep stairs it tumbles. Flowers for the dead fly through the air. I can feel my lips turn blue, it's so cold.



I close my eye & tell myself to go limp. The best was to survive the next 14 step is to just go...dead limp.




Eye squeezed tight, I fall. I wonder if my face will be the first thing to hit the stairs. "go limp, golimpgolimpgolimp" Do I die today?








Warmth.





Warmth on my chest.





Another thump, but this time it's stabilizing, not harsh. My chest is warm.




I open my eyes as both my feet plant firmly, with a thud.....5 curved steps down from where I first took flight.




I stand, upright, firmly rooted....5..... freak'n........ steps down. Cold air swirls around my back, but my chest...was warm. As if someones hand their hands on my chest.....................Holy mother of bat droppings!





All I hear is my breath , ragged like I had run a mile race. I pant & pant. With in 4 seconds I was happily making my way down a steep curve staircase that I have gone up & down on 15,000 times before to being violently internally pushed, then gently stopped. What the Hell's Bells was that for?!



I'm mad & horrified at the same time.




The blood pounds in my ears. I clutch at my breast trying to feel the invisible hand that held me. The house is sweaty again. The cold gust has dissipated. All is normal.




Then




I run like hell down the rest of the stairs. All I hear behind me is POP! POP! POP! I say out loud, "It's the old wood popping up as my foot leave the stair. Does it all the time.... not scared notscarednotSCARED"




But there ain't no way I'm looking back! I grab the buckets & the clump of flowers & run down the next stair case. The old stairs POPPING up behind me.




Safe on the main floor I stand...sucking in musty air. Shaking. Confused. I gather myself cuz the last thing I wanted to do was tumble into the front room all 'damsel in distress" mode. I back myself up against a wall....watching the staircase. Calming my heart rate. I am soothed by the chit chat behind me. I try to explain to myself what just happened. But I can't think. I don't want to remember. I just want to get out.



5 minutes. 10 minutes. Who knows how long I stand there collecting myself. When I finally turn the corner I see J.J. legs crossed chatting with an older man. Everyone is smiling. I am calm. I am safe. I walk into the room. I place my misshapen wooden bucket on a table & go back to my poster. Head down, I breath.....I breath. I am safe.




The old lady sees me. "took you long enou...oh my gawd! Are you ok? You are white as a sheet! It's as if you saw a ghost!"




That night I walked out of the mansion, I didn't look back. I just hoped on my bike & rode home in the dark.













I still love old houses. I still to this day can not figure out what happened on that 3rd floor stair case. I still don't know if I believe in ghost. But one thing is for sure......Houses are


alive!







As for the Dole Mansion.....well, follow the link to find out what has happened to her.
http://www.lakesidelegacy.org/dole-mansion.html

Bury the Disturbed - 7

I feel naked with my newly cut hair. Dressed in a snappy brown suit.

My feet ached. My head felt swollen.

I stood,

walked,

avoided,

sat in corners.

I smiled & hugged & assured everyone that "yes, the man in the pink shirt is my mothers son. Yes, my Dad is fine...(dumb fluckers....my mothers dead...seriously? Don't ask if I or Dad are FINE as we stand next to our DEAD mothers/wife open coffin you stink'n jello for brains! GAH!)

6 hours I stood, in a sweltering funeral parlor at my mothers viewing. People who long ago left my mothers life filtered in & out to view the train wreck & say crap like "I always admire your mother." Big fatty fat, fat Liar, you dropped her as a friend once you found out she had cancer of the breast. Afraid "it" would rub off on you. Heaven forbid she should bump your elbow & have all your hair fall out in clumps!

"She looks lovely" Really? Whatever...she is wearing PURPLE eye shadow...it don't go well w/ death pallor GRAY.



"God needed her." Soooo a 15 year old girl didn't? Wow...your God is one greedy, needy man. I have decided I don't like him much.



"The good die young" Ok, I won't even start to to explain to your simple mind how disturbing that is...move along you nut case!




I remember all disturbing comments, looks & sighs of that day in slow motion. Slowwwww moOoOo...standing..wearing pantie hose...in a funeral parlor...on a summer day set on broil. (Just to warn you...parlors have a weird smell. Add that weird smell to a 96 degree, humid day & you get....steamed death...delishhhh.)


Even though that day was Disturbing...there was so bright, funny, shining moments I cling to.




Laughter.




My balm.





The first laughter relief came from a family friend named Mike & his collage age daughter. Mike, taking my hand & dragging me to the far back wall of the parlor...away from the corpse that stole my Mothers happy form. I was deeply aware of him taking me from that view & setting me up at the back. I loved him that moment. Then he did something that took my breath away. He said.



"What the HELLS with all these DAM$ FLIES? Their everywhere! It's not good for business! Flies in a funeral parlor says DEATH."


And for the next 15 minutes Mike, his daughter & I laughed & cackled at the jokes we traded (mostly at the visitors expense...the fake friend ones) Mike held my arm, his daughter touching me on the back....bringing me back to life.


Lovely Mike died a few months after that day. Heart attack at 48. The thought of his wife & daughters standing at his wake made me ill.




Second laughter rescue was sweet & giggly. The kind you get as you see your crush walk through the school cafeteria......as you bash into a pillar (No joke) watching him catching a glimpse of you....walking face first into said pillar.


Oh sweet mercy...The Boy. The Boy...at...... my moms FUNERAL...oh man this SUCKS! Does my breath smell? My hair feels weird! What do I say to The Boy? "Hello Boy...you remember my mom?" Do I do a ventriloquist trick? Throw my voice? "Well hello there sonny! Nice to see you again? Please excuse me if I just lay here."



The mere sight of The Boy makes my knee caps explode. I want to push him out the door horrified that he has to see...this. Death. Yet, wanting to cling to him & bury my nose in his collar & beg him to take me fishing, biking, reading...take me anywhere, but here!



I giggle like a school girl....because...... I am one....as he stands by me. "Hi Jenny."


Holy crap, he said my NAME.



"Hi Boy" giggle. "Sorry your mom dragged you here. I know this is weird." giggle



"I'm sorry about your mom. I wasn't dragged here by the way...Mom let me drive."



"Wow...you are so cool. Such a big boy driving."




"I know...you're jealous."



Here is were I catch a whiff of his deodorant mixed with boy...& I lose consciousness for a moment.



"Do you need anything? Gum? A gun? Sleeping aids? My moms a wreck...I have to drive her home now...she's going to embarrasses us by crying. See you later?"





"Thanks Boy"



He waves Goodbye to me.



Where am I?



I'm floating.




Oh mY HeCK! I was hitting on The Boy at my moms VIEWING! I am sick!




The rest of the viewing I stand, feet swelling in my heels & a goofy smile on my face.







Third and last laughter happens toward the end of the viewing. Before I see them...I feel them. I am startled by the sensation. The voice is clear. "they came for you."

I twirl around & face the parlor doorway....waiting. I feel them first....then I see it. The neon glow on the wall facing the parlor wall. The white wall become saturated by pink then yellow...orange. Oh how I love them....my friends...they come for me....SWEET Mother of PINE NUTS! My friends...coming off the camping trip...to see my dead mother! Crappy Pants! I'm embarrassed. I'm so tired of people looking at her this way. No more! I'm done & fling off my shoes & bolt for the parlor doorway. Like a good comedy I collide into 6 very sunburned, very stinky, very tired girls & their mothers. I push them away from the doorway. I do not allow them in. I want to bask in their Day-Glo shirts, their short shorts & their camp fire perfume. . We hug & hug & burst out laughing at the sight of them. They beg my forgiveness. They all decided to come straight to the viewing after driving 3 hours back from camp. What 15-16 year old girl decides to leave camp early, smelly & ratty haired...to a funeral? Girls who didn't give a rats tush for themselves. Girls who would do anything for me.




I am in love. I am surrounded by love. I pick chunks of woodland creatures out of their hair. They give me back rubs & tease me about my suit. They strain to see my mothers body...through the parlor doorway. I don't let them in. They understand.




They hand me candy.



Oh so loved!











Standing at her grave for her service I saw The Boy far in the distance. Later that night he came to my door. While my family, Grandma, Aunts, Uncles chatted in the back ground after a long day of dealing w/ death. He sat close, knee to knee with me as we ate Kentucky Fried Chicken. occasionally bumping shoulders with me as we told jokes & gossiped. We drank New York Seltzer ....blueberry. He touched the tips of my fingers every so often. & I thanked the Lord above for my happy distraction. He stayed with me...until everyone left for their hotel rooms at 12 am. To this day, I don't think he knew how much that meant to me. How much that saved me. A young boy who I know felt terribly uncomfortable in this situation he was in, still stayed. He forgot himself & he helped a friend.








My sunburned friends called & called. Not to say sorry, but to invite me out. Movies, shopping, parties. They held my hands walking down the halls of school my sophomore year. We traded clothes & we shared make-up. They asked if it made me sad when they talked about their moms. They pretended not to notice how my eyes welled up as they spoke of their moms. They didn't avoid the word "mom." I wanted to hear that word...because all the adults around me refused to say it. Afraid they would upset my little girl psyche.











Most of the adults avoided me...or wanted to stuff me into school therapy...yeah that didn't work out to well. Adults were afraid of me...except my cranky band teacher. After my mother died, my Dad bought me an electric bass. He dropped me off at school in the summer so my band teacher could give me private lessons. The day I sat down w/ my sunburst colored bass, Mr. Keyes asks me how my summer was going.


"My mom died 2 weeks ago."


Silence......"No one told me. I'm so sorry......wow....that's really...... sh%tty......"



Then

Mr. Keyes & I laugh at the absurdity of it all. He hugs me for a second, around my neck with his lumber Jack arm...his signature move...nearly snapping my clavicle.







"Wow kid....If you ever need just to hang out...you come to me. If your day gets too hard to handle I can get you out of class. But if you do come here to escape, you must escape w/ your bass & practice. No weenies or free rides allowed...ok kid? Well...let's do this. Ok, the string are just like your upright bass....."



And so....my life went on.



My mother died at 51 from pneumonia complications after her body was eaten by bone cancer brought on by breast cancer. My father was 50. I was 15.

Summer after my freshman year. My moms death left me with a hole in my little heart. But my mom never left me to struggle on alone. She was a crafty smart women. I have no doubt it was she who whispered into my sunbaked friends heads..."bypass showering & go to her." Mike...make her laugh." "Dear Boy, just swallow the oddness & sit with her" "Mr. Keyes...don't let her slack off & DON'T treat her with kidd gloves."





My mom might have left us too soon, but she made sure she stuffed that hole with friends, hope, music and experiences that would sop up the oozing pain. How relieved she must have felt when friends and adults tucked me under their wings. How giddy she felt when anyone looked at her daughter & asked......

"Hey, do you want to talk about your mom?"

And I wonder how she must feel when I remember her with stories.

People do not die for us immediately, but remain bathed in a sort of aura of life

which bears no relation to true immortality but through which they continue to

occupy our thoughts in the same way as when they were alive

It is as though they were traveling abroad - Marcel Proust

I laugh in your Disturbed face - Part 6

Mom's dead...check.

Dogs feed..... check.

Got Dad standing upright...check.

Next order of business on the day of my mothers death...call...my...friends.

Let me just say....having to call your buddies to tell them "Hey, my Moms been promoted to Subterranean Truffle Inspector" Is...not...cool. It's uncomfortable & weird. But it had to be done. For I was all geared up to go camping w/ some girlfriends in the Dells. But now I couldn't go....oh nooo, Mom had to awake to life immortal & leave me to tend to death crap. Uggg so unfair!

My friends were good friends, who knew my mom had cancer. So it wouldn't be a surprise to them that she died...right? Ummmmm, wellll.

Deep breath.
Exhale.
Pick up phone.
Dial Noel.
Tell her I can't go camping.

"Hello?"

"Hey Noel, listen...I can't go camping this weekend."

"What? But we always go camping? Why can't you go?"

Crappppppp. The words didn't want to form. How can I tell her this...oh geez is she going to cry? I can't take this!

"Well.....ummmmm...Iiiiii."

"Jen, are you ok?"

I don't quite know what happened. It was devastating. It was horrifying. And it was down right hilarious. I...started...to...giggle...then laugh....hard. I paniced! Here I was calling my friend to tell her my mom died & I'm LAUGHING?!

"Noel, "giggle" I... "breath innn" It's Mom..."Bawwwwhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!" (Insert laugh here. Uncontrollable laughing... so hard that I can't breath & tears are running down my face) She DIED today..."HEheheheheheheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee"

"Oh my Gowd Jen...are you...LAUGHING?!"

Panicked, I try to make it sound like I'm crying, but it comes out as a weird meowing sound.


"You are laughing...what the hell is wrong with you?! Your moms dead?! Is this some sort of joke?!"

Poor Noel was so upset. She starts to cry on the phone over the devastating news that her friends mother is worm food & I am laughing so hard I swear I hear a rib pop. I lie & tell her it's hard to talk & could she please pass the word on to our friends.

Oh to laugh. Such a beautiful cathartic thing. I was so...tired of CRYING. The laughter took me by surprise I must admit. It felt so good, but so wrong!

The next few days were a whirl wind. Calls were put out to family. Dad & I trudged off to buy a coffin (very expensive & very PINK...really Dad? Really?) Write an Obit. Order a head stone. Talk to the church. Call her work. Pick out her clothes. (I dressed her in a horrible school marm outfit. It was dark blue w/ tiny bunches of flowers on it....my Mom will kill me for that) Call the funeral director about 5 times trying to get things right.

Calls you never want to have to make....here is a sample.

"Hello funeral director guy. Yeah it's me again...Jenny. Yeah...um you told me to pick out clothes for moms viewing. Yeah...ummm...do I need to pick out ...underpants?"

Yes......really...I did make that call. And if you are wondering, mom went commando. Well, the director said I didn't need to bring undies...or shoes...or stockings if I didn't want to. (But I do need to pick out a bra...ummm...ok) Her feet wouldn't show...& he had underthings already there. Or DID he? I didn't have much faith in the man because...well remember back ....this is the same man who probably looked at my mom after her death makeover & ok'ed it. Her wig was on BACKWARDS & she had on PURPLE eye makeup on. 2 words for you...... GAR-ISH. "Good job Fred. Your make up application is like art. You have successfully turned this poor 51 year old women who's body was ravished by cancer into a painted whore. It's beautiful work Fred. Brings a tear to my eye."











I really hope Mom wasn't commando...but I did think about it...all...day...long. Her...in her PINK casket....quite possibly pantie-less. Easy breezy.









I laugh to myself over the thought. Soon tears stream down my face. My belly hurts from trying to stuff my gut busting laughter into my bowels . Shoulder shake. Eyes squint. Tears, Tears.








Beautiful laughter.





Whispers float around me.





"Poor Dear, she's so shook up. So hard to lose a mother."









Thank the Lord these women think I'm crying. If they only knew...if they only knew.

Mom approves panty humor...no really, she does.

Would this face lie about panty humor? I don't think so.