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 HELLO Houston, TX In the summer of '77, while my mom was at work, my dad hustled my brother and I into the car to go on a vacation. Off to see our Uncle O.J. and his family in Gallipolis, Ohio, we were told our mom was going to leave after work and catch up to us in Ohio. A family vacation was nowhere near the norm for our standards, so being seven years old in a brand new summer I was stoked. We got to Ohio just fine and stayed with our uncle for awhile, and were told that our mother changed her mind and didn't want to join us. I found this hard to believe as she needed a vacation too, and we were right across the road from Raccoon Creek where we could swim as well as climb the mountain behind Uncle O.J.'s house. I would say the light came on for me when a new woman entered the picture with her two daughters (and a son who was forced to leave to go live with his own father). But honestly, that's where things go dark and memory fades. I have a few flashes of recognition here and there. Losing a tooth at night in the gravel driveway, crushed knowing it would never make it under my pillow. Starting second grade in a strange new school, Blackwell Elementary, with none of my old friends. Getting a model car from my dad on my 8th birthday that I gave to the kid a few trailers over. Coloring in a Scooby Doo coloring book while sitting on the hitch to the mobile home. We would get mail from my mother but it was confusing and always opened. I couldn't understand why she wasn't with us and why the two sisters we had inherited were allowed to go see their dad. I'm not exactly sure when it all came to a head. I've narrowed it down to sometime between the last half of September and Halloween, and for some reason I've never bothered to clarify. I'd celebrated my birthday on Sept. 13, and I'd made Halloween decorations for my room (a construction paper and pipe cleaner spider hanging in my window with many, many paper pumpkins). I rode the bus to school, leaving my two-year-old brother behind with the new woman. It was chilly so I put on the black sweater my mother had made me with the gigantic 'HELLO' across the back. (I always thought it odd for people to read that greeting with my back to them or as I was walking away.) As I crossed the parking lot from the bus to the building, a dark car pulled up next to me and the back door flew open. 'Get in.' Picked out of the crowd with the giant 'HELLO' across my back, my grandfather bundled me into the back seat and we went back to the trailer. We retrieved my brother and whatever we could carry then headed for the airport. I remember getting wings on exiting the plane. After that, I just remember rain on the windshield as we drove to the home place in Thornton, and rain on my face when I hugged my mother again. Thirty years have passed. My father has been forgiven to the best of my ability. On the night of my brother's accident, he gave me the most honest apology he could for all he'd done wrong. We hadn't spoken in almost fifteen years at that time, but I accepted his apology with a hug and an 'I love you'. Isn't that weird? By no means is the story of our childhood a worst case scenario, but it's littered with all sorts of emotional flotsam and jetsam, a lot of it embedded in grudges, lost time, frustration. And with a simple apology, I let it go. That's all I needed to hear. The skids were greased a bit knowing his mind is a bit jumbled. He's told so many lies and excuses he's convinced himself. Seriously. He reminisced about remembering one of my little league games at such the last minute that he had to scramble out from under the car he was working on to show up to the field covered in grease. That's a nice memory. Especially considering the fact that my little league career consisted of two games as bat boy while he was out of town. I digress. Over the years I've learned of the time and money spent on getting us back. My grandfather used his Masonic connections and made countless phone calls, eventually hiring a private investigator (who drove the getaway car). This scenario would come back to haunt us not as a traumatic experience, but as Guilt ex Machina anytime we did something wrong. My memory is still spotty and my brother has no recollection at all. I sometimes wonder what value if any would be gained by remembering as much as I could of that time frame. Some would consider it masochistic, wallowing in the pains of the past and opening old wounds that have been forgiven. Others would consider those memories insights to the man I am now. Either way, sometimes I just get the overwhelming feeling that I need to know just for the sake of knowing. I found the sweater while cleaning out that closet in our old house that I mentioned many posts ago. I cried a little when I realized what it was. Not for several childhood months that I can't remember. Not for a rotten father forgiven. But for a mother. A mother who, for a period of time that lasted forever, couldn't say 'hello' to her sons. - A quick little update... An humble and honest thank you to everyone for all the kind words this post has generated, and a special thank you to Bob at forgingahead for his Wow Award. 
I appreciate this little venture allowing me the opportunity to wax neurotic and engage in a little personal photo-therapy. The fact that people could identify with the words or image or be moved in any way by my efforts is total gravy. I'm just happy to be here. Again, thank you for looking my way. | |
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Posted by r2blue Archived under: Holga, Color, Things |
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