We moved again when I was nine. I was excited by the “adventure,” but – not surprisingly - I wasn’t prepared for the “adventure.”

The movers in the yellow truck, with a giant green boat on the side, arrived, and I imagined we were sailing away on the Mayflower to our new country. To be fair, the side of the truck said Mayflower Moving, but I was alight with the thought of a grand journey at nine. The Mayflower connection created crazy ideas that rolled around my unfinished brain like the waves I imagined in the expansive sea that stretched to the foreign land of West Virginia.

Would I wear a long dark dress with some kind of man boots?

Would I wear the hat with the buckle, or the “Handmaid’s Tale” styled white bonnet?

None of them were attractive options, but as a stalwart new citizen, I would do as they did on the Mayflower or the shores where we would land.

This concept of a “West” Virginia baffled me.

Why did Virginia have a sibling?

“West” Texas was as big as 2 West Virginias.

Did the two halves of Virginia get into an argument that couldn’t be settled with a coin toss? So, it was time to go splitzies?

Who knew, but I wondered these things. These silly little nine-year-old things.

Our journey to “Wild Wonderful West Virginia” sounded promising because it was, after all, wild and wonderful. Would we be in the wild, wild west? Would we ride horses? I was leaving Texas, and we never had a single Laura Ingles Wilder moment. All we had to ride was our cute, tiny, red VW Beetle.

I cannot fathom now why my family of seven had a beetle. That little lady made the distinctive beetle bug sound. It was akin to a herd of guinea pigs squeaking. As they all were back then, ours was a standard without A/C. The loveliness of that and Texas resulted in the perfect storm to combine sweat from inside and dirt from open windows to leaving the seats slippery and lined with muddy tracks underneath damp thighs. Oh, and yes, don’t take a corner too quickly, or all of us would slip and slide up against one another and smack into the doors.

Welcome to the amusement park ride – no seatbelts required. This was 1969.

Waiting in the street in front of our castle, the jovial movers tolerated us kids. This “ship” or truck thing was the most enormous contraption I’d ever seen. We were encouraged by the pirates of the highways to creep up the metal ramp and explore the cavernous, dark, and musty tank. I imagined it to be like a cave that would have echoed my calls.

I didn’t have a way to understand the size and scale of life. That trailer felt big enough to move the treasures of kings and queens.

Could a kingdom be relocated?

Could our small, white brick, mid-century, four bedrooms, two-bath home in Clear Lake City possibly need these excessive accommodations?

My brow was tight with concern about how our little red bug would make the trip. I wanted the sailors of that clipper to keep her safe. Not knowing how far away “Wild Wonderful West Virginia” was further captivated my curiosity. Then they did something brave and shocking. They drove our beetle up the ramp into the cavern.

Their next move was otherworldly to me. Those four mates reached down with the ease of giants, picked up the car, and turned it sideways. Now, all the belongings from the small white brick castle had a sentinel. My brow relaxed because all was well.

The house we moved into from our small castle was a monstrous castle on a hill. It was three stories because it had a basement. There were 4+ bedrooms. Mine was large and glamorous. I envisioned multiple seating areas. (Yes, at 9.). Immediately though, my parents swiped the corner under the eave for my sister’s crib.

This move blindsided me because my parents (Kathy and Ron) had a suite of rooms downstairs with one perfect for a nursery, so I stood in stunned silent defiance. Maybe it’d be fun to play mom…and maybe not.

There were immediate lessons. Even though I was the oldest of five and had been forced into active service as a pseudo-parent, I couldn’t fathom the ensuing responsibilities.

Things that weren’t fun:

Putting a baby to bed and waking up with her when she cries.

The only access to my room after 8 pm if I was silent.

I was more than a big sister.

In the inky darkness one quiet night, Maureen started crying with determination. I hoisted her from her crib and put her in my bed. She promptly puked her dinner of corned beef hash. I bolted to get Kathy. She cleaned her up while I remade my bed. Believe it or not, she put her back in my bed. She slunk back to her quiet room downstairs. Maureen puked again. This time after I retrieved the “real parent,” she took all my bedding, put it in the tub, and took my sister downstairs. I found a measly sleeping bag and tried to sleep on the floor before I had to get ready for school. The other three staring at me startled and irritated me.

“What?” was all I could muster.

“Are you sick, Juri?” Karen asked.

“No, let me sleep.” With that, they skulked away.

How did I get rooked into the big sister job? I wanted the king and queen of the red brick castle to do their damn jobs. I wanted to be relegated to princess again, not a lady in waiting nor the nurse, teacher, enforcer, or disciplinarian. However, this role was rapidly blossoming and getting out of hand for me.

Suddenly, Kathy decided it was an excellent idea for her and Ron to join the local theater group. Guess who was running things during rehearsals and performances, and cast parties? Yes, yours truly.

Reminder: I was between 9 and 12 when we lived there.

On one such occasion, we were home alone during a violent thunderstorm.

-Baby, asleep – check.

-Others with me downstairs now because they were scared – check.

-No one missing – check. Two were crying, and one was clinging to me.

Then the best of all scenarios – the power went out. Unprepared, I had a lightbulb moment (no pun intended) - I lit the gas stove top. Well, that only helped right there.

In the flashes of light, Karen (younger by 18 months) and I took halting steps toward our parents’ room. The two middle ones sat on the stairs with blankets over their heads, like a scene from The Sixth Sense. In the brightness of each flash, we rummaged through the top drawer of Ron’s dresser. Isn’t the dresser where one keeps a flashlight?

Nope.

Finally, I abandoned all attempts to fix that shit myself. Karen and I ran to the neighbor’s next door. I had the good sense to put a raincoat on both of us. We climbed the 17,000 steps to their house and knocked on the door. Those poor people stared at us as if we were lost children of Appalachia. Aghast, we were left “home alone” with a 10-year-old in charge; the husband came over to the house with a flashlight and, I think, an extra one. He was kind and patient. Just after we got there, the lights came back on. He ensured we were ok and left with an eye roll toward my parents. I believe there was a follow-up “talk” with my dad, which was relatively unpleasant.

In an attempt at passing the torch of authority, when he was absent, good ole Ron gave me a camouflage shirt with the sleeves cut out and some military patches on it. The kids thought it was ridiculous. He made me wear it as his deputy’s badge. It made their behavior worse.

My parents played in a little theater, and I parented the hoard.

What I learned:

I loved snow.

I loved the forest and the creeks I got to explore and wander (always with a sibling). I loved the freedom of those hours lost and then found again.

I loved plucking and tasting honeysuckle on the twisting and climbing trail, making our way to swim practice.

Squinting my eyes didn’t improve my vision; contacts did.

Heating Campbell’s consummé when Kathy and Ron weren’t home and the kids were hungry was a mistake. How was I to know that word was French for broth?

Letting the kids try to make a pie was a bad idea when I was in charge. As it turns out, pouring all ingredients for the crust and filling in the same bowl doesn’t, in fact, work. They don’t separate to create the elements of a pie miraculously—and this enraged Kathy.

I didn’t want to be a pre-adolescent parent.

I didn’t know how to make and keep everyone happy.

I didn’t know my dad was an alcoholic.

I didn’t know what the DTs were, but they convinced my dad there was a band in his hospital room.

I didn’t like Mom taking me to pick Dad up from the hospital. She shit-talked him all the way there. Experiencing him vomiting out the window left me horrified. My grandparents were home with the other kids, and that was where I wanted to be. They let me be a child.

I stopped being a child in that castle.

No matter how hard I tried, it wasn’t good enough.

I wanted the highway pirates to come and take us back to the little white castle with the pool, the golf course, and the pond behind it.

There is never a way to know the future.

There is never a way to know the possibilities of a lifetime.

There is only the living, and it must be done.

Words fall off unless we lick them,

stick them to the recipient

the intrepid receiver of our slivers

of meaning built by our slivers of shivers.

When the letters line up

shine up

show up to show us up

just when we thought we glowed up.

Now to find out we went hard to stick those syllables

and lick those syllables

so they stay together to make a

merry weather day filled with words I hope stick and stay.

I hope they stay on my sticky note.

The one I licked for good luck before

I stuck it to your soul.

Words fall off unless we lick them,

stick them to the recipient

the intrepid receiver of our slivers

of meaning built by our slivers of shivers.

When the letters line up

shine up

show up to show us up

just when we thought we glowed up.

Now to find out we went hard to stick those syllables

and lick those syllables

so they stay together to make a

merry weather day filled with words I hope stick and stay.

I hope they stay on my sticky note.

The one I licked for good luck before

I stuck it to your soul.

Words...those sparks that speak for us.

Syllables formed from thoughts.

Sometimes they articulate perfectly the intended message.

Sometimes they tell our stories.

We send them out to lovers, and friends and foes alike. They're perfect parcels...meant for someone else to form meaning.

Occasionally they are left outside in the rain.

Unreceived

Ignored

Misunderstood

It's as if they are speechless.

With the fresh reality, everyone shows up

"Let us help."

"What can we do?"

They don't know what to do.

I don't know what they can do.

Physically close is uncomfortable

because a hug may feel right

but could be rebuffed

where does that leave them?

It leaves them with arms empty

while I live days and nights

with every part of everything empty.

Talking is easy when I fill the air.

In the throes of disaster

I had a focus

there was illness or getting well

or planning for death...

all those provided a solution

The aftermath leaves nothing but

ends to tie up and items to sort.

and the things that show up that

I must decipher

Thoughts to clear away

pieces of white paper and colored

what to keep and whatever mattered

A life reduced to rubble

and piles of useless clutter.

There’s nothing like the eyes of a lover.

They search so deeply.

Seeing all the way through

Deep into their lover’s soul pool

Clear, warm and salty

It holds the years of tears shed

While looking for them...waiting for them.

It is their place on which

To float endlessly.

In that safe dwelling within their lovers soul...made just for them.

Last night I noticed light glinting off the silver of the car. Looking straight up overhead I saw her...Our moon. I smiled at her...she smiled back...I told her silently...thank you sister...I love you and how your luminescence lights my way. Tonight’s dark sky is brightened once again by the never ending beauty of Our Moon...with or without you...I know we will always bask in her light at the same time...we might even have a private glance upward...remembering her as Ours and our time with her.

Like dew on grass my tears rested gently on my cheeks. Each droplet rolled slowly over the mounds leaving a glistening trail to be traced by your fingers. As you caught each one you asked, “Why my love do you weep so?” To that I answered, “Because soon I will miss you as fiercely as I am thrilled to see you now.” Watching the joy in my eyes at seeing yours you leaned down and kissed the trail of each tear. The path was then broken. Only joy remained in its place.

Like an old camera

which when opened

exposes the delicate film,

so did our time together

capture these snapshots

of memories longed

to be created.

Created from joy,

surprise, tenderness,

passion, desire,

Reconciliation and love.

The laughter and longing

connection and satisfaction,

affection and belonging

held us tightly together.

Hold my hand.

Catch my tears.

And know my love

I’ll do the same.