It sounds cool to say I was raised on the Muckleshoot Indian Reservation. It conjures images of me as a little girl, seated upon a painted pony, sporting an eagle feather in my red hair, and wearing leather mocassins with elaborate beadwork.

It’s true.

I was raised on the Muckleshoot Reservation in the area of Auburn, Washington, 15 miles northeast of Tacoma and 35 miles southeast of Seattle.

Sad to say, I did not have a painted pony.

I did dress up like Pocahontas for Halloween once, with a random bird feather and a pair of leather mocassins scored from Seattle Goodwill.

Still, there are advantages to being raised on the reservation. The coolest by far is the old cemetery four blocks from our home. Although small and overgrown with grass and maidenhair ferns, it carried its brand of charm.

If you were stuck entertaining younger, visiting cousins, or a little brother, a trip to the cemetery was better than any park or playground.

Bored, my lovelies?

Bwahahaha!

The memories shared from the chills and thrills before they realized it was just me jumping out from behind a tombstone?

Priceless.

It was worth the apologies I had to cough up after they tattled to their parents.

Most of the time spent in the cemetery, I was alone. You’re probably picturing Wednesday from the Adam’s Family with red hair. It’s okay. You are not alone in thinking I’m strange. Whenever the self-built camps in the woods behind our house turned drab, I could be found at the cemetery.

Back then I knew the names on the graves of all thirteen babies in the Starr family (name changed). I’d sit cross-legged on the grassy ground, pondering each grave marked by a makeshift wood cross with an abandoned name scrawled across it.

With no real understanding or belief in heaven, I worried they might be lonely. No one ever showed up to mourn them, at least not while I was there. So I talked to them, calling each by name. Asking why their lives were mere moments long. I would often weep for their families.

Today I believe it was a form of prayer, without my realizing it.

As I moved into my teens, the cemetery became the place of firsts. Like first cigarette, beer, and kiss. It was the place I fell in love, again and again. It was the setting for tears and secrets, some shared with friends, but most told only to my adopted dead babies.

I should mention I wasn’t allowed to hang out in the cemetery. Not by my parents or the Muckleshoot Tribe. Obedience was never a strong suit for me. Back then it didn’t seem like anyone cared, it was just one of those rules made by someone who enjoyed making stuff up for people to ignore.

One day I was serving as the unofficial cemetery tour guide for a group of new kids that had moved into the neighborhood. As I was introducing them to the babies, an old, beat-up flat-bed truck came barreling down the dirt road. About a dozen Native American men rode in the back of the truck bed, most standing, holding onto the wooden slats. They appeared quite drunk and when my tourists scattered like roaches caught in the light, they laughed and pointed.

I’m uncertain why I remained standing, watching them toss empty glass pint bottles that crashed on the boulders. It was one of those moments when you know it would be smart to be afraid, yet you’re not. I like to think I stood my ground, not out of disrespect, but as a gesture of respect for their sacred land. I remember looking into their eyes as they passed, wanting them to send me a welcoming nod. In my chosen memory, they did.

My visits to the cemetery, lessened as I caressed life as a teen. John, my current boy interest who picked me up for school in his GTO, thought my grave fixation was weird.

Having an early work release from high school allowed me to earn just enough money for a studio apartment downtown. With school, a job, and time to do crazy kid stuff, the cemetery’s draw waned.

One day I fell in love with the idea of being madly in love, falling for a man who was no longer a boy. Looking back, I think the “man” part is the only thing he had going on. When he told me he wanted to break up, I thought I might die. Tending drama, I decided to buy a bus ticket to New York City. In my defense, it was the “That Girl,” era with Marlo Thomas tossing her hat in the air and having a grand time.

My mother begged me not to go, increasing the melodrama, thus making the idea more alluring. I’m still impressed she was able to talk me into moving to Yakima to live with my Grandfather, who was not doing well since Grandma passed away. My adventure shifted from wearing a hat on the streets of Broadway to drinking buttermilk with Grandpa in what was then considered a retirement town.

I did make a life in Yakima, where I live today. Trips home, occasionally included a trip to the cemetery, mostly to show my husband and children my version of a playground. While the woods behind our house were now a Piggily Wiggly store, the cemetery lay still, as always.

Life moved on.

A marriage dissolved.

Our children grew into incredible young adults.

I remarried.

In 1995, the Muckleshoot Indian Tribe opened a casino located across the street from my parent’s house. Little did they know, it would draw my dad to its flame. Once given a win, Dad was like a cat that kept returning even when the scraps were not there, hoping for just one more feast.

My lovely mom passed away in 2002.

Soon after, Dad was in financial devastation. Desperate, he tried to sell the house to the Muckleshoot Tribe after rumors led him to believe he could make a killing.

The tribe refused his offer.

The family home went into foreclosure in 2010.

That same year, my little brother and Dad passed away.

It was as if grief arrived when Mom died and stayed, taking on different forms of loss. Joy paid visits during this chunk of time as well. The biggest joy was a gift sweeter than anything I’ve ever tasted —

Months before Mom entered the hospital, never to leave, God upped his pursuit of my soul.

Why?

He knew a locomotive of grief was headed down the rails in my life. He knew I would need to lean on Him. He did not want me to be alone or feel forsaken. God gave me a gift of faith sufficient for the abundant grief.

A year after the wave of loss, I visited my hometown. The fence around my childhood home had finally fallen over. Mom’s Tropicana roses were replaced with death. The house had stopped being a home the day Mom left it, but now it threatened to collapse along with the fence.

When Mom died, I stood by her body, acutely aware she was no longer there. Now the house that held our childhood dreams joined her in death.

Next door, neighbors whom I did not know were having a yard sale. Curious, I walked over, pretending to be interested in the household goods.

When a woman approached, I asked, “Do you know if anyone lives in the house next door?”

Shaking her head no, she responded.

“I don’t know what happened to the nice man who lived there.”

I could have told her.

Instead, I purchased a spatula and walked away. I wanted to rest in the moment of Dad being a nice man. To remember, that he housed as much, or more good, than bad.

After a long sob in the car, I drove the four blocks to the Muckleshoot Cemetary. To my surprise, it was surrounded by a wrought iron fence with two stone pillars on either side of the entrance gate. The tall reeds were now freshly mown grass, and not a single grave was unmarked or taken over with weeds.

There were charming walkways with pristine flower beds and the size had nearly tripled. People were meandering and visiting the graves of their lost loved ones. There seemed to be fresh bouquets resting everywhere and there were birds, I don’t remember ever seeing, lined up on the fence, singing a cheerful melody.

Standing outside the fence, I remembered my first kiss and all the times I freaked out my little cousins. Then I apologized for the times I used the sacred ground for smoking cigarettes and drinking stolen whiskey.

Being disoriented by the mass changes, I failed to find the Starr baby graves. I did my best to remember their names, reciting a prayer and a sincere goodbye to each one.

I left at peace, grateful, and happy they had been given a new home with a pretty gate, flowers, and visitors to pray and talk to them.

I fell asleep in crazy love, waking, not only before the earth switched on its’ lights, but before, Sandy, the “Up and at em” guy. I slip out of our zipper joined cocoon, pull on Sandy’s day old T-shirt, inside out jeans and flip flops. Digging through a nest of cookies, Richard Bach’s book, “One,” and crumpled M&M wrappers, I grab the Benson & Hedges and Bic lighter. I roll onto my stomach, slide off the loft style bed and slowly open the noisy, barn style doors, of the van. Sandy rolls onto his side as the door creaks, skipping two beats before returning to the snoring melody. I consider crawling back up for a rerun of last night, choosing time on my own, instead.

I follow the path we walked last night, leading down to the Wenatchee River. There’s a few faint lights inside trailers, but I appear to be the only one ready to seize the rising sun. There’s a path of rocks leading to a large boulder, midstream, beckoning. I attempt to stuff my cigarettes in my bra, and find the pack floating at my feet. Retrieving the pack, I remember a bra is not one of the two items I’m wearing. With the pack in my jean’s pocket, I prance across rocks leading to the inviting boulder, knowing I can’t fall. A rare moment of unexplained confidence, like when you toss a wad of paper, knowing it will score the trash can, or raise a hand without a doubt you’ll catch the ball.

Lifting Sandy’s T-shirt, carrying his alluring scent, I retrieve the pack, lighting a first smoke. It’s chilly, the nip to my face is welcome. It’s an orchestra moment, the water rushing, swirling, cresting, the sky breaking open, pink and yellow, even the quiet plays a part in the symphony. My thoughts wander to the God discussions of late. Is God here, now, watching me? I don’t feel alone. Not in a creepy sense, like a stalker, more like a child, aware mom is on guard. God are you here? Do you know I exist? As the sun persists breaking through the dark, I remember that time I prayed, asking for someone to love me, really love me. What if, God answered that prayer with Sandy? It’s a silly thought. A God over everything and everyone, chooses me from among the other ants on the sidewalk, granting my wish for love. Nice thought, but it’s not logical. I choose to face life “as is,” eyes open.

As other campers mosey down to the river, my solitude is threatened by splashing children, eyeballing and nearing my boulder. There’s an early morning promise of another crackling hot June day. Snubbing out my fourth smoke, I surrender to the young pirates, and head back to our camp. Sandy meets me on the path, showered and ready for the day.

By noon the temperature is nearing 100 degrees. We’re heading west, on Steven’s Pass, alongside the Icicle River. Bare feet on the dash of the van, dressed like Sandy in cutoffs and T-shirt, I’m in a foreign land of contentment

“The river looks amazing. Is there someplace we can get down to it and stretch our legs?”

“I think so… after the next bend or so.”

We park, climb down a steep, narrow path to a haven of Celadon green water, spraying across glassy boulders, sparkling in the sun. The other six or so paradise seekers, basking in the sun, nod a welcome as we approach. Sandy guides me, just enough for balance as we maneuver the slippery rocks. Standing side by side on a boulder built for two, I take his hand, suggesting, “Let’s jump in.” He makes a funny wincing face, then nods. Like Peter Pan and Tinker Bell we leap into the air, free, happy… in love. With the splash, our lungs deflate, defining the rivers name. Like a pair of plastic fishing bobbers, we pop to the top. Shivering, we race to the car, while onlookers snicker with looks of, “Duh… Icicle river.”

The sun dries our clothes and thaws our bones quickly. We mosey on toward Skagit Valley, detouring whenever a yard sale sign beckons, leading us down back roads, munching Windmill cookies and black licorice.

I catch a glimpse of the woman in the side mirror. It’s me, without the trademark look of stress. She’s the woman I don’t get. The one I ignore at a party. But this time, I kind of like her. Razzled hair, clean, sun flushed skin, and an alien, content look in the eyes. Then fear begs the question, “What’s happening to me?”

I hate hanging outdoors, hyper-aware of potential flash attacks by bees or snakes. Every time Sandy convinces me to give outdoors a chance, I forget…. I am not the woodsey type!

One time I agreed to sit in the car and work, while he fished his favorite hole. I told Sandy not to buy me a fishing license. He forgot. At the fishing hole, I delve into my work, prioritizing stacks of paper on the dashboard. Not wanting to be a jerk, I keep an eye on Sandy, ready to applaud if he outsmarts a fish. Did you know there are television programs with two guys in a rowboat talking about fishing? They say things like, “Yup” and “Well, looky there.”

Work, is not happening. Maybe it’s the way the sun has placed Sandy in a spotlight, appearing majestic, golden, surreal. I watch as he laces the line through the eyes of the rod, ties a knot, bites the line in two with his teeth.

Earlier, in the, are-you-joking-it’s-still-dark morning hours, we drove to a house with a hand written sign, nailed to a tree, reading: Night crawlers. A man with a yellowed beard answers the door, leading us to the kitchen. He opens the fridge, pulling out a Styrofoam container, kept next to an uncovered bowl of red Jell-O. Gleaming a six tooth grin of pride, he lifts the lid displaying the worms, eagerly cooperating, wiggling their alluring charms. For a moment they share admiration for the performing worms. Then, well pleased, Sandy hands him a dollar.

Now, in the sun’s spotlight, he slides the Styrofoam container from his vest pocket, chooses victim one, threads it onto the hook. Broad shoulders swaying, he casts the line, hitting the mark, a shadowed pool next to an algae covered rock. A breeze lifts and lowers the line. Bewitched, I study his solid block build, dark, unkempt beard and taken for granted confidence. I’ve found my Grizzly Adams. A man who’ll bash through the door, toss me over his shoulder, forge through fires and storms, defend my honor and bring fish home for dinner. Okay, no fish for dinner. He’s a catch and release guy, petting the fish before putting it back in the stream, (slightly maimed).

I submit to the subliminal calls to give fishing a shot. The sun baked boulders and grassy patches look like prime snake territory to me. As per my humble request, he slays a worm, handing me the pole, ready and waiting. I cast the line, then wait forever while he untangles it from the tree behind me. He overreacts to the fluke accident, sending me upstream with a fresh worm on my hook. I tiptoe back through the snake infested grass, balance my pole on a rock, worm dangling in the stream to light a smoke. While fumbling for matches my pole rolls off the rock. I grab it, relieved to have saved it from sailing down current. Lo and behold there on the hook flaps a frantic fish. In my moment of victory over nature, I wave to Sandy downstream.

“Look! Look! I caught one!”

Driving home, I can tell he thinks he’s got himself a new fishing convert. I should have hidden my exuberance over the fish.

“Yup… yup… well lookey there.”

After tedious hours of prep and quizzing by professor Deb, I’m ready to meet the parents. The door opens, I’m drawn into the land of the McFarland’s, a place I believed existed mostly in Deb’s exaggerated imagination. Dema greets us at the door with a hearty, genuine hug. I’m confused because she’s dressed like we’re going to a black-tie event and my only instructions were to wear a real shirt with no funny saying on it. She’s all sparkly, with sequins and jewels, the infamous auburn hair and makeup done to perfection. I feel better seeing Mac stretched out on his recliner, dressed like a 1950’s cowpoke.

The 12 by 12 foot living room is furnished for a room three times its size, so you must cross the room walking sideways. Greetings barely obliged, Dema presses start on a VHS tape she’s had paused and ready for us since we left Yakima. The 60-inch projection television can only be seen from the two recliners placed directly in front, where Mac and Dema sit, both armed with a stack of remotes. Deb and I sit on the orange velvet love seat, our knees sideways so we don’t knock over the glass table in front.

For the next hour, we watch news clips recorded from all three major television networks. Deb warned me this might happen, to which my reply was, “No, they wouldn’t do that.” After this, I will not question Deb’s facts. The newscasts escalate from a missing person to murder, while Mac and Dema insert background information, sometimes pausing to make sure we are keeping up.

Hindered by the sideways view and the interruptions, this is my best translation of the drama: Virginia is Dema’s cousin. No one agrees whether she was on husband six, seven or eight. She has a son named Lynn, a sailor who visited once and made homemade pizza from a box. Virginia had lots of money because of her husbands, that she spent on diamonds and high heels. Dema says Virginia was spoiled as a child. She should know since they took baths together. Virginia was missing four days, with her car mysteriously parked in the driveway. Husband number six, seven or eight, claimed she vanished. Lynn, the pizza making son, flew to Spokane, hoping to help find his mother. Suspicions grew. The police brought search dogs, finding poor Virginia buried in the garden along with the carrots and potatoes. The last news clip shows the husband in handcuffs being carted off in a police car. An autopsy revealed she had been shot. Everyone is relieved that Aunt Myrt, Virginia’s mom, is not around to see this.

I’m exhausted and we’ve just begun. Again, Deb was right, insisting my intro to the McFarland’s be brief, without Haley and Jay, who might blab something we don’t want known.

“I don’t want them to know we’re living together,” said Deb. “If we stay overnight we have two choices – separate rooms, pretending what we all know not to be true – or same room knowing the rest of the family is pow-wowing outside the door, chanting tsk – tsk – tsk.”

Considering our options, a short-day trip seemed best. When murder and mayhem conversation dies off we move to the next dramatic scene.

“Have you shown Sandy the bar?” Mac asks, knowing we’ve not left the front room. “Bet he’s never seen anything like it.”

“You haven’t… come on,” Deb says, motioning for me to follow. She side-winds through her childhood habitat, like a snake crossing the desert, while I, new to the obstacle course, bump knees and elbows, unskilled at walking sideways. Mac and Dema follow. She carries a 16-ounce tumbler of scotch and water, room to room, like a portable oxygen tank. The story from Deb is that her mom confesses to the doctor a two-drink habit, omitting the constant refreshing and topping off.

I’ve spent time in bars, all types… redneck, biker, highbrow… dives to swanky black tie joints… home bars, makeshift bars, tailgate specials. Yet none prepared me for the, “McFarland’s Bar.”

Deb’s eyes are begging me for words, but I don’t know what to say. When words fail me, she involuntarily covers for me, chattering nervously, cooing and fidgeting like a cross between a dove and a quail.

“We had the bar built. It’s regulation. So are the dozen stools,” Mac says.

There’s a mirrored back bar with shelves stocked and ready to fill any drink order. And… Elvis is in the room… rows of gold and silver Elvis bottles peering down from shelves installed around the ceiling. There’s a black light, 20 beer signs, a booth style table and a life size poster of Mac dressed as a woman… an extremely ugly toothless woman with a huge nose… just imagine if Popeye had a sister. What comment am I to make? Deb is trying to cover for my silence.

“Did you see the disco ball? Cool, huh? Did you know the poster is Dad? The ceiling is painted black for the strobe lights. You should really see what it looks like at night…”

Any moment Deb’s going to shove me on her lap, cram her arm up my butt and move my jaw up and down, like Edgar Bergan and his Charlie McCarthy doll. I open my own mouth to comment, but not fast enough to delay what’s coming next.

Deb’s classy, attractive, soft spoken mom calls me over to the bar. She’s lined up a collection of ceramic figurines. I obey her call, nearing the harmless looking monks and frogs. Then she hands me a monk.

“Turn it around,” she says. “Isn’t that awful?”

As I turn the monk around, he transforms into a ceramic penis. Why is this happening? Dema keeps saying how awful it is… I want to agree. Then she hands me a frog, asking me to turn it over. Do I have to? Deb gives me a “just do it” look.

“Isn’t that awful?” Dema asks again.

I manage a laugh at the anatomically enhanced frog. It’s not that I can’t handle the joke. I feel like I’ve been captured and thrown into someone’s really bad X-rated home movie.

Finally, I speak.

“Deb, where’s the bathroom?”

The conversation turns from ceramic phallic symbols to towels as I follow Deb’s finger pointing down the hall.

“I copied your idea to roll towels on the shelves. I really like it.” I hear Dema say to Deb.

I try to open the door to the bathroom, but something is behind it. I slide through sideways, finding a huge hook on the back of the door holding a stack of robes. The door’s heavy and hard to close on the carpet, but I manage. Standing at the toilet staring at a tall shelf above it, I count 56 hand towels, 49 bath towels and 62 wash cloths, neatly rolled and stacked like cord wood stored for the winter. If a bus load of people needing a bath arrive at the McFarland’s, they’re covered for towels.

“There are 56 hand towels,” I say to Deb as I squeeze back through the door. She shushes me while peeking in.

“Oh, that looks great Mom. Rolling the towels saves a lot of space.”

Dinner, however late, is worth it. I’d been told to expect greatness and my hopes were not denied. The table was set with U.S. Navy flatware and individual platters, not plates, crowded with heaping plates of southern fried chicken, mash potatoes, country gravy, biscuits and corn. Seated in unspoken assigned seats, with Mac at the head of the table, I remember one of Deb’s warnings – “Whatever you do, don’t pass the food in the wrong direction, it drives Dad crazy.”

He passes the procession of steaming bowls ceremoniously clockwise. I try, but curiosity wins, forcing my hand to pass the corn upstream, against the current. Dema accepts the bowl with a nervous grin… Deb and Mac place their forks on the table, staring me down as if I’m the one who buried Virginia under the carrots. Not wanting to delay indulging in this feast any longer, I retrieve the corn, sending it clockwise.

I know what we’ll be discussing on the ride home to Yakima.

          She smelled of juicy fruit gum and carnations. The gum, she offered freely to grandchildren and strangers alike. The Blue Carnation toilet water, spritzed on a lace trimmed handkerchief, awaited up her sleeve to be waved at the first hint of a tear or runny nose.

          Like Michelangelo, Da Vinci or Picasso, she left hauntingly beautiful images behind on the canvasses in our minds. Sweet Peas climbing the pickets, smiling orange and purple pansies in the stone pots, aside the painted stepping stones, leading to her one-bedroom cottage castle.

           Red painted nails with matching lipstick, rhinestone, button style, clip on earrings and finger waved hair; all of which she claimed to be “naked” without. A 1930’s rose mohair sofa with doilies on the arms. A picture-perfect cake, iced white with dyed pink coconut, on a pedestal plate. The molasses cookies, cedar paneled walls and the oil stove hogging a third of the 9 x 12 living room.

           Nana left mantras and sayings both wise and silly for us to ponder.

           “A stitch in time saves nine.”

           “Bless your pea picking heart.”

           “Red and yellow catch a fellow.”

           “Thirteen is my lucky number.”

           With perfect timing, she’d sling the apropos saying. Like the moment, you stubbed a toe she’d chime in with:

           “Just think how much better it will feel when it quits hurting.”

           And right after you snarled a response to the above quip, she’d retort with:

          “Only dogs get mad.”

           More powerful than the scents and images or words of wisdom, are the lessons of character she lived and gifted to those around her. Another Nana witticism is: Always keep an ace in the hole. This served her well. With a humble retirement income, she was the family tycoon. The only person with money in the bank to loan when trouble threatened any one of us. And, without ever asking for it back, she managed to make you feel good about taking care of the debt. These were the days of penny licorice ropes, five cent gum packs and $5 bags of groceries given as prizes for radio bingo that supplied her weeks’ worth of needs. Yet, footing a loan for $200 or $300 was of no concern to her.

She oozed of character, most of which was taken for granted. I remember her letters in the late 1960s, hand written to me, a know it all teenager with her own apartment. My friends and I read them aloud after smoking a joint, laughing at the sweetness.

          “Dearest Debbie, Bless your heart. How are you doing? I hope you like the new apron I made for you. I used scraps from your favorite circle skirt. Remember the one you wore when you did the Mexican hat dance in kindergarten?”

The thought of wearing my frilly handmade apron, while slaving over a box of macaroni and cheese, cracked us up. I admit, after the laughs we shared an admiration for her pure heart of gold, followed by a quiet sadness and longing to believe life to be as good as she did.

          She was known to read the Bible and give to the televangelists begging for money from her black and white console television. I remember a few times she was shushed for mentioning Jesus. One thing I know now, that I was clueless to then, she prayed. One prayer in particular on my behalf. I know this because….

          I pray for my grandchildren. I pray for a variety of God’s blessings but my most urgent prayer is that they will have an intimate relationship with Jesus. That’s what my nana prayed for me. I know this because…

          He answered the prayer. He pursued me down each road… waited patiently when I took a wrong turn… showered me with love when I deserved scorn… and so on and so forth.

          When I was given the gift of grand-motherhood, I chose to be called Nana. My bucket list for this life, is filled with pleas to be remembered by joyful things and my faith. Just as I remember her.

I fell asleep in crazy love, waking, not only before the earth switched on its’ lights, but before, Sandy, the “Up and at em” guy. I slip out of our zipper joined cocoon, pull on Sandy’s day old T-shirt, inside out jeans and flip flops. Digging through a nest of cookies, Richard Bach’s book, “One,” and crumpled M&M wrappers, I grab the Benson & Hedges and Bic lighter. I roll onto my stomach, slide off the loft style bed and slowly open the noisy, barn style doors, of the van. Sandy rolls onto his side as the door creaks, skipping two beats before returning to the snoring melody. I consider crawling back up for a rerun of last night, choosing time on my own, instead.

I follow the path we walked last night, leading down to the Wenatchee River. There’s a few faint lights inside trailers, but I appear to be the only one ready to seize the rising sun. There’s a path of rocks leading to a large boulder, midstream, beckoning. I attempt to stuff my cigarettes in my bra, and find the pack floating at my feet. Retrieving the pack, I remember a bra is not one of the two items I’m wearing. With the pack in my jean’s pocket, I prance across rocks leading to the inviting boulder, knowing I can’t fall. A rare moment of unexplained confidence, like when you toss a wad of paper, knowing it will score the trash can, or raise a hand without a doubt you’ll catch the ball.

Lifting Sandy’s T-shirt, carrying his alluring scent, I retrieve the pack, lighting a first smoke. It’s chilly, the nip to my face is welcome. It’s an orchestra moment, the water rushing, swirling, cresting, the sky breaking open, pink and yellow, even the quiet plays a part in the symphony. My thoughts wander to the God discussions of late. Is God here, now, watching me? I don’t feel alone. Not in a creepy sense, like a stalker, more like a child, aware mom is on guard. God are you here? Do you know I exist? As the sun persists breaking through the dark, I remember that time I prayed, asking for someone to love me, really love me. What if, God answered that prayer with Sandy? It’s a silly thought. A God over everything and everyone, chooses me from among the other ants on the sidewalk, granting my wish for love. Nice thought, but it’s not logical. I choose to face life “as is,” eyes open.

As other campers mosey down to the river, my solitude is threatened by splashing children, eyeballing and nearing my boulder. There’s an early morning promise of another crackling hot June day. Snubbing out my fourth smoke, I surrender to the young pirates, and head back to our camp. Sandy meets me on the path, showered and ready for the day.

By noon the temperature is nearing 100 degrees. We’re heading west, on Steven’s Pass, alongside the Icicle River. Bare feet on the dash of the van, dressed like Sandy in cutoffs and T-shirt, I’m in a foreign land of contentment

“The river looks amazing. Is there someplace we can get down to it and stretch our legs?”

“I think so… after the next bend or so.”

We park, climb down a steep, narrow path to a haven of Celadon green water, spraying across glassy boulders, sparkling in the sun. The other six or so paradise seekers, basking in the sun, nod a welcome as we approach. Sandy guides me, just enough for balance as we maneuver the slippery rocks. Standing side by side on a boulder built for two, I take his hand, suggesting, “Let’s jump in.” He makes a funny wincing face, then nods. Like Peter Pan and Tinker Bell we leap into the air, free, happy… in love. With the splash, our lungs deflate, defining the rivers name. Like a pair of plastic fishing bobbers, we pop to the top. Shivering, we race to the car, while onlookers snicker with looks of, “Duh… Icicle river.”

The sun dries our clothes and thaws our bones quickly. We mosey on toward Skagit Valley, detouring whenever a yard sale sign beckons, leading us down back roads, munching Windmill cookies and black licorice.

I catch a glimpse of the woman in the side mirror. It’s me, without the trademark look of stress. She’s the woman I don’t get. The one I ignore at a party. But this time, I kind of like her. Razzled hair, clean, sun flushed skin, and an alien, content look in the eyes. Then fear begs the question, “What’s happening to me?”

I hate hanging outdoors, hyper-aware of potential flash attacks by bees or snakes. Every time Sandy convinces me to give outdoors a chance, I forget…. I am not the woodsey type!

One time I agreed to sit in the car and work, while he fished his favorite hole. I told Sandy not to buy me a fishing license. He forgot. At the fishing hole, I delve into my work, prioritizing stacks of paper on the dashboard. Not wanting to be a jerk, I keep an eye on Sandy, ready to applaud if he outsmarts a fish. Did you know there are television programs with two guys in a rowboat talking about fishing? They say things like, “Yup” and “Well, looky there.”

Work, is not happening. Maybe it’s the way the sun has placed Sandy in a spotlight, appearing majestic, golden, surreal. I watch as he laces the line through the eyes of the rod, ties a knot, bites the line in two with his teeth.

Earlier, in the, are-you-joking-it’s-still-dark morning hours, we drove to a house with a hand written sign, nailed to a tree, reading: Night crawlers. A man with a yellowed beard answers the door, leading us to the kitchen. He opens the fridge, pulling out a Styrofoam container, kept next to an uncovered bowl of red Jell-O. Gleaming a six tooth grin of pride, he lifts the lid displaying the worms, eagerly cooperating, wiggling their alluring charms. For a moment they share admiration for the performing worms. Then, well pleased, Sandy hands him a dollar.

Now, in the sun’s spotlight, he slides the Styrofoam container from his vest pocket, chooses victim one, threads it onto the hook. Broad shoulders swaying, he casts the line, hitting the mark, a shadowed pool next to an algae covered rock. A breeze lifts and lowers the line. Bewitched, I study his solid block build, dark, unkempt beard and taken for granted confidence. I’ve found my Grizzly Adams. A man who’ll bash through the door, toss me over his shoulder, forge through fires and storms, defend my honor and bring fish home for dinner. Okay, no fish for dinner. He’s a catch and release guy, petting the fish before putting it back in the stream, (slightly maimed).

I submit to the subliminal calls to give fishing a shot. The sun baked boulders and grassy patches look like prime snake territory to me. As per my humble request, he slays a worm, handing me the pole, ready and waiting. I cast the line, then wait forever while he untangles it from the tree behind me. He overreacts to the fluke accident, sending me upstream with a fresh worm on my hook. I tiptoe back through the snake infested grass, balance my pole on a rock, worm dangling in the stream to light a smoke. While fumbling for matches my pole rolls off the rock. I grab it, relieved to have saved it from sailing down current. Lo and behold there on the hook flaps a frantic fish. In my moment of victory over nature, I wave to Sandy downstream.

“Look! Look! I caught one!”

Driving home, I can tell he thinks he’s got himself a new fishing convert. I should have hidden my exuberance over the fish.

“Yup… yup… well lookey there.”

          After tedious hours of prep and quizzing by professor Deb, I’m ready to meet the parents. The door opens, I’m drawn into the land of the McFarland’s, a place I believed existed mostly in Deb’s exaggerated imagination. Dema greets us at the door with a hearty, genuine hug. I’m confused because she’s dressed like we’re going to a black-tie event and my only instructions were to wear a real shirt with no funny saying on it. She’s all sparkly, with sequins and jewels, the infamous auburn hair and makeup done to perfection. I feel better seeing Mac stretched out on his recliner, dressed like a 1950’s cowpoke.

          The 12 by 12 foot living room is furnished for a room three times its size, so you must cross the room walking sideways. Greetings barely obliged, Dema presses start on a VHS tape she’s had paused and ready for us since we left Yakima. The 60-inch projection television can only be seen from the two recliners placed directly in front, where Mac and Dema sit, both armed with a stack of remotes. Deb and I sit on the orange velvet love seat, our knees sideways so we don’t knock over the glass table in front.

For the next hour, we watch news clips recorded from all three major television networks. Deb warned me this might happen, to which my reply was, “No, they wouldn’t do that.” After this, I will not question Deb’s facts. The newscasts escalate from a missing person to murder, while Mac and Dema insert background information, sometimes pausing to make sure we are keeping up.

           Hindered by the sideways view and the interruptions, this is my best translation of the drama: Virginia is Dema’s cousin. No one agrees whether she was on husband six, seven or eight. She has a son named Lynn, a sailor who visited once and made homemade pizza from a box. Virginia had lots of money because of her husbands, that she spent on diamonds and high heels. Dema says Virginia was spoiled as a child. She should know since they took baths together. Virginia was missing four days, with her car mysteriously parked in the driveway. Husband number six, seven or eight, claimed she vanished. Lynn, the pizza making son, flew to Spokane, hoping to help find his mother. Suspicions grew. The police brought search dogs, finding poor Virginia buried in the garden along with the carrots and potatoes. The last news clip shows the husband in handcuffs being carted off in a police car. An autopsy revealed she had been shot. Everyone is relieved that Aunt Myrt, Virginia’s mom, is not around to see this.

           I’m exhausted and we’ve just begun. Again, Deb was right, insisting my intro to the McFarland’s be brief, without Haley and Jay, who might blab something we don’t want known.

           “I don’t want them to know we’re living together,” said Deb. “If we stay overnight we have two choices – separate rooms, pretending what we all know not to be true – or same room knowing the rest of the family is pow-wowing outside the door, chanting tsk – tsk – tsk.”

          Considering our options, a short-day trip seemed best. When murder and mayhem conversation dies off we move to the next dramatic scene.

“Have you shown Sandy the bar?” Mac asks, knowing we’ve not left the front room. “Bet he’s never seen anything like it.”

           “You haven’t… come on,” Deb says, motioning for me to follow. She side-winds through her childhood habitat, like a snake crossing the desert, while I, new to the obstacle course, bump knees and elbows, unskilled at walking sideways. Mac and Dema follow. She carries a 16-ounce tumbler of scotch and water, room to room, like a portable oxygen tank. The story from Deb is that her mom confesses to the doctor a two-drink habit, omitting the constant refreshing and topping off.

I’ve spent time in bars, all types… redneck, biker, highbrow… dives to swanky black tie joints… home bars, makeshift bars, tailgate specials. Yet none prepared me for the, “McFarland’s Bar.”

          Deb’s eyes are begging me for words, but I don’t know what to say. When words fail me, she involuntarily covers for me, chattering nervously, cooing and fidgeting like a cross between a dove and a quail.

          “We had the bar built. It’s regulation. So are the dozen stools,” Mac says.

There’s a mirrored back bar with shelves stocked and ready to fill any drink order. And… Elvis is in the room… rows of gold and silver Elvis bottles peering down from shelves installed around the ceiling. There’s a black light, 20 beer signs, a booth style table and a life size poster of Mac dressed as a woman… an extremely ugly toothless woman with a huge nose… just imagine if Popeye had a sister. What comment am I to make? Deb is trying to cover for my silence.

          “Did you see the disco ball? Cool, huh? Did you know the poster is Dad? The ceiling is painted black for the strobe lights. You should really see what it looks like at night…”

          Any moment Deb’s going to shove me on her lap, cram her arm up my butt and move my jaw up and down, like Edgar Bergan and his Charlie McCarthy doll. I open my own mouth to comment, but not fast enough to delay what’s coming next.

          Deb’s classy, attractive, soft spoken mom calls me over to the bar. She’s lined up a collection of ceramic figurines. I obey her call, nearing the harmless looking monks and frogs. Then she hands me a monk.

          “Turn it around,” she says. “Isn’t that awful?”

          As I turn the monk around, he transforms into a ceramic penis. Why is this happening? Dema keeps saying how awful it is… I want to agree. Then she hands me a frog, asking me to turn it over. Do I have to? Deb gives me a “just do it” look.

          “Isn’t that awful?” Dema asks again.

          I manage a laugh at the anatomically enhanced frog. It’s not that I can’t handle the joke. I feel like I’ve been captured and thrown into someone’s really bad X-rated home movie. Finally, I speak.

           “Deb, where’s the bathroom?”

           The conversation turns from ceramic phallic symbols to towels as I follow Deb’s finger pointing down the hall.

           “I copied your idea to roll towels on the shelves. I really like it.” I hear Dema say to Deb.

          I try to open the door to the bathroom, but something is behind it. I slide through sideways, finding a huge hook on the back of the door holding a stack of robes. The door’s heavy and hard to close on the carpet, but I manage. Standing at the toilet staring at a tall shelf above it, I count 56 hand towels, 49 bath towels and 62 wash cloths, neatly rolled and stacked like cord wood stored for the winter. If a bus load of people needing a bath arrive at the McFarland’s, they’re covered for towels.

           “There are 56 hand towels,” I say to Deb as I squeeze back through the door. She shushes me while peeking in.

          “Oh, that looks great Mom. Rolling the towels saves a lot of space.”

           Dinner, however late, is worth it. I’d been told to expect greatness and my hopes were not denied. The table was set with U.S. Navy flatware and individual platters, not plates, crowded with heaping plates of southern fried chicken, mash potatoes, country gravy, biscuits and corn. Seated in unspoken assigned seats, with Mac at the head of the table, I remember one of Deb’s warnings – “Whatever you do, don’t pass the food in the wrong direction, it drives Dad crazy.”

           He passes the procession of steaming bowls ceremoniously clockwise. I try, but curiosity wins, forcing my hand to pass the corn upstream, against the current. Dema accepts the bowl with a nervous grin… Deb and Mac place their forks on the table, staring me down as if I’m the one who buried Virginia under the carrots. Not wanting to delay indulging in this feast any longer, I retrieve the corn, sending it clockwise.

          I know what we’ll be discussing on the ride home to Yakima.

Deb Palmer

509-929-2303

debpalmer999@gmail.com

Visions of Gumdrops

In the early 1990’s, Central Washington University bounced with fresh skin, high hopes, gel spiked hair, and me. At least that’s how it felt. A single mom, pushing forty, striving for a degree promising to pay bills. There were others sporting crow’s feet, suited for the staff lounge, awkward in the student hub, but we were few.

The desire to fit in with the puffy banged girls and boys who reeked of beer and Clearasil, faded the first week after overhearing a conversation between two gals in class. I shall respectfully refer to them by the shoes they were wearing.

Doc. Marten: I’m so pissed.

Birkenstock: What happened?

Doc Marten: My mother forgot to pack my lunch.

Birkenstock: That sucks!

Doc Marten: I’m starved.

Birkenstock: I’ll buy lunch. I have Dad’s Visa.

As Birkenstock comforted her shaken friend, I thought over my morning. The gas hog Chrysler Cordoba needed a jumpstart, my son tried to fake the flu, and my daughter surprised me with “today is conference day.” How I longed for a mom to pack my lunch.

I got used to the groans and eye rolls when the professor would slide me into a group project. And I learned to show grace when asked the burning question on my classmate’s minds: “How old are you?”

I just didn’t have time to bother with them. College life as a mom with a full-time job and a long list of new chatty friends calling from various collection agencies, kept me hopping and stressed. One day, I paused, just long enough for a virus to wrestle me into a choke hold. I dragged myself to the on-campus free clinic. Seated in the lobby, hunger grinds at my gut and I regret having no mom to pack me a lunch. Just then, I see a huge bowl of colorful cello-wrapped candy, in the center of the table of the lobby. Grateful, I scurry over, grabbing fistfuls of the rainbow of choices, red, green, blue, yellow. Yum!

Back in my chair, I place the pile of candy in my lap, choosing red as my first delight. Fumbling with the package, I feel stares, the kind that make you check for open buttons, or trailing toilet paper. I stare back at a blonde athlete whose smirk gives me the creeps. Victorious over the stubborn packaging I pop the promise of sweet in my mouth expecting hard candy, but finding it’s chewy like a gummy bear. A few chuckles rise as I spit out the flavorless rubber band like candy.

That’s when wisdom returns to the scene. There in my lap, mocking like a colorful mirage, is a pile of condoms. Now the unnoticed sign on the bowl flashes like a Vegas billboard.

FREE Condoms – Safe Sex

I hear my name. Rise. Stuff the 20-some condoms in my pockets and follow the nurse from the lobby. Before disappearing, with no way out of the embarrassing dilemma, I own it, shooting a smile and a wink to my mesmerized fans

My childhood nemesis: Roberta Sherard. She flaunted perfection, from the house next door to mine, twirling polished pirouettes, a blonde ponytail floating in slow motion behind her. I tried to keep up, spinning and stumbling, bedecked with scabbed knobby knees, red hair doomed to frizz, by a Tony home permanent gone awry. Roberta spoke softly, poise oozing out her pores, a finishing school graduate. I reeked of awkward, spewed hillbilly slang like Warshington, gonna, and I-dunno, and I carried the mantra, “Debbie, settle down.”

Roberta’s father wore a suit and tie, called her princess, bored my family with tales of her delightfulness. My dad yelled, wore Big Mac striped overalls, told me to pipe down.

“No man is gonna marry a girl with big feet,” he’d say, pointing a greasy truck driver finger at my bare feet.

I coveted Roberta’s family, but I loved mine.

The McFarland’s were not without charm. Summers we’d put on neighborhood shows, an amazing feat, performed completely without the benefit of talent. No musicians, singers, dancers or actors, just raw desire to be the center of attention, and the guts to charge for it… a silver quarter per show.

Saturday’s, we ’d canvas the block passing out hand written invitations, for Sunday afternoon’s back yard performance. A typical show, featured my lip sync to Ricky Nelson’s Traveling Man, sister Nancy’s loud version of Peter, Paul and Mary’s Kumbaya, accompanied with air guitar, and our star, little Danny, singing most all the words of Sukiyaki, a Japanese pop song from the 1960s. We served popcorn and lemonade for a nickel, and gave away taffy, because we didn’t like it very much.

By midsummer our crowds always dwindled, leaving sticky face Johnny and his whining sister, Margaret, alone on the grandstand of grass. Unwilling to fold up the makeshift floral sheet curtain, we spawned an idea for an act, no child of the 1960s could resist.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the dancing naked lady…”

My dad’s genuine United States Navy tattoo.

Our risqué, bare bottomed star, a genuine United States Navy tattoo located on Dad’s forearm… and she could dance. Quarters jingled, filling the jar. We had it made. That is, until a power wielding censorship group of one, cancelled the dance, insisting Dad roll his sleeve back down. Mom never did have a sense for business.

One day, Roberta’s family packed their perfect possessions, and moved to a wonderland of princess worthy neighbors. Around this time, Dad’s toothless gums and the tattoo, turned from an attraction to an embarrassment. I grew to hate his stories, and loathe my one-time heroine, the dancing naked lady. To my friends, NOT asking, he’d share the demise of his toothless grin.

“I left my teeth at a café’ on Highway 99, stuck in a tuna sandwich.”

Thanks for sharing Dad.

Resentment seeded, bitterness took root. Like many families walking the tightrope between alcoholism and recreational use abuse… stuff happened… words carelessly tossed, lies slung, shame spilled, fists bristled.

When I looked at my dad, I saw nothing… except who he was not. The dad I loved for his loud voice, silly jokes and Popeye grin, disappeared. I forgot the man who provided for his family, fudged paperwork miles, enabling longer shifts. The good forgotten, leaving only the bad to define; a man who hurt the ones he loved with neglect and fists.

Over time, the naked lady tattoo shriveled and sagged. Her one time peppy, flirty dance, was at best, a sluggish, sway. Our relationship deteriorated, along with the tattoo. Bitter years of unforgiveness proved too much to carry, spilling over, slopping onto my other relationships; husband, children, friends, co-workers, even strangers.

My mantra brew; a combo of avoidance and delusion with a dollop of bitter root vows and judgment. I managed. Then, Mom died. That meant spending time with Dad. I wanted to be a good daughter, a comfort. I knew about forgiveness and was willing. That bought some patience, but not enough. Daylight hours, I listened to him complain. After dark, I begged God to help me forgive him. Each day a clean slate, ending, soiled with new found rage for his latest rant attempting to justify wrongs done to my mom and siblings. If he’d just keep his mouth shut, maybe I could forgive.

Years passed. Every few months, he nearly died, springing back each time leaving the doctors shaking their heads in wonder. Driving his scooter, oxygen tank at his side, dad pressed on, losing the family home to gambling, nearly blowing his face off smoking Chesterfield’s while hooked to the oxygen tank, and getting slugged by a miscellaneous woman he somehow offended.

I waited for him to change. He stayed true to his character. One day, on the phone, listening to his perpetual validation about beating my sister, I realized something different. I cared about him. I felt love for the man he was, right then and there. The dad, the man with skin. While he talked on about what a good guy he was, I wondered how and when the switch in my heart flipped from bitterness to forgiveness.

Dad was Dad, but something had changed.

That would be me.

Forgiveness benefited me. I was free to love and care for Dad, AS IS. Did I condone his actions? No. Did he sometimes make me crazy? You bet. But I loved… I love… I love my dad.

Not long after this revelation, he died, with the faithful naked lady tattoo. He left this world broken, forgiven, loved and my dad.