Insects, Dead Birds, and Inappropriate Behavior at a Funeral

When I was thirteen, Winnie decided to adopt two children from a woman who lived in a seedy motel. A four year old girl, and a two year old boy. What an idea! Two adorable children to run and fetch for us! Two wonderful little slaves! Apart from enslaving them we changed their names. We called them Quack and Beetle. Quack was beautiful, with bright blue eyes and fine wispy white hair. Beetle had green eyes and golden curls. Quack meowed for the first year or so, and Beetle didn’t talk until he was five. And even then, the only thing he said was “stupid idiot”.

Quack was the daughter my mother never had. She was fair and sweet and completely devoted to her. Not mouthy and robust like the rest of us. She even looked like Winnie. Beetle was Lucy’s little prodigy, he was the little boy she never got to be.

Beetle was very enterprising as a child. He was a lover of insects and animals alike, dead or alive. When he was eight he started catching gigantic moths. He would kill them, then sell their corpses to the children who passed in front of our house on their way home from school. He would charge $2.50 per carcass.

It occurred to Winnie that something wasn’t right when she had taken Beetle to the grocery store one day, and realized she had forgotten to bring her purse. She was astonished to find him produce a wad of cash three inches deep and say “Don‘t worry Mom, I‘ll take care of this.” By this time it was too late to make him give refunds, so with the rest of the money, she and Beetle purchased a small bird farm, which included, eight geese, three ducks four chickens and a plethera of homing pigeons. Winnie thought that this would be an excellent opportunity to teach Beetle, accountability and the importance of caring for God‘s little creatures.

By the end of the second week, Beetle’s fowl farm was reduced to two geese, one duck, no chickens and three homing pigeons. He couldn’t account for the severe loss of life! It wasn’t the weather, it wasn’t that they didn’t get enough food, and it wasn’t’ that they were purposely being snuffed out by anyone. Pap said one day as he had gathered up an arm full of feathery remains from the back yard “That kid’s killed more birds than that comet killed dinosaurs.“ The birds didn’t just die on our property. For days we had a continual stream of neighbors bringing corps after coprs and saying “Is this yours?” or “I found this on the hood of my car“ or “I don’t know how the thing got into my tool box, but here it is”.

It was obvious that Beetle failed miserably in the ‘caring for God’s little creatures’ department. After that he wasn’t allowed to take care of anything. If we ever caught him refilling Headcold’s bowl of food we would say “Oh no Beetle, I’ll do that, you go out and play!”

When Quack was young she would disappear for hours and hours at a time. It never seemed to bother Winnie, I would say “Have you seen Quack, I can’t find her anywhere!” She would reply “Oh, I’m sure she’s here somewhere.”

One Saturday afternoon, Winnie and I were cleaning the kitchen and I opened a cupboard that was scarcely used to find what looked to be the miniature dwelling of a homeless midget. “So, what’s this all about?” I asked her. “Oh that’s Quack’s secret place.” It was not the garbage heap it appeared to be at first glance. On closer examination it was clear that someone had strategically placed each and every item. There were pictures of a hamburgers and fashion models taped to the walls of the inside. There was a jar filled with bottle caps, piles of National Geographic’s, and at least thirteen empty tubes of lipstick.

By the end of the day I had uncovered four more of Quack’s secret nesting holes. One at the back of the coat closet, one under the bathroom sink, one in the bottom right hand corner of Winnie’s curio cabinet and one behind the easy chair in the family room. And each one filled with coupons, stacks of old phone bills, newspapers, fortunes from fortune cookies, empty pill bottles, Monopoly money and candy wrappers. Quack has continued the practice of nest building to this day.

Their mother Missy even came to live with us at one point. She looked much like Quack. She was sweet but had a head full of cotton candy. She devoured every salacious, dirty, violent book ever printed. She would ride our bicycles, jump on our trampoline, and eat only the junkiest of junk food.

By the time she was twenty five, she already had six children with four different fathers. When she was twenty eight her boyfriend pushed her in front of a garbage truck that flung her thirty feet in the air. She survived, but was in a coma for over three months, then later did her recuperating at our house. In her room she would put stickers on every piece of furniture, including the television set. When she was still in her wheelchair, she would have me roll her over to her dresser to she could arrange and rearrange her belongings. She had numerous troll dolls, grocery store silk flowers, an ugly brown teddy bear with a fat red heart on his stomach that said “I luv u” and several Guns N Roses, Nazareth and Black Sabbath tapes.

She began using a walker about four months later. The accident seized Missy with an unreasonable paranoia and she was forever imagining people were talking about her. I was fairly demented after a while. She would screech at me, accuse me, whine, thrash and push me to the point of lunacy.

One evening we were sitting at the table after dinner, Winnie having retired to her room to escape the sound of our voices, when Missy said, “I know you and Ben were talking about me, I heard you!”

“No you didn’t.” I retorted calmly.

“I did, I heard what you said and I think you’re horrible!”

“Nope” I said spooning ice cream into my mouth.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” I wasn’t looking at her.

“Like what?”

“I just saw you! You were just scowling at me! You’re always giving me dirty looks!”

“Missy, I wasn’t even looking at you!”

“I’m telling Winnie that you and Ben are picking on me again!” Ben wasn’t at home at the time… he was out signing autographs. Just as she was about to reach for her walker, I took the opportunity to grasp it and hurl it down the stars. She watched in horror as it bounced down the stairs, onto the landing then out of sight. She immidiatly dropped to her knees and crawled her way down to Winnie’s room howling. I know very well that I’ll burn for that, but it’s done and it’s too late to make amends now.

By the time she was thirty two she was dead. Overdosed. I really did care for her and now that I’m older, sometimes I’m filled with regret and sadness.

Her funeral was much like her life. ZZ top played ‘She’s got legs‘, her cracked out mother who had an outstanding resemblance to an overweight drowned Barbie doll, gave a pathetic, yet mercifully brief eulogy. She only mentioned once or twice how proud Missy had been to have such a “beautiful mother”. The absolute absurdity of the situation made my flesh quiver with laughter.

After some remarks given by a member of the clergy, one by one we filed to the front to take a last look at the departed. My best friend Egg, Sue and I all approached the casket, not to find our sweet Missy but what looked to be a dead, French eighteenth century mime! Her face was a vaporous white, her lips were the color of grape fruit juice, and the wicked perpetrator, whoever they were, thought it necessary to paint a small flesh colored mole on Missy’s cheek black… not only to paint it black but to enlarge it eight times it’s original size. We all three gasped! This can’t be! We stood gazing, unable to remove our eyes. When at last I mustered the courage to look at Egg, she did not look back, her eyes were fixed, but she knew I was looking at her. I glanced at Sue who was furiously biting her lip. Then it happened! Egg let out a muffled little giggle. That did it! I felt the upsurge fill my chest, and come up through my lungs and was on the verge of having a hysterical fit of laughter when Sue jerked my arm, and I accidentally swallowed it and began choking. We immediately turned and walked away briskly .

Yes, yes, I know very well that I’ll burn for that too. But my only comfort is that Sue and Egg will be burning along side me.

A departure from family business for a pointless thought about love...

Love. For as long as I can remember love has utterly confused me. It seems that people are continually labeling ordinary emotions such as loyalty, devotion, comfort, responsibility, insecurity, familiarity and fear as love. How can one truly identify love? How does it come to be? How long does it last? And how could one trust it? Sometimes I imagine what it would be like to be in love. I imagine what it would be like to miss someone, to worry about their safety, to wonder what their doing. The closest I’ve ever come to this feeling was when I met a small black puppy. I found myself constantly preoccupied with the puppy’s safety, hoping he was being treated kindly and imagining what it would be like to snuggle him. These moments are short lived, and I return to being perplexed by canoodling couples and over used terms of endearment. Love is something that everyone wants. And why is this? Could it be the feeling of love surpasses every other emotion? It seems nothing feels better to a human being. Since the beginning of time people have committed every conceivable atrocity in the name of love. For some it’s possible to be in love with love. From what I have observed this feeling of being in love with someone is like having every molecule in ones being leap to attention. But is it love when someone happens to fit all my physical, intellectual and emotional requirements? Wouldn’t it just be chance? Why call it love? Isn’t it just a unique coincidence? As people we persist in excessively using the term love for everything that pleases us. “I love that bed spread” or “Did you see that movie, I just loved it” or “I absolutely love that shade of yellow, I would love to paint my upstairs bathroom that exact color” You see! It is my belief that we have trivialized this emotion to the point where it means no more to us than a delicious meal. You savor the meal, the act of eating it is agreeable, you recall the meal fondly and think to yourself “I loved the way my steak was cooked and the mash potatoes! I would love to have the recipe” It appears we find true love numerous times a day. We find it in everything comforting and enjoyable. But what makes acquiring the love of another person so enticing? Why is it that we place that love above all the others? At some point in every person’s life their eye turns singly toward the pursuit of what many consider the world’s most definitive prize. The love of another human being. The love that that person offers, gives the recipient a sense of importance, of superiority. When one is publicly ill-treated, the thought, that there exists in the world someone who believes that they are the personification of perfection, lessens the wounding impact. But what of those who have no such alter-ego? What of the ones that are overlooked and by their would/should-be pursuers? One of two things usually happens. The first become enfeebled and feel personally attacked at every turn. People in this fragile state are more often than not unpleasant to associate with and tend to murmur continually about their solitude. This behavior only increases their feeling of inadequacy and need of constant reassurance of their value. Unfortunately, I have no advice to offer as to how to deal with such a person . If you truly care for them, I would suggest not pushing them in front of a fast moving train. If you do not care for them, by all means get rid of them. The chances of them being rehabilitated are slender indeed. The second group of slighted individuals become thick skinned, reality driven and optimistic. I am one such individual. I hope one day to feel more for a human being than I do for a puppy or my bed spread.


(This thought was written three days before I met my future husband...odd)

The End of the World and Root Beer Floats

Every Monday was “End of the World Day” that’s when Winnie would gather us together where we would discuss and often sob about the inescapable prospect of Doom’s Day. Whether the topic was the nuclear holocaust, earthquakes, flash floods, or WWIII we always went to bed that night with a sick hopeless feeling in our stomachs. There were signs that we were continually on the look out for. For example, if we were hit with a nuclear bomb the sky would turn a vivid pinkish orange color, followed by a complete loss of power, and eventually radiation fall out would drift down from the sky like snow. Hence my hatred for sunsets, blackouts, and ashes.

Prior to an earthquake the animals would act in peculiar way, horses would pace back and forth in their pens, dogs would bark at nothing, and hide under furniture, mice would stop scurrying, and cats would disappear into secret places. Any time our dog Headcold would bark I would become frantic and could not rest until I discovered what he was barking at. Anytime old man Derker’s horses were found running and neighing in the fields I would take them apples or carrots to calm them. I always felt if I was able to quiet them down there must not be anything to be cataclysmic approaching.

It was Winnie’s desire to have the most primed, savvy, and well prepared children ever born. Ready for any and all eventualities. But I didn’t feel primed, savvy, or well prepared for anything. I was utterly paralyzed by fear! Not only were our minds plagued with the prospect of a natural or nuclear disasters but with Biblical ones as well. You know, the moon turning to blood, unquenchable fire, Mr. Apocalypse and his four horsemen, the mark of the beast and so forth. Terror became my constant companion. I couldn’t abide hearing any conversation that included the following: hurricanes, tornados, lunar or solar eclipses, daylight savings or explosions of any kind. My mother would say things like “It’s a sign of the times” and “See! It’s happening just like it says in…” she would then quote by heart a lengthy scripture that would coincide with the current event at hand that would chill us to our very cores. I would then quietly leave and go into my room to hide under my blankets where I would cower for hours at a time, which made me glossy eyed and feverish. Winnie would look at me feel my forehead and ask “what’s wrong with you honey?” All I could say was “I don’t feel very well” and being a wonderful nurturer she would make me a cup of soup and bring me a coloring book and a new box of crayons. I only superficially enjoyed this activity. The Looney Tunes characters bringing little comfort to my tormented mind.

On one occasion we were to watch the move ‘The Day After’ to further prepare us for the fate of mankind. It’s a film about an American city that is hit by a nuclear bomb. Winnie, never having seen it, felt sure it would be just the thing to instill in us the all important message of “He who fails to prepare, prepares to fail.”

Being in her comfortable chair she settled in and promptly fell asleep, while the rest of us viewed with unspeakable horror as the mushroom cloud appeared and both people and animals were obliterated. The unfortunate survivors had to endure their hair falling out, festering sores, uncontrollable vomiting, foaming at the mouth, and living amongst the rubble that was once their home.

After the movie we were served root beer floats and ginger snaps. We didn’t eat, but instead wept and clung to each other for solace, even Ben. Being no more than five years old it was my understanding that this was going to happen, we just didn’t know when. The absolute fright I felt at this prospect stayed with me for over a decade.

The next day all five of us decided to dig out a fall out shelter in our front yard. We dug it so deep that three of us were able to sit inside quite comfortably. That is until Nyna Morgan and elderly friend of Winnie’s came for a visit and fell in. We were told to immediately fill it back up. “Well,” I thought “I guess we’re all going to suffer radiation sickness and die just because she’s too old to watch where she’s going.

I never told Winnie about my gloomy notions. If only I had asked “Mommy, is it true that I am going to die an agonizing or horrifying death? Is it true that I’m going to have to watch everyone in my family rot and decay away? Is everything lovely and beautiful around me going to be destroyed?” She would have probably been able to dispel all these dark thoughts but as it was, I never had the courage to ask. Because what if the answer was actually “Yes, Agnes it is all true dear, I’m sorry. Would you like me to bring you some paper dolls?”

Death, Hell, and Dessert

Throughout her childhood, my little sister Ruth had over thirteen near death experiences. Once she fell into a ditch of rushing water, once she got locked in an air tight freezer, once she fell from the top of our highest cherry tree, and once she was followed home by a mysterious man in a white van. But I never thought that last one should have counted along with so many more that I’m not mentioning.
After each deathly encounter she would emerge back to mortality with glorious tales of the after life! How everyone glittered and had magnificent wings of gold and crystal. How they petted her, and gave her delicious things to eat. But always in the midst of her whimsy, she would hear my mother calling, “Ruthie, Ruthie, come back, you’re too young to die. Come back.” And once again she would cheat death and be renewed. At first, we were all fascinated by these accounts, but I soon grew weary of hearing about all the cupcakes, cinnamon buns, and peanut butter brownies that they would serve her on glistening jeweled platters.
Once I asked her if she had seen our grandmother up there. She said that she had, and that Tiny had been wearing sparkly emerald earrings, and an emerald robe to match. “Aha!” I thought, “What a liar! Everybody knows that Tiny went to hell!”

Bad News, Baby Girls, and Puppies

At the time of my birth there were already three anxious siblings waiting for me at home. Sue, Ben and Lucy. Five year old Ben was the most excited, and soon to be the most disillusioned. It really wasn’t his fault, as Winnie had been cheerfully telling everyone for nine months that I was a boy. In fact she and Ben picked out a name for me. I was going to be called Joshua, but Ben had difficulty saying it, so they decided on Jonah. Ben would pat Winnie’s tummy and say “Hi baby brother! Me and you are going to have a puppy!” At last a brother! He had never cared for Sue and Lucy. This baby was going to be all his! He was finally going to even the score, two to two. Winnie brought me home and gave Ben the bad news.

“Guess what Benny boy!, mommy brought you a baby…sister!”

Up to this point he had always assumed that she loved him. He looked at me, threw himself on the floor, and wept bitterly for nine consecutive days. Ben spent the rest of his life reminding me that I was neither a brother nor a puppy, hence my existence in this world was superfluous.

Unfortunately Ben was destined to suffer one more discouraging blow. Yes, another baby brother named Jonah… who would later be called Ruth.

Christmas, Shotguns, and Ash-trays

Winnie is traditional in the extreme. Her traditionalism is a feat upon hearing about my Grandma Tiny. It’s astonishing when you think about a four foot ten inch women chucking a seven foot Christmas tree, out the front door. Every Christmas Tiny tossed the tree out onto the front lawn. After putting up the lights, candy canes and tinsel, Winnie and my Uncle Bud would gaze at it sadly and think what a pity it was that this beautiful tree would eventually end up in a heap on the front lawn, being picked apart by squirrels and peed on by the neighbor’s dog.

I remember hearing about the time she pulled a gun on the Avon lady’s son for putting his sticky fingers on her china cabinet. And how she once chased a man who stole a strong box of cash from the office of the motel she owned, firing a heavy shotgun repeatedly, exploding the back window of the pick-up he was driving. I remember asking her once if she was just trying to scare him or blow out his tires to stop him. She said, “Hell no! I was trying to kill that bastard!”

Killing bastards was something Tiny did very well. She didn’t so much kill them as make them wish they were dead, or had never born. She was as cold and unpredictable as a Minnesota winter. Consequently, most of her childhood poor, little Winnie was perpetually chilled.

Tiny despised Pap deeply. She despised his “muddy eyes” and his “oily, sludge like skin” Tiny was so spiteful that after Winnie and Pap had "converted" themselves into healthy, observant, well on their way to exaltation Mormons, she calculatingly sent him ash-trays for Christmas. She would often say “He only wants to marry you so he won’t have to eat beans and tortillas for the rest of his life.”

Pap didn’t even like beans and tortillas, he preferred fillet minion and shrimp with lobster sauce. Even when Tiny died, with her last breath she remarked that Winnie had wasted the best years of her life by “co-mingling with dark and loathsome flesh”. And that he was nothing more that a "filthy, interloping, immigrant". Conveniently disregarding the fact that she herself sailed passed the feet of Lady Liberty as a young, dirty Italian girl. Her last words were "You've been such a disappointment" Winnie replied softly, as she stroked her withered transparent fore-head,
“I’ll miss you too mommy.”

Farms, Heroine, and Disappointment

Winnie’s life long dream was to have a charming, little hillbilly farm with chickens, fruit trees, and maybe a cow. Pap had no dreams. Much like an animal, he only operated on instinct. Not long after marrying my mother and settling into a life of reluctant domesticity, he disappeared for three days. Winnie was frantic. She called everyone. The police, all five of Pap’s brothers (also thugs), her mother-in-law, and every mortuary in town, but no one knew. By the evening of the third day, he staggered home. He had been at a party and tried to get sober before coming back, which took two and a half of the three days. Winnie’s hysteria astounded Pap. None of his previous wives, (meaning the two before my mother) had ever cared one bit what he did. He shot up heroin, snorted cocaine, smoked hashish, drank and played as much pinochle as he wanted, and nary a word was uttered. A year or so later my oldest sister Sue was born, and suffice it to say that she never witnessed any such activity, and much to our disappointment neither did the rest of us. Pap had been painstakingly molded into a reasonable human being by then. Pap's colorful past was something that Winnie pretended never happened. How else was she supposed to get us all to fit in, in a polite, quaint, Mormon community? By lying of course...