When I was a much younger human, I was separated from my
half-siblings. Raised with my brother
and sister, my family also included three half-brothers and a half-sister, all
at least ten years older than myself. My
parents had each been married before, each having two children.
Now, my dad’s two kids were with their mother most of the
time and we rarely saw them. My mom’s
boys, however, were with our grandmother and we saw them on summer breaks and
holidays. There’s a lot I don’t understand
about how that all played out, and some of the details have gone to the grave
with the players, but, I would guess the parties involved all thought they were
doing the right thing.
I was raised well. We
were expected to behave properly, with manners, and with a full understanding
of what was right and wrong. We often
dined in public, in restaurants, as we traveled, and were expected to know how
to act. My parents were often complimented on our appearance and behavior. Given that we moved so much, it’s a wonder we
functioned, but we did. We adjusted, for sure.
I was thinking this week how much time I have spent in this
little town I call home. Never far from
my address, I know this property well having walked it for forty years. However, I can’t recall the names of towns I lived
in as a kid there were so many. Moses Lake, Washington is one I remember
because it’s a funny name and because I remember my mom use to regularly report
it was 114 degrees there once. I don’t
know how long we were there but I think I was in second grade. My younger brother was to be right behind me
in first grade but hadn’t attended kindergarten yet so had to do that in Moses
Lake. I remember my mom being kind of
upset by that, and I am not sure why.
It is funny as we get older how things pop into our
head, as clear as if they had happened yesterday. Of course, we probably have all had the experience of a smell bringing a memory back, unprompted and sometimes shockingly clear. Once a faint smell of leather brought my dad to me, coming in from work and the three of us kids fighting over who would help him take off his work boots. Him sitting down with a cold beer, a plate of saltines and cheese, maybe braunschweiger or just a handful of mixed nuts. My mom always had something ready for him to nibble on as she cooked dinner. He would then go in to shower, coming back out in a white tee shirt and slacks, wet hair combed back. Sometimes he would have a second beer, sometimes he would have a "highball", offering to make one for mom, which she usually declined. We would run outside until dinner, playing in and around his pickup truck, while he relaxed from his day and watched the news, read the paper.
Some memories are gone as quickly as they came. Some hang around a bit, turning over and around, playing a bit of hide and seek, letting themselves float back up more readily than before. I can bring these memories of my dad to the surface quicker now, I guess because I've allowed them to linger. Lately, I find
myself wishing I could ask my mom some of the questions that now circle around
some of my memories, that I could tie some of those ribbons together. Like, what's a highball anyway? What in the world is in braunschweiger or am I better off not knowing?
