This is a story that was my final project for the Westlyan University Creative Writing Specialty I just finished. It is definitely not finished. It may become a memoir of greater detail and length. I appreciate your interest and welcome your comments.
Daddy and The Princess Mary Jean
The Princess and Her Toilet Paper As I tug on the doorknob of the Redwood City condo to liberate the deadbolt, I realize that my mom, the Princess Mary Jean, transitioned into eternity two years ago today. The red brick color of the outside door was nice even though scrapped by the Princess’s fingernails as she missed the keyhole every day for 30 years. Those long fingernails. Why didn’t I get those? You gave me everything else that wasn’t beautiful! The Princess would accuse me of being just like my father, and my response was to exclaim, hallelujah!, grateful for my gene pool.
My new 4th of July flag works well. I was proud of my purchase, but my husband, Al, objected to the red, white, and blue metal striking the door with each movement, and found a remedy by putting little sticky dots on the back of the flag to soften the clang. I have never expected Al to be a handyman because I vowed to not emasculate and destroy him after watching my father crumble under the cruelty of the Princess.
It feels like much longer than two years, but I have removed the mess Her Highness left for me. I remember stepping into the condo the day of her promotion to heaven. Everything was dirty, dingy, and smelled like smoke and old bananas. Retching as I touch the appliances, my face reddened with anger, and beads of sweat formed, as I pondered how many times the Princess refused my offer of help, noting I was incapable of the task.
Revolted at the sight of the once beautiful peach colored carpet, reduced to dark gray and black everywhere, I stopped short of pronouncing damnation. Stop! I will not become her! Just breathe! The carpet only revealed its former beauty under the weighty, bruised and stained blonde furniture. I remember when Al painted the whole place, like the obedient Son-in-Law he is. Never offering thanks, the Princess seized all she could from him, demanding nothing but perfection. Her last day of life, after 50 years of knowing him, the Princess graced Al with, “I’m beginning to love and appreciate you.” Al was thrilled, I was disgusted.
Dodging piles of what we might need someday, I acknowledged that perfection always eluded the Princess, starting a million projects, never finishing one. Ah, there it was, next to the disheveled bed, the coffee-stained TV tray. The tray was her constant companion, covered with piles of used tissue, empty toilet paper rolls, and moldy food. The smell alone could knock you out and I recalled the first time I heard the Princess say a four letter word.
Coffee. Coffee had become a 4-letter word in my mind. Her Highness insisted her coffee be scalding. I would obey, sometimes using oven mitts to protect my tender fingers. Depositing the aroma-less, watered-down refreshment in front of the Princess, I awaited the verdict. Lingering twenty minutes before touching the potion to her lips, she announced, “It’s cold.” I would strive several more times until I gave up, despondent.
Whew! The “C” word. Thank the Lord I don’t have to worry about that anymore. In fact, I let my coffee get cold on purpose, delighting in every mouthful.
My eyes turn back to the memory-foamless bed. What a disaster that was. Helping the Princess choose a mattress was a set up. No one would win, including the wonderful man at Mancini SleepWorld. Three new mattresses later, Her Highness was still not pleased. Closing my eyes, I let out a slow, controlled sigh, then looked again at the ridiculousness. In the middle of the jumbled sheets on the bed, next to dirty laundry, I found a baggie of puzzle pieces. With no emotion, I thought, should I throw it away, or put it together? A story might await expression in the colorful tidbits.
The next day, I shuffled my body back to the place the Princess once lived. I winced at the yellowish stained walls from the cigarette smoke she thought she hid for seventy five years.
Ah,the greenish brown card table. We used to play games for hours when we were little. Sitting in the middle of the living room (which I refer to as the Throne Room), covered with remnants of you don’t know what it is, my eyes teared up, assaulted by the smell and vision before me. I smiled for a moment as I remembered how, in our childishness, we thought we could make Mother forget the work awaiting us if we played long enough. We cringed at the phrase, it’s time to get the work done. Ugh. I can’t believe that my older sister Patti, whom I called Pudy for as long as I could remember, doesn’t share my memory of being required to stay up 24 hours, cleaning the house, because Daddy’s boss was coming to dinner the next day. I pondered if I could use the beat-up surface of that table to put the puzzle together, like we did so many times as kids.
I spewed spit, and laughed as I remembered a day, not too long ago, when Al and I were playing cards. I mentioned to him how great it would be if someone could create a table to play on, so we couldn’t see each other’s cards. He said, “You mean, a card table?” All these years I thought it was called a card table because of its cardboard construction. I wonder what I have yet to discover. Oh, yes. Cloverleaf. I was 35 when I announced to incredulous eyes that the reason they call entrances to overpasses a cloverleaf was because it looked like one. I was 25 when I figured out at Thanksgiving that jellied cranberry sauce wasn’t called cramberry because it was crammed into a can.
The smokey old banana smell slapped my face and offended my delicate nose each time I opened the door of the Princess’s domicile. The beautiful ivory-brocaded curtains looked seedy, blackened by cigarette smoke and 30 years of dust. I was certain if I opened them, they would disintegrate, and I wasn’t ready to clean that up. Wisdom dictated hazmat protective garb, but I’d see worse. Cabinet doors hung off their hinges, used as crutches on which Princess leaned her full weight.
The heaviness of my brain lifted for a moment, and I fell asleep on top of the three foot pile of dirty laundry which never made it to the obnoxious washer. I would have also procrastinated using the washer to avoid the washer shrieking bang thud bang bang thud dudd while in use. The messy bedsheets and blankets formed an inviting spot, and I could live with the smell during a short nap.
When I awoke, I heard a rustle as I moved the sheets, and I saw the bag of puzzle pieces again. Someone connected edge and inside pieces. One section looked like a picture of a bridge. Wasn’t it only yesterday that I heard, “Look OUT!!”?
Daddy drove us to the San Mateo County DMV in his pukey beige Renault Dauphine with manual transmission. Learner’s permit in hand, I down shifted while turning right at the corner one half block away. I refused to acknowledge my misplaced confidence. This was MY day. Sadly, it was a “day that will live in infamy…” I refused to drive unless I looked cute, so spectacles, which sharpened my very near-sighted vision, were at home.
A motorist had stopped at the stop sign on my left, and witnessed the little Dauphine careening at him, full speed. He sat in amazement, as my sixteen-year-old imagination took over and I felt the car crawling up over the side of his car in slow motion, then plummeting to the ground on the other side of the street. Paralyzed in a dream-like state, I heard the noise, the sound. A slow, decelerating, creeping sound of metal scraping metal. Crunchety crunch crunch. Bang! Thud-dud-dud-dud-dud.
I jumped into the passenger’s side and sat “deer in headlight” shock as Daddy exchanged information with the gentleman. Daddy lost his temper in any situation, hollering like a wounded animal. Expecting deafening yelling, I pondered the punishment due me and imagined facing a firing squad. Returning to the car, Daddy whispered, “we will try again tomorrow.” Startled, I vowed, nope, no way, never.
I took professional driving lessons through Sears and got my license at 20, when my fiancé and soon to be husband, Al, was enrolled at UC Berkeley. I was so proud of my new found freedom. My uncle arranged for me to buy my first car. It was a yellow Chevy convertible, with yellow leather interior, a radio, and automatic transmission. I was in heaven as it purred down each street.
I was very nervous crossing the San Mateo Hayward Bridge when it was my turn to drive to Berkeley to pick up Al for a weekend home. I was relieved that he always drove home.
Breathing a sigh of relief each time I saw the sign on that bridge “Free Direction”, I reasoned that scared little me could ask for directions any time I was nervous or lost and they would give them for free! Each trip, ahh, free direction was awaiting me. I loved being stuck in the bumper-to-bumper traffic because I didn’t have to drive fast. I used to pray for a big truck to follow. Traffic jams provided me the time to make up stories about those who were on the road, and entertained by the smell of asphalt, the opinionated honking and the screeching bald tires, as I trumpeted my blasting Jesus music without interruption.
After our wedding in 1970, Al became the designated driver. Several years went by, and one day, as we were crossing the San Mateo Hayward Bridge, I noticed the sign. Ahhh. Free Direction. I commented to Al how I had been a nervous driver when he went to Berkeley, and how the sign made me relax when I traversed the bridge.
Wide-eyed and confused, Al asked, “What are you talking about?” Oblivious to any other truth, I instructed, “The sign says Free Direction! Anytime I am nervous or lost, I can get directions from them for free.” Not believing anyone could come to that conclusion, and becoming irritated at the thought of his wife holding such an understanding, he barked, “No! It means you don’t pay!”
Agreeing, I chirped, “Yes! You can go in there any time you want and ask for directions and they won’t charge you.” Red-faced and ready to explode, Al exclaimed, “NO!! It means you don’t pay!” Once again agreeing and not comprehending his infuriation, I beamed, “Isn’t it wonderful?” I was feeling smug about my “insider” knowledge of the road.
Like a pressure cooker ready to burst, Al discharged, “NO!!! It means you don’t pay!!” Full of assurance, I restated with glee, “Oh yes! Isn’t it great? It says Free Direction.” This conversation wasn’t too distracting as he slammed on the brakes every 15 feet.
We traveled all the way across the bridge before the sign’s true meaning crept into my intellect, like the silent wisps of fog descend on the hills toward San Mateo. The sign showed there was no toll paid in that direction, and we would pay the toll when we returned.
Feeling defeated, I pouted, “Oh no! What will I do if I’m lost?” Shattering my perfect world, Al blurted, “Since when do people charge for directions?”
Now the sign says, “No Toll”. I wasn’t the only person who thought they could get free directions any time they needed it!
I snapped back to the present, looking once again at the gangrene that was the Princess’s condo. It was time to get the work done, but, I gave up, and left the wreckage, smelly, dirty and disgusted.
The next day was beautiful. The soft breeze caressed my face, and my hope for a better tomorrow returned. The sun filtered through the trees giving me a new resolve to disencumber the dismal domicile. Stepping inside, I recalled the time the Princess Mary Jean whacked a mouse in the head with the door of our family home in San Mateo. Terrified, she called me. When I arrived she was ashen. Every time I approached the injured mouse, it would hold its head, and like Lucille Ball caught in a lie, it would groan “zzzeeewwww”. I took it outside and returning, my humor eluded the Princess. Unamused as I pounded and shouted “Everybody Out!” every time I opened the door, Her Highness’s “we are not pleased” look always cracked me up.
Weary, I flopped on the same pile of dirty laundry. The puzzle pieces looked back at me. I wondered, what are they saying? Had I gone insane? I noted several pieces together created a mountain, and I drifted off to sleep. I awoke from a dream about the Grand Canyon we visited when I was 7.
Shuffling out the front door of the condo, listening for the click of the deadbolt, and noticing plywood laying on the ground near me, my thoughts turned to a series of events in my insane life, including one when I was three. My mom and dad, my only sibling, Pudy, and I lived in an apartment in San Francisco on an upper floor. A curious toddler, climbing off and on everything, I contemplated a window in the apartment with plywood half way up. I needed to know what marvels awaited me on the other side of that wood. Even at 3, I had a very vivid inside-my-head life. For days I saw myself hanging over the wood to behold Ellis Street below. Achieving my goal, I relished the stinky street smells, squinting into the fog covered sun, mesmerized by the rush of cold air, the fire trucks with sirens and the honking of horns, as people shouted back and forth over the throbbing jack hammers. Swelling with pride, I was “in the sky”.
Savoring a deep gulp of Ellis Street air, Mother’s Arrrrraaaaggghhh! shattered my trance. She insisted I never go near another ledge or edge ever.
I stayed away from that ledge until we moved away when I was in kindergarten. I said goodbye to my teacher, announcing, “I won’t be here tomorrow, we are moving to where the sun shines every day in San Mateo.” Miss Jones’s reply, “I will miss you!” surprised me, as my insignificance loomed in my mind.
Just yesterday I thought of that goodbye, and mentioned to Al, “My mind works the same today as when I was in kindergarten.” He shook his head, sputtering, like Austin Powers, “It’s not supposed to!”
Living in San Mateo, California, in a one story home, there were no adventures “in the sky”. I loved the sunshine, climbing the fences, and the back yard. I made up all kinds of adventures in the sandbox beneath the trees. Every time I heard the bluster of the wind through the trees, I shouted, “The NORTH WIND is coming!”
An expedition to the Grand Canyon, when I was 7, was a walk on the wild side for our family. Intrigued, I stared into the abyss occupied by scurrying squirrels, screeching eagles, fragrant weeds, and sneaky tarantulas and snakes. I walked close to the edge under the spell of the great canyon. Mother experienced successive ‘coronaries’ as I looked down. Eyes wide open, as if they could absorb the expanse, I leaned into the incredible beauty, while the Princess held her breath. Cool breezes were gentle on my face, and a storm had deposited Ping pong sized hail stones everywhere. A dark sky with wind-swept, mysterious clouds shot new life into my seven-year-old soul. The wonderment of the colors, the stark contrast of the darks and lights, and the intoxicating scent of the canyon delighted me through and through.
That day, I decided that the Grand Canyon was my favorite place forever. I heard a person could ride a mule into the canyon, and it became my cherished goal. Ferde Grofé’s “On the Trail” from the Grand Canyon Suite, became my favorite piece of music. With gusto, I caterwauled each note on my violin. My spirit still soars listening to the clip-clop sound of the mules written into the music.
Al and I attempted the Grand Canyon one year. Its allure drew me to go ‘on the trail’ to view the deepest recesses of the Canyon. We donned our hats, sunglasses and sunscreen, and navigated the dusty stomped-down trail. I leaned in, looked down, stopped breathing, and shook and sweat. Petrified, riveted to a spot, my voice squeaked, “Get me out of here!” Al grabbed my hand and said, “Relax, I’ve got you!” His humor sustained me as I didn’t blink or breathe, clinging to life as the trail below me diminished to 6 inches. There was no railing between me and certain death. Two men on horseback passed me teasing, “It’s okay lady!” As they lumbered by, my mind shouted, “What about this is OKAY?? How does a horse fit on a six inch trail??” I adhered to the rocks, my life flashing before me. Al quipped as he extracted me, “Those men were thinking, ‘What a nice man to bring that blind woman down here to feel the Grand Canyon!’” Al’s sense of humor snapped me out of fear many times on that vacation, as he commanded, “Go to the edge and cling to a tree, you know, do Patty Duke in the Miracle Worker!”
Years later, in Hawaii, I caught the flu upon arrival. Al dove into the beautiful blue and I sat on the beach watching the waves and catching little glimpses of his snorkel. The sounds of families giggling and playing together, and the crash of the waves distracted my longing to immerse myself in the unpredictable ocean. The sand felt good in my hands. Warm and damp, I smushed it around, making delightful shapes all around my legs. As I dug down, the sand got wetter. I lifted the wetness in my hand and flung it in the air. The sand clumped together and flew, fluttering to the ground. At full tilt, I launched into two-handed flinging. As the sand sailed through the sky, producing enchanting, other-worldly formations, I giggled. I shouted “This is the best day EVER!” and burst into my rendition of Spongebob’s Best Day Ever song at the top of my lungs.
I was about to fling again, when Al came up the beach and flopped down next to me saying, “You know, many people are on the beach this morning, and they are all giving you a wide berth, like you are a crazy person or something.” Side by side, as we flung sand together, he declared, “Patty Duke goes to the beach to feel the sand.”
I stayed away from Mother’s house for a few days. Being so tired, depressed and needing a break, I decided there was no rush. A few days later by 11 A. M., exhaustion hit. Laying down on the dirty laundry again, I looked at some puzzle pieces which formed a picture of a cloud. I thought of an incident 35 years before.
Daddy died when I was 30 and Mother was only 55. I can’t imagine how difficult it was for Princess Mary Jean to be a widow so young. Daddy was the ultimate Collector D’Junk, and I was the chosen one for each dump run he made..
Each time we carted more home than we left. Going through his belongings after he died was hilarious and maddening. I had to sit down when I found an over stuffed bag in the closet labeled, Store Coupons I Will Never Use.
Helping Mother sort all the boxes and mess in the garage of the house in San Mateo was quite a chore. The garage was dusty, moldy, a final resting place for dead rats, and contained nasty items with no recognizable traits. With dim lighting, unnerved, I hauled things out to my little blue pickup on the street. We had planned to go to the dump early one afternoon. It was getting late when we finished overloading my truck and headed for the dump. My poor little truck limped up the road that led to the perfect place to include our haul in the pile of muck.
Her Majesty agreed to go with me to the dump, even though it was well below her station. Nothing I said would prepare her for the aromas created by years of refuse. She chided me for not having a clothespin or a hanky available to shield her delicate senses form the distinct essence that was eau de dump.
The sun was already spreading orange beams over the mountain of steaming garbage as we arrived. As far as we could see, there were no other cars, trucks, or people. Sliding to a stop, dust flying, we hopped out of the truck. Faced with the enormous load, I thought, How on earth did I think we could empty this truck? A muddy, shabby man surprised me. “Can y’all use a little halp?” “Oh! Yes! Thank you so much! There is no way Mother and I could accomplish this!” He made short work of it, and when I turned to thank him, I looked around, and he was nowhere. Convinced, I turned to the Princess acknowledging, “I think we had an angel!” We often spoke about the time we saw an angel at the dump.
We made several other dump runs, gaining wisdom each time. One memorable visit, my Father-in-Law loaned me his cardboard protective liner for my truck bed. I was standing in the truck bed, tossing items to the Princess, who threw them on the pile. There were lots of people, trucks, and cars to witness my performance. I picked up the cardboard to shake it off over the side of the truck, and the wind picked up the cardboard with me attached. I sailed up into the air and then over the side of the truck onto the ground. It felt like I was in slow motion, flying until I hit the ground and time rushed to meet me there. The hollars and gasps were all around as I lept to my feet, with my arms in the air, exclaiming, “I’m OKAY!” Wisdom gained: There is a lot of wind at the dump.
Emptying The Parent’s home took five years, after which we put it on the market. Condos were being built five minutes from my home in Redwood City. The Princess chose a brand-new beautiful space in a complex with manicured lawns, fat redwood trees with swaying branches, flowers, and a lake. We let Her Highness and her stinky, revolting, goopy-eyed toy poodle, Sweet Sugar Snowflake, live in our den which we entombed in plastic, awaiting her condo. She took another six months to move into her new digs. I believe she wanted a showpiece and thought she might destroy it if she moved in. It stayed nice for a while, then all the help Al and I offered could never keep it in good shape. I remember telling her she had termites, showing her the evidence. She stated they were coffee grounds, ignoring her exclusive use of instant coffee.
Abandoning all hope, we determined that when The Princess died, we would tackle the issues. She had a lot of pride and never acknowledged the mess in which she lived. The Princess would allow no visitors. If something broke, slaving for hours as she delegated work, we nodded to her grandeur. Her Majesty’s pride intact was a requisite as the repair person arrived. Her Highness commanded we hang curtains in front of the central Throne Room and Bedchamber to obscure the worst. It was then I realized, although she continued to accuse me of the crime, it was not my fault that her home was an unhygienic disaster. Her hypercritical nature taught me to avoid offering suggestions. If she took “my advice”, indictment would befall me and I would never hear the end of how I ruined her life. All I could do was walk away, get in my car, pound on the steering wheel, screaming to my Heavenly Father, “She’s YOUR project!”, then text Al, informing him that I required a glass of Rombauer Chardonnay as I walked through the door of our house 5 minutes away. There must have been angels watching over me every moment, because my sanity remained intact, and I did not become an alcoholic or drug addict in the 30 years until she passed into eternity.
Today, The Princess’s Condo is empty. It is time to gut the place, and create a special place for Al, the kitties and I. It’s all mine, the rightful heir to the Princess. With my sister out of the good graces of Her Majesty, living in exile in Canada, I convinced Her Highness to acknowledge Pudy’s existence in the will. Princess Mary Jean made sure that I knew she would have been much better off if she avoided having offspring.
Carrying the sticky discolored baggie that housed the puzzle pieces outside to the garbage propelled my thoughts to the events on the last day of the Princess’s life. I recall awakening with a start. Even though they provided a “bed”, disturbed sleep was the best I could expect. The cut rate, nominal, muddy brown couch/chair/bed, attempted fine Corinthian Leather, but failed. Grateful for the rest, I opened my eyes and looked at the ceiling. I had not noticed that it had a beigy-green cast, and the shadows magnified objects in the room from the tiny yellow light coming from the industrial fixture on the wall across from me. The room, which once held promise, felt chilly, and I drew the blanket up, not wanting to rise to the occasion. Get well soon cards were laughing at the situation as the water which held the once beautiful baby pink roses turned the color of rust. Adorning the setting, as if from a cheap, B-Rated horror movie, was a basket of preworn, abandoned deep purple latex-free gloves overflowing onto the floor with remnants of bloodied cotton balls and empty packages of alcohol wipes. Next to the perfunctory bed, the kidney shaped putrid pink bowl laid untouched, along with the nebulizer and a dried-up, hours-old white bread and manufactured turkey sandwich with its accompanying nasty pinkish-yellow potato salad.
My eyes were blurry from makeup smeared and contact lenses worn for too many hours. I imagined my lipstick was all over my face, soiling my make-shift resting place. My rings, tight and uncomfortable, would need soap for removal, and my left ear hurt as I rested upon my earring. At least my feet were free of shoes, and I wiggled my toes which enjoyed bright red squishy socks. The iPod that held my favorite music, reminding me I was not alone, had landed on the floor, along with a pile of snotty, discarded tissues. The soft folds of the light purple blanket now clashed with the beige-green walls. Empty water bottles showing the number of hours of this ordeal, and a cellophane wrapper, touting the greatness of a tasteless chocolate chip walnut cookie, resided in the disheveled bed. The pink pillowcase was even more annoying than the wall color, with the defiling Revlon 16 hour Neverending Red Lipstain. I looked for a fresh tissue to tidy myself, but the box was empty.
The atmosphere of the compact space, created for efficiency, revealed the tomb-like room had no smell and little sound. The familiar beep-beep ceased, and I strained my eyes to focus on the oddly-colored figure near me. The Princess Mary Jean, my mother, now a pale yellow-green protuberance in the starched white linens, mouth agape, tubes unhooked and dangling, was motionless. I sucked in a sharp breath as I realized my dear one’s promotion to eternity. Grateful, I lept from the bed to my feet, ready to summon the authorities who would pronounce the death of this valiant fighter. My mother, the Princess Mary Jean, was dead. Sorrowing but relieved, I let out a sigh of resignation. Princess Mary Jean’s life left the room and my life began at the same moment. Elusive freedom was now mine for the first time in my life.
Oh! It’s time. It’s time to give the door a sharp tug to engage the deadbolt. Yes, I was free. Yes, it was over. I plan to savor my new life as one would Old Vine Zinfandel: smooth, tasty, lovely, and lingering in pleasantries. I now see that the losses in my life, when put together, make a beautiful tapestry, and difficulties of life will reconcile in heaven. Perfect peace will be mine, along with all the beauty I missed here on earth. I rest well, content in my faith and hope. I tossed the puzzle, never knowing what the pieces formed, but by faith, I know they create a beautiful story.
My new 4th of July flag works well. I was proud of my purchase, but my husband, Al, objected to the red, white, and blue metal striking the door with each movement, and found a remedy by putting little sticky dots on the back of the flag to soften the clang. I have never expected Al to be a handyman because I vowed to not emasculate and destroy him after watching my father crumble under the cruelty of the Princess.
It feels like much longer than two years, but I have removed the mess Her Highness left for me. I remember stepping into the condo the day of her promotion to heaven. Everything was dirty, dingy, and smelled like smoke and old bananas. Retching as I touch the appliances, my face reddened with anger, and beads of sweat formed, as I pondered how many times the Princess refused my offer of help, noting I was incapable of the task.
Revolted at the sight of the once beautiful peach colored carpet, reduced to dark gray and black everywhere, I stopped short of pronouncing damnation. Stop! I will not become her! Just breathe! The carpet only revealed its former beauty under the weighty, bruised and stained blonde furniture. I remember when Al painted the whole place, like the obedient Son-in-Law he is. Never offering thanks, the Princess seized all she could from him, demanding nothing but perfection. Her last day of life, after 50 years of knowing him, the Princess graced Al with, “I’m beginning to love and appreciate you.” Al was thrilled, I was disgusted.
Dodging piles of what we might need someday, I acknowledged that perfection always eluded the Princess, starting a million projects, never finishing one. Ah, there it was, next to the disheveled bed, the coffee-stained TV tray. The tray was her constant companion, covered with piles of used tissue, empty toilet paper rolls, and moldy food. The smell alone could knock you out and I recalled the first time I heard the Princess say a four letter word.
Coffee. Coffee had become a 4-letter word in my mind. Her Highness insisted her coffee be scalding. I would obey, sometimes using oven mitts to protect my tender fingers. Depositing the aroma-less, watered-down refreshment in front of the Princess, I awaited the verdict. Lingering twenty minutes before touching the potion to her lips, she announced, “It’s cold.” I would strive several more times until I gave up, despondent.
Whew! The “C” word. Thank the Lord I don’t have to worry about that anymore. In fact, I let my coffee get cold on purpose, delighting in every mouthful.
My eyes turn back to the memory-foamless bed. What a disaster that was. Helping the Princess choose a mattress was a set up. No one would win, including the wonderful man at Mancini SleepWorld. Three new mattresses later, Her Highness was still not pleased. Closing my eyes, I let out a slow, controlled sigh, then looked again at the ridiculousness. In the middle of the jumbled sheets on the bed, next to dirty laundry, I found a baggie of puzzle pieces. With no emotion, I thought, should I throw it away, or put it together? A story might await expression in the colorful tidbits.
The next day, I shuffled my body back to the place the Princess once lived. I winced at the yellowish stained walls from the cigarette smoke she thought she hid for seventy five years.
Ah,the greenish brown card table. We used to play games for hours when we were little. Sitting in the middle of the living room (which I refer to as the Throne Room), covered with remnants of you don’t know what it is, my eyes teared up, assaulted by the smell and vision before me. I smiled for a moment as I remembered how, in our childishness, we thought we could make Mother forget the work awaiting us if we played long enough. We cringed at the phrase, it’s time to get the work done. Ugh. I can’t believe that my older sister Patti, whom I called Pudy for as long as I could remember, doesn’t share my memory of being required to stay up 24 hours, cleaning the house, because Daddy’s boss was coming to dinner the next day. I pondered if I could use the beat-up surface of that table to put the puzzle together, like we did so many times as kids.
I spewed spit, and laughed as I remembered a day, not too long ago, when Al and I were playing cards. I mentioned to him how great it would be if someone could create a table to play on, so we couldn’t see each other’s cards. He said, “You mean, a card table?” All these years I thought it was called a card table because of its cardboard construction. I wonder what I have yet to discover. Oh, yes. Cloverleaf. I was 35 when I announced to incredulous eyes that the reason they call entrances to overpasses a cloverleaf was because it looked like one. I was 25 when I figured out at Thanksgiving that jellied cranberry sauce wasn’t called cramberry because it was crammed into a can.
The smokey old banana smell slapped my face and offended my delicate nose each time I opened the door of the Princess’s domicile. The beautiful ivory-brocaded curtains looked seedy, blackened by cigarette smoke and 30 years of dust. I was certain if I opened them, they would disintegrate, and I wasn’t ready to clean that up. Wisdom dictated hazmat protective garb, but I’d see worse. Cabinet doors hung off their hinges, used as crutches on which Princess leaned her full weight.
The heaviness of my brain lifted for a moment, and I fell asleep on top of the three foot pile of dirty laundry which never made it to the obnoxious washer. I would have also procrastinated using the washer to avoid the washer shrieking bang thud bang bang thud dudd while in use. The messy bedsheets and blankets formed an inviting spot, and I could live with the smell during a short nap.
When I awoke, I heard a rustle as I moved the sheets, and I saw the bag of puzzle pieces again. Someone connected edge and inside pieces. One section looked like a picture of a bridge. Wasn’t it only yesterday that I heard, “Look OUT!!”?
Daddy drove us to the San Mateo County DMV in his pukey beige Renault Dauphine with manual transmission. Learner’s permit in hand, I down shifted while turning right at the corner one half block away. I refused to acknowledge my misplaced confidence. This was MY day. Sadly, it was a “day that will live in infamy…” I refused to drive unless I looked cute, so spectacles, which sharpened my very near-sighted vision, were at home.
A motorist had stopped at the stop sign on my left, and witnessed the little Dauphine careening at him, full speed. He sat in amazement, as my sixteen-year-old imagination took over and I felt the car crawling up over the side of his car in slow motion, then plummeting to the ground on the other side of the street. Paralyzed in a dream-like state, I heard the noise, the sound. A slow, decelerating, creeping sound of metal scraping metal. Crunchety crunch crunch. Bang! Thud-dud-dud-dud-dud.
I jumped into the passenger’s side and sat “deer in headlight” shock as Daddy exchanged information with the gentleman. Daddy lost his temper in any situation, hollering like a wounded animal. Expecting deafening yelling, I pondered the punishment due me and imagined facing a firing squad. Returning to the car, Daddy whispered, “we will try again tomorrow.” Startled, I vowed, nope, no way, never.
I took professional driving lessons through Sears and got my license at 20, when my fiancé and soon to be husband, Al, was enrolled at UC Berkeley. I was so proud of my new found freedom. My uncle arranged for me to buy my first car. It was a yellow Chevy convertible, with yellow leather interior, a radio, and automatic transmission. I was in heaven as it purred down each street.
I was very nervous crossing the San Mateo Hayward Bridge when it was my turn to drive to Berkeley to pick up Al for a weekend home. I was relieved that he always drove home.
Breathing a sigh of relief each time I saw the sign on that bridge “Free Direction”, I reasoned that scared little me could ask for directions any time I was nervous or lost and they would give them for free! Each trip, ahh, free direction was awaiting me. I loved being stuck in the bumper-to-bumper traffic because I didn’t have to drive fast. I used to pray for a big truck to follow. Traffic jams provided me the time to make up stories about those who were on the road, and entertained by the smell of asphalt, the opinionated honking and the screeching bald tires, as I trumpeted my blasting Jesus music without interruption.
After our wedding in 1970, Al became the designated driver. Several years went by, and one day, as we were crossing the San Mateo Hayward Bridge, I noticed the sign. Ahhh. Free Direction. I commented to Al how I had been a nervous driver when he went to Berkeley, and how the sign made me relax when I traversed the bridge.
Wide-eyed and confused, Al asked, “What are you talking about?” Oblivious to any other truth, I instructed, “The sign says Free Direction! Anytime I am nervous or lost, I can get directions from them for free.” Not believing anyone could come to that conclusion, and becoming irritated at the thought of his wife holding such an understanding, he barked, “No! It means you don’t pay!”
Agreeing, I chirped, “Yes! You can go in there any time you want and ask for directions and they won’t charge you.” Red-faced and ready to explode, Al exclaimed, “NO!! It means you don’t pay!” Once again agreeing and not comprehending his infuriation, I beamed, “Isn’t it wonderful?” I was feeling smug about my “insider” knowledge of the road.
Like a pressure cooker ready to burst, Al discharged, “NO!!! It means you don’t pay!!” Full of assurance, I restated with glee, “Oh yes! Isn’t it great? It says Free Direction.” This conversation wasn’t too distracting as he slammed on the brakes every 15 feet.
We traveled all the way across the bridge before the sign’s true meaning crept into my intellect, like the silent wisps of fog descend on the hills toward San Mateo. The sign showed there was no toll paid in that direction, and we would pay the toll when we returned.
Feeling defeated, I pouted, “Oh no! What will I do if I’m lost?” Shattering my perfect world, Al blurted, “Since when do people charge for directions?”
Now the sign says, “No Toll”. I wasn’t the only person who thought they could get free directions any time they needed it!
I snapped back to the present, looking once again at the gangrene that was the Princess’s condo. It was time to get the work done, but, I gave up, and left the wreckage, smelly, dirty and disgusted.
The next day was beautiful. The soft breeze caressed my face, and my hope for a better tomorrow returned. The sun filtered through the trees giving me a new resolve to disencumber the dismal domicile. Stepping inside, I recalled the time the Princess Mary Jean whacked a mouse in the head with the door of our family home in San Mateo. Terrified, she called me. When I arrived she was ashen. Every time I approached the injured mouse, it would hold its head, and like Lucille Ball caught in a lie, it would groan “zzzeeewwww”. I took it outside and returning, my humor eluded the Princess. Unamused as I pounded and shouted “Everybody Out!” every time I opened the door, Her Highness’s “we are not pleased” look always cracked me up.
Weary, I flopped on the same pile of dirty laundry. The puzzle pieces looked back at me. I wondered, what are they saying? Had I gone insane? I noted several pieces together created a mountain, and I drifted off to sleep. I awoke from a dream about the Grand Canyon we visited when I was 7.
Shuffling out the front door of the condo, listening for the click of the deadbolt, and noticing plywood laying on the ground near me, my thoughts turned to a series of events in my insane life, including one when I was three. My mom and dad, my only sibling, Pudy, and I lived in an apartment in San Francisco on an upper floor. A curious toddler, climbing off and on everything, I contemplated a window in the apartment with plywood half way up. I needed to know what marvels awaited me on the other side of that wood. Even at 3, I had a very vivid inside-my-head life. For days I saw myself hanging over the wood to behold Ellis Street below. Achieving my goal, I relished the stinky street smells, squinting into the fog covered sun, mesmerized by the rush of cold air, the fire trucks with sirens and the honking of horns, as people shouted back and forth over the throbbing jack hammers. Swelling with pride, I was “in the sky”.
Savoring a deep gulp of Ellis Street air, Mother’s Arrrrraaaaggghhh! shattered my trance. She insisted I never go near another ledge or edge ever.
I stayed away from that ledge until we moved away when I was in kindergarten. I said goodbye to my teacher, announcing, “I won’t be here tomorrow, we are moving to where the sun shines every day in San Mateo.” Miss Jones’s reply, “I will miss you!” surprised me, as my insignificance loomed in my mind.
Just yesterday I thought of that goodbye, and mentioned to Al, “My mind works the same today as when I was in kindergarten.” He shook his head, sputtering, like Austin Powers, “It’s not supposed to!”
Living in San Mateo, California, in a one story home, there were no adventures “in the sky”. I loved the sunshine, climbing the fences, and the back yard. I made up all kinds of adventures in the sandbox beneath the trees. Every time I heard the bluster of the wind through the trees, I shouted, “The NORTH WIND is coming!”
An expedition to the Grand Canyon, when I was 7, was a walk on the wild side for our family. Intrigued, I stared into the abyss occupied by scurrying squirrels, screeching eagles, fragrant weeds, and sneaky tarantulas and snakes. I walked close to the edge under the spell of the great canyon. Mother experienced successive ‘coronaries’ as I looked down. Eyes wide open, as if they could absorb the expanse, I leaned into the incredible beauty, while the Princess held her breath. Cool breezes were gentle on my face, and a storm had deposited Ping pong sized hail stones everywhere. A dark sky with wind-swept, mysterious clouds shot new life into my seven-year-old soul. The wonderment of the colors, the stark contrast of the darks and lights, and the intoxicating scent of the canyon delighted me through and through.
That day, I decided that the Grand Canyon was my favorite place forever. I heard a person could ride a mule into the canyon, and it became my cherished goal. Ferde Grofé’s “On the Trail” from the Grand Canyon Suite, became my favorite piece of music. With gusto, I caterwauled each note on my violin. My spirit still soars listening to the clip-clop sound of the mules written into the music.
Al and I attempted the Grand Canyon one year. Its allure drew me to go ‘on the trail’ to view the deepest recesses of the Canyon. We donned our hats, sunglasses and sunscreen, and navigated the dusty stomped-down trail. I leaned in, looked down, stopped breathing, and shook and sweat. Petrified, riveted to a spot, my voice squeaked, “Get me out of here!” Al grabbed my hand and said, “Relax, I’ve got you!” His humor sustained me as I didn’t blink or breathe, clinging to life as the trail below me diminished to 6 inches. There was no railing between me and certain death. Two men on horseback passed me teasing, “It’s okay lady!” As they lumbered by, my mind shouted, “What about this is OKAY?? How does a horse fit on a six inch trail??” I adhered to the rocks, my life flashing before me. Al quipped as he extracted me, “Those men were thinking, ‘What a nice man to bring that blind woman down here to feel the Grand Canyon!’” Al’s sense of humor snapped me out of fear many times on that vacation, as he commanded, “Go to the edge and cling to a tree, you know, do Patty Duke in the Miracle Worker!”
Years later, in Hawaii, I caught the flu upon arrival. Al dove into the beautiful blue and I sat on the beach watching the waves and catching little glimpses of his snorkel. The sounds of families giggling and playing together, and the crash of the waves distracted my longing to immerse myself in the unpredictable ocean. The sand felt good in my hands. Warm and damp, I smushed it around, making delightful shapes all around my legs. As I dug down, the sand got wetter. I lifted the wetness in my hand and flung it in the air. The sand clumped together and flew, fluttering to the ground. At full tilt, I launched into two-handed flinging. As the sand sailed through the sky, producing enchanting, other-worldly formations, I giggled. I shouted “This is the best day EVER!” and burst into my rendition of Spongebob’s Best Day Ever song at the top of my lungs.
I was about to fling again, when Al came up the beach and flopped down next to me saying, “You know, many people are on the beach this morning, and they are all giving you a wide berth, like you are a crazy person or something.” Side by side, as we flung sand together, he declared, “Patty Duke goes to the beach to feel the sand.”
I stayed away from Mother’s house for a few days. Being so tired, depressed and needing a break, I decided there was no rush. A few days later by 11 A. M., exhaustion hit. Laying down on the dirty laundry again, I looked at some puzzle pieces which formed a picture of a cloud. I thought of an incident 35 years before.
Daddy died when I was 30 and Mother was only 55. I can’t imagine how difficult it was for Princess Mary Jean to be a widow so young. Daddy was the ultimate Collector D’Junk, and I was the chosen one for each dump run he made..
Each time we carted more home than we left. Going through his belongings after he died was hilarious and maddening. I had to sit down when I found an over stuffed bag in the closet labeled, Store Coupons I Will Never Use.
Helping Mother sort all the boxes and mess in the garage of the house in San Mateo was quite a chore. The garage was dusty, moldy, a final resting place for dead rats, and contained nasty items with no recognizable traits. With dim lighting, unnerved, I hauled things out to my little blue pickup on the street. We had planned to go to the dump early one afternoon. It was getting late when we finished overloading my truck and headed for the dump. My poor little truck limped up the road that led to the perfect place to include our haul in the pile of muck.
Her Majesty agreed to go with me to the dump, even though it was well below her station. Nothing I said would prepare her for the aromas created by years of refuse. She chided me for not having a clothespin or a hanky available to shield her delicate senses form the distinct essence that was eau de dump.
The sun was already spreading orange beams over the mountain of steaming garbage as we arrived. As far as we could see, there were no other cars, trucks, or people. Sliding to a stop, dust flying, we hopped out of the truck. Faced with the enormous load, I thought, How on earth did I think we could empty this truck? A muddy, shabby man surprised me. “Can y’all use a little halp?” “Oh! Yes! Thank you so much! There is no way Mother and I could accomplish this!” He made short work of it, and when I turned to thank him, I looked around, and he was nowhere. Convinced, I turned to the Princess acknowledging, “I think we had an angel!” We often spoke about the time we saw an angel at the dump.
We made several other dump runs, gaining wisdom each time. One memorable visit, my Father-in-Law loaned me his cardboard protective liner for my truck bed. I was standing in the truck bed, tossing items to the Princess, who threw them on the pile. There were lots of people, trucks, and cars to witness my performance. I picked up the cardboard to shake it off over the side of the truck, and the wind picked up the cardboard with me attached. I sailed up into the air and then over the side of the truck onto the ground. It felt like I was in slow motion, flying until I hit the ground and time rushed to meet me there. The hollars and gasps were all around as I lept to my feet, with my arms in the air, exclaiming, “I’m OKAY!” Wisdom gained: There is a lot of wind at the dump.
Emptying The Parent’s home took five years, after which we put it on the market. Condos were being built five minutes from my home in Redwood City. The Princess chose a brand-new beautiful space in a complex with manicured lawns, fat redwood trees with swaying branches, flowers, and a lake. We let Her Highness and her stinky, revolting, goopy-eyed toy poodle, Sweet Sugar Snowflake, live in our den which we entombed in plastic, awaiting her condo. She took another six months to move into her new digs. I believe she wanted a showpiece and thought she might destroy it if she moved in. It stayed nice for a while, then all the help Al and I offered could never keep it in good shape. I remember telling her she had termites, showing her the evidence. She stated they were coffee grounds, ignoring her exclusive use of instant coffee.
Abandoning all hope, we determined that when The Princess died, we would tackle the issues. She had a lot of pride and never acknowledged the mess in which she lived. The Princess would allow no visitors. If something broke, slaving for hours as she delegated work, we nodded to her grandeur. Her Majesty’s pride intact was a requisite as the repair person arrived. Her Highness commanded we hang curtains in front of the central Throne Room and Bedchamber to obscure the worst. It was then I realized, although she continued to accuse me of the crime, it was not my fault that her home was an unhygienic disaster. Her hypercritical nature taught me to avoid offering suggestions. If she took “my advice”, indictment would befall me and I would never hear the end of how I ruined her life. All I could do was walk away, get in my car, pound on the steering wheel, screaming to my Heavenly Father, “She’s YOUR project!”, then text Al, informing him that I required a glass of Rombauer Chardonnay as I walked through the door of our house 5 minutes away. There must have been angels watching over me every moment, because my sanity remained intact, and I did not become an alcoholic or drug addict in the 30 years until she passed into eternity.
Today, The Princess’s Condo is empty. It is time to gut the place, and create a special place for Al, the kitties and I. It’s all mine, the rightful heir to the Princess. With my sister out of the good graces of Her Majesty, living in exile in Canada, I convinced Her Highness to acknowledge Pudy’s existence in the will. Princess Mary Jean made sure that I knew she would have been much better off if she avoided having offspring.
Carrying the sticky discolored baggie that housed the puzzle pieces outside to the garbage propelled my thoughts to the events on the last day of the Princess’s life. I recall awakening with a start. Even though they provided a “bed”, disturbed sleep was the best I could expect. The cut rate, nominal, muddy brown couch/chair/bed, attempted fine Corinthian Leather, but failed. Grateful for the rest, I opened my eyes and looked at the ceiling. I had not noticed that it had a beigy-green cast, and the shadows magnified objects in the room from the tiny yellow light coming from the industrial fixture on the wall across from me. The room, which once held promise, felt chilly, and I drew the blanket up, not wanting to rise to the occasion. Get well soon cards were laughing at the situation as the water which held the once beautiful baby pink roses turned the color of rust. Adorning the setting, as if from a cheap, B-Rated horror movie, was a basket of preworn, abandoned deep purple latex-free gloves overflowing onto the floor with remnants of bloodied cotton balls and empty packages of alcohol wipes. Next to the perfunctory bed, the kidney shaped putrid pink bowl laid untouched, along with the nebulizer and a dried-up, hours-old white bread and manufactured turkey sandwich with its accompanying nasty pinkish-yellow potato salad.
My eyes were blurry from makeup smeared and contact lenses worn for too many hours. I imagined my lipstick was all over my face, soiling my make-shift resting place. My rings, tight and uncomfortable, would need soap for removal, and my left ear hurt as I rested upon my earring. At least my feet were free of shoes, and I wiggled my toes which enjoyed bright red squishy socks. The iPod that held my favorite music, reminding me I was not alone, had landed on the floor, along with a pile of snotty, discarded tissues. The soft folds of the light purple blanket now clashed with the beige-green walls. Empty water bottles showing the number of hours of this ordeal, and a cellophane wrapper, touting the greatness of a tasteless chocolate chip walnut cookie, resided in the disheveled bed. The pink pillowcase was even more annoying than the wall color, with the defiling Revlon 16 hour Neverending Red Lipstain. I looked for a fresh tissue to tidy myself, but the box was empty.
The atmosphere of the compact space, created for efficiency, revealed the tomb-like room had no smell and little sound. The familiar beep-beep ceased, and I strained my eyes to focus on the oddly-colored figure near me. The Princess Mary Jean, my mother, now a pale yellow-green protuberance in the starched white linens, mouth agape, tubes unhooked and dangling, was motionless. I sucked in a sharp breath as I realized my dear one’s promotion to eternity. Grateful, I lept from the bed to my feet, ready to summon the authorities who would pronounce the death of this valiant fighter. My mother, the Princess Mary Jean, was dead. Sorrowing but relieved, I let out a sigh of resignation. Princess Mary Jean’s life left the room and my life began at the same moment. Elusive freedom was now mine for the first time in my life.
Oh! It’s time. It’s time to give the door a sharp tug to engage the deadbolt. Yes, I was free. Yes, it was over. I plan to savor my new life as one would Old Vine Zinfandel: smooth, tasty, lovely, and lingering in pleasantries. I now see that the losses in my life, when put together, make a beautiful tapestry, and difficulties of life will reconcile in heaven. Perfect peace will be mine, along with all the beauty I missed here on earth. I rest well, content in my faith and hope. I tossed the puzzle, never knowing what the pieces formed, but by faith, I know they create a beautiful story.
Me and Pudy
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