Life sucks for most everyone right now. Time to reflect inward ... I'm working on my story, one chapter at a time. It's the tale of a little bastard who is raised Jehovah's Witness by her mother, grandmother and great-grandmother. This is the version I'll be reading at my writers meetup group Tuesday night. It's all true and the names and places are real.
BORROWED MAGIC
We were born in 1950, a few months and five houses apart.
Karen Spurgeon lived at one end of Wellington; St. Leonard’s Catholic Church and convent were at the other. After all the whispered rumors of pregnant nuns and buried babies, the place creeped me out.
The Spurgeon children went to school there.
Karen was the oldest of five rambunctious kids. She had orange curly hair, big round freckles and a great sense of adventure. Next in age was Little Stevie, stick thin and only moderately vexing. We let him play with us … sometimes.
Back then children didn’t knock or ring doorbells - we called each other out in extended syllables. When Karen came to my grandmother’s little white house, she envied my quiet and privacy. When I went to her house, I envied the noise, fish stick Fridays and brownies that came out of boxes.
Food became a big part of our relationship and we grew out as much as up. Her youngest sister Theresa the Climber had chronic sinus problems. To my horror, “Micki” always sounded like “Piggy”.
Karen’s mother Janet didn’t eat - she smoked. She looked like the Marlboro Man - tough and wiry without T or A. Karen’s father Jim was large man with five o-clock shadow. I was afraid of him because I’d heard he drank real blood while studying for the priesthood.
The whole concept of fathers was sort of lost on me anyway. Mine left when I was seven and never came back. I didn’t have holidays either. I remember sitting in the living room with the lights out as groups of costumed children laughed their way past my house on Halloween.
Karen always shared her take with me.
Each winter her father spent hours building the perfect rink in the back yard. He laid the hose and nozzle within the branches of a leafless tree, directing a fine mist that created ice as smooth as glass.
Skating on that perfect rink was pure magic.
Her family had the great sparkling Christmases you see in movies. They even had TV. Watching Disney and the Jetsons was something special. If it was late when I left, Karen walked me halfway home. That was a big deal, even though there was less to fear back then. We’d walk exactly 2 ½ houses and run the rest of the way alone in the darkness.
As we entered our teens, my religion closed in as Karen broke loose. Her parochial plaid skirts got shorter as her hair got bigger. The last time we talked as kids she was walking home from school with an armful of books. A June bug flew to certain death in her rat’s nest and she shook her head violently in an attempt to dislodge the buzzing insect.
That day the nuns had dragged her to the john to wash her face and brush her hair. She hated school.
I never saw her again. Well, for 30 years, anyway. That’s when I saw the obituary. Janet was dead.
By then my Gram was growing old alone in her little white house and I was visiting every week. The funeral would take place at St. Leonard’s.
I told Gram we should go. She agreed.
We walked from the sunshine of the parking lot into the darkness of a chapel lit only by candles. The Spurgeons had attended that church all of their lives, so I expected the pews would be full; they weren’t.
As we walked down the aisle to Janet's coffin, a tall thin man with a beard walked up with shocking enthusiasm. He called me by name. Little Stevie remembered my Gram too. "Hello Ethel!!"
He walked us up to the coffin and softly explained that his mother had died of lung cancer. My Gram said that was a shame and he said "it’s ok - she's in a better place."
Gram blurted out "what do you mean 'in a better place' - SHE'S DEAD!"
I was mortified. It always amazes me when people who have been religious all their lives become fearful towards the end.
I don’t remember much about the actual service except for the darkness and the sudden problem I had with my vision. There was a full spectrum of color around each of the candles. I blinked hard and rubbed, but the colors remained.
After the service, Karen and Stevie invited me to the wake. I dropped Gram off and drove out. We spent hours catching up. Karen was an RN, Stevie was passionate about doing civil war reenactments.
They told me their mother had smoked all her life and only managed to quit one month before her death. We all agreed she might as well have kept on smoking.
They said “well, at least our parents are together now.”
Karen explained that her father had died some years earlier. She said his spirituality had intensified with age and he saw death as "the next great adventure."
He promised when he got to the other side, he would send rainbows.
That was the last time I saw Karen and Stevie. But the memory of the rainbows will last as long as I live.
Maybe longer.
We were born in 1950, a few months and five houses apart.
Karen Spurgeon lived at one end of Wellington; St. Leonard’s Catholic Church and convent were at the other. After all the whispered rumors of pregnant nuns and buried babies, the place creeped me out.
The Spurgeon children went to school there.
Karen was the oldest of five rambunctious kids. She had orange curly hair, big round freckles and a great sense of adventure. Next in age was Little Stevie, stick thin and only moderately vexing. We let him play with us … sometimes.
Back then children didn’t knock or ring doorbells - we called each other out in extended syllables. When Karen came to my grandmother’s little white house, she envied my quiet and privacy. When I went to her house, I envied the noise, fish stick Fridays and brownies that came out of boxes.
Food became a big part of our relationship and we grew out as much as up. Her youngest sister Theresa the Climber had chronic sinus problems. To my horror, “Micki” always sounded like “Piggy”.
Karen’s mother Janet didn’t eat - she smoked. She looked like the Marlboro Man - tough and wiry without T or A. Karen’s father Jim was large man with five o-clock shadow. I was afraid of him because I’d heard he drank real blood while studying for the priesthood.
The whole concept of fathers was sort of lost on me anyway. Mine left when I was seven and never came back. I didn’t have holidays either. I remember sitting in the living room with the lights out as groups of costumed children laughed their way past my house on Halloween.
Karen always shared her take with me.
Each winter her father spent hours building the perfect rink in the back yard. He laid the hose and nozzle within the branches of a leafless tree, directing a fine mist that created ice as smooth as glass.
Skating on that perfect rink was pure magic.
Her family had the great sparkling Christmases you see in movies. They even had TV. Watching Disney and the Jetsons was something special. If it was late when I left, Karen walked me halfway home. That was a big deal, even though there was less to fear back then. We’d walk exactly 2 ½ houses and run the rest of the way alone in the darkness.
As we entered our teens, my religion closed in as Karen broke loose. Her parochial plaid skirts got shorter as her hair got bigger. The last time we talked as kids she was walking home from school with an armful of books. A June bug flew to certain death in her rat’s nest and she shook her head violently in an attempt to dislodge the buzzing insect.
That day the nuns had dragged her to the john to wash her face and brush her hair. She hated school.
I never saw her again. Well, for 30 years, anyway. That’s when I saw the obituary. Janet was dead.
By then my Gram was growing old alone in her little white house and I was visiting every week. The funeral would take place at St. Leonard’s.
I told Gram we should go. She agreed.
We walked from the sunshine of the parking lot into the darkness of a chapel lit only by candles. The Spurgeons had attended that church all of their lives, so I expected the pews would be full; they weren’t.
As we walked down the aisle to Janet's coffin, a tall thin man with a beard walked up with shocking enthusiasm. He called me by name. Little Stevie remembered my Gram too. "Hello Ethel!!"
He walked us up to the coffin and softly explained that his mother had died of lung cancer. My Gram said that was a shame and he said "it’s ok - she's in a better place."
Gram blurted out "what do you mean 'in a better place' - SHE'S DEAD!"
I was mortified. It always amazes me when people who have been religious all their lives become fearful towards the end.
I don’t remember much about the actual service except for the darkness and the sudden problem I had with my vision. There was a full spectrum of color around each of the candles. I blinked hard and rubbed, but the colors remained.
After the service, Karen and Stevie invited me to the wake. I dropped Gram off and drove out. We spent hours catching up. Karen was an RN, Stevie was passionate about doing civil war reenactments.
They told me their mother had smoked all her life and only managed to quit one month before her death. We all agreed she might as well have kept on smoking.
They said “well, at least our parents are together now.”
Karen explained that her father had died some years earlier. She said his spirituality had intensified with age and he saw death as "the next great adventure."
He promised when he got to the other side, he would send rainbows.
That was the last time I saw Karen and Stevie. But the memory of the rainbows will last as long as I live.
Maybe longer.
