Hello readers! I know I haven't written in 5 years. Five long years of change, healing and evolution. Five long years that flashed by in a blink.
Calendar of events:
May 2011--- My oldest child graduated high school (Next year, my youngest will graduate, I am sure that will be another blog)
May 2012--- I graduated college.
May 2014--- The boyfriend from my previous blogs, turned out to be a dud.
August 2014-- He was replaced with what I hope will be my son-in-law in the future.
August 2014-- I got my dream job, well not the dream job, but I got to work with the dream team...for sure!
January 2015--- My position was discontinued for the following school year, leaving me jobless.
June-August 2015--- Extreme bout of depression as I ferociously applied for over 60 jobs. Highlight-got to visit my bestie in SC.
August 2015--- Actually got my dream job! With my dream team! Due to the trickle down effect, I got to teach something I love; English!
January 2016--- County closed a school, displacing tenured teachers. With me being at the bottom of the list, I was one of a few that were cut for the upcoming school year. Again, leaving me jobless.
In March of this year, my father and mother bought a new home (Sadly, he hasn't been able to close yet) and I found out that I will be moving into their old home. This house is a stone's throw from his new house. I haven't let myself get too excited, partially because change sucks and I have lived in the house I am in for 17 years. The other reason is because, change sucks. HA No, really I feel like if I buy into the giddiness of moving closer to my father, something cosmic will happen and some hippie communist will pop out of the sky and yell, "Psych!," right in my face and then spit in my gaping mouth.
I've always felt that my father's hometown was mine. Several years ago, I wrote a short essay about how I felt about Bakerton and such. Hard to believe that, soon enough, Bakerton will be where I finally plant my roots.
I'd like to share my essay....I hope you enjoy.
Perfect
The green steps were
steep. They rested against the huge
bluish grey porch like a ladder and when we pretended the porch was our ship,
they didn’t even exist. But when they
weren’t a part of my invented world, I avoided those steps. With holes and craters filled with rain
water, the concrete uneven, cracked and slick with a mysterious green substance. I used to firmly believe that if I used those
steps, I would fall and crack my head open.
But, I have memories of using those steps, broken or not.
Much like the steps, my childhood wasn’t perfect, but it
was functional. From the outside looking
in, my childhood was the same; functional.
I played with the kids outside, I went to school, I had food to eat,
shelter, and clothes. No one could see
the flaws, from the outside. No one
could see the deep grooves scooped away by years of expectations not met. No one could see the slime dripping off every
angle, rendering my childhood imperfect.
Just like those green steps, I have memories of times in my childhood
when through someone’s eyes, I was perfect.
I don’t always remember how we got here every three to
four years, but I vividly remember my excitement. The anticipation of coming ‘home’ meant more
to me as a child than that same feeling other children would get about
Christmas morning. I remember being in
the back of dad’s truck with John and
watching the trees get closer together and feeling the bumping as the road got rougher
and knowing we were almost there, knowing I would have arms around me soon and
kisses on my cheeks, knowing I was almost to the place where I was perfect in
someone’s eyes.
The sidewalk out front looked very much like the steps
attached to the porch. Pitted and pocked
with loose concrete scattered around. This
dilapidated sidewalk surrounded by tall, untamed and eerie Boxwood led straight
to my haven. The bluish grey porch
framed the entire front of the house and most of the way down the right, where
at the end was a door that led to the kitchen.
A horse on springs had its stall along the wall to the kitchen. The horse was not mine, he was not bought for
me, but he loved when I rode him and stretched those springs, banging the base
on the bluish grey porch. Although, he
did not neigh or nod his head, I could tell in his painted black eye, he saw me
as perfect.
Bang! “Don’t let
the screen door slam shut!” Bang! The front screen door always slammed
shut. I made it slam, Monte Jr. made it
slam, Monica made it slam, and John made it slam. Cousins
are better than friends, blood makes them better. A rhythmic screech, beating like a heart,
came from the swing in the corner or the porch.
Back and forth, higher and higher.
Pushing so hard with our toes, to feel them leave the ground again and
again. Chains grinding into their
resting place in the hooks that grew out from the slates above our heads. Freedom, I was free to laugh and be loved and
pretend and be a kid. Heaven feels like
that, I think, with brown cousin eyes that saw me as perfect.
Round the house, around and around, running full force
with wet grass in my toes only to stop and tip-toe over the sidewalk in
front. Hide and go seek, red light,
green light, ghosts in the graveyard, and Simon says; games of cousins during a
simpler time. Our instant gratification
came when the perfect man gave us a nickel.
Standing on green steps, Granddaddy’s hands dug into faded blue Dickies
pockets. Tired hands holding our
happiness, pushing aside the pocket knife and the peppermint to find us shiny
silver nickels to buy fireballs with.
Watching us run towards the store with eyes that saw all of us as
perfect.
Sister, she should have been my sister. I used to tell my friends I had a sister who
lived in West Virginia and would make up a story as to why she didn’t live with
me. Lish was everything I wanted to be;
pretty, older, pretty, skinny, pretty, living in WV, and of course pretty. I never felt like ‘less than’ or ‘not good
enough’ with her. Times with her were
always educational, with something new or different for me to experience. Sleeping in a creepy basement full of rocks,
dancing around poles, laughing so hard until ribs ached. This was a different haven, but another haven
nonetheless and my ‘sister’ owned another set of brown eyes that saw me as perfect.
Bursting in the darkness, with a backdrop of trees and
framed by the darkest night in July were tons and tons of rockets, roman
candles, sparklers, exhilaration, and a child’s delight. Men handled the danger, safely tucked on the
deck I watched with wonder. Thirsty, I
stepped inside to take a drink, anger erupted from her. Swinging, slap, draw back, slap, her words
felt like bullets to me. But Grandma was
not afraid to say stop, to protect me from the blows. To show me I was worth more, to prove that I
was also perfect in her eyes.
Those days are gone and new memories are in the process
of being made. The word ‘roots’ has two meanings.
It can either be the where you are from and where your family is or it
also means how a plant or tree gets what it needs to exist. A word that has two meaning is called a
homonym. For me, both of the meanings
pertain to my life. My ‘roots’ have
always been here with my family, thousands of miles away and I was always proud
to say, “I am from West Virginia, in a little town called Bakerton.” Who I am as a person has a direct and an
indirect connection to this family and that house. Dad’s stories connected me here when we were
far away and my memories did the same thing.
I received the best of who I am from here; what I needed to exist. No matter where I lived, I longed to be here,
where I was loved and wanted and where I was perfect in someone’s eyes.
