StarFish106
Well-Known Member
So sorry to hear of your loss EB. From one daddy's girl to another (who lost hers too) I feel your pain. It will get easier but the loss never goes away. Be Strong!
Flying to SC tomorrow to meet my online BF...
- Thread starter ElizaBlue
- Start date
StarFish106
Well-Known Member
From one daddy's girl to another (who's dad is gone as well) you have my deepest condolences. I am so sorry for your loss.
Nefertiti0906
Well-Known Member
I'm sorry to hear about your loss.
ackee walk
Well-Known Member
I started reading through the over one thousand some odd posts in this thread yesterday and was grinning from ear to ear because of all the wonderful things going on in your life, EB (you're a great writer!). Then I saw your latest post. I am so sorry for your loss, EB. My condolences to you and your family.
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infojunkie
Well-Known Member
Eliza is doing well. She is reading all of the well wishes and they have been a trememdous help to her during this time. She is getting much needed rest and you guys are in her heart.
Keep the love coming.
natural2008
Well-Known Member
MY prayers are with you and your family OP.
biancaelyse
New Member
Very sorry for your loss. May God be with you at this time.
N.P.R. Addict
New Member
I am sorry to hear of your loss!
My deepest condolences too. I got interested in this thread as my story is similar. I met my DDH online over 7 years ago and we've been happy together ever since. I'm glad SC's there to offer you a shoulder in this time of need. Take care and my you and your loved ones be brightly blessed as you go through this loss.
paradise224
New Member
Wow I haven't been on here in a while.. and I visited 3 hours ago and have been glued to this thread ever since!
EB, you are truly gifted, I've enjoyed reading your stories and wish you the best in your love life and your new endeavors, can't wait to buy all of your books.. yes plural, no doubt about it..you've got it
I am so very sorry about your loss, My sincere condolences to you and your family:Rose:
EB, you are truly gifted, I've enjoyed reading your stories and wish you the best in your love life and your new endeavors, can't wait to buy all of your books.. yes plural, no doubt about it..you've got it
I am so very sorry about your loss, My sincere condolences to you and your family:Rose:
ElizaBlue
Well-Known Member
Hello Ladies,
I am making my way back. I want to thank each and everyone of you for the kind and thoughtful words you've posted in honor of my dad. I miss him greatly. This is very hard for me because I was and still am truly my daddy's daughter.
I have just been off line for a minute. As you can imagine there are many things I have to take care of including me. Unfortunately, that is something I haven't done in quite sometime. Fortunately, I have been writing up a storm...and yes pun intended. You'll see.
For all of you who have sent me PM's I will be answering you personally and for those who have sent me emails I got them too and have placed you on the mailing list. And yes, there are more BGO versions coming.
Thank you Infojunkie, I always appreciate you for having my back and you know I got yours. I would be remiss if I didn't tell you your client absolutely loves your skills. I told him he would. Don't ya'll get it twisted our girl is a professional editor. I hope I too will be writing her a check one day soon.
I am going to post shortly. It's a very long piece so bear with me. I have to place markers (no...not big girl markers...lol) just to hold the place so that I can get it all posted in one piece.
I hope you enjoy it. Do stop by and let me know.
I am making my way back. I want to thank each and everyone of you for the kind and thoughtful words you've posted in honor of my dad. I miss him greatly. This is very hard for me because I was and still am truly my daddy's daughter.
I have just been off line for a minute. As you can imagine there are many things I have to take care of including me. Unfortunately, that is something I haven't done in quite sometime. Fortunately, I have been writing up a storm...and yes pun intended. You'll see.
For all of you who have sent me PM's I will be answering you personally and for those who have sent me emails I got them too and have placed you on the mailing list. And yes, there are more BGO versions coming.
Thank you Infojunkie, I always appreciate you for having my back and you know I got yours. I would be remiss if I didn't tell you your client absolutely loves your skills. I told him he would. Don't ya'll get it twisted our girl is a professional editor. I hope I too will be writing her a check one day soon.
I am going to post shortly. It's a very long piece so bear with me. I have to place markers (no...not big girl markers...lol) just to hold the place so that I can get it all posted in one piece.
I hope you enjoy it. Do stop by and let me know.
ElizaBlue
Well-Known Member
History. Lived, not written, is such a thing not to understand always, but to marvel over. Time is so forever that life has many instances when you can say “Once upon a time” thousands of times in one life.
J. California Cooper
Family,1991
J. California Cooper
Family,1991
September 10, 2008, Wednesday afternoon. My 18 year old son, affectionately dubbed by me as The Spawn has been evacuated….from Lamar University…yet again. Last month it was due to the impending Hurricane Gustav or maybe it was Eduardo. I lose track. Nevertheless…now he is enroute… back to Houston. I am sitting at my desk looking out my window. My favorite window, in front of my favorite big old oak tree.
I see a dark blue Mercedes pull into our cul-de-sac and stop in front of my driveway. The windows are tinted. But I can make out four shapes, two in the back, a passenger in the front and the driver. The trunk slowly lifts and one of the shapes in the back seat stretches to life as if awaking from sleep. The car door opens and daylight illuminates the other occupants.
The Spawn steps out. He walks to the open trunk and begins removing duffle bags. The last of which is a black backpack. He’s grown his hair into a medium height afro, replete with an old school afro pick garnishing the back of his hair.
He has on tan cargo shorts, no shirt, yet a full length black- suede winter coat with a black-fur collar. A necklace of rosary beads with a black wooden cross competes with the tattoos for the right to adorn his neck. His multiple tattoos announce to the neighborhood that even without a shirt or even a numbered jersey, he plays on the blue team.
He slings the backpack across his back and goes to the side of the car. Everyone exits the car, as if on queue. Each of the other young black men looks like John Doe college student. The other two passengers wear glasses and sport the Farnsworth Bentley look.
Dressed conservatively with neck ties tucked neatly into pull over sweaters and long-sleeved button down shirts. The driver, slightly over weight with his hair in a short- cut fro, wears a navy-colored three piece suit. I wonder does he dress this way for class every day. My son looks out of place with them.
They approach The Spawn one at a time, they all shake hands, slapping, clicking and snapping their brother of the gang’s style goodbyes. I watch him, his movements deftly orchestrated, with that of the other three. Whatever happened to “Bye Johnny, bye Mike see you at school tomorrow?” What happened to our young men? What was so wrong about just meeting up at the park to play Pop Warner football that they decided to switch teams and join the gangs?
September 11, 2008 – It’s Thursday morning. Two days before Hurricane Ike hits the Galveston, TX coastline. Today is also the anniversary of 911. In Houston while we respectfully remember what this day means to New York, Washington, DC and the rest of world, we await our own forecasted catastrophic event.
Except for me that is. I am ever hopeful. I awake this morning with an edict. I will not be one of the many thrown into movement by fear, running to the stores to fill carts with unneeded candles and overpriced flashlights and cases of bottled water.
My only plan is to go and get my elderly mother and father from their home, so they will be here with me and won’t have to worry…when nothing happens. You see, it’s only Thursday. The weather is calm, the sky bright blue and sunny. Even though Galveston, TX is under mandatory evacuation orders, I am still in doubt of Ike and his growing reputation.
Later…not too much later. I relent and decide to do some “I-know-this-storm-ain’t-coming-but- just-in-case” preparatory storm shopping after all. I go to the Kroger’s store at the corner of my neighborhood and immediately, I am met with empty shelves. I just stand there for a minute, blinking as I take in the ever growing crowd. These people are serious.
Folks are hurrying down store aisles talking rapidly into cell phones, babies are crying, cashiers are stressed, and the only two lines open are very lo-o-ng. They are stacking up on everything from apple sauce and potted meat, to beer and cigarettes, to precious loaves of bread. Bread is the one staple my father must have.
With his Alzheimer’s now in full swing, bread…sometimes a loaf at a time, if not taken away…is his comfort food of choice. He often simply does not remember that he has already eaten. He can also forget that he is hungry and must then be persuaded to eat, with hot-buttered grits served with heaping spoonfuls of grape jelly.
All over Houston employees are failing to show up for work. They have decided to prepare however best for them to survive this storm and that does not mean reporting to work. Here at Kroger’s it appears many stockers, as well as cashiers have made this decision, as well. They have abandoned Kroger’s and its high priced goods and needy customers, choosing instead to go to Food Town and Food-a-Rama to get their storm provisions.
I turn to leave the store, having decided I’ll take my chances and return later tonight. But before I reach my car in the parking lot, I stop and change my mind, yet again. I turn and walk hurriedly back into the store and join the throng of shoppers. My face now a tight mask of concern and fear like everyone else. I put 3 cases of water in my basket and set off to look for other items we may need in the coming days.
I find the store manager. Tall, skinny, white and balding, cowering behind a newly received pallet of bottled water. He looks as if he’s been verbally beaten and tired, so tired. His glasses are askew, his once white shirt, is now stained and wrinkled, with half the shirt tail hanging out of his pants. His silver name badge is being held to his shirt by only one pin. The other side is loose. Forcing you to read…” Welcome to Kroger’s” and underneath….”Mr. Simmons, Store Manager”….only by turning your head sideways.
I can just imagine the tongue lashings frantic buyers have battered him with. All the “What do you mean you are out of 40-oz.malt liquor?” and “How can you not have toilet tissue at a time like this” and “Didn’t you watch the news and know to restock early?” questions and comments have left him looking just bewildered.
He sees me walking toward him and begins to subconsciously shake his head “No”. Whatever it is I need, he doesn’t have any more….unless of course I’m looking for a pallet of “no name” bottled water. I sigh deeply and smile at him. I politely ask him about the next bread delivery. He visibly winces and swallows. I can tell that his answers to the bread questions have not been received well.
Returning his attention to the shelves and avoiding my eyes, he tells me it will be late tomorrow after 5pm, and to come back then. Before I can respond he abandons the pallet of water…left waiting to be stocked on the shelves….and walks quickly away. He rounds the corner and is out of sight before I can say thank you. I don’t get a chance at a follow up question. Whatever else I needed would have to wait until after the storm.
Thursday September 11, 2008. 3:00pm I drive by each of my rental properties and take pictures. These are “before” pictures, just in case I need them for comparisons to any “after” pictures. I return home and turn on the news to CNN. Also known as “Constantly Negative News”.
I see the same familiar faces, the CNN talking heads. The handsome young black male reporter looking morbid while still managing to smile at the viewers, reports that Ike has picked up strength and the island of Galveston has been evacuated. Then with a really grim face he focuses squarely on the camera, with a stare only a mortician would envy, and reports “death is imminent for anyone on the island of Galveston who refuses to leave."
Instantly I hear Usher once again for what seems like the 45th time today singing to Beyonce. “Baby girl there ain’t nothing more that I can say, you know right I want it more than anything….” My ring tone for SC. I press the button on the side of my blue tooth and reluctantly answer.
“Hey baby” I sigh. “Hey love…you watching the news?” he asks rapidly. “Yeah…I’m watching” I say. I instantly switch the channel to Home and Garden TV. “Okay listen, they talking bout people dying if they don’t leave. Let me and pop come and get ya’ll” he pleads. I don’t answer. I am growing so tired of this. “Did you hear me?” he asks. I remain silent.
I look out my bedroom window then up at the sky. I walk to the window and look at the pool. The water is crystal blue and calm. I sigh deeply and tell him “Baby, stop… please. This only makes it worse. Unless your daddy got a plane he cannot outdrive this storm. Please stop coming up with these animal cracker ideas”.
I look at my cell phone, I contemplate opening the window and tossing the phone into the pool. I’m getting stressed now, and he is not making it any better for me. I mean really. How in Jesus’ name is this man and his daddy gonna get here before Ike hits?
I know he’s frightened for me and I know he’s worried but we couldn’t out run this storm even if we wanted to. My daughter has my truck and even if we got on the road, this storm would beat us to Dallas. What sense would it make to be caught in the storm while stranded on I-45? He is silent after that outburst. I know he means well but this is not helping.
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ElizaBlue
Well-Known Member
I breathe…I wait…I try to find my softer voice, not one in anger. I again assure him we will be okay. He tells me he is going to drive here anyway. He tells me that he would rather be with me in the storm than watching it from SC. We have had this particular conversation and then the same break down of logistics many times in the past two days. I smile and shake my head. Okay I think, at least do this for him...again. “Baby” I begin softly…”you know there is no gas…remember.” I say. “Got dog!” he jumps in before I can continue…"this mess don’t make no sense". He says in frustration.
The storm has not even made landfall yet, but the collateral damage is already being felt all the way to the coastlines, especially in North and South Carolina. In anticipation of the storm taking out the many Texas and Louisiana pipe lines, they have shut down oil refineries and drilling operations which are directly in the path of the storm. And because the Carolinas are near the Gulf Coast pipe lines, gas prices have spiked to almost $4 a gallon, in anticipation of the fuel shortage.
When CNN reports on the storm and its predicted land fall pathway, it is accompanied by video footage of people in other parts of the country, trying to find gas. As they watch us as we wait for Hurricane Ike, we watch as they wait for gas. Long lines wrap serpent like around the gas stations and trail out into the streets.
We see fights break out at gas station pumps because people are jumping the line, for fear of running out of gas. We see many cars simply abandoned along the roadways because they did run out of gas. Small stations and some not so small are closing down. There is no more gas to even get in line for. There is no need to fight.
Everyday SC tells me how far he drove to find gas to be able to fill up his truck. The irony being he used half the tank to get back home and the other half to go out the next day to again wait in line for gas. How can he possibly make it to Texas? “I just…I just want to be there for you” he stammers. “I know baby, I know you do” I try to assure him.
Friday Morning 4:00am - "Just get momma and daddy and the kids and get on the road" a voice says into my cell phone without even first saying hello. It’s my brother in Dallas. I listen respectfully and finally tell him that no we are not leaving, and yes we are prepared to stick it out. I really want to just hang up and try to go back to sleep.
But first what I want to say is “Look it wasn't you on the road for 4 days with my 2 parents and my 2 kids and a neighbors kid when Hurricane Rita hit or make that didn't hit. Only to return a week later to find that the only damage at my house was a small tree branch in the backyard.” But I cannot say that to him. He is getting less sleep than I am because he is a professional worrier.
He is getting frantic, so I tell him again, that we’ll be fine. I also tell him that if it will make him feel better he can always come and get our parents and have them stay with him. This suggestion is always met with….”well you know I would but I don’t want to run out of gas”. I silently wonder how he thinks I would be able to find gas to get to Dallas.
I try not to get angry but every time he calls, I have to remember being on the road during the evacuation. Trying not to let the rest of my family know how afraid I was that we would run out of gas. Trying to keep my father calm and keep him in the present, not back in World War II. Not let him retreat to a time when he had to be in charge.
Many times I had to pull over, to stop my father from attempting to take the wheel from me. To get out of traffic and lose our spot, so that my father or my mother could try to find a clean bathroom to use. Finally once I got to Dallas that "Saturday night" I had to take my sister-in-law’s narcotics so that my body would go to sleep, because clearly I too had become disconnected. Me…the cop…narcotics. Talk about worrying for weeks about getting called in to take a drug test.
It wasn't my brother trying not to cry when I had to call 911 and be grateful when Dallas PD did me a favor and took my father into custody because he thought he was back in the army. I saw the sympathy the young white police officer’s showed when he gave my father a direct order to follow. And when my father did not obey I saw that same officer wipe a tear from his eye when he pulled his handcuffs and told my father he was gong to have to take him in.
You see my father was a Military Police Officer in the Army. Once I told the Dallas officer my father’s rank and he addressed him as such, my father readily complied. But until that point my father felt that he was being addressed by a subordinate and I guess in the Army that just doesn’t work.
The next call is from my sister. She wanted me to know that a certain media personality was upset with me. He seems to think I'm the one keeping "his" family from leaving. They can go. My name is not Harriet Tubman. It is not my job to lead anyone out of anything.
Baby Girl keeps calling threatening to leave school. I'm daring her to try to come home. And she has my truck, I’m driving her mustang. Folk don't seem to understand when you know you ain't mentally let alone physically equipped to run, you best do the best you can and get ready to "shelter in place". Now that's a term I hate.
Tell me why the media is now telling us; forget about the storm what about all the chemical plants that are getting ready to blow up. And don't forget the dangerous high rise buildings. This from the pretty brunette lady on CNN, of course. Can someone call CNN and tell them to let this chick go to lunch. Ain't no one go be in downtown Houston waiting for a skyscraper to blow over. Dang!
Then here's the black dude news reporter getting ready to tell us about people fighting over food. Has Houston already been declared a natural disaster zone? I try to go back to sleep. I'm sorry but storm, wind, water whatever I'd rather be home. I learned as a kid, the best place to win a fight was in your own damn yard.
The storm has not even made landfall yet, but the collateral damage is already being felt all the way to the coastlines, especially in North and South Carolina. In anticipation of the storm taking out the many Texas and Louisiana pipe lines, they have shut down oil refineries and drilling operations which are directly in the path of the storm. And because the Carolinas are near the Gulf Coast pipe lines, gas prices have spiked to almost $4 a gallon, in anticipation of the fuel shortage.
When CNN reports on the storm and its predicted land fall pathway, it is accompanied by video footage of people in other parts of the country, trying to find gas. As they watch us as we wait for Hurricane Ike, we watch as they wait for gas. Long lines wrap serpent like around the gas stations and trail out into the streets.
We see fights break out at gas station pumps because people are jumping the line, for fear of running out of gas. We see many cars simply abandoned along the roadways because they did run out of gas. Small stations and some not so small are closing down. There is no more gas to even get in line for. There is no need to fight.
Everyday SC tells me how far he drove to find gas to be able to fill up his truck. The irony being he used half the tank to get back home and the other half to go out the next day to again wait in line for gas. How can he possibly make it to Texas? “I just…I just want to be there for you” he stammers. “I know baby, I know you do” I try to assure him.
Friday Morning 4:00am - "Just get momma and daddy and the kids and get on the road" a voice says into my cell phone without even first saying hello. It’s my brother in Dallas. I listen respectfully and finally tell him that no we are not leaving, and yes we are prepared to stick it out. I really want to just hang up and try to go back to sleep.
But first what I want to say is “Look it wasn't you on the road for 4 days with my 2 parents and my 2 kids and a neighbors kid when Hurricane Rita hit or make that didn't hit. Only to return a week later to find that the only damage at my house was a small tree branch in the backyard.” But I cannot say that to him. He is getting less sleep than I am because he is a professional worrier.
He is getting frantic, so I tell him again, that we’ll be fine. I also tell him that if it will make him feel better he can always come and get our parents and have them stay with him. This suggestion is always met with….”well you know I would but I don’t want to run out of gas”. I silently wonder how he thinks I would be able to find gas to get to Dallas.
I try not to get angry but every time he calls, I have to remember being on the road during the evacuation. Trying not to let the rest of my family know how afraid I was that we would run out of gas. Trying to keep my father calm and keep him in the present, not back in World War II. Not let him retreat to a time when he had to be in charge.
Many times I had to pull over, to stop my father from attempting to take the wheel from me. To get out of traffic and lose our spot, so that my father or my mother could try to find a clean bathroom to use. Finally once I got to Dallas that "Saturday night" I had to take my sister-in-law’s narcotics so that my body would go to sleep, because clearly I too had become disconnected. Me…the cop…narcotics. Talk about worrying for weeks about getting called in to take a drug test.
It wasn't my brother trying not to cry when I had to call 911 and be grateful when Dallas PD did me a favor and took my father into custody because he thought he was back in the army. I saw the sympathy the young white police officer’s showed when he gave my father a direct order to follow. And when my father did not obey I saw that same officer wipe a tear from his eye when he pulled his handcuffs and told my father he was gong to have to take him in.
You see my father was a Military Police Officer in the Army. Once I told the Dallas officer my father’s rank and he addressed him as such, my father readily complied. But until that point my father felt that he was being addressed by a subordinate and I guess in the Army that just doesn’t work.
The next call is from my sister. She wanted me to know that a certain media personality was upset with me. He seems to think I'm the one keeping "his" family from leaving. They can go. My name is not Harriet Tubman. It is not my job to lead anyone out of anything.
Baby Girl keeps calling threatening to leave school. I'm daring her to try to come home. And she has my truck, I’m driving her mustang. Folk don't seem to understand when you know you ain't mentally let alone physically equipped to run, you best do the best you can and get ready to "shelter in place". Now that's a term I hate.
Tell me why the media is now telling us; forget about the storm what about all the chemical plants that are getting ready to blow up. And don't forget the dangerous high rise buildings. This from the pretty brunette lady on CNN, of course. Can someone call CNN and tell them to let this chick go to lunch. Ain't no one go be in downtown Houston waiting for a skyscraper to blow over. Dang!
Then here's the black dude news reporter getting ready to tell us about people fighting over food. Has Houston already been declared a natural disaster zone? I try to go back to sleep. I'm sorry but storm, wind, water whatever I'd rather be home. I learned as a kid, the best place to win a fight was in your own damn yard.
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ElizaBlue
Well-Known Member
Friday - 5pm. I watch the local news on and off, waiting to see if the City of Houston will order its citizens to leave as well. Galveston is abandoned now, for the most part. I watched the surreal view of 17 feet high waves crashing into the beloved Galveston sea wall. I was just there in August for my birthday with SC. We walked Sea Wall Blvd. and ate on the Strand.
The Strand is the main street in historic downtown district. Come Fat Tuesday or Mardi Gras you can watched the parade floats and other festivities just like in New Orleans. The wide two-lane street is lined with many bright and colorful novelty shops for tourist, several old and quaint antique stores and different open air restaurants serving various cultures of food.
You can chose from Greek to Italian to Mexican to of course seafood of all kinds, and everywhere there are bars serving wine, beer and exotic iced drinks laced with fruit. On the weekends many showcase live bands playing Jazz and Zydeco and 80s rock music. The clash of their rhythms drift out into the street, enticing pedestrians walking along the Strand to come in and listen. There is the Confectionery an old-time ice cream parlor where you can sit on ornate barstools and order old fashioned ice-cream sodas. You can watch candy being made at The Chocolate Factory and then hire a horse drawn buggy to take you to other historic places of interest.
When SC asked me what I wanted to do for my birthday, I immediately said “Galveston”. He flew down and we stayed at the Casa Del Mar condominium resort. It was so nice and so romantic. My kids and I have stayed there on and off since my oldest was only 8, Baby Girl was a toddler and The Spawn was barely talking. It's sad to think that Hurricane Ike could destroy all that. I would really miss this place I think to myself as I reflect back to our first trip to Galveston almost 18 years ago.
It is the spring of 1992. I hurriedly packed plastic grocery store bags with food and other staples, but with first and foremost my Folger’s coffee, a container of Carnation coffee creamer and back then a small bag of plain white sugar. As I packed deodorant, toothpaste, toothbrushes and soap, my little ones ran around the house grabbing toys and sandals and plastic buckets to make sand castles.
I was coming up on the one-year anniversary of my new job, and although I had graduated from the University of Houston a year earlier, I was still not working in my degree field of Computer Science. Still, this new job had allowed me to quit my other two jobs and work just one. This gave me much more time to spend with my babies. My excitement at the less work more money had led me to take us on a vacation.
Me being a single parent, there was no daddy to consider. We merely needed to pack up the little car, a raggedy old Toyota Monza with our supplies for the weekend and drive the 50 or so miles down I-45 South to Galveston Island. While this would not be my first time there, it would be the first time me and my kids came and stayed a whole four days. Only half an hour from Houston for us to drive, it was no less than anyone else’s Disney World vacation. We were excited beyond excited.
After making sure we had everything we could possibly need, I ran back into the house to get my writing tablet and grab a handful of pens and pencils. I have always loved to write and this little getaway should give me much to put down on paper.
We leave the tidy little four-bedroom brick home we lived in, drive through Acres Homes and stop at my parents. My father is outside working in his shop. He is a retired construction contractor, who 6 months after retiring begin reading books on Welding and Radiator repair. Four months later he went out on his vacant lot, built a small shed and opened his own Radiator Repair shop. I get the kids out and we wave to him as we head into the house to say goodbye to my mom.
She is standing there in the kitchen, bowls of flour, sugar, eggs, a carton of milk and various spices cover the counter. I hand her The Spawn who promptly tries to stick his stubby fingers into her mixing bowl. I sit Baby Girl on the counter and she picks up a spoon and begins stirring in the cake batter. My oldest sees his chance to commandeer the TV remote and choose the cartoon channel of his choice without having to negotiate with Baby Girl.
“Big Momma we going to the ocean” my daughter informs my mother, very matter of factly. From the den my son chimes in, “It’s the Gulf of Mexico” he corrects her, “technically the ocean is beyond the Gulf” he adds, never looking away from the television. My daughter looks quickly at me as if I’ve lied to her, her eyes wide with confusion. “It’s all the same water” I say, “We ARE going to the ocean”. My mother smiles and leans over and kisses my daughter’s chubby cheeks. She dips her finger in the batter and sticks it in The Spawn’s mouth. He smacks his lips and frowns. Smacks again and considers the flavor, then open his mouth for more.
“And ya’ll go be gone how long?” My mother asks. With her and my father no matter where you are going they are only concerned with when you will return. Everyone must come home. It’s as simple as that. “Well I have Monday off so we will come back Monday night or maybe Tuesday morning before I have to go back to work.” I work the night shift and could stay till Tuesday if I really wanted to.
“Oh well in that case ya’ll better take me with ya’ll” She smiles and sticks a spoonful of cake batter in Baby Girl’s mouth. I take The Spawn and my mother finishes spooning the cake batter into the pan. She readies another baking pan, by first rubbing the interior of the pan with Crisco, then sprinkling flour in it and shifting it around and around until all surfaces are covered then patting out the excess. She then fills this pan with the yellow creamy batter also.
Finally she puts both pans in the oven. She is making one of her absolutely to die for Lemon Butter Pound cakes. My two children sit and wait. Both have remnants of cake batter on their lips and chin. My older son comes in, takes one look at the scene and loudly shouts “I got the cake pan”. My mother scrapes the remaining batter into a smaller bowl and hands him the cake pan. She hands the bowl to Baby Girl and gives her a spoon. The Spawn begins to writhe in my arms because he has nothing. I give him a spoon and sit him on the counter next to my daughter. They take turns spooning out the remaining batter and licking their spoons clean.
“I just made a fresh pot of coffee” my mother tells me. While the sweet-buttery aroma of the baking cake fills the kitchen, we sit and drink coffee. This is her kitchen, in the home my father built with his own hands. This has been our ritual for as long as I can remember, even before I became a mother. The kitchen table, fresh coffee and a slice of cake or pie and conversation.
My mother sips her coffee and brings me up to date on my sister who is now a senior at Rice University and my brother whose only child just turned two. My nephew and The Spawn are only four months apart. I tell her about our trip and promise to be careful and that there is no need to worry that the children will be safe when we go in the water. My mother has a fear of drowning and therefore avoids large bodies of water.
I hear my father telling his last customer that he appreciates the business and that he shouldn’t have anymore trouble with leaks from his radiator. From my seat at the table I can see the man taking the radiator from my father and handing my father a handful of cash. The man walks out of the shed with the radiator in hand, places it in the back of his battered blue pick-up truck and backs out of the driveway.
My father comes into the house. All my kid’s eyes light up. He is their favorite hero. The best grandfather in the world. Moments later after changing his shirt and washing his face and hands, he comes into the kitchen and lifts my daughter into his arms. She promptly begins to chatter about going to the ocean. He reaches and picks up my baby in his other arm. My older son abandons his cake pan when he sees my father squatting down. This is his sign to climb onto my father’s back. When my father stands he looks like a “child tree” Both arms and his back are sprouting children. He careful opens the screen door and walks outside. For the next 15 minutes he jogs and jumps and skips back and forth around the yard with my children holding onto him for dear life, laughing…tears streaming down their happy faces.
The Strand is the main street in historic downtown district. Come Fat Tuesday or Mardi Gras you can watched the parade floats and other festivities just like in New Orleans. The wide two-lane street is lined with many bright and colorful novelty shops for tourist, several old and quaint antique stores and different open air restaurants serving various cultures of food.
You can chose from Greek to Italian to Mexican to of course seafood of all kinds, and everywhere there are bars serving wine, beer and exotic iced drinks laced with fruit. On the weekends many showcase live bands playing Jazz and Zydeco and 80s rock music. The clash of their rhythms drift out into the street, enticing pedestrians walking along the Strand to come in and listen. There is the Confectionery an old-time ice cream parlor where you can sit on ornate barstools and order old fashioned ice-cream sodas. You can watch candy being made at The Chocolate Factory and then hire a horse drawn buggy to take you to other historic places of interest.
When SC asked me what I wanted to do for my birthday, I immediately said “Galveston”. He flew down and we stayed at the Casa Del Mar condominium resort. It was so nice and so romantic. My kids and I have stayed there on and off since my oldest was only 8, Baby Girl was a toddler and The Spawn was barely talking. It's sad to think that Hurricane Ike could destroy all that. I would really miss this place I think to myself as I reflect back to our first trip to Galveston almost 18 years ago.
It is the spring of 1992. I hurriedly packed plastic grocery store bags with food and other staples, but with first and foremost my Folger’s coffee, a container of Carnation coffee creamer and back then a small bag of plain white sugar. As I packed deodorant, toothpaste, toothbrushes and soap, my little ones ran around the house grabbing toys and sandals and plastic buckets to make sand castles.
I was coming up on the one-year anniversary of my new job, and although I had graduated from the University of Houston a year earlier, I was still not working in my degree field of Computer Science. Still, this new job had allowed me to quit my other two jobs and work just one. This gave me much more time to spend with my babies. My excitement at the less work more money had led me to take us on a vacation.
Me being a single parent, there was no daddy to consider. We merely needed to pack up the little car, a raggedy old Toyota Monza with our supplies for the weekend and drive the 50 or so miles down I-45 South to Galveston Island. While this would not be my first time there, it would be the first time me and my kids came and stayed a whole four days. Only half an hour from Houston for us to drive, it was no less than anyone else’s Disney World vacation. We were excited beyond excited.
After making sure we had everything we could possibly need, I ran back into the house to get my writing tablet and grab a handful of pens and pencils. I have always loved to write and this little getaway should give me much to put down on paper.
We leave the tidy little four-bedroom brick home we lived in, drive through Acres Homes and stop at my parents. My father is outside working in his shop. He is a retired construction contractor, who 6 months after retiring begin reading books on Welding and Radiator repair. Four months later he went out on his vacant lot, built a small shed and opened his own Radiator Repair shop. I get the kids out and we wave to him as we head into the house to say goodbye to my mom.
She is standing there in the kitchen, bowls of flour, sugar, eggs, a carton of milk and various spices cover the counter. I hand her The Spawn who promptly tries to stick his stubby fingers into her mixing bowl. I sit Baby Girl on the counter and she picks up a spoon and begins stirring in the cake batter. My oldest sees his chance to commandeer the TV remote and choose the cartoon channel of his choice without having to negotiate with Baby Girl.
“Big Momma we going to the ocean” my daughter informs my mother, very matter of factly. From the den my son chimes in, “It’s the Gulf of Mexico” he corrects her, “technically the ocean is beyond the Gulf” he adds, never looking away from the television. My daughter looks quickly at me as if I’ve lied to her, her eyes wide with confusion. “It’s all the same water” I say, “We ARE going to the ocean”. My mother smiles and leans over and kisses my daughter’s chubby cheeks. She dips her finger in the batter and sticks it in The Spawn’s mouth. He smacks his lips and frowns. Smacks again and considers the flavor, then open his mouth for more.
“And ya’ll go be gone how long?” My mother asks. With her and my father no matter where you are going they are only concerned with when you will return. Everyone must come home. It’s as simple as that. “Well I have Monday off so we will come back Monday night or maybe Tuesday morning before I have to go back to work.” I work the night shift and could stay till Tuesday if I really wanted to.
“Oh well in that case ya’ll better take me with ya’ll” She smiles and sticks a spoonful of cake batter in Baby Girl’s mouth. I take The Spawn and my mother finishes spooning the cake batter into the pan. She readies another baking pan, by first rubbing the interior of the pan with Crisco, then sprinkling flour in it and shifting it around and around until all surfaces are covered then patting out the excess. She then fills this pan with the yellow creamy batter also.
Finally she puts both pans in the oven. She is making one of her absolutely to die for Lemon Butter Pound cakes. My two children sit and wait. Both have remnants of cake batter on their lips and chin. My older son comes in, takes one look at the scene and loudly shouts “I got the cake pan”. My mother scrapes the remaining batter into a smaller bowl and hands him the cake pan. She hands the bowl to Baby Girl and gives her a spoon. The Spawn begins to writhe in my arms because he has nothing. I give him a spoon and sit him on the counter next to my daughter. They take turns spooning out the remaining batter and licking their spoons clean.
“I just made a fresh pot of coffee” my mother tells me. While the sweet-buttery aroma of the baking cake fills the kitchen, we sit and drink coffee. This is her kitchen, in the home my father built with his own hands. This has been our ritual for as long as I can remember, even before I became a mother. The kitchen table, fresh coffee and a slice of cake or pie and conversation.
My mother sips her coffee and brings me up to date on my sister who is now a senior at Rice University and my brother whose only child just turned two. My nephew and The Spawn are only four months apart. I tell her about our trip and promise to be careful and that there is no need to worry that the children will be safe when we go in the water. My mother has a fear of drowning and therefore avoids large bodies of water.
I hear my father telling his last customer that he appreciates the business and that he shouldn’t have anymore trouble with leaks from his radiator. From my seat at the table I can see the man taking the radiator from my father and handing my father a handful of cash. The man walks out of the shed with the radiator in hand, places it in the back of his battered blue pick-up truck and backs out of the driveway.
My father comes into the house. All my kid’s eyes light up. He is their favorite hero. The best grandfather in the world. Moments later after changing his shirt and washing his face and hands, he comes into the kitchen and lifts my daughter into his arms. She promptly begins to chatter about going to the ocean. He reaches and picks up my baby in his other arm. My older son abandons his cake pan when he sees my father squatting down. This is his sign to climb onto my father’s back. When my father stands he looks like a “child tree” Both arms and his back are sprouting children. He careful opens the screen door and walks outside. For the next 15 minutes he jogs and jumps and skips back and forth around the yard with my children holding onto him for dear life, laughing…tears streaming down their happy faces.
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ElizaBlue
Well-Known Member
At some point he sits them all down and they re-assemble themselves. The younger ones on each knee, my older son sitting in front of him. “Papa tell me a story” my daughter says. “The one about the Indian” my older son adds. My father grins and makes a clucking sound with his tongue. This makes my baby laugh again…a giggly chortling sort of laughter, partly through is nose and partly from his tummy. My father tickles his fat belly and then begins the story, as always with “Once upon a time….”
It’s a story my father has told me many times when I was a little girl. About The Lone Ranger and his Indian friend Tonto. In this story The Lone Ranger gets shot in the throat with an arrow by some bad Indians. Tonto pulls the arrow out, dresses the wound and thereby saves his friend’s life. Sometimes it is Tonto who takes the arrow. Always at the end of the story, one man gives the other a drink of water from his canteen. Further proving they are friends to the end. I smile to myself as I watch my children listen to this story wide eyed with terror as if this were their first time hearing it.
My father mimics wrapping the bandage around my older son’s neck, just as he use to do me when he told me the story. I watch my baby with a head full of curls and one long pony tail trailing down his back. His head becomes too heavy for his little two year old head to support. He gives up and closes his eyes, his head falling to rest on my father’s shoulder.
My daughter, who has already figured out when you go to sleep the story ends, leans over and sticks her forefinger into The Spawns nose. He sleepily smacks her hand away. “Wake up” she tells him “you ain’t going to the ocean with us if you be sleep”. My father begins singing “Come a Ki-ya-yippie-ya-yea” to the baby and patting his back to put him back to sleep. A song he has sung to all my children to put them to sleep since they were born.
I finish my coffee and tell my mother we have to be on our way. I don’t want to get to the island when it’s dark. We say goodbye and we all pile back into the little car. I stop briefly for gas and we get on the road. My little family promptly falls asleep. I drive on smiling in anticipation of seeing the water. My kids have never seen the ocean and will be mesmerized by it. It’s a beautiful day. The sun is bright the skies are blue.
Just as I cross into the Bay area on I-45 South, I can smell the ocean. I wake up the kids and tell them to roll down the windows. As we near the La Marque, TX exit, I see water. My kids begin to oooh and awe and squeal in excitement. “It’s the ocean” my older son screams loudly. I smile at him in the rear view mirror. They all sit in the back, safely buckled in; no one rides in the front with me. We approach the Galveston bridge and my fear of heights kicks in. Gripping the steering wheel with white-knuckled hands I refuse to look to either side until I cross over. Once we clear the bridge, I breathe easy again. I inhale deeply and my senses are bombarded with the sights, sounds and scent of the island.
The view is amazing. At the bottom of the bridge there are fishing boats and tiny mom and pop fishing shacks. Here in these small rickety old stores, they sell hamburgers, fish sandwiches, fried oysters, French fries and ice cold cans of soda. There is also bait for sale…worms and worm like things. These are fake and rubbery, brightly colored orange and lime green, others neon pink. You can rent a fishing pole, go down on the pier and try your luck. Or you can just buy the fish and pretend you caught the big one. We continue down onto 61st street, turn right and stop when we reach the ocean. It’s the sea wall of course, but for me ...it’s the ocean.
We pull into the Casa Del Mar Condo and Resort Hotel and park. My kids scramble from the car looking back at the water. The sun is beaming, and the wind is blowing the scent of the water all around us. Nothing smells like the ocean. People are everywhere, checking in and checking out of the hotel, or just coming into the leasing office to ask directions to some island place. There are people riding in buggies being peddled by their own kids. Everyone is wearing bathing suits and flip flop shoes and sunglasses.
My kids are dressed in Wal-Mart’s finest. Each wearing a new summer short set. Bright red for Baby Girl with a halter top, her long red hair secured in white ball barrettes, with big white rimmed movie-star glasses. She is simply adorable. Both boys have on green and white matching shorts with white t-shirts. I sport yellow biking shorts, an over-sized red t-shirt and a big floppy straw hat. My hair is precision cut in the ever popular Halle Berry style. My toes are aching from my new between the toe strap white-sandals that were just too snazzy to pass up.
At the counter we check in. The clerk welcomes us to Galveston, telling us to enjoy our first stay and to be sure to make it many more. With room keys and parking tag in hand, we walk back to unload the car. Two young white boys stand on the first floor balcony just above the office. They are throwing bread crumbs in the air, making the five or six sea gulls now circling the area swoop down from the sky. The birds dive expertly catching the white morsels in their beaks.
The boys laugh and toss more bread into the air. Both obviously ignoring the large black and white signs posted everywhere which read “DO NOT THROW FOOD OFF THE BALCONY” and “DO NOT HANG CLOTHES OFF BALCONY” and “DO NOT FEED THE BIRDS”.
My older son gives them his complete attention. He finally turns to me and says, “We should have brought the old bread from home.” Baby Girl squeals suddenly as a sea gull swoops down to get a closer look at her hair ornaments. My older son shoos the bird away wildly waving his arms in the air. The boys on the balcony crack up with laughter; they begin throwing the bread closer to our direction. I walk to the edge of the parking lot and look up at them. I take of my shades and stare at them both. They stop laughing, look at each other and simultaneously say to me “he did it”, while each point to the other one. I continue to stare at them; they stumble into each other, and then run inside their room slamming the patio door.
It’s a story my father has told me many times when I was a little girl. About The Lone Ranger and his Indian friend Tonto. In this story The Lone Ranger gets shot in the throat with an arrow by some bad Indians. Tonto pulls the arrow out, dresses the wound and thereby saves his friend’s life. Sometimes it is Tonto who takes the arrow. Always at the end of the story, one man gives the other a drink of water from his canteen. Further proving they are friends to the end. I smile to myself as I watch my children listen to this story wide eyed with terror as if this were their first time hearing it.
My father mimics wrapping the bandage around my older son’s neck, just as he use to do me when he told me the story. I watch my baby with a head full of curls and one long pony tail trailing down his back. His head becomes too heavy for his little two year old head to support. He gives up and closes his eyes, his head falling to rest on my father’s shoulder.
My daughter, who has already figured out when you go to sleep the story ends, leans over and sticks her forefinger into The Spawns nose. He sleepily smacks her hand away. “Wake up” she tells him “you ain’t going to the ocean with us if you be sleep”. My father begins singing “Come a Ki-ya-yippie-ya-yea” to the baby and patting his back to put him back to sleep. A song he has sung to all my children to put them to sleep since they were born.
I finish my coffee and tell my mother we have to be on our way. I don’t want to get to the island when it’s dark. We say goodbye and we all pile back into the little car. I stop briefly for gas and we get on the road. My little family promptly falls asleep. I drive on smiling in anticipation of seeing the water. My kids have never seen the ocean and will be mesmerized by it. It’s a beautiful day. The sun is bright the skies are blue.
Just as I cross into the Bay area on I-45 South, I can smell the ocean. I wake up the kids and tell them to roll down the windows. As we near the La Marque, TX exit, I see water. My kids begin to oooh and awe and squeal in excitement. “It’s the ocean” my older son screams loudly. I smile at him in the rear view mirror. They all sit in the back, safely buckled in; no one rides in the front with me. We approach the Galveston bridge and my fear of heights kicks in. Gripping the steering wheel with white-knuckled hands I refuse to look to either side until I cross over. Once we clear the bridge, I breathe easy again. I inhale deeply and my senses are bombarded with the sights, sounds and scent of the island.
The view is amazing. At the bottom of the bridge there are fishing boats and tiny mom and pop fishing shacks. Here in these small rickety old stores, they sell hamburgers, fish sandwiches, fried oysters, French fries and ice cold cans of soda. There is also bait for sale…worms and worm like things. These are fake and rubbery, brightly colored orange and lime green, others neon pink. You can rent a fishing pole, go down on the pier and try your luck. Or you can just buy the fish and pretend you caught the big one. We continue down onto 61st street, turn right and stop when we reach the ocean. It’s the sea wall of course, but for me ...it’s the ocean.
We pull into the Casa Del Mar Condo and Resort Hotel and park. My kids scramble from the car looking back at the water. The sun is beaming, and the wind is blowing the scent of the water all around us. Nothing smells like the ocean. People are everywhere, checking in and checking out of the hotel, or just coming into the leasing office to ask directions to some island place. There are people riding in buggies being peddled by their own kids. Everyone is wearing bathing suits and flip flop shoes and sunglasses.
My kids are dressed in Wal-Mart’s finest. Each wearing a new summer short set. Bright red for Baby Girl with a halter top, her long red hair secured in white ball barrettes, with big white rimmed movie-star glasses. She is simply adorable. Both boys have on green and white matching shorts with white t-shirts. I sport yellow biking shorts, an over-sized red t-shirt and a big floppy straw hat. My hair is precision cut in the ever popular Halle Berry style. My toes are aching from my new between the toe strap white-sandals that were just too snazzy to pass up.
At the counter we check in. The clerk welcomes us to Galveston, telling us to enjoy our first stay and to be sure to make it many more. With room keys and parking tag in hand, we walk back to unload the car. Two young white boys stand on the first floor balcony just above the office. They are throwing bread crumbs in the air, making the five or six sea gulls now circling the area swoop down from the sky. The birds dive expertly catching the white morsels in their beaks.
The boys laugh and toss more bread into the air. Both obviously ignoring the large black and white signs posted everywhere which read “DO NOT THROW FOOD OFF THE BALCONY” and “DO NOT HANG CLOTHES OFF BALCONY” and “DO NOT FEED THE BIRDS”.
My older son gives them his complete attention. He finally turns to me and says, “We should have brought the old bread from home.” Baby Girl squeals suddenly as a sea gull swoops down to get a closer look at her hair ornaments. My older son shoos the bird away wildly waving his arms in the air. The boys on the balcony crack up with laughter; they begin throwing the bread closer to our direction. I walk to the edge of the parking lot and look up at them. I take of my shades and stare at them both. They stop laughing, look at each other and simultaneously say to me “he did it”, while each point to the other one. I continue to stare at them; they stumble into each other, and then run inside their room slamming the patio door.
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ElizaBlue
Well-Known Member
We get our belongings from the car and take the elevator to the third floor. I smile as I watch my children first startle then giggle with the movement of the elevator. We stop in front of the door that matches the tag on the key, unit #350. When I open the door to our tiny home for the weekend, we all fall silent. We are looking at a view of the ocean right smack in front of us. Less than 30 feet away is the water. We all begin to squeal and jump around together.
There is a bedroom with a TV, the bedspread multi-colored and quite comfortable looking. Two bunk beds in the hallway, which the boys promptly claim. A bathroom, and then a tiny galley kitchen with a full size refrigerator and small white stove. The living room has patio doors which lead to the balcony overlooking the view. Immediately I begin to unpack and set up my coffee supplies. I cannot wait to have a cup of coffee on this balcony and write.
My little ones begin to beg to go down to the beach, so they can swim. I tell them we will as soon as we eat. I open the package of pork chops and begin to season them. I pull skillets and pots and pans from underneath the cabinet and begin to prepare our dinner. I fix fried pork chops, corn, rice and green beans. I take a picture from the top cabinets and run water into it. I squeeze fresh lemons and make lemonade.
After we eat dinner my older son washes dishes, while the little ones scramble into their bathing suits and swimming trunks. It’s now about 5:30pm and the sun is beginning to cool off. We blow up arm floats and then slip them onto the two little ones arms. They gather their little buckets and shovels and we head downstairs. I carry The Spawn and hold Baby Girl’s hand, my older son walks behind me making sure Baby Girl keeps up. I look like a Mother Hen with three little chicks as we carefully cross Sea Wall Blvd and run down onto the stairs that lead to the beach.
After about two hours of walking on the beach and avoiding the brown water, I have yet to agree to let them swim or even wade in the dirty water, for that matter. Farther out, much farther out, the water becomes a greener blue and finally blue. Too far for my little ones to swim in. For the two boys this is just not going to work. My older son is convinced he knows how to swim and in believing so has convinced the baby that he too must know how to swim. We return to the hotel tired and sunburned, yet to have gotten into the water. I tell them that we will swim at the hotel pool. They get excited again.
All the way back to the hotel I reiterate to the three little faces that never ever are they to enter into the pool area without me and never ever to get into the water without the arm bands and chest floats. They all nod in unison, agreeing to my demands. The Spawn however, has this far away look in his eyes. The closer we got to the pool area the more he seemed to be ignoring me.
To their further disappointment we stop at our room so that I can get my new book to read. I have just picked up one of my favorite authors J. California Cooper’s first novel “Family”. After perusing the book stores for something to take with me, I decide on this book. While she has done short story collections, this is her first novel. Her writing style intrigues me. Mainly because her stories remind me of me.
My kids are complaining, suspicious that when we get to the room we won’t leave again. They are beginning to doubt they will ever get into any water by any means. That this whole ocean thing could have been viewed from TV even. Would I, their mother really play such a cruel joke on them? Baby Girl is already making plans to just swim in the bath tub like they always do. The oldest assures her that we will be getting in the pool because I promised them. He knows I am a mother of my word.
Now with book in hand and each with their own hotel towel, we head down to the pool...finally. I will not be swimming and have changed into blue jeans, a long sleeve shirt and loafers. My plan is to watch them in the kiddy pool and read my book. When we get to the pool area I realize there is no kiddy pool. Only one big one with a graduated depth starting at wading level or about 1.5 feet deep, gradually going to 3 ft, then 5ft and sharply dropping off to 8ft.
I make them line up at the pools edge and again I give out the safety instructions again. I get organized and ready to read. We are just in front of the wading area and my oldest is complaining that he can swim and wants to go into the deep end. I turn to him and remind him that they must all stay together and since the two little ones cannot swim in the deep end, then neither can he.
I hear a small splash and turn in horror to find only one other little brown body standing beside me. Next to her are two tiny sets of arm floats, empty of the other little brown body that just had them on a minute go. I run quickly to the edge of the pool just in time to see The Spawns pony tail follow the rest of his little body into the 8 ft. deep water. Without thinking I jump feet first in next to him…book and all. Because of my body weight I actually catch him before he reaches the bottom. I grab his little body and push my arms up with him in my hands so that his head breaks the surface first. I kick my feet furiously to get us both to the edge of the pool to safety.
Panting I sit him on the side of the pool and I climb out behind him. My pants and shirt, bra and panties, socks and shoes, wrist watch… everything is completely wet. One brown loafer slowly makes it way back up through the water, where it bobs upside down next to us. My new book sits silently at the bottom of the pool. The water logged pages drifting back in forth with the movement of the water.
The Spawn is laughing gleefully clapping his tiny hands. Baby Girl comes and stands next to me her round little belly poking out from between her new pink and yellow two piece bathing suit. “My turn momma…my turn” she chants. My older son is on the ground clutching his stomach laughing. The Spawn is gesturing at the water and wants to do it again. “Gen, wadda.” He looks down at the pool, grinning broadly at his accomplishment. “Momma …wadda…gen” my little boy says to me. He is patting my face now like “what are you waiting for, I said again”.
I look from him to my daughter to my other son. They are all laughing. They are all healthy and happy. I put the floats back on his little arms again. I take the body float and secure it once again across his chest. My daughter stomps her feet up and down, wondering why the baby got to jump in the deep end, if she cannot.
I sit shivering on the edge of the pool, too embarrassed to walk back to the room soaking wet. The other swimmers stare at me. A little Mexican boy jumps into the pool slicing the water like a knife and in a moment surfaces with my book. He hands it to me, pages dripping and smiles. I take it from him and thank him. He does not leave, but remains in front of me treading the water simply smiling back at me. What am I supposed to do, tip him or something?
The book is of course ruined. My plan was to spend the evening reading “Family”. I wanted to read the story as told by the ghostly-narrator child Clora and to know how she thought slavery to be first hand. That would be impossible now.
There is a bedroom with a TV, the bedspread multi-colored and quite comfortable looking. Two bunk beds in the hallway, which the boys promptly claim. A bathroom, and then a tiny galley kitchen with a full size refrigerator and small white stove. The living room has patio doors which lead to the balcony overlooking the view. Immediately I begin to unpack and set up my coffee supplies. I cannot wait to have a cup of coffee on this balcony and write.
My little ones begin to beg to go down to the beach, so they can swim. I tell them we will as soon as we eat. I open the package of pork chops and begin to season them. I pull skillets and pots and pans from underneath the cabinet and begin to prepare our dinner. I fix fried pork chops, corn, rice and green beans. I take a picture from the top cabinets and run water into it. I squeeze fresh lemons and make lemonade.
After we eat dinner my older son washes dishes, while the little ones scramble into their bathing suits and swimming trunks. It’s now about 5:30pm and the sun is beginning to cool off. We blow up arm floats and then slip them onto the two little ones arms. They gather their little buckets and shovels and we head downstairs. I carry The Spawn and hold Baby Girl’s hand, my older son walks behind me making sure Baby Girl keeps up. I look like a Mother Hen with three little chicks as we carefully cross Sea Wall Blvd and run down onto the stairs that lead to the beach.
After about two hours of walking on the beach and avoiding the brown water, I have yet to agree to let them swim or even wade in the dirty water, for that matter. Farther out, much farther out, the water becomes a greener blue and finally blue. Too far for my little ones to swim in. For the two boys this is just not going to work. My older son is convinced he knows how to swim and in believing so has convinced the baby that he too must know how to swim. We return to the hotel tired and sunburned, yet to have gotten into the water. I tell them that we will swim at the hotel pool. They get excited again.
All the way back to the hotel I reiterate to the three little faces that never ever are they to enter into the pool area without me and never ever to get into the water without the arm bands and chest floats. They all nod in unison, agreeing to my demands. The Spawn however, has this far away look in his eyes. The closer we got to the pool area the more he seemed to be ignoring me.
To their further disappointment we stop at our room so that I can get my new book to read. I have just picked up one of my favorite authors J. California Cooper’s first novel “Family”. After perusing the book stores for something to take with me, I decide on this book. While she has done short story collections, this is her first novel. Her writing style intrigues me. Mainly because her stories remind me of me.
My kids are complaining, suspicious that when we get to the room we won’t leave again. They are beginning to doubt they will ever get into any water by any means. That this whole ocean thing could have been viewed from TV even. Would I, their mother really play such a cruel joke on them? Baby Girl is already making plans to just swim in the bath tub like they always do. The oldest assures her that we will be getting in the pool because I promised them. He knows I am a mother of my word.
Now with book in hand and each with their own hotel towel, we head down to the pool...finally. I will not be swimming and have changed into blue jeans, a long sleeve shirt and loafers. My plan is to watch them in the kiddy pool and read my book. When we get to the pool area I realize there is no kiddy pool. Only one big one with a graduated depth starting at wading level or about 1.5 feet deep, gradually going to 3 ft, then 5ft and sharply dropping off to 8ft.
I make them line up at the pools edge and again I give out the safety instructions again. I get organized and ready to read. We are just in front of the wading area and my oldest is complaining that he can swim and wants to go into the deep end. I turn to him and remind him that they must all stay together and since the two little ones cannot swim in the deep end, then neither can he.
I hear a small splash and turn in horror to find only one other little brown body standing beside me. Next to her are two tiny sets of arm floats, empty of the other little brown body that just had them on a minute go. I run quickly to the edge of the pool just in time to see The Spawns pony tail follow the rest of his little body into the 8 ft. deep water. Without thinking I jump feet first in next to him…book and all. Because of my body weight I actually catch him before he reaches the bottom. I grab his little body and push my arms up with him in my hands so that his head breaks the surface first. I kick my feet furiously to get us both to the edge of the pool to safety.
Panting I sit him on the side of the pool and I climb out behind him. My pants and shirt, bra and panties, socks and shoes, wrist watch… everything is completely wet. One brown loafer slowly makes it way back up through the water, where it bobs upside down next to us. My new book sits silently at the bottom of the pool. The water logged pages drifting back in forth with the movement of the water.
The Spawn is laughing gleefully clapping his tiny hands. Baby Girl comes and stands next to me her round little belly poking out from between her new pink and yellow two piece bathing suit. “My turn momma…my turn” she chants. My older son is on the ground clutching his stomach laughing. The Spawn is gesturing at the water and wants to do it again. “Gen, wadda.” He looks down at the pool, grinning broadly at his accomplishment. “Momma …wadda…gen” my little boy says to me. He is patting my face now like “what are you waiting for, I said again”.
I look from him to my daughter to my other son. They are all laughing. They are all healthy and happy. I put the floats back on his little arms again. I take the body float and secure it once again across his chest. My daughter stomps her feet up and down, wondering why the baby got to jump in the deep end, if she cannot.
I sit shivering on the edge of the pool, too embarrassed to walk back to the room soaking wet. The other swimmers stare at me. A little Mexican boy jumps into the pool slicing the water like a knife and in a moment surfaces with my book. He hands it to me, pages dripping and smiles. I take it from him and thank him. He does not leave, but remains in front of me treading the water simply smiling back at me. What am I supposed to do, tip him or something?
The book is of course ruined. My plan was to spend the evening reading “Family”. I wanted to read the story as told by the ghostly-narrator child Clora and to know how she thought slavery to be first hand. That would be impossible now.
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ElizaBlue
Well-Known Member
I glance from the CNN commentator to my book shelf. There on the bottom row is the water logged book Family, now dried out but the pages forever stuck. Beside it sits a new copy of Family. Bought and read the following weekend. Beside these two books is every short story collection and novel J. California Cooper has ever written. There is “ A Piece of Mine”, “Homemade Love”, “The Wake of the Wind”, “The Future Has a Past”, “Some Soul to Keep”, “In Search of Satisfaction”, “Some Love, Some Pain, Sometime”, “The Matter is Life” , “Some People Some Other Place” and “Wild Stars Seeking Midnight Sun”. Her books are what my children give me for Christmas and on my birthday. She…is my favorite author.
I glance back to the storm update. There is more video footage of the waves hitting the seawall. The scene changes and moves to the update of the Coast Guard’s failed attempts to rescue 20 or so mariners trapped out in the water on a freighter. This story has run on and off, since the winds picked up. This freighter is directly in the path of the storm and now because the hurricane is getting closer they are abandoning the rescue attempt.
I glance out the window and watch as the pool water is no longer calm; instead the water is beginning to make little waves. I watch this for a minute and then turn my attention back to the news. The scene switches again to show a cameraman almost being blown over. Even though the storm itself is now about 10 miles outside of Galveston, the wind strength is estimated at 110 mph. But of course the news crews are still there, reporting every piece of washed up board and plank, alluding that it could be from someone’s house already blown away. SC calls and I again discuss with him why me and my family will not be leaving to go to Dallas. Leaving, hell no not even leaving. End of conversation. Or something to that effect.
I call my parents to make sure they are ready to be picked up. It’s a given my elderly parents will ride this hurricane out with me at my home. My mom is 84 and my dad is 86. I instructed them earlier to pack enough clothing for at least a week, and all their medications, etc. I get to their house and nothing has been packed. All my father’s clothes are in the dirty clothes hamper. I argue with my mother as to what was the home care provider doing all day? I angrily begin to try to sort my father’s clothes to wash. He is incontinent now and often has to change clothes…sometimes multiple times a day. I leave after my mother insists on washing her clothes instead.
Friday 6:30pm – I return to the grocery store. Surprisingly, there are no crowds. And no bread…still. I get hamburger meat, chicken drumsticks, and steaks, cans of chili, and packages of wieners. I manage to find large 20oz. cans of corn, green beans, and even baked beans. Gone are all the utility candles and flashlights. Still I am in doubt. This storm will be like all the others, a false alarm. This is my mantra.
I return to my parent’s home and gather them and all their belongings needed for the next week or so. We now have plenty of food, coffee, other supplies and board games if it should come to that. I get my parents settled in and make sure they both have taken their meds for the night. I tell the Spawn to move all the lawn furniture away from the windows and anything else that might become airborne. I go through the downstairs and strategically place candles on the fireplace mantle, on the bar in the den, in both downstairs bathrooms and in my office. Next to each candle I place a torch in case we need to light the candle. After all is done, I decide to leave again. I want to give finding more bread one last shot.
9:30pm - After stopping at about four other stores, I realize that all the stores were probably out of bread. I decide to go to my daughter’s boyfriend’s parent’s house. Of course they have bread. They have everything. They are “real” survivalist. They built their own home, with its own water and sewer system, and they have a huge garden from which they eat home grown organic vegetables. In their home storage “room”, they have as much paper towels, bathroom tissue, candles, batteries, rice, beans and bottled water, as any corner convenience store.
They prepare for storms when the tropical depressions are no more than ripples in the ocean. I chat with the mom as we stand in their garage, making small talk. I tell her my theory about this being yet another false alarm. She stares at me briefly, shakes her head and reaches into one of their two “generator backed-up back up” freezers. She hands me a single precious loaf of bread. I take it and smile. It’s white bread. We haven’t eaten white bread since my kids were in grade school.
Still, I am grateful for it. My father loves bread, of any kind. This would not be a pleasant storm without him having bread. I say goodbye and turn to get back in the car, she wishes us luck and tells me to remember that me and my family are welcome to come and stay at their house during the storm. She waves goodbye, her lips pressed, slowly shaking her head. She probably thinks that this is the last time she will see me, as we won’t make it through the storm. Being ill-prepared is not something to be respected by true survivalist. I smile and wave goodbye back to her. We’ll be fine.
As I head home I notice that the wind has picked up quite a bit. I park the car and take the loaf of bread and other items I manage to scavenge from stores still open and go inside. I decide to leave Baby Girls’ car outside the garage. If this storm does hit, I don’t want her car buried inside the garage next to the hot water heater. The Spawn’s car, I leave inside.
I walk through the courtyard and into the back yard. The water in the pool is no longer rippling but now lapping as if a great hand was pushing it back and forth. I look up at my huge oak trees and watch as both branches and their leaves sway in the wind. My three giant palm trees, lend their palm fronds to blow in whatever way the wind is blowing at the moment. I go inside telling myself that come fame or bust it will all be over in the morning.
I glance back to the storm update. There is more video footage of the waves hitting the seawall. The scene changes and moves to the update of the Coast Guard’s failed attempts to rescue 20 or so mariners trapped out in the water on a freighter. This story has run on and off, since the winds picked up. This freighter is directly in the path of the storm and now because the hurricane is getting closer they are abandoning the rescue attempt.
I glance out the window and watch as the pool water is no longer calm; instead the water is beginning to make little waves. I watch this for a minute and then turn my attention back to the news. The scene switches again to show a cameraman almost being blown over. Even though the storm itself is now about 10 miles outside of Galveston, the wind strength is estimated at 110 mph. But of course the news crews are still there, reporting every piece of washed up board and plank, alluding that it could be from someone’s house already blown away. SC calls and I again discuss with him why me and my family will not be leaving to go to Dallas. Leaving, hell no not even leaving. End of conversation. Or something to that effect.
I call my parents to make sure they are ready to be picked up. It’s a given my elderly parents will ride this hurricane out with me at my home. My mom is 84 and my dad is 86. I instructed them earlier to pack enough clothing for at least a week, and all their medications, etc. I get to their house and nothing has been packed. All my father’s clothes are in the dirty clothes hamper. I argue with my mother as to what was the home care provider doing all day? I angrily begin to try to sort my father’s clothes to wash. He is incontinent now and often has to change clothes…sometimes multiple times a day. I leave after my mother insists on washing her clothes instead.
Friday 6:30pm – I return to the grocery store. Surprisingly, there are no crowds. And no bread…still. I get hamburger meat, chicken drumsticks, and steaks, cans of chili, and packages of wieners. I manage to find large 20oz. cans of corn, green beans, and even baked beans. Gone are all the utility candles and flashlights. Still I am in doubt. This storm will be like all the others, a false alarm. This is my mantra.
I return to my parent’s home and gather them and all their belongings needed for the next week or so. We now have plenty of food, coffee, other supplies and board games if it should come to that. I get my parents settled in and make sure they both have taken their meds for the night. I tell the Spawn to move all the lawn furniture away from the windows and anything else that might become airborne. I go through the downstairs and strategically place candles on the fireplace mantle, on the bar in the den, in both downstairs bathrooms and in my office. Next to each candle I place a torch in case we need to light the candle. After all is done, I decide to leave again. I want to give finding more bread one last shot.
9:30pm - After stopping at about four other stores, I realize that all the stores were probably out of bread. I decide to go to my daughter’s boyfriend’s parent’s house. Of course they have bread. They have everything. They are “real” survivalist. They built their own home, with its own water and sewer system, and they have a huge garden from which they eat home grown organic vegetables. In their home storage “room”, they have as much paper towels, bathroom tissue, candles, batteries, rice, beans and bottled water, as any corner convenience store.
They prepare for storms when the tropical depressions are no more than ripples in the ocean. I chat with the mom as we stand in their garage, making small talk. I tell her my theory about this being yet another false alarm. She stares at me briefly, shakes her head and reaches into one of their two “generator backed-up back up” freezers. She hands me a single precious loaf of bread. I take it and smile. It’s white bread. We haven’t eaten white bread since my kids were in grade school.
Still, I am grateful for it. My father loves bread, of any kind. This would not be a pleasant storm without him having bread. I say goodbye and turn to get back in the car, she wishes us luck and tells me to remember that me and my family are welcome to come and stay at their house during the storm. She waves goodbye, her lips pressed, slowly shaking her head. She probably thinks that this is the last time she will see me, as we won’t make it through the storm. Being ill-prepared is not something to be respected by true survivalist. I smile and wave goodbye back to her. We’ll be fine.
As I head home I notice that the wind has picked up quite a bit. I park the car and take the loaf of bread and other items I manage to scavenge from stores still open and go inside. I decide to leave Baby Girls’ car outside the garage. If this storm does hit, I don’t want her car buried inside the garage next to the hot water heater. The Spawn’s car, I leave inside.
I walk through the courtyard and into the back yard. The water in the pool is no longer rippling but now lapping as if a great hand was pushing it back and forth. I look up at my huge oak trees and watch as both branches and their leaves sway in the wind. My three giant palm trees, lend their palm fronds to blow in whatever way the wind is blowing at the moment. I go inside telling myself that come fame or bust it will all be over in the morning.
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ElizaBlue
Well-Known Member
10:30pm I decide to prepare some cooked food that we can all eat, should we lose power. I look around my kitchen. I have been making sure all dishes stayed washed at all times just in case the water is cut off after the storm. There is nothing like a dirty kitchen when there is no water. Turning off the water is always done by the city as a safety measure so that people don’t drink contaminated water after a storm. I have also filled the bath tubs with water, as a precaution as well. I figure if I start cooking now, we’ll have time to eat and I can still clean the kitchen before anything happens.
My father and mother are in my bedroom watching the news, CNN of course. I am back and forth on my desktop computer chatting with the ladies from the LHCF about the pending storm. Some of these ladies who live in the Houston and surrounding areas have left their homes for safer ground. Many like me are committed to remaining, we have vowed to meet Ike head on and send him away from Houston. We say we will pray this storm away. My phone rings constantly now with this one and that one suggesting, advising, cajoling, ridiculing and finally demanding that I take my family and flee this hurricane’s arrival.
I know these people care about me and my family and want no harm to come to us. I know they feel I am being hard-headed and just do not want to listen. But the thing is this, I don’t want to leave. I could list a million reasons why leaving could be more detrimental to me; all health related, if not financially related. I do not want to have what happened to my father during Hurricane Rita happen again. He was a much stronger man back then. I’m not so sure he would even make the trip this time let alone the ensuing disorientation that would follow. I also do not want to abandon my home, only to come back to find it vandalized, burglarized or worse just not here.
I open the freezer and stare inside. Everything there is frozen and rightly so. I open the refrigerator side. My latest purchases have left standing room only. I pull out the chicken breast packages, consider how long this will last, then I also take out the ground beef. My plan is to cook baked chicken breast and make a big pot of spaghetti. I move to the vegetable bins in the bottom and remove the necessary onions, bell pepper, garlic, tomatoes, and Light Italian Salad Dressing. I don’t have much time so I have to do the short cut preparation for the chicken. I grab my biggest skillet and put it on my biggest burner. I dump the entire 4lbs of hamburger meat into the skillet. I throw ground sea salt, coarse black pepper, minced garlic, basil…lots of basil, into the skillet.
I quickly wash the chicken and season it. Placing it bone side down I pour the Light Italian salad dressing all over it and throw it in the oven on 350 degrees. I peel the onion and finely chop it and the bell pepper, dice the Romano tomatoes and add it to the now browning hamburger meat. I run water into my gumbo pot and place it on the stove. I add salt to the water to bring it to a quick boil. Just before I add my spaghetti I scoop a spoonful of coconut oil into the water, it keeps it from sticking and from sticking to me, I tell myself. In goes the spaghetti pasta.
I continue at this pace and by 11:30pm, dinner is on the table. My parents eat the baked chicken along with yellow rice, black beans and wheat rolls with real butter. The Spawn comes in and kisses me on the cheek. He has brought three of his friends who evacuated from college with him. I tell them they are welcome to have dinner with us. Two of the three tell me thanks but they’ve already eaten. The chubby one is just quiet; he will be the first to relent. I know kids trying to be polite when I see it.
I remove four more plates from the cabinet and tell them to help themselves. The Spawn shakes his head and laughs at them, as he moves around the kitchen fixing his plate. He stands in front of them piling spaghetti on top of a chicken breast. He has a side plate with rice and beans and two wheat rolls. After eyeing the food hungrily, they all sit down and eat as well. I can’t stand to see hungry children. But I do so love to see my people eat. At my house there is always room at the table for one more.
While they are busy eating I am busy putting my kitchen back in order. There is enough food left to last us a couple of days. I put part of the spaghetti in the refrigerator, and the rest I freeze. Should it come to it we can always thaw it out and eat it cold. When the last fork drops I step aside as the young man brings his plate to the sink and thanks me for the food. He is the young man who was driving the Mercedes, the one in the three piece suit.
I chat with him briefly about school and what he plans to major in. He tells me his father is in banking. When I inquire further of him, he tells me his father is the Vice President of the largest Wells Fargo branch in Houston. Wow, I think, reflecting back to the day he brought The Spawn home. He too is studying accounting with an interest in International Banking. Good choice I tell him.
After a moment the young men thank me again for the food and they all say goodbye. They leave and we prepare for the worst. The Spawn and I have decided to stay up. My mother was asleep within minutes after dinner was over. My father sits on the couch now, nodding on and off.
As we walk them to the door, what I first notice is the rain. I guess it comes off and on, to the cycle of the storm’s bands as it turns. It's not like its raining raining, but more so like someone is flicking water at us then it stops. It comes in big drops with the wind and then it goes away, only to come again. I look up at the sky as I cross my arms over my chest and walk back inside. I guess I know how Janie felt, because now my eyes are watching God.
My father and mother are in my bedroom watching the news, CNN of course. I am back and forth on my desktop computer chatting with the ladies from the LHCF about the pending storm. Some of these ladies who live in the Houston and surrounding areas have left their homes for safer ground. Many like me are committed to remaining, we have vowed to meet Ike head on and send him away from Houston. We say we will pray this storm away. My phone rings constantly now with this one and that one suggesting, advising, cajoling, ridiculing and finally demanding that I take my family and flee this hurricane’s arrival.
I know these people care about me and my family and want no harm to come to us. I know they feel I am being hard-headed and just do not want to listen. But the thing is this, I don’t want to leave. I could list a million reasons why leaving could be more detrimental to me; all health related, if not financially related. I do not want to have what happened to my father during Hurricane Rita happen again. He was a much stronger man back then. I’m not so sure he would even make the trip this time let alone the ensuing disorientation that would follow. I also do not want to abandon my home, only to come back to find it vandalized, burglarized or worse just not here.
I open the freezer and stare inside. Everything there is frozen and rightly so. I open the refrigerator side. My latest purchases have left standing room only. I pull out the chicken breast packages, consider how long this will last, then I also take out the ground beef. My plan is to cook baked chicken breast and make a big pot of spaghetti. I move to the vegetable bins in the bottom and remove the necessary onions, bell pepper, garlic, tomatoes, and Light Italian Salad Dressing. I don’t have much time so I have to do the short cut preparation for the chicken. I grab my biggest skillet and put it on my biggest burner. I dump the entire 4lbs of hamburger meat into the skillet. I throw ground sea salt, coarse black pepper, minced garlic, basil…lots of basil, into the skillet.
I quickly wash the chicken and season it. Placing it bone side down I pour the Light Italian salad dressing all over it and throw it in the oven on 350 degrees. I peel the onion and finely chop it and the bell pepper, dice the Romano tomatoes and add it to the now browning hamburger meat. I run water into my gumbo pot and place it on the stove. I add salt to the water to bring it to a quick boil. Just before I add my spaghetti I scoop a spoonful of coconut oil into the water, it keeps it from sticking and from sticking to me, I tell myself. In goes the spaghetti pasta.
I continue at this pace and by 11:30pm, dinner is on the table. My parents eat the baked chicken along with yellow rice, black beans and wheat rolls with real butter. The Spawn comes in and kisses me on the cheek. He has brought three of his friends who evacuated from college with him. I tell them they are welcome to have dinner with us. Two of the three tell me thanks but they’ve already eaten. The chubby one is just quiet; he will be the first to relent. I know kids trying to be polite when I see it.
I remove four more plates from the cabinet and tell them to help themselves. The Spawn shakes his head and laughs at them, as he moves around the kitchen fixing his plate. He stands in front of them piling spaghetti on top of a chicken breast. He has a side plate with rice and beans and two wheat rolls. After eyeing the food hungrily, they all sit down and eat as well. I can’t stand to see hungry children. But I do so love to see my people eat. At my house there is always room at the table for one more.
While they are busy eating I am busy putting my kitchen back in order. There is enough food left to last us a couple of days. I put part of the spaghetti in the refrigerator, and the rest I freeze. Should it come to it we can always thaw it out and eat it cold. When the last fork drops I step aside as the young man brings his plate to the sink and thanks me for the food. He is the young man who was driving the Mercedes, the one in the three piece suit.
I chat with him briefly about school and what he plans to major in. He tells me his father is in banking. When I inquire further of him, he tells me his father is the Vice President of the largest Wells Fargo branch in Houston. Wow, I think, reflecting back to the day he brought The Spawn home. He too is studying accounting with an interest in International Banking. Good choice I tell him.
After a moment the young men thank me again for the food and they all say goodbye. They leave and we prepare for the worst. The Spawn and I have decided to stay up. My mother was asleep within minutes after dinner was over. My father sits on the couch now, nodding on and off.
As we walk them to the door, what I first notice is the rain. I guess it comes off and on, to the cycle of the storm’s bands as it turns. It's not like its raining raining, but more so like someone is flicking water at us then it stops. It comes in big drops with the wind and then it goes away, only to come again. I look up at the sky as I cross my arms over my chest and walk back inside. I guess I know how Janie felt, because now my eyes are watching God.
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ElizaBlue
Well-Known Member
At some point I must have dozed off as well. I awake and The Spawn is sound asleep next to me, curled into the fetal position. I slowly raise my head to listen to what sounds like someone banging on the patio door, now the window, now the roof, and again at the patio door. In my mind I picture someone running around and around my house knocking. Startled I first go to the patio window to look outside, but it would seem there is no window.
All I can see is green. I panic for a minute but then realize the green is the steel and hard plastic table of the picnic table that is somehow now resting upside down and sideways against the window. Prior to the storm making landfall this table was on the other side of the garage.
I go to another window and see hurtling toward the house pickets from my new fence. Now I realize this is the noise I heard knocking against the house. Looking back at what was my fence now stands the gaping mouth of a toothless hag. The heavy rain is pelting my face so hard it stings. I turn my head to try to see more, but the wind is blowing so fierce that I cannot hold the door open.
“Ma? The storm is here?” The Spawn is awake and sort of leaping-running from window to window. Before I can answer him, we are suddenly cast in darkness and after a moment silence as well. Absent are the blue and green lights of my computer, the hum of the central air unit, and the turning of the ceiling fan. All become silent. “Yeah” I say to him “we in the full-tilt boogie now baby. The lights have left the building”. This is what another of my favorite author’s Dave Robicheaux would always say when the “you know what” has hit the fan.
Saturday 4:30am Writing by candlelight. Daylight is fighting to win the match to take over the night. I’m sitting at my desk in front of my favorite window. The candle flickers and tries it best to wait for the sun. But Ike is still strong, he’s still visiting Houston. We lost power at about 2am. First the lights flickered and came back on. As the wind begin to scream and howl, the lights must have thought it best to remain off. They came on one last time and then went out for good. It would be another 15 days before we had power again.
I think back to when all this started just a few days ago with the notice from the National Weather Bureau that tropical storm Ike was stepping up his game. Headed toward the Gulf of Mexico with the potential to be a Category 4 Hurricane. It’s a well known announcement for residents of Houston, TX. This is our hurricane season and as such we are used to hearing the news reports from the local news Channels 13, or 11 or 2’s weather reporters. They try their best to scare the hell out of everyone within ear shot. Thereby guaranteeing you’ll be glued to their channel when their sponsor’s commercials roll across the TV screen.
You have to listen to the Pine Sol lady and the Betty Crocker lady and the Best Kept Secret Bar-b-que sauce man because that’s the only way to guarantee you’ll still be there when the news returns, with its ominous threat of killer hurricanes. But now since SC has installed satellite in my home, I get HGTV and CNN and a hundred or so other channels I have no time to watch. So I don’t so much have to listen to commercials anymore.
I listen as I write, to the sounds of the storm. I am waiting for the sound described to me as that of a freight train. I have been told this is what a hurricane will sound like when you are just about to be in the eye. And then there will be calm, no sound at all. It does not happen that way. The only sound I hear is the constant howling and whooshing of the wind. There is the sound of branches bending and then breaking. There is the sound of lawn furniture being picked up and yet again re-arranged. And finally more of the ear splitting slap of pickets from my newly installed fence, blowing loose and being blown into my home. It is a miracle that not one of my windows is broken. Later I hear sirens go off but the howling continues. Just before daylight it becomes quiet. I go to sleep. I can see the results of Hurricane Ike once I wake up.
Saturday 7:30am. I look out the windows and see the daylight. I hurriedly put on my shoes and go to open the side door to the pool area. I cannot open it. The door has been barricaded with more blown about lawn furniture. I now run to the front door and throw it open. I am met with a tree looking back at me. There across my front door and directly in my face is the better part of my neighbor’s tree. My exit is blocked and I have not choice but to stay inside.
Next I try the side door to the courtyard. It is open and it is clear. What is not clear is how I can get out of the courtyard and into the front yard. There is yet another tree across the driveway. It is this tree that has my daughter’s car completely buried underneath its massive limbs, branches and leaves. I walk outside into the back yard and look at what the storm has left. Of my 600 feet of fence line approximately 200 feet is down, with another 250 or so leaning over. There are about 8 to 10 of the huge oak trees that have been snapped into thirds. Their branches are broken 15 feet high up. The grounds are littered with other broken branches and tree leaves, fence posts and pickets, lawn furniture, pool equipment, and even landscape lighting. I walk around the backyard surveying the damage. And then the rain begins again.
All I can see is green. I panic for a minute but then realize the green is the steel and hard plastic table of the picnic table that is somehow now resting upside down and sideways against the window. Prior to the storm making landfall this table was on the other side of the garage.
I go to another window and see hurtling toward the house pickets from my new fence. Now I realize this is the noise I heard knocking against the house. Looking back at what was my fence now stands the gaping mouth of a toothless hag. The heavy rain is pelting my face so hard it stings. I turn my head to try to see more, but the wind is blowing so fierce that I cannot hold the door open.
“Ma? The storm is here?” The Spawn is awake and sort of leaping-running from window to window. Before I can answer him, we are suddenly cast in darkness and after a moment silence as well. Absent are the blue and green lights of my computer, the hum of the central air unit, and the turning of the ceiling fan. All become silent. “Yeah” I say to him “we in the full-tilt boogie now baby. The lights have left the building”. This is what another of my favorite author’s Dave Robicheaux would always say when the “you know what” has hit the fan.
Saturday 4:30am Writing by candlelight. Daylight is fighting to win the match to take over the night. I’m sitting at my desk in front of my favorite window. The candle flickers and tries it best to wait for the sun. But Ike is still strong, he’s still visiting Houston. We lost power at about 2am. First the lights flickered and came back on. As the wind begin to scream and howl, the lights must have thought it best to remain off. They came on one last time and then went out for good. It would be another 15 days before we had power again.
I think back to when all this started just a few days ago with the notice from the National Weather Bureau that tropical storm Ike was stepping up his game. Headed toward the Gulf of Mexico with the potential to be a Category 4 Hurricane. It’s a well known announcement for residents of Houston, TX. This is our hurricane season and as such we are used to hearing the news reports from the local news Channels 13, or 11 or 2’s weather reporters. They try their best to scare the hell out of everyone within ear shot. Thereby guaranteeing you’ll be glued to their channel when their sponsor’s commercials roll across the TV screen.
You have to listen to the Pine Sol lady and the Betty Crocker lady and the Best Kept Secret Bar-b-que sauce man because that’s the only way to guarantee you’ll still be there when the news returns, with its ominous threat of killer hurricanes. But now since SC has installed satellite in my home, I get HGTV and CNN and a hundred or so other channels I have no time to watch. So I don’t so much have to listen to commercials anymore.
I listen as I write, to the sounds of the storm. I am waiting for the sound described to me as that of a freight train. I have been told this is what a hurricane will sound like when you are just about to be in the eye. And then there will be calm, no sound at all. It does not happen that way. The only sound I hear is the constant howling and whooshing of the wind. There is the sound of branches bending and then breaking. There is the sound of lawn furniture being picked up and yet again re-arranged. And finally more of the ear splitting slap of pickets from my newly installed fence, blowing loose and being blown into my home. It is a miracle that not one of my windows is broken. Later I hear sirens go off but the howling continues. Just before daylight it becomes quiet. I go to sleep. I can see the results of Hurricane Ike once I wake up.
Saturday 7:30am. I look out the windows and see the daylight. I hurriedly put on my shoes and go to open the side door to the pool area. I cannot open it. The door has been barricaded with more blown about lawn furniture. I now run to the front door and throw it open. I am met with a tree looking back at me. There across my front door and directly in my face is the better part of my neighbor’s tree. My exit is blocked and I have not choice but to stay inside.
Next I try the side door to the courtyard. It is open and it is clear. What is not clear is how I can get out of the courtyard and into the front yard. There is yet another tree across the driveway. It is this tree that has my daughter’s car completely buried underneath its massive limbs, branches and leaves. I walk outside into the back yard and look at what the storm has left. Of my 600 feet of fence line approximately 200 feet is down, with another 250 or so leaning over. There are about 8 to 10 of the huge oak trees that have been snapped into thirds. Their branches are broken 15 feet high up. The grounds are littered with other broken branches and tree leaves, fence posts and pickets, lawn furniture, pool equipment, and even landscape lighting. I walk around the backyard surveying the damage. And then the rain begins again.
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ElizaBlue
Well-Known Member
Sunday 2:42am. I awake from a sweating sleep to the sound of clapping. My father is sitting up straight on the couch, next to the chair I sleep in. He makes a ghostly figure as he looks up toward the candle flickering on the fireplace mantle.
For a moment I am afraid of him. And more so when he turns to look at me. His eyes have no color. None. Sometimes his eyes appear to be a light blue with flecks of brown, sometimes they become really pale. Now in the glare of my flashlight they just look colorless.
“Hey Daddy, what’s up?” I say groggily. Wishing to God he would stop staring at me. But I know this stare. I know what it means when his blue eyes become this washed out gray. He does not know where he is and he does not know me.
“You going with them?” he asks solemnly, returning his stare to the window. In my sleepy disorientation I actually look around the room quickly. Praying to God I will find no “them”. Now at 86 and in the latent stages of Alzheimer’s, “them” can be very real….and at any given time.
And for me, after 24 hours with no electricity and no running water, sleeping fitfully in 80 degree heat, after listening to Ike dance with my trees to his music and his own rhythm, “them” could very well be sitting in my den too. I briefly run the beam of the flashlight around the room.
There is no one. No new thing. My father begins to clap again, not a musical church choir clap but more like a summoning. He stares up at the candle on the fireplace mantle. I put the light up toward the ceiling, illuminating me, him and the dimly lit room we are in. The beam falls across the John Biggers' painting of “The View from the Upper Room”, a depiction of a crowd of Black people in Heaven. This picture hangs above the fireplace mantle. The candlelight causing the figures in the painting to move.
“Daddy” I say, “what’s wrong? I’m here with you. You’re okay” He does not answer me. “Come on Daddy” I say, “Let’s go back to sleep. “ It is so so hot. I just don’t even want to think about what I will have to face tomorrow. But now I cannot go back to sleep.
Instead, after rolling up my pajama bottoms to my knees. I go into the garage. I shone the flashlight beam quickly around the garage making sure I am alone. The Spawn’s car, a white Ford Crown Victoria welcomes me with a familiar hum of its battery. This tells me the car adapter is still charging my cell phone and laptop computer.
I open the car door, pick up my cell phone and look at the display. It’s been charging for almost 5 hours and I only have .25 of a full charge. I unplug the phone and go back into the house. My father is now sound asleep. It’s almost 3am. Who would I call anyway? I am very angry now. At my brother in Dallas for not coming to help us or even now for not coming to get my parents, since the storm has passed. I’m angry at my sister who lives in Pearland, who has lights and water. She won’t come and get them either. They are both otherwise occupied.
I am angry at myself. For a lot of things. For not having a generator. For my fence being blown down. For my trees, my beloved oak trees for not standing up to Ike, but instead allowing him to flirt with them shamelessly, eventually twisting their branches like skirts around their trunks as he bent them at the knees like a naïve school girl and moved on to another. I am angry at both my next door neighbors whose trees shook hands across my yard their branches covering my garage, burying my daughters car completely under its leaves, and falling across my fence.
One is out of town and the other pretends they don’t know it’s their tree now blocking my driveway. Telling my son when I leave to “tell your mother when she gets the tree cut to start at the bottom” I simply haven’t addressed them because while fences make good neighbors, fallen trees make enemies for life.
Sunday night - Thunder. Lightening. Rain. Lots and lots of rain. Heavy rain. I wake up in my office sitting in my chair with my feet in the chair for the other desk. My neck is painful from the angle I’ve been sleeping. My phone is dead…completely….as is my laptop. We have no communication now. I don’t know what time it is because in this age of electronics no one has a battery run clock.
Rain this heavy can only mean one thing. Flooding. The one thing I knew we were thankful for not getting, more water than wind. Now with the constant rain coming down I am thankful that during the storm we sustained no roof damage. And so now we are dry. Very hot, but dry.
My father awakes on and off throughout the night. He sits up. He tries to stand. After only a few toddler like steps I tell him to sit down because this room is good, but outside is not. This may seem very basic as conversation to another adult. But for a long time, more often than not I am the only adult, when it’s me and my father.
He gives me a solemn “okaaay” drawing out the “kay" part to show obedience. This is sad to me and probably on some level, locked behind this door we call Alzheimer’s, the man my father use to be, is sad as well.
He suddenly looks in my direction. I again turn on the flashlight so he can see me. I know that I have startled him. In the few minutes since he just answered me, he has forgotten I was there. He again turns his gaze to the Biggers’ painting…he turns back to me and says quietly… “I’m going with them”.
For a moment I am afraid of him. And more so when he turns to look at me. His eyes have no color. None. Sometimes his eyes appear to be a light blue with flecks of brown, sometimes they become really pale. Now in the glare of my flashlight they just look colorless.
“Hey Daddy, what’s up?” I say groggily. Wishing to God he would stop staring at me. But I know this stare. I know what it means when his blue eyes become this washed out gray. He does not know where he is and he does not know me.
“You going with them?” he asks solemnly, returning his stare to the window. In my sleepy disorientation I actually look around the room quickly. Praying to God I will find no “them”. Now at 86 and in the latent stages of Alzheimer’s, “them” can be very real….and at any given time.
And for me, after 24 hours with no electricity and no running water, sleeping fitfully in 80 degree heat, after listening to Ike dance with my trees to his music and his own rhythm, “them” could very well be sitting in my den too. I briefly run the beam of the flashlight around the room.
There is no one. No new thing. My father begins to clap again, not a musical church choir clap but more like a summoning. He stares up at the candle on the fireplace mantle. I put the light up toward the ceiling, illuminating me, him and the dimly lit room we are in. The beam falls across the John Biggers' painting of “The View from the Upper Room”, a depiction of a crowd of Black people in Heaven. This picture hangs above the fireplace mantle. The candlelight causing the figures in the painting to move.
“Daddy” I say, “what’s wrong? I’m here with you. You’re okay” He does not answer me. “Come on Daddy” I say, “Let’s go back to sleep. “ It is so so hot. I just don’t even want to think about what I will have to face tomorrow. But now I cannot go back to sleep.
Instead, after rolling up my pajama bottoms to my knees. I go into the garage. I shone the flashlight beam quickly around the garage making sure I am alone. The Spawn’s car, a white Ford Crown Victoria welcomes me with a familiar hum of its battery. This tells me the car adapter is still charging my cell phone and laptop computer.
I open the car door, pick up my cell phone and look at the display. It’s been charging for almost 5 hours and I only have .25 of a full charge. I unplug the phone and go back into the house. My father is now sound asleep. It’s almost 3am. Who would I call anyway? I am very angry now. At my brother in Dallas for not coming to help us or even now for not coming to get my parents, since the storm has passed. I’m angry at my sister who lives in Pearland, who has lights and water. She won’t come and get them either. They are both otherwise occupied.
I am angry at myself. For a lot of things. For not having a generator. For my fence being blown down. For my trees, my beloved oak trees for not standing up to Ike, but instead allowing him to flirt with them shamelessly, eventually twisting their branches like skirts around their trunks as he bent them at the knees like a naïve school girl and moved on to another. I am angry at both my next door neighbors whose trees shook hands across my yard their branches covering my garage, burying my daughters car completely under its leaves, and falling across my fence.
One is out of town and the other pretends they don’t know it’s their tree now blocking my driveway. Telling my son when I leave to “tell your mother when she gets the tree cut to start at the bottom” I simply haven’t addressed them because while fences make good neighbors, fallen trees make enemies for life.
Sunday night - Thunder. Lightening. Rain. Lots and lots of rain. Heavy rain. I wake up in my office sitting in my chair with my feet in the chair for the other desk. My neck is painful from the angle I’ve been sleeping. My phone is dead…completely….as is my laptop. We have no communication now. I don’t know what time it is because in this age of electronics no one has a battery run clock.
Rain this heavy can only mean one thing. Flooding. The one thing I knew we were thankful for not getting, more water than wind. Now with the constant rain coming down I am thankful that during the storm we sustained no roof damage. And so now we are dry. Very hot, but dry.
My father awakes on and off throughout the night. He sits up. He tries to stand. After only a few toddler like steps I tell him to sit down because this room is good, but outside is not. This may seem very basic as conversation to another adult. But for a long time, more often than not I am the only adult, when it’s me and my father.
He gives me a solemn “okaaay” drawing out the “kay" part to show obedience. This is sad to me and probably on some level, locked behind this door we call Alzheimer’s, the man my father use to be, is sad as well.
He suddenly looks in my direction. I again turn on the flashlight so he can see me. I know that I have startled him. In the few minutes since he just answered me, he has forgotten I was there. He again turns his gaze to the Biggers’ painting…he turns back to me and says quietly… “I’m going with them”.
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ElizaBlue
Well-Known Member
Well my beloved sisters, here you are. This as you can see took a bit of time to get posted. I actually penned it in less than a day. What started out as 1800 words quickly escalated into over 12,000.
Nevertheless, I posted it in it's entirety. If I want to call myself a writer I have to present my works no matter how critical the reviews. So all feedback is appreciated.
Nevertheless, I posted it in it's entirety. If I want to call myself a writer I have to present my works no matter how critical the reviews. So all feedback is appreciated.
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runwaydream
Well-Known Member
you know? even tho i don't post a lot. if at all. i've been reading this since the beginning. and i've seen you're writing style change about 3 times. i like this style the most. i think since the first time you've posted you've really grown as a writer. I feel like i'm reading a real novel. it's wonderful. keep it up =)
ElizaBlue
Well-Known Member
True, true, all true and it's all ya'lls fault. If it weren't for this site and the valuable encouragement that you've so freely given, I would have probably given this up some time ago.
I am unashamed to say after reading all the post about my father I was inspired to write this piece. So thank you and thank you ladies and let's see where this goes.
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