View

As I said, I was logical if nothing else as a kid. I am still. For example, I spent the formative years of my childhood believing that all anyone had to do when they needed something was to go to the local credit union and ask for money - they provided it. I believed this because my Dad was a teacher and my Mom didn't work until I was much older. Because of my father's career choice, he was home almost all the time. Early evenings, weekends and entire summers. He was there.

As a result, we spent a lot of time together being separate in proximity. Well, not all the time. My Dad had chores to do which without he failed to thrive. Us kids had showers to inspect or campground stores to examine. My Mother got effectively lost - oh yeah - "exploring" when there was work. She still does that. How does she get away with it? Still, we camped a lot. In fact, I can't remember a time that I didn't know camping would be a part of our summer vacation as sure as the sun would rise. We stayed at a hotel only once in all those years despite that some of our trips might have been improved if we had.

But . . . . this was the way life was in my house. It didn't matter that there were dead fish everywhere. No thought was given to why the fish had died. Or if there might be something in the water that had caused their death that might affect any other species that came in contact. If the fish died, it was their poor luck. A few hundred dead, stinking, fermenting fish were completely inconsequential. You just had to go out into the deeper water - where the bigger fish lived. Or better yet, just don't think about it. -Go play.

Not all the trips were horrible. Most of the time, camping was the only time we saw our relatives - with the exception of one of my Dad's brothers. His wife only "camped at the Hilton." As a kid, I had no idea what this meant. That remark may as well have been in Portuguese. As an adult, I cannot believe that this woman wasn't ostracized to the fullest extent of the family law. She was practically a heretic. I wish I had the nerve to be like her.

We saw so much. We explored. We learned about other places. We thought about what it would be like to be in another place and to think of it as home. We learned about the stories of history that lie in wait all but forgotten in every small town. There is one. You can find it. We saw what was available and how far we could go and we learned how to get back home. Most important, we learned that the view (any view) looks different depending on where you might be viewing something from.

Finding My Own Way

I guess when you're little, you spend a good part of your life trying to find your way without even realizing it. You try to find where you fit in among others. You try to determine how others fit you in and figure out if there's a difference. And if you're really ambitious (or think too much as was in my case) you attempt to discover how your place in a community could look when you grow up and how you as an incapable, less listened to piece of that puzzle can possibly do anything big enough or with enough determination that might you could possibly affect that goal in any direction. You have to take control when nothing lies within those boundaries.

I knew I had to look after my brother. That was very clear, very early. He was so small. Despite the fact that he was a boy and the youngest of us (the children of my parents) two attributes that should have and did provide him great favor and autonomy at times, he sometimes received favor or attention of a different type that wasn't entirely positive. That's as civil as I can be about it.

I should say that those times were not consistent.

For a time, I thought I wanted to be a ballerina. Everyone in my circle of wise seven year-old advisers told me I should become an Artist. I preferred any profession where I would be allowed to wear Tulle, Chiffon, Satin, Sequins, Ribbons, Heels or anything extremely feminine, would have been good. Today, I'm glad my parents never took me to a Circus. Who knows where I'd be today? This costume was SO incredibly scratchy. But I gladly suffered, because in it, I thought I was beautiful. And, everyone would believe I was graceful, which if you know me, is the last quality I could be guilty of possessing.

Maybe I just loved to dress up. I still have this costume. You know what? I wish it still fit! Our neighbors, Ed and Shirley Connor brought it back to me all the way from Hawaii. I remember seeing their 'PanAm' carry on bag that they were given as part of their flight. Can you imagine? The airline gave away canvas travel bags! What other social souvenirs were available? It looked a little bit like a bowling ball carrier. But it was cool and somehow I knew inherently that I would NEVER get one. Air travel - at least commercially - was simply too extravagant. Somehow, it wasn't humble enough to be allowed to permeate the culture of our family.

No matter the occasion, I realize today that I was finding my way without knowing it. I was a girl, I loved sparkles, sandals and being a girl, but I also just adored work. I like the types of jobs that my brother should have liked, but honestly didn't. So, being the logical child that I was. I put them together. I simply couldn't understand why these two activities might have to be mutually exclusive. I wore my new sandals in the sandbox. I dug trenches in my ruffly swimsuit. I mowed the grass on fall days in my favorite outfit (a red and white halter top and matching cropped pants) which was strictly for summer even though it was so cold outside and the required accompanying coat buried my sophistication.  Do you remember those plastic princess shoe and tiara sets that used to be sold in dime stores? Yeah . . . those were all me - while I was fishing leeches and tadpoles out of the ditch to keep in jars on the front porch. They lasted about a day and an half before the heels broke. But I was determined to make then work for steep grades, mud and algae-infested water. I just kept on buying new ones.

I never wore this dress anywhere. I just wanted to make it. I saw the pattern at the fabric store and that was that. It was pretty and I needed it - just to know that it was there was enough. Some things never change. You still can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear. If you try - you end up looking like a sow's ear in a silk purse. (See photo at left.)

Juliet

I called my grandfather Pop-pop. Much like my grandmother "Mary"'s name - this is what I grew up believing his parents had named him. He was an eccentric man so why not have an eccentric name to go with it?
He did a lot in his life. Most of it a bit shady, slightly reprehensible and completely risky, but he was my grandfather and he made no apologies for himself - ever.
The first time he took me in his plane we flew from Hudson airport in southern Michigan to Evart Municipal airport in North Central Michigan. It took longer for my Mother to drive me from our home to Hudson than it did to fly the remaining 200 miles to his home at the lake. I was 13 years old. I was scared - most because my grandfather was crazy and even at 13 I knew that he lived life by the seat of his pants so to speak. I didn't entirely trust him.
Once we got in the air - I slept. The next thing I knew, we had arrived. We sounded the 'come pick us up at the airport' alarm by 'buzzing' the lake. This amounted to making a very low, swooping arc over the cottage nearly ripping the shingles from the roof and the limbs from the surrounding trees. This was my Pop-pop's style.
The next day my grandfather took me on a road trip to another lake.There are millions of them in Michigan. Just drive a half mile and you'll run into one. This lake had a tiny community that bordered one side. It's still there. Withing that community was a dinette. They served shrimp baskets - strictly off limits according to his doctor. But we made a beeline for it - and I wasn't to tell anyone.
On the way he asked me questions about the plane ride. You know, the usual. Did I like it? (very much.)  Could I see out? (not really.)
It was a terrific clandestine day. On the way home - he pulled off at a roadside stand and bought a paper sack full of plums. I think he ate half of them just getting home. He loved them.
The next day he asked me if I wanted to go into town with him. He didn't say what for, but there wasn't much else going on, so I went.
He pulled into the Evart Municipal Airport, left me in the car and told me to wait. He had to go to a "business meeting." If you knew Pop-pop at all, you'd know that when he called something a business meeting it meant that there was probably going to be a lot of good ol' boy-ing and even more b-essing. He came out after what seemed like eons and formally introduced me to Juliet - his plane. She was a Piper. Blue and Orange stripes on a white body.

We flew again that day - I was under strict orders not to tell about this trip either - I sat in the front seat this time. I could almost see over the control panel. I could definitely see out the side window. Here is what I saw.

When we got back home I was to tell anyone who asked that we had gone to Reed City, then stopped at the A&W Drive-In for root beer floats on the way home. We did see both of those places during our flight. It wasn't a total lie.

The Impossible Test

I haven't written for a while. I couldn't. Not that I didn't want to - I simply couldn't. I was paralyzed in disappointment. Stymied by the indecision that too much stress creates. Still, I'm not sure if I can, but I have to do something. July is painful. The month approaches with the sort of anticipation that some people experience when they know that they're about to have major surgery - one with a particularly treacherous recovery that some piece of them won't survive. No matter how I try to prepare, no matter what types of tasks I plan in an attempt to distract myself or how many activities or day planners I fill with meaningless chores to occupy my time . . . during July, my life is as close to miserable and tentative as it can get. It's sheer nauseous drudgery.
Every year I prepare. I brace myself - and it's never enough.
Almost immediately the analytical me comes running to the rescue to try and put back the pieces of my Humpty-Dumpty self. How did this happen? Was there anything that could have prevented this (I might be able to use it next time)? Boy, I didn't see that one coming!
Have you ever taken one of those computer tests where every time you get an answer wrong you have to start the entire test over from the beginning?- filling in all the correct answers over and over (until you have them memorized) simply so that you can get to the part where you don't know what you're doing anymore and you eventually fail - again?
Is it the part where we achieve a state of failure that we keep seeking? Or is it the hope that we might eventually NOT fail and pass through the hell (or finish the test) that keeps us running towards failure? It seems backwards.
The agony of July is always part familiar ache and part new-forms of 'sad' or 'lonely' or 'bored' or 'anxious' - or a composite of all of the previous.
This year it was, "Good bye Mom. See you in a month." I knew this one was coming.. It comes every year and is the foundation of the whole awfulness sandwich of July.
The next part, "I know you have nothing to do, but I don't have time to care about you right now" was a surprise. Well, partly. I'm used to having to write my own script, but I'm not used to being the whole damn theater company. I didn't know I was going to have to build the stage too.
The next part - I probably could have guessed. It's so 'Corporate America'. It went like this, "I know that this isn't your job and we gave you absolutely no support, but you're responsible for it and by the way - you did it all wrong" Hmmm . . . This one doesn't even bother me that much. It just annoys me.
The one I really didn't see coming was, "No, we're not friends. I've just been pretending for the past few years" Uchh!!"  I'm speechless. I'm so entirely confused. I'm astonished at the depth of carelessness. I'm even more surprised at my personal naivete - despite that I've know it was a part of me forever. My capacity to perceive situations in their most pleasant state astounds even me. I'm far too gullible. I should have seen that one coming, but I scold myself for it none the less - because I didn't - again.
The best part is that the month is only slightly more than half over and I know there's more to come.
I have,  "Oh, was it your birthday? - Sorry! I forgot all about you" lurking just around the second corner. I have just about as much capacity within my control to avoid running into that one as does a Bobsled pilot with no brakes. Again, I re-brace myself and wait. I try to imagine what it would feel like to avoid it. I play with the idea of a happy day where people remember and for one day - I'm important enough.
Every year it's the same and every year I'm clueless as to how to handle it. I suppose because none of my strategies have worked so far. Nothing really helps me cope with July.

My Chinese Zodiac calendar says that I will have only two favorable months out of the twelve that make up this year. It also says that I need to handle them gracefully or risk making matters worse. All this and I can't even get mad? Can I scheme? Can I plot revenge? Can I bide my time? Can I be patient an calculating?
It's the Impossible Test.

Tangency

For the past two weeks, I have been absolutely immersed in pictures. Well, technically, they are old slides. They make my head swim with memories so much that I find it hard to focus or function. I have to work hard to eliminate this emotional obstruction - find the roots of my being and yank out the feelings so that I can think straight and see clearly what I'm dealing with - what's worth saving and what should be helped to grow and flourish. They grow so fast - emotions - like the weeds that they are.
My Dad has always taken pictures - or at least that's who I thought was taking them. Every trip, every 'occasion' - there was Dad with his camera, tennis shoes, black socks, plaid shorts, floppy hat and glasses - squinting into the viewfinder as if bunching up his nose would help in some way. Maybe my memories of "Picture time" exist because he always asked for our participation. "Smile." "Look this way." "Stand that way." This was his way of marking time and documenting historic events in the most logical, literal way. It's the way he sees the world. -Planned, executed and recorded. He's a true pragmatic German.
What I hadn't realized is that it was actually my Mother who took many of the photos that document the life we lived as very young kids. It must have been. There are lots of pictures of my Dad, cases of pictures of my brother, sister and me as kids, family members galore . . . but almost none of my Mom. As well, pictures of us as kids were taken outside during the day. My Dad should have been at work - so I'm sure he was, which meant that my Mother probably took the majority of the photos.
Despite this, I don't remember her ever asking me to pose for a picture. It simply wasn't her style. She preferred candid shots and still does.
I've never thought of her as a spectator in our lives in such a literal sense. She was home, surely. But I wonder if it was difficult for her to stand so often at arms length or if she preferred it that way. In many respects as I think on this question, I am almost certain that participating as a spectator was just about all she could handle. I won't even attempt to understand mental illness, other than to recognize it with an intuitive accuracy. Also, I believe that this was the best she could do with the increasingly damaged remains of herself within the family. I don't know why or how she was ever 'damaged', but I know the evidence of it's presence is clear in her personality.
I know that participating was to some degree exceedingly difficult for her. Mental illness captured her as she got older taking more and more of her with it as we grew. Because of this, her involvement in our lives was commensurately depleted as she grew further withdrawn, confused, agitated and eventually inebriated.
I still have my Mom's bike in my garage. This exact one. I can't believe that I a). have it, b). accepted to look after it and, c). haven't thrown it in the trash yet. But it still works and it reminds me that at some point my Mom did participate. She didn't always prefer to be alone if that's what she had to do to get away from us as a means of saving herself.
I have proof  - in Ektachrome, celluloid technicolor. I can't throw it out.

Maybe I didn't imagine it after all

I've been immersed in my Father's old boxes of slides for days. I've travelled back in time. What I've found is that the slides are exactly right, but so different at the same time. The pictures are perfect. They contain the exact record of so many events without any of the sentiment.The part I remember that isn't in the photos are the smells, the textures of fabrics, the feel of the air on any particular day. It's the smallest details that bring these memories to life and they're missing.
When I look at the slides - I know that I'm seeing history through the lens of a bystander and I wonder how different that person's recollection of the same moment is so different than mine. I know they are -they must be - staggeringly different. As different as they possibly could be and still retain the same factual data.
Looking through all these boxes and boxes of slides has gotten my brain so entirely jammed with information that I find it very difficult to think at all.
So while my head is categorizing, reconciling, imaging and whatever else it's doing to make it bearable to deal with all these simultaneous thoughts and ideas . . . I'll share a few of my favorite pictures and try to explain what it is that I so like about each.

This is my grandfather's men's clothing store. It means that I'm not altogether fashion illiterate. Maybe I just wasn't taught. I may still be able to learn to dress well. It also explains why I, to this day, tend to gravitate toward the practical and plain styles. Just look at him and you'll see what I mean. Nothing fancy, just what's necessary. You almost don't even notice his clothing, but you can see him well enough.

I'm on the left, in yellow. All my life I have struggled, tried in vain, booby trapped myself, berated myself and suffered ridicule and embarrassment because I harbor a horrible habit. I pick at my fingers. I wouldn't necessarily call it 'Nail-biting' because what I do is much more self-destructive than that. I've tried every treatment and solution under the sun to stop. Eventually, they wear off or fade. Even after years of abstinence, I can always tell when I'm stressed or anxious. My hands let me know way before my stomach does. And look, I've been doing it since I was two! Maybe it's just part of who I am.

My Dad looks cool! Granted we're in a boat at Taquamenon Falls. At any moment we could all be over the edge and not one of us has a life jacket on! But we look good.

My brother . . . playing in the trash - by the street no less. And me - wondering why exactly it's MY job to watch him.

This is just too cute to leave out. My older sister at about age two.

My older sister. The reason she looks tentative is that I had been on Santa's lap just before this was taken and it didn't go well for me at all. But take a look at her jacket and her shoes.

This is my younger brother about five years later. This is one in a group of about eight taken all at the same time. Different angles let you see that there was still snow on the ground in places. The sky is white with cold and the long shadows of the day reveal that sunset is bleeding the heat of the day.
When I first looked at this group of photos, I couldn't help wondering why my brother was allowed to play in the ice water and mud in his street shoes. But . . . it speaks volumes to my Mother's lack of healthy oversight where we were concerned. His feet must have been ice - as the rest of him must be. He's soaked almost literally head to toe. Even for the most industrious child, it takes a bit of time to get this thoroughly wet.
He's wearing my sister's jacket and shoes.