Wired Shut

While I was White Water Rafting down the middle of the Colorado River, my mother was getting surgery on her jaw. I wasn't there for the surgery so I don't know what the rest of the family was going through - only what happened once I got back. It's a memory I had forgotten long ago until my memory was jogged while writing my story about the White Water Weggie.

Dad had to do all the cooking in the house for a while. Mom was on some incredibly strong pain killers. Her jaw had been broken in two places and moved forward a quarter of an inch on both sides. The doctors said her lower jaw had stopped growing when she was about 7 years old. The surgery was necessary.

She was on a liquid diet while the wires held her jaws clamped together. She could barely mumble out the words she wanted to say, and for the first few days upon my return she had to write everything down on a notebook and have us read it. This was more than unpleasant for her. She was miserable. Even her liquid diet had to be taken with a syringe. I won't go into details about how it operated, but everything had to somehow end up behind her wired teeth.

Laughing, or even smiling, was incredibly painful for her. She smiled quite often when I was young. She still loves to laugh. This was one of the hardest tasks bestowed upon the family, not to say or do anything funny around her for a total of 6 weeks. When a family is as strange and funny as mine is, I'm sure you can imagine how often we had to walk away from her in order to stop from causing her pain at something we had thought of or wanted to say.

We all pitched in around the house. My brother and I did the laundry (except the unmentionables they hid in the bedroom until Dad had a chance to take care of them), we would cook on the occasion Dad was gone and it was just us taking care of her, but most of the time he did the cooking while she was laid up. We would get her books from the book shelf, fetch the TV remote, grab fresh pillows and blankets and just take care of her the best we could. After all, she had always done that for us when we were sick.

Mom was in the living room one day when I started to hear this gurgling scream coming from the back of her throat. I was standing in the kitchen at the time getting her a drink. I had no idea what was going on, but I went charging into the living room, full steam ahead. She sat there with tears rolling down her face holding her jaw on both sides.

"TRN IT UFF!" She screamed at me behind clenched jaws. "Trn it uff! Trn it uff!" She screamed over and over, trying to kick the TV remote over to me. She was sobbing!

Without even noticing what it was she had been watching, I switched the TV off as quickly as possible and sat down at her feet, wanting more than anything to make her feel better. She was obviously in agony.

Suddenly her eyes lit up and she giggled. That made her scream again and the tears once more rolled down her cheeks. Then she giggled again, which made her cry again. It was a wicked cycle she went through for a good ten minutes. It wasn't funny, and I hated seeing my mother in pain, but her occasional giggles made me want to giggle, which I knew would be even worse because everyone knows giggles are infectious. Finally I had to excuse myself and walk back into the other room. There, I burried my face in a hand towel and giggled to my hearts content. By the time I went back into the room, she was doing much better. She looked up at me and whimpered "I'm sorry," as best she could through the mesh in her teeth.

"What happened?" I asked innocently enough. I shouldn't have. At the mere thought of whatever it was, she giggled again and the whole viscious cycle repeated once more.

Weeks after the brutal mess was taken out of her mouth, she told me what had made her laugh so hard that day.

"Manda, you know how I don't like vulgar comedians?"

"Yeah," I said, knowing even the "S" word or using the word Hell too often would drive her insane.

"What I was watching that day was by accident. I was flipping through the channels and I came across this comedian talking about how he once knew a guy who had all of his fingers on both hands cut off in a saw mill accident."

"Well that doesn't sound funny at all!"

"He said that the guy took up being a thief because he couldn't find a job since all he had were two thumbs. He said the guy would steal donuts all the time." She mimicked the action he would have needed to use by holding her thumb up in the air, stabbing through the center hole of an imaginary donut and holding it proudly over her head." Finally he stole donuts from a shop that all the cops ate at all the time, and it made them all mad so they arrested him.

"Well, he decided later on that he was going to clean up his act and go straight. The problem was that he still couldn't find work with only two thumbs. He couldn't dig ditches or type or do anything for anyone without fingers. Frustrated, he decided he'd start over in another town. Without fingers though, he couldn't grab a steering wheel and so he couldn't drive. Instead, he decided to take up hitchiking."

At this point I was already grinning ear to ear over her hand movements describing the donut thief. While continuing the story, she had carefully folded all of her fingers inward, making sure to poke ther thumbs out as far as possible. She looked like Fonzy from Happy Days. Suddenly she started laughing hysterically.

"Hitchiking?" I asked.

"Yeah - he was great at flagging down the cars with that thumb sticking out" she waved her hand through the air again mimicking the actions needed, including stabbing at an imaginary door handle with her thumb, "but once they got pulled over he couldn't get the car doors open! Finally he got frustrated and yelled at them 'Oh Hell, just go on!'"

My mother roared, and her laughter made me light up as bright as a Christmas tree. I laughed right along beside her. I always loved to hear her laugh.

She swore that day she would find out who that comedian was so she could watch the show again, but try as I might I can't seem to find it anywhere on the internet, to purchase or watch on Youtube. I can't help but think that would have been a great birthday gift for her this year.

If anyone out there has any
information on the comedian
I'm talking about, please
contact me with a link - either
on facebook or by leaving a
comment below. Any and all
help is greatly appreciated.

The Igloo

The winters were rather harsh in Maryland. The snow banks piled up to immeasurable heights when the wind blew. Our first winter in Maryland, the snow drifts covered the back of our building, completely blocking the back door and nearly allowing for a fun snow slide from the 2nd story windows. I remember fondly an igloo my dad made for my brother one winter when I was around 4 years old. It was the one and only igloo I ever really enjoyed. Even at an early age I hated the freezing cold.

My dad had gotten a snow shovel and had worked for hours out in the chilled air to clear the sidewalks for the neighbors. I remember the way my father piled up all the snow next to the building where the laundry machines sat running on the other side of the red brick wall. The drier heater vent pumped nice, warm air out of that vent every time it was turned on. My dad hollowed out the igloo over the top of that vent.

The first time my brother and I went out to the igloo, I remember my hands were freezing from wearing the only knitted mittens I had. They were nice and warm, as long as you didn’t attempt to pick up snow with them. Once inside the igloo, I started feeling warm and cozy, as if I were in the house sitting on the floor in front of the television. The heat from the laundry machines warmed the igloo up so much that it began to melt and drip on us just a little.

It started to get late. The sun was setting. We began to get cold and decided to go back in the house before our teeth chattered out of our heads from the freezing water. That night, after my mom got done running the laundry, the night air was chill. The parts of the igloo we thought would melt away refroze as we slept, but this time they formed a thick layer of solid ice. Our igloo had become an impenetrable fortress, complete with ice cicles hanging from the doorway like sharp daggers.

Every time my brother and I went out to the igloo and shimmied on our bellies to avoid breaking the hanging ice carrots, my mom would run the drier again. Every time we came inside, the process would repeat. The igloo would refreeze as another sheet of ice would form. Eventually, we no longer had an igloo. We had a dome made entirely of refrozen melted snow, as see-thru as the glass blocks forming the walls of the shower in my mother and fathers bathroom. It was a magical, crystal kingdom belonging only to us.

That igloo still stood that spring long after the rest of the snow had melted and the only things left of the neighborhood snowmen were the coal eyes in the grass by the sticks some child had used as arms for their chilly friend. The neighborhood kids were jealous of my brothers’ igloo. One day a band of young boys were seen jumping on top of the igloo, trying their best to cave it in. My brother started to panic! His fort, his mighty indestructible fort, was tumbling like the Alamo!

My mother came up with an old saying then. “If you can’t beat them, join them,” she told my brother. He instantly ran out and decided he was going to be the one to cave in his precious fort. They didn’t deserve to! He jumped with the other boys for nearly an hour before the roof of the ice castle finally gave way, tumbling all of the boys inside the walls. Peering out of the window, all I could see were about 12 snow boots sticking up at odd angles. When he came back inside, my brother was extatic. Soaked from head to toe, he proclaimed that it was the most fun he had participated in since he could remember.

I've never seen another ice fortress like the one my father made for us in all my travels, but just like my family, that ice fortress was special because it was a one of a kind. It was chilly and cool to the touch, but when it took us in, its warmth lasted long after the rest of the world had forgotten the snow ever touched our lives. It remained when all else had long since faded into distant memories of coal black eyes and stick figure arms in the budding grass.

Uneven Bars

On my way to work this morning I heard a song that reminded me of my childhood. The singer mentioned something about calloused hands and I looked at my own now dainty and feminine hands. They weren't always that way. My nails weren't always long and could never keep a coat of red on their surface. They were once the hands of a tom boy, and then the hands of a gymnast, and finally the hands of a roofer before they became the gentle hands they are today.


Callouses used to line the edges of my palm, just at the base of my fingers. I would spend hours climbing trees as a kid. I thought I was half monkey in all honesty. I wanted to be half horse, graceful and beautiful, but I was never a graceful child, and I couldn't have been farther from beautiful. I would play in the mud and always have mud caked under my nails. Mom would spend long periods of time trying to clean under them with a brush. When I was around 5 years old, she painted my nails pink after my begging her for what seemed like forever. All the other little girls in the neighborhood had their fingers painted pretty colors, I wanted pretty hands too. The first thing I did when she finished was go dig up worms with the boys out in the pumpkin patch.

I used these hands to punch a hole in a glass window once. I've used them many times to defend myself, to place shingles on the roof of many houses, to build towers with blocks and to escape miraculously from impossible situations. They were damaged, worn and bruised most of my life, up until just recently.

I used to play on the uneven bars at school when I was in the 5th grade. The playground was a lonely place for me back then. I didn't have many friends. When I discovered the uneven bars, I saw the things other kids were doing on them and wanted to learn how. Instantly I jumped onto an empty one and tried to swing around it by my legs. I fell, landed in a heap on the ground, brushed the sand out of my hair and tried again. The first time I made it all the way around the bar by hooking one leg over and one leg under I was amazed. I learned how to swing my momentum to get me around more often at at a faster pace. I learned how to stop swinging around and swap legs. Then I learned how to swing around the bar with both legs over the bar and using my knees and hands. The callouses ripped open on my hands and I would be in pain trying to write in class, but it was worth it. The adrenaline pumped in my veins and I felt like I was learning something I could be good at.

It took weeks and months to get to where I could transition my hands from one side of my body to the other. I eventually tried swapping legs in mid swing on a continuous cycle and got quite good at that. Another kid dared me to do the Cherry Drop, so I tried. I fell on my head and again brushed the sand out of my hair with my dry, calloused hands. Then I jumped back up and tried it again. I learned which bars were too close to the ground by smacking my skull a few times on the dirt, but I never forgot those lessons.

The Cherry Drop was a challenge. I would hang upside down on the bar from my knees and swing back and forth. When I felt that I was swinging out widely enough, I would unhook my knees from the bar and flip around. I was supposed to land on my feet, but that took a while to get. Most of the time I landed on my butt. Finally one day I got it. I landed on my feet and felt like I was on top of the world!

I had gotten so good on the uneven bars that other kids began asking me how I did it and what my secret was. Feeling proud of myself for having mastered something so well, I started to push myself harder. I wanted to not only be good at it, but I wanted to be the BEST at it! I worked harder and harder. One day, as I swung around the bars with both knees hooked on, I swapped hands in mid swing. I would put both on my left, then both on my right, then both in the middle. Again I heard a dare. Someone dared me to take both hands off of the bar.

The world whizzed by in a blur as I swung wildly by just my knees. I saw the sky race past, the swings behind me, the sand below me, the brick wall before me, the crowd of kids beyond that, and then the school off in the distance. I grabbed the bar again with both hands and went around once more before stopping. My heart raced. I had done it!

Kids everywhere were asking me how I had done it. I didn't know what to say, other than I had just tried and somehow it worked. Others began trying and several were sent to the Nurses office for head injuries. I just kept on.

Each day I would practice at recess. Kids would come from all over the soccer field, the 4 square and tether ball areas and kick ball practice area way off in the distance just to watch me. I felt like I was on stage. Each day I grew more brave. I would start to swing around and do a complete show, always changing things for the 'performance' and always wanting to push myself just a little farther.

One day I decided to incorporate the Cherry Drop with my routine. The kids all knew not to stand too close to the bars in case I lost hold and went flying out in front. Knowing there was a clear space in front of me, I began flipping backwards around the bar and let go with my hands. I rolled around backwards on the bar using nothing but my knees for a full 12 rotations before I picked up the courage, and when the timing was right, I let go. I launched out in front, soared up into the air, and landed squarely on my feet. The other kids applauded and ooohed and ahhed. I had done something nobody else had been able to do and it was coined the Death Drop.

The Death Drop became my signature move. Other kids wanted to copy it, but they were too afraid. One day a boy came and asked me to teach him the basics on the bars, and so I began to mentor the 6th grader. He was a year older than me in school, but he wanted to learn so I started to teach him. In no time he grew to be quite good and we would give dual performances at school during lunch. Within a few months, he landed a Death Drop and amazed everyone. I couldn't be more proud - my Student had gotten to be as good as I was. In due time, kids started asking him to teach them. Pretty soon we were teaching side by side. We would have anywhere from 5 to 20 kids a day we would work with together. We worked as spotters, making sure they didn't fall. After having learned the hard way myself, I made sure none of them ever got on a bar that was too low to the ground so that they didn't skid to a halt grinding their heads through the sand.

Once or twice we had a kid fall off the bars, but with the other kid there to help me, nobody was hurt. The kids that refused help and wanted to do it all themselves often ended up in the Nurses office by the end of recess. The audience grew, and the school threatened to either add more uneven bars or to remove the ones out there due to the danger and attraction they provided.

I was still the best at what I did. My first student and then co-teacher was very good, but there were certain things I wouldn't teach him. I was selfish. I wanted to be the best at what I did. To some degree there's still that competitive side to me, I want to be the best.

Mom came out to the school one day for Parent - Teacher conferences. I told her there was something I wanted to show her on the playground, so she followed me out there. She was thinking I was going to swing across the jungle gym or go really high in the swings. She was unprepared for what followed.


I went through my very best routine, and she stood back in awe. She had no idea I was able to do all of those tricks on the bars. Finally, in my moment of grandeur, I performed my Grand Finale with the Death Drop.


She screamed.

She yelled and screamed at me. She made me swear I'd never do it again. She threatened to go to the office and ask what they were thinking by allowing me to perform such stunts at recess.

That was the end of my pseudo-career on the bars at school. In two years I transitioned to 7th grade soon and didn't have the bars at recess, or even a recess at all. Lunches were spent from then on eating food alone until we moved to Utah. I had no friends in Jr. High and had a hard time for the first time in my life forming new bonds with total strangers. Nobody liked the little nerd girl with too many freckles, a stick figure for a body and crooked teeth. The other girls had begun to blossom into young ladies and I was still just a kid. I became a wall flower. It was a hard transition to go from being a Bar Celebrity to being nobody in an eager sea of strangers.


As I sat on the grass alone eating my lunch one day, I looked out into the lawn between buildings and saw a kid off in the distance. A crowd gathered around him in a long line. There was a ton of room behind and in front of him, so I watched. I was curious to know what was going on.


The young man suddenly sprang into the air and did a series of back flips and front flips and amazing stunts I'd only ever seen performed on television. He had a full Olympic routine memorized from the looks of it. I completely forgot about my sandwich and went over to watch...


When he finished, the crowd clapped for him. I looked close and knew he was familiar...


The Student had surpassed the Teacher.



.

Angel on my Shoulder

I didn't know my Mom's father very well. Every memory I have of him I can count on one hand - and yet he left a powerful impression on me.

My earliest memory of him was a time he babysat his grandchildren, including my brother, my cousin Michael, his sister Shawna, and myself. Gremlins was playing on the TV and we were at my crazy Uncle Mike's house. The adults had all gone out together and we were told to stay inside... that's about all I remember, other than his bony fingers jabbing me as he patted me on my back. He clearly loved his grandchildren and we loved him in return.

Fast forward a few years... Dad had a year remote tour in Alaska and we couldn't go with him, so Mom moved us kids to Arkansas so she could be near her family. Looking back on that time now, I realize what a basket case she was then. I imagine I would be too if I had two children around me all the time and no spouse to help me take care of them at my age now. She was right about 30 years old then. I'm sure we drove her crazy.

We often spent afternoons and evenings at her parents house. By then my grandfather had already begun to forget many things. His mind was beginning to slip and occasionally he didn't know who he was anymore.

"Excuse me, Ma'am," he said one day while we were visiting my ill grandmother. Mom sat on the side of the bed taking care of her, feeding her soup. Grandpa had been sitting in the living room quietly watching TV for a while when suddenly he got a lost look in his face and stood up. He wandered into my grandmothers room. "I don't know where I am or how I got here," he paused and swallowed, "but if you let me stay the night, I promise I'll be gone by mornin'."

It was a very sad moment for my mother. I remember her crying over that day. He didn't know who he was or who the woman was he married and spent more than 35 years with. It was a devastating day for us all, and we knew then that his mind had really gone.

Over the years he had occasional moments of clarity, but they were so far and few between that I never really got the chance to know him. We only lived in Arkansas for that one year in my youth, and even though we went over there often, that's the only clear memory I have of him. That, I feel, is an absolute pitty.

The last memory I have of him while he was still alive was during my mothers 20 year High School reunion. My cousin Michael and I had stayed home with Grandpa because someone needed to be there with him. Otherwise he was prone to strip naked and wander down the street, wondering where he was. I wish it were something I could giggle about, but it got quite serious.

Michael and I were sitting on the couch. Grandpa was beside me and had been quiet for hours. It was fine with me, he didn't know who I was anyway. He hadn't known my name since I was around 5 years old. I was a complete stranger to him at 15 years. Suddenly, he spoke up.

"Who are those two little boys over there?" Since he often mumbled to himself, I took that moment to be that exact thing, his ramblings to himself. I didn't respond.

"Who are those two boys," he asked again after a long moment.

"Grandpa," I said, looking over towards the kitchen table where he pointed, "there aren't any little boys over there."

A few more minutes of silence followed before he spoke again. He mainly mumbled, but after a few minutes he grew loud enough to understand.

"Who are those two little boys over there," he asked me again, this time jabbing me in the ribs with his elbow.

"Grandpa, there's nobody over there," I said again, slightly annoyed.

"Yes there are," he said. "There's two little boys."

"Grandpa, there isn't anyone over there."

"Yes there are!" He was starting to get upset and I contemplated going along with it just to make him feel better. Just about the time I was going to say something, he continued. "Manda," he said, shocking me beyond belief, "there are two little boys over there, and they BOTH have wings!"

My jaw fell open and chills ran down my spine. I fell silent, put an arm around his tiny shoulders and held him tight for a long time. He patted me on the back.

"You're a good kid," he said. "I'm proud of you." The clarity in his eyes faded, and I knew once more that he was gone.

When Mom came back that night after her reunion, I had waited up to tell her what had happened. She fussed at first because I was still awake, but when I told her what happened, her eyes teared up and she stared at me in silence.

"It won't be long then," she said to me. She hugged me tightly and walked away. She couldn't look at me for a little while.

That year on my 16th birthday, he finally passed away of natural causes. Though I didn't know him, for some reason I feel like there was some kind of a connection between us. My 16th birthday should have been an amazing day. Some of my friends brought me cards and gifts that I loved, but I couldn't shake the melancholy feeling I was getting. It got stronger as the day went on. By the time my parents brought lunch to my school from Wendy's I knew deep inside that something was wrong. I couldn't explain it - I just knew.

When I got home, they came clean. They didn't want to ruin my birthday so they wouldn't tell me, but when I saw Mom watching old home movies looking for clips of Grandpa and talking on the phone to an airline rep, I knew what was going on. Dad told me and I cried, but suddenly the whole day made sense. I understood then. I didn't cry for too long - I settled. I've never before or since excepted a death that easily.

The story doesn't end there though... I never expected it to happen, but I saw him once more.

In the year 2000, on September 1st, my life took a dramatic halt - and I do mean halt. I died three times. Three times I was brought back by the doctors in an emergency surgery. Yet only once did my brain register any of this. It was one simple dream through all of it for me, as they fought for hours to save my life.

Far off in the distance, I saw him walking towards me. He looked exactly how he did when I was so little, when he was elderly but healthy. He walked with purpose and a slight swagger. He smiled that broad smile he had, and the right eye squinted a bit. There was no mistaking it, that was my grandfather under that brown fedora.

"Well Kiddo," he said to me when he got close, "ya ready to go?" I was puzzled.

"Go where, Grandpa?"

He looked me up and down a long moment. He smirked, smiled, and patted me on the back with his bony hand once more. I felt the knotted knuckles thump my flesh on my shoulder. It was painfully wonderful.

"Naw," he said in that familiar southern accent he had, "you aren't ready." He smiled at me once more and nodded his head towards whatever lay behind me. "Go home, Kid."

I woke up in the hospital at that moment and looked up into the red and crying eyes of my Mother and Father.

"Hi, Mom," I said. "Hi Dad." That was about all I remember. I passed out then and woke up two days later with both of them close to the bed. They never left my side.

I never had the heart to tell my Mom about that dream. I've never forgotten about it, and I know I'll remember it for as long as humanly possible, but I'll always believe that he chose me for a reason. He loved me for who I was.

And he sent me back for a reason.