Lazy Bones

My Peanuts pillowcase summed it up...Charlie Brown was on one side saying, "I hate to go to bed at night and I hate to get up in the morning".

When I would inevitably wake up crabby in the morning, Daddy would tickle me and sing the Leon Redbone song...

"Laaazy Bones...Do Do Do Do Do Do

A Suitcase

I started packing my suitcase after the first time my Mom fled. Just the really important things, of course. A pair of underwear, my favorite comic books, my favorite chapter books, a stuffed animal.

As the years went by and I discovered more things a person might need when they flee the house so I added items...money, food, a spare set of keys swiped from my mother.

Why I can remember the events so vividly when they are so hazy for my Mother I can only explain as disassociation on her part.

A sunny Autumn day in Iowa. A Saturday, the start of the weekend...

Mom and I are in my bedroom kneeling in front of my bottom dresser drawer selecting clothes for the day. We select a light blue sweatshirt. It has a number on it.

"What number is that, Jenny?"

"I don't know."

"You know what number that is, Jenny. It's how old you are going to be on your next birthday!"

"I don't know."

Mom finishes dressing me and we go downstairs where Daddy is getting ready for his insulin shot, as always accompanied by a mouthwater inducing but forbidden glass of grape juice with crushed ice.

"Glenn, Jenny couldn't tell me what number is on her sweatshirt. Jenny come sit down and we'll practice writing some numbers."

"You shouldn't be teaching her visually! That is the wrong way to teach her! She should learn her numbers by feel! Look at me! I am going blind! Soon I will be totally blind! You can't teach her visually!"

Mom starts apologizing, pleading for understanding, explaining her reason for the mistake, begging for mercy.

"Jenny! Go to your room!"

The stairs are creaking, just like always. Upstairs. To the bedroom. Alone.

Sounds of pleading, crying.

Sounds of yelling.

Sounds of hitting.

Then the house is quiet. It is quiet for awhile. He is out in the garage working on his cars.

The door opens and Daddy calls for me. Hesitantly I creep down the stairs.

Now it is school time.

Answer the question! How many is this?! What number is next?! How many?! How many?!

I'm too petrified to answer so I get hit.

"Go back to your room."

Back upstairs, now I start crying.

The house is quiet again.

Then it is school time again.

"Come down here! Answer the question! How many is this?! What number is next?! How many?! How many?!"

I am beaten with the questions. I don't know! I don't know! What is the right answer? Sorry? Please?

It hurts! I'm scared. Those are the only answers I can give right now.

"Go back to your room."

The house is quiet again.

And then again. And again. And again. How long will this last? Can he really keep it up all day?

Mommy is not here.

I'm still in my room. I've only been allowed to come out when he summons me for the quiz.

It's the end of the day. I'm hungry. I need to go to the bathroom. He is still out in the garage. His anger hasn't diminished.

I decide to risk it. There is no one here to take care of me but myself. I dash downstairs to the bathroom and grab a container of cottage cheese and a spoon. I wasn't caught!

Relief!

It's morning. I'm still in my room. He hasn't called for me yet today. He's out in the garage again.

The antique doorbell is chiming. There is a van outside the house. Someone rang the doorbell again. They are not going away.

Is it safe? Should I answer the door? What if Daddy is playing a trick on me to see if I will answer the door? He could do that. What if I get in more trouble?

Tentatively I creep down the stairs. I peek out - it is a man I don't know standing there. He must be safe, right? Only Daddy has hurt me before.

"Jenny. Do you want to see your Mommy?"

The man is leading me off the porch to his van. Mommy is in the passenger seat and opens the door.

"Crouch down on the floor so he doesn't see you."

We drive away in the van.

I am guilty now. I have left, too. What will my Daddy think when he comes inside and calls for me and I'm not there? How many times will he call for me before he comes upstairs? Will he know Mommy came for me? Will he feel sad? I should have told him I was going.

Anyone? Bueller?

Does anyone read this? Do I want to share this with friends? How much personal info will I be willing to share if I do?

Things to think about. It's no fun if no one reads what you've written.

Thank You Sun

Last night I thanked the sun.

I found myself in a sunny, secluded section of the backyard on a sublime Colorado day - 72 degrees, blue-blue sky, puffy white clouds and the gorgeous life-giving sun.

When I found myself in this spot it literally brought me to my knees. Then it brought me straight to the earth.

I laid on my stomach giving the earth a hug. Laying still allowed me to focus on the noises around me: the birds, a stray voice in the neighborhood, a distant lawn mower.

The warm sun.

Thank you. Thank You, Sun. I love you. I know why our ancestors worshipped you.

Thank you for all you give.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry that humans have done this.

I'm sorry that we can't see the canary in the coal mine - the bees dying, the polar bears drowning, the whales and seals and penguins turning up in the wrong place - confused by the changes in the water, the food, the world.

I will no longer put chemicals on my skin to fight your rays. I will cover my skin with hats and cloth but I will not put chemicals on my body.

Thank you. Thank you.

My First Time in the House

The home had been sold as part of a bankruptcy and had been vacant for some time.

My parents had not been allowed to see the inside of the house before purchasing it. They had peaked in the windows enough to know that it had been "inhabited" by teenagers looking for a place to party. I've often wondered why they didn't just break in the way the teenagers had obviously done!

When the trio that was our family entered the house we found a living room that contained a dillapidated green couch, beer bottles, cigarette butts, and other evidence of some late night parties.

While my parents were checking out what would become known as the "downstairs bedroom", I decided to walk up stairs. Creak, creak, creak, creak- past the first four steps on to the first landing. Turn. Creak, creak, creak up to the next landing. Right as my foot hovered at the top landing...I fell backwards and tumbled head over heels down the stairs to the bottom landing where I lay in a heap.

No serious injuries resulted except for the note to self that this house was dangerous.

Dangerous haunted house.

My Childhood Home

I grew up in a Victorian farmhouse at the top of a hill in small town, Iowa. As my parents joked so many times it made me want to throw up, "It was built by a doctor before doctor's were rich".
I was 4 years old when my parents took me to see our new house. They were all smiles and excited for my reaction. I can clearly remember the horror and the feeling of my fervent head shake as I cried out, "I don't wanna live in a witch house! I don't wanna live in a witch house!".

With its' steep peaks and gables, peeling yellow paint with BLACK trim (were they paying homage to the U of Iowa Hawkeyes??), and overgrown "landscaping" it DID look like a haunted house in any children's storybook.

My feeling of dread only grew when I learned that it had been built by a doctor and that his office had been on the property in a building that had since been destroyed. I knew with all my being that people had died at this house and that their ghosts were still there.

Little did I know that the real haunted memories of the house were still to be created by our family.