Going my own way, again

First there was roller derby and then came the new job: two of the biggest changes in my life since 2009, the year I went back into therapy & back on meds for depression. Well, one of those new things turned out to be not quite what I hoped for and instead of sucking it up (which I did do briefly, for the record), I decided – was able – have the luxury – to be honest with myself, my family, and my employer: I quit.

It was me, not the job.

It was the commute, not the job.

I haven’t worked since June of 2004, when I went on maternity leave with Henry. That’s 7 years that I have been doing the stay at home mom (SAHM) thing. I was only in the workforce for 9 years (9 years!), with 5 of those as a working mom. For me to go back to work was a sizable transition – a huge transition – one that I just can’t make right now, a transition I’m not willing to make right now. I thought I was, but I need to get my feet wet and get used to the water before I jump from the high dive into the deep-end of traditional employment. 

Traditional employment. You know, a 9-5 (or 8-4 or 10-6) job. You show up, do something there, and they pay you. What’s not to like?

I cannot stand the sensation of being a sheep/cow/stock animal of some sort as I fight traffic (or in Chicago, traffic then people for a good seat on the train) with all the other sheeple doing their duty by going to work. I am not sheeple. I don’t like to be stuck in traffic, cut off, beeped at. My reaction is to floor it when given the chance, like Thursday June 2, when traffic broke up on the Toll Road/Greenway and I went 90, weaving in and out of 3 lanes of lighter traffic to maintain my speed. I’m not sure what the solution is to congestion woes (public transport? alternate fuel/transport? telecommuting? an unrealistic utopian society based on discrete, self-sustaining communities?) but sitting in it makes me think about it (see previous parenthetical comment), which ultimately leads to me thinking about Humanity in general (it’s a blog: I’ll make humanity Humanity if I want to). We’re killing ourselves and the planet. [insert tree-hugger, crunchy granola rant here.]

Being stuck in traffic is like having insomnia: I tried podcasts, I tried playlists, I tried silence, I even knit almost 2 rows one night when the road I was on was shut down because a pedestrian was hit (and is reportedly doing okay) and traffic was more stop than go. It’s too much time to think, too much time when I’m not learning anything or doing anything physical (even mundane housework solves this problem for me).

Too much time on my hands. Wasted time. Time I can spend doing something entertaining, like theorizing the fate of my race. At least I was driving a hybrid car, which is like a smoker using the patch/gum/lozenge to quit.

I know a lot of people who would not be able to do what I did, who would love to do what I did. 1995-me couldn’t do it; I passed up grad school because I thought the people at my job needed me. But 1990-me did it when she got sick (really: I was throwing up, but definitely milked it) and couldn’t finish her last 2 weeks of waitressing shifts at Howard Johnnson’s before going to college. 1999-me couldn’t just quit either; but 1999-me wanted to work because she was an overwhelmed [too-]young mother looking for an escape. Even 2001-me had given up on her own career in favor of her husband’s (money won).

Wait – am I talking about myself in the third person? ::hangs head in shame::

I’m lucky for it to not be just about money, though having health insurance again would have helped all of us feel a little more secure. And I’ve just put a whole load of stress back on Mr. Q, who did an amazing job as Mr. Mom (no one’s woobie got sucked into the vacuum), who has been diligently applying for all the exec level IT jobs he can find and then some.

I don’t know ultimately where or how this will end, but I know I won’t be stuck in traffic or sitting at a desk when we figure it out, or if I am at a desk, it’ll be my Yarn Office desk.

I took over our formal living room and most of the dining room last year (or the year before?). All of my knitting books & girly doo-dads are in one spot, away from the boy-stuff that overtook the library/office. I have 4 windows in the living room, plus a bay of 3 in the dining room looking out over the backyard. My spinning wheel is here, along with an armoire with yarn & fiber. In trying to distinguish it from the other office/library, Ethan called it “your Yarn Office, Mom,” and so it is. And they all lived happily ever after. <— I still have hope.

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Roller Girl?

Trying to come up with a roller derby name is hard. I’m not even sure sometimes if I’m really a derby girl/chick: am I fierce enough? Ten years ago: yes. Twenty years ago: definitely yes. So I’m going back to some of the music I listened to (and have continued to listen to all this time) for some inspiration. PJ Harvey’s first two albums really helped me work through some of my rage, if only while into walking angrily across the Cut (campus, basically, for non-CMU people) or glowering on the city bus to my first job at HealthAmerica.

Hardly Wait

Go get the albums and listen to them. Go.

General Craftiness & Brief Thoughts on Japan

Last Friday I had the beginning of a weekend-long surge of craftiness brought on by Mod Podge, not one but 2 pads of scrapbooking paper in the clearance aisle of JoAnns, and a reluctance to toss out tins (Altoids, Sucrets, Newmans Own, tea). I even got some books from Good Shepherd Alliance’s thrift store to use in decoupage.

Decoupage Montage: Front

Click the picture to follow the link to flickr, where I have notes on each tin top.

Decoupage Montage: Back

Ditto on the click-through: the snippet of Whitman is worth it.

I’ve also been knitting my head off. Er, knitting my hands off? Whatever. While knitting, I’ve been watching lots of footage of Japan on CNN and streaming from NHK, Japan’s state broadcaster: the scale of the disaster is overwhelming and that it continues with earthquakes and the failure of fail-safe measures at several nuclear plants … I am deeply concerned about everyone affected. Disasters like this remind me to be thankful for what I have and thankful that I am in a position to help.

Lost Hours

You’ve lost an hour to daylight savings; make it up to yourself by listening to This American Life episode #425: Slow to React. I’ve been listening to TAL since we lived in Chicagoland (2000-2002) and WBEZ was my local NPR station. Since I seem to be busy when WAMU broadcasts it locally in the DC area, tonight I caught up on some of the podcasts while decoupaging a bunch of tins I can’t bear to toss out. I’ll take & post some pictures on flickr once they’re done, probably tomorrow.

One of the stories in the TAL podcast made me angry about it again, Act 1: When I Grow Up. Really, you should listen to that first to see where I’m headed, or just throw caution to the wind (like I would) and read on.

It began the night that my friend Suzanne and I pulled the switcharoo on our parents, telling our fathers we were spending the night at the other’s house. After soccer practice, we walked into town, to Mt. Peg via Golf Avenue, and chose a camping spot to dump all of our stuff. We were free! Free for the night! Free to go to my uncle, Joel’s, party! Free to sleep under the stars! Free to pretend that being 15 and a sophomore in high school is cool (I’ve since concluded that almost no one enjoys their teen years or feels at all cool, or cool enough).

Joel was having a party at my grandmother’s house, the trailer in Beaver Meadow. She’d already shacked up with her boyfriend and he had planned a huge party for … I don’t remember now. His birthday? Octoberfest? He told my Dad & stepmother about it, and they were going to stop by after they got out of work, around 11 or 12. He also told me that I was welcome to come by also, and wanting to be more grown-up than I really was (one of the great labors of my life until I stopped getting carded), Suzanne and I hatched our plan: we would pull a switcharoo (most assuredly not what we called it) and would either hide or be long gone by the time they got there; we assumed there would be other parties to go to that night.

We caught a ride with some older friends and started drinking beer from the keg as soon as we got there. Joel and his friends had a bonfire going, music and a bar (really just the keg, as I recall) set up in the shed/lean-to. I felt safe drinking; I was at my grandmother’s house, a very familiar place, hanging out with my much-older uncle that everyone told me was hot and he was treating me as an equal. My Dad’s youngest brother, Joel, is the same age as my oldest cousin on the Kinne side of the family, the same age as my half-brother. Growing up, he was more of a cousin than an uncle, or perhaps somewhere in between.

I went into the house to use the bathroom, probably after a couple of plastic cups of beer. When I came out of the bathroom, Joel was there. He cajoled me into one of the bedrooms, saying he wanted to talk to me about something privately. I don’t remember what he said before he kissed me, on the mouth, with tongue, and my reaction was, for many reasons, all of which have caused me great shame, to kiss back. Then the rational part of my brain kicked in and I pushed him away, or as away as you can get without being let go of. Trying not to let on how freaked out and panicked I was, and hoping for a strategy that would get me out of the room and away without a confrontation (which I seem to instinctively avoid, even at great cost to myself), I tried to reason with him (and me) that this was wrong. I don’t remember how I did get away, but I didn’t tell anyone about that for a long time. I am still ashamed that I responded in-kind instead of with immediate disgust.

I rejoined Suzanne and our friends, and we continued drinking. Time seems to speed up at parties and before I knew it, I saw my Dad and stepmother in a group of people on the edge of the party. I don’t know if Joel told my Dad that we were there or if he just waited for him to notice us. I don’t remember if Suzanne and I did something to call attention to ourselves other than being drunk; by then, Suzanne couldn’t even walk straight and I had a hard time getting her up to go hide someplace.

My Dad was angry, of course, and probably shocked that I would pull something like that so early in my high school career. He wasn’t going to deal with 2 drunk 15-year-olds, though. He told me to call him in the morning after we slept it off. I don’t remember who called Suzanne’s Dad or if he called my Dad, but upon being found out by my Dad, Suzanne immediately started freaking out that hers would also show up. I don’t remember all of what happened, just that more drinking ensued and that there is a huge gap in my memory of the rest of the night. I don’t remember a lot of the details of the next day, like, for example, where I woke up. But I do remember Joel driving Suzanne and I into town, probably giving us a pep-talk the whole way about the risk we took and now having to face the consequences (though really: I don’t remember).

For the first and only time in my life my parents grounded me. The two-week (or was it three?) sentence was a huge hardship (imagine my eye roll and exaggeration here), considering my budding social life. At the time, I was spending weekends at Dad & Julie’s in Barnard, near the Bethel line, and the rest of the time at my Mom’s, the house in South Barnard.

It amazes me now that I forgave Joel for that initial transgression. It was not instantaneous. I avoided him and Scott – really, any Kinne family function that I could get out of. I was vigilant at first. But then he was there for me; he was the one house sitting for my Mom (really: smoking pot with his girlfriend) the hellacious night that winter when my first serious boyfriend broke up with me and Julie threw me out of the house for the first time (and my Dad let her). He was the one who comforted me & cheered me up the next day. I thought things could go back to normal, or close to normal after that. Normal with some caution on my part.  

Dad and Julie went to Florida every spring to spend time with her family. I had gone along for one of these trips, my junior year, when they went on their honeymoon in Hawaii. But my senior year, they had bred their Newfoundland and there was a litter of puppies that needed to be taken care of and a mama that needed to be fed more often than usual. After another house-sitting mishap for one of my Mom’s friends, which I’ll get to in another post, Julie acted like it was a huge deal to be left with a whole house all alone: she told me she’d talked to the neighbors (not likely) and they would be watching for a lot of cars going to the house (likely). I had something going on after school one day and wouldn’t be able to get home in time to take care of the dogs on-schedule, so my Aunt Sue pitched in and helped me out.

By this point, I’d finally honed in on getting out of Vermont via college, the further the way the better, and had stopped partying as much as I had by December of my senior year. Note that while my grades were good, (I made honor roll or high honor roll for every report card, was taking advanced classes for everything but math & science, and had gotten into NHS that fall), I wonder how much better I would have done with out all the drinking, smoking, pot-smoking (much of it contact high after I figured out that it puts me to sleep), and shrooming (4-5 times, tops). Maybe I would’ve gotten into Brown (first choice, turned down for early admission), fulfilling a not well-thought out fantasy of returning to Providence, where the Kinne roots are. Not that any of this really matters to this post other than me saying: hey, I was still a good kid, even for all of the bad things and not-so-great things.

So. There I am house sitting, perhaps the day before Dad & Julie & the twins are due to get home and who comes down the driveway but Joel. He was out driving and thought he’d stop by. We hugged. He didn’t let go. He gyrated into my hips and tried to get me to kiss him. “Playfully” held my hands behind my back. Told me that I wanted it, “You know you want it, don’t you?” Showing me that he was stronger than I was. I pretended that I was in a movie or on TV: what was I supposed to do next? I ran scenarios in my head of the options available to me. Chief among them were the ones that would keep him calm and me not hurt. While I tried to talk him out of this and convince him that I wasn’t interested and that force wasn’t going to help matters, I looked around for things nearby that I could hit him with. I calculated how fast I could get to the knife block in the kitchen if he let go of me, if I’d make it before he caught me. Contrary to all the movie & TV rape/incest scenarios, I actually talked him out of it. I don’t remember which magical phrase it was, but I could see the change in his demeanor. He let go of me, apologized, and left. As soon as he was out the door, I locked it. I locked the other door. I closed the curtains in my room (on the 1st floor). I kept the outside lights on all night.

The next day, when everyone came home, I couldn’t tell them, not right off the bat. In addition, Julie didn’t see how well I took care of the dogs, that the dishes were all clean & the counters wiped, or that I had borrowed my mother’s vacuum (a really good one with a rotating brush for the carpet). Instead, she focused on the hamper in the bathroom, a hamper I never used, and proceeded to throw me out of the house again after I had the nerve to talk back to her. She timed it strategically, I’m sure: my mother had separated from stepfather #1, the guy in the duplex in Hanover, and while she waited for the lease to be up on her condo in Wilder so she could move back in there, she rented a 2-room apartment in Bridgewater, in the basement of one of her brother’s girlfriends. For the rest of my senior year and the following summer, until I went to college, I slept on a metal roll-away bed just outside the bathroom in the eat-in kitchen, with my mother in her bed in the other room. I couldn’t tell either of them about what had happened until I was safely away at college. And their reactions were very similar to their reaction to me telling them about Scott: we’re not going to make waves by doing anything about this.

Things could have been much worse. The things that happened to me, that were done to me, are on the mild side of all the possibilities of what could have happened and what has happened to other victims of sexual abuse. Still, it has affected my life in ways I’m still coming to terms with. For example, my reaction to Joel making another hip-gyrating pass at me 20 years later when we all gathered around my father in the final weeks of him getting poked and prodded and probed to find out that he had pancreatic cancer. I also suspect that my parents probably wouldn’t have had success doing anything legal about either Scott or Joel. Any statute of limitations has long run out on all of it anyway, and so this is it; talking about what happened in public (or as close to public as I can get) is my only way to fight back and the only way I can warn other people. The weight of other possible victims weighs heavily on me.

But I’ve lost that hour and spent much more than another get the bare-bones (or as close to bare-bones, emotion-free, factual) story out. And though we’ve all lost an hour to spring, we’ll get it back in the fall when we need it most.

Ramblings, Grandma K., Senior Year

It doesn’t help me to know that I am not alone, at least not while writing. You’ve heard this story before: bored suburban mother/wife goes crazy while navel gazing, kid with (partially) crappy childhood pulls herself up and triumphs despite it all, brave woman tells the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth (at least the way she sees it). You’ve heard it all before, so why write it again? It’s all been written, there is nothing original, all the stories have been told. I have a tiny voice, often drowned out by the cacophony from the others, that says my story hasn’t been told and I haven’t told it in that way that is unique to me, and so here I am, posting again, which, by the by, is much different than how I write when I write in my journal (it’s been a while). 

I get really meta when I procrastinate, though I suppose that’s the very nature of procrastination: arguing with yourself to do something and losing. Also, I think there’s something about this time of year, when I’ve got to hold on just a little bit longer for spring, that makes doing anything beyond the necessary difficult. Hell, getting out of bed in the morning has been problematic lately; books are no longer my go-to escape world, my dreams have been pretty good for the last year and a half.

Perhaps you can see why there’s been such a gap between the last post and this; I’ve been busy procrastinating and dreaming.

I’ve gotten a lot of compliments and comments about how brave I am to tell the story this way, to tell the story at all. From my point of view, the worst has already happened. Bad things could still come out of this, I’m not completely naive (I hope), but I know that when they do, I will still be breathing when they’re over because that’s the real point: things happen and, much to my surprise, I keep going anyway, no matter how I feel (well, assuming I’m not that depressed).

I’ve also gotten indirect comments about letting things go, letting sleeping dogs lie, etc. This is exactly the advice, if you can call it that, my father gave me when I was 15 and in therapy for the first time: “Just let it go.” I would love to; can you tell me how to process the world without relying on past experience? Can you tell me how to make my brain stop replaying unpleasant things when I’m tired or down and generally feeling like a poor example for a human being? Recognizing that I do this – that my brain goes the extra mile to bring me down further – is the first step, of course. Fixing it is an entirely other process.

I fantasize sometimes that staying busy, becoming a workaholic or moving a third-world country where basic needs are an everyday concern (come on people: you are lucky to be reading this right now and I am lucky to be writing it) would solve the problem. I wouldn’t have a chance to think about the past, just the present. (And yes, meditation is on my list along with exercise.) But I was busy – I am busy, when I’m doing everything I should be doing. I had a child under 2, was pregnant with my second, my husband was working in a city 800 miles away, I was lucky to see him on weekends, and I was working full-time, sometimes more than full-time, writing manuals. We lived in an apartment without a washer or dryer that we generally could not park right in front of. To top it off, 2 months before I was due, Brandon broke his tibia and had to be carried everywhere until he figured out how to walk in a non-walking cast.

With all of that going on, I would still pick my old familiar problems up mentally and examine them, examine me, judging myself and finding myself lacking, particularly if I was tired (all the time) and if things weren’t going well.

Let me be clear, here, that I am not asking for sympathy or pity: just understanding and a little empathy. I’m trying to explain (and figure out, still) why I am me, why I do the things I do, why I react to things the way I do. Like a perpetual 3-year old, I still believe in the almighty answer to why, though I am working on straight out judgment, raw decision-making without the why: shitty people do shitty things and knowing why doesn’t make forgiveness or moving on any easier nor does it mean I won’t go back, take back the forgiveness, and find myself back at square one again – and endless loop. 

When last we left me, I had finished my junior year of high school, been fired from my live-in job, jetted off to visit my guy, came ‘home’ to my room at Dad & Julie’s, got a job at a B&B in town, and, of course that August, started soccer practice. I’ve been stuck trying to frame my senior year, trying to find the common thread (other than me) and I’ve realized I ironically achieved what my mother always accuses my father of: compartmentalizing all the parts of life so they don’t affect one another. So I suppose I will divvy it up, but I have to back track a bit to explain everything properly, to tell the story the right way.

Grandma

My grandmother, Dad’s mom, Betty, had started getting sick my sophomore or junior year – or maybe earlier; I’m not sure. My grandfather had died in 1982 and she started dating someone around the time that my parents’ marriage disintegrated. She shacked up with Henry (really, they were very sweet together) at least by spring on 1988, my sophomore year.

She was an alcoholic, though my grandfather managed to deny that to his dying day, in spite of watching her go through the DTs in the hospital when she broke her hip, and a heavy smoker. I don’t really remember when she was diagnosed with cancer, though I do know that it probably began when she was having thyroid problems (huge weight gains) and then was diagnosed with emphysema. She would cough so hard and so long that conversations stopped while her body tried to save itself convulsing. It was a smoker’s cough, to be sure, but constant and a full-body cough, like her body was trying to turn itself inside out.

And then the cancer diagnosis. Lung cancer. Esophageal cancer. Cancer of the larynx. Cancer cancer everywhere. I know now that cancer of the esophagus & is common in alcoholics. There was treatment – radiation, chemo. She had a tracheotomy at some point (that summer? my junior year? I don’t know) and her voice box was removed. I was very uncomfortable talking with her after that; I had a hard time understanding her when she used the electrolarynx. She wrote a lot of notes.

She did not quit smoking or, probably, drinking. I don’t think she stopped until she went into the hospital the last time in early November 1989. By that point she had an oxygen tank as well. Imagine all of the stereotypes of the smoker who can’t quit and she was it. She was who I thought of when I finally quit 2 years ago: I would rather kill myself quickly than suffer through that bottomless need, forget about the breathing problems and the cancers and pain.

I don’t remember a lot of the details of Grandma’s illness. Aside from being 17 and too cool to hang out with family, I avoided Dad and Julie as much as possible. After moving back in with them, Dad had decided to be parent again. I had a curfew, which I was more than happy to keep, and though I had spent the night at the house my boyfriend was staying at (the one who was out west) and he had spent many nights with me at the Braeside, Dad balked at me staying with the boyfriend in a hotel room shortly before he had to leave the area. Dad and I had a huge fight on the phone: “What will people think?” he said. I know he was concerned for me, but I laugh every time I think of this fight – what will people think? Well, what did people think when I lived on my own in a motel? What did people think when they found out he’d had an affair? What did people think when he got his girlfriend pregnant and then they didn’t marry? I did my best not to wonder what people thought and just do what I thought was right and so I spent the night with my guy.

Along with Grandma being ill, my stepbrother’s asthma was getting worse. The twins room was right over mine and, because I was smoking openly by then, my stepmother blamed his worsening asthma entirely on me. Much of that blame does lay squarely on my shoulders, but Dad and Julie did not figure out the solution – make the entire house non-smoking – until Peter spent the night in the hospital a few floors away from my grandmother. Even after the solution was reached, it mainly applied to me. Julie still toked up in the open living room-dining room kitchen though, if I recall correctly, she was not smoking cigarrettes at the time. When her parents visited, her mother sat in the mud room (also under the twins room) in front of an open window. This all sounds ridiculous now, like a farce. At the time, it just underscored how unwelcome I was in that house.

The night that Grandma died, I was at a friend’s house in Killington having a girl sleepover with her & another friend. Though it had started snowing pretty heavily early in the evening, I navigated over Sherburne Pass and into Rutland where we went grocery shopping (mainly for Pillsbury Cinnamon Buns) and rented Beaches.

A quick note on my high school friends: most of them came from families as dysfunctional as mine. One friend’s mother had tried to kill herself our freshman year and was later diagnosed with manic depression. Another’s mother and stepfather separated and divorced, but she stayed on with her stepfather so as not to have to change schools. One moved in with her much-older boyfriend our senior year and her family moved to another town out of the school district. And on – so many kids I knew who had messed up family situations. I would not have made it through everything without knowing that I wasn’t the only one or without my closest friends.

So Dad called my friend’s house to let me know that Grandma died. We finished watching Beaches, a sad movie to begin with, but I was glad to be with my friends instead of my family. I stayed the night – it wasn’t a good night to be out on the roads – and went home the next day.

The funeral was a few days later and was open casket, as my grandmother requested. I remember Aunt Sue remarking on Grandma’s fingernails; she always took great care of them and the funeral home had given her great final manicure. My brother had come home from the Navy and was staying … well, I’m not sure where. Perhaps with his high school girlfriend’s family, maybe with my mother, though (let me remind you and I) she was married and living in Hanover in an already-cramped duplex at the time.

To my surprise, Grandma left me some things; a snuff box with a lid that looks like tortoiseshell, some jewelry, her watch, and her engagement ring along with the original setting. To this day, I still don’t understand why she left the ring to me, of all people. Was it because of the guy I was dating, because our families were so close and she expected that we would be getting married? Was it because she knew I’d take care of it, save it, appreciate it? Of course my stepmother told me to not ever pawn it or sell it; perhaps she was speaking from experience? Or maybe she was preparing me for what was to happen over the course of the next year, mainly that they would move to Florida and any remaining semblance of support (i.e., financial) disappeared with them (I wrote several angry letters in college referring to the terms divorce decree so I could keep health insurance while I was in college).

So I still have everything, or almost everything. The ring. And the box. And the other do-dads, including the play tea set & porcelain doll (her name is Clara) she gave me when I was in 2nd or 3rd grade (probably when they sold the farm). I think I’m missing a few heart things; she loved hearts (and ducks, but I passed on the duck stuff). And since I’m linking, here is a clipping of her obituary and the laminated copy (front, back) given out at her service.

I went to the funeral, but not to the internment in Rhode Island. I used the excuse that I had to work, though my boss would have readily given me the day off and did send me home after I served breakfast that Saturday. Spending any amount of time with Dad and Julie, trapped in a car, was completely out of the question. I could have ridden down with someone else in the family, but really, I couldn’t handle it and so avoided it.

Shortly after grandma died and her will was executed (assuming there was one), the dispute over Beaver Meadow began. Scott & his family were living in the trailer my grandparents had moved into in Beaver Meadow after selling the farm; all agreed that they should stay. Joel and his girlfriend would get another part of Beaver Meadow on which to build a house. Aunt Sue had already been given part land in (what I think of and what may very well have been referred to as) the upper meadow at Wyman Lane & Gabert Road in the 60s. She & Uncle Terry built a house and lived there (mostly) until they divorced in the late 70s (I’m guessing about when they actually split). My father (though really, I suspect it was my stepmother pushing my father) felt that he should get a portion of Beaver Meadow as well because that was the fair thing.

Dad had been offered land in the upper meadow at Wyman Lane & Gabert Road, in fact, our first house was a trailer that on the top of the hill between Gabert & the farmhouse. My father had decided he did not want to go into dairy farming, probably when he signed up for the Marines shortly after high school. I think building a house so close to the farm, on the farm, in fact, would have meant Dad would get roped into helping out on the farm or maybe that would have been part of the agreement. At any rate, in 1974 or 1975 my parents bought the house in South Barnard and moved. I don’t know if my grandparents helped them buy it, but Joel (really, I suspect it was his girlfriend at the time) argued that Dad had basically turned down the land and his inheritance long ago.

The cat fight between my stepmother and Joel’s girlfriend, Debbie, was both epic and unnecessary. Left alone, Dad & Joel would have worked things out amicably; both are/were easy going. I don’t even know when it was finally resolved – December or January of 1990? But I do know Dad & Julie stopped hanging out with Joel & Debbie, who formerly been close enough to go on a trip to Hawaii together (Dad & Julie’s honeymoon trip in, I think, the spring of 1989, though they’d gotten married the previous summer).

With Grandma gone and a rift between Dad and Joel (though really, it was mainly between Debbie and Julie), the stage was set for Dad and Julie to pack up and move to Florida the fall of 1990. They probably started looking into it that winter, though I’m reasonably sure (fooling myself here?) that Dad waited for me to turn 18 before he really considering it seriously.

On My Own

Just before my 17th birthday, at the end of April of my junior year of high school, I moved out on my own, which consisted mainly of moving my things from Aunt Freda’s house into the manager’s quarters of the Braeside, the motel I worked at, with Cheryl, my alcoholic co-worker, and her 9 year-old. I had been working at the Braeside since I was 12 or 13, starting with babysitting and gradually taking on more responsibility. My manager’s marriage fell apart and she resigned, going to live with her father in southern NH and working for a company she had family ties with that ran midway stands at fairs over the summer. I’m fairly sure Annette, my manager, negotiated with the owner for Cheryl and I to move in. We were, after all, the work force, and with Annette and her car gone, neither of us would have a way to get to work cleaning the 12 rooms and running the front desk. So the owner, who owned a few other businesses in town but was based out of and owned more businesses in Maine, allowed us to move in, rent-free, in exchange for one of us being on the premises 24×7 while she looked for a new manager.

Initially, I think my parents and I kept up the ruse of visitation. I remember catching the bus to school from the Braeside only once or twice; it just far enough out of town that I’d have to use the narrow shoulder of Rt 4 to walk anywhere. Luckily, Susan Steele and her Dad, my 7th grade English teacher, drove to school every morning past the Braeside and offered to give me a ride when I needed it, which I remember initially not being every day.

The day I moved in I also had to work, cleaning rooms in the morning and watch the front desk in the afternoon, with just enough time to make one trip from Aunt Freda’s house. My mother ended up packing the rest of my things and brought it to my new room at the motel. She also went grocery shopping for me, getting some essentials, easy things that I could fix on my own.

The weirdest thing for me was that all of Annette’s things were, of course, moved out of the house, which was attached to the center back of the motel and included the front desk and reception area. The house looked weird, as houses do when they are emptied. I took a spare mattress and box spring from the motel storage, along with a spare dresser, and moved them into my room, which was over the front desk & reception area. Cheryl spent the afternoon moving her furniture, from a trailer on Hartland Hill Road to the rest of the house – she provided a kitchen table, living room furniture, and of course furniture for her bedroom and her daughter’s bedroom, all at the back of the house. When we were done, it still looked somewhat sad and empty, Annette-less.

I was relieved to finally be in one place, instead of spending nearly every night at a different house. Moving in with my Dad full-time wasn’t an option, since my stepmother had thrown me out the previous winter and we had just begun to reconcile at the beginning of the school year. Moving in with my Mom full-time wasn’t an option either, as I still didn’t want to switch schools and she didn’t want to drive me (or let me drive) from Wilder to Woodstock every school day. And though I’d kept my grades up, made honor roll in all of my classes (all of which were smarty-pants, advanced classes except for math and I’d taken 2 languages, French & Spanish), the constant moving was becoming overwhelming. So my parents took pity on me and allowed me to move into the Braeside.

I was hoping the Braeside would be a permanent solution to my housing dilemma until I graduated and went off to college, if that is in fact what I was going to do after graduation. I had started dating a guy who was a year older than me with whom I’d had various crushes on since junior high, when he started going to WUHS. Our families also knew each other well; our grandparents had been neighbors, my grandmother worked in his uncle’s shop for a long time. Moving into the Braeside gave us the freedom to spend whole nights together, which actually happened less than you might suspect.

The Braeside might have worked long-term in spite of all of the obvious things that were wrong with the plan. Cheryl and I got along well, her daughter and I got along well. Like many of my friends, I already had a fake ID that got me into bars, The Gin Mill in Queechee (phonetically 2 syllables, kwee-chee), which was located (to my continuing amusement) in the same building that now houses Mid-Vermont Christian School. We could get kegs in Rutland, or have older party friends get them for us. Moving in with Cheryl meant that I could get alcohol with less of a risk of getting caught.

My parents wouldn’t have to really parent me much as long as I kept my grades up and stayed out of trouble. They’d just have to keep in touch, make sure I had food, medical care if I got sick – things like that. I think by that point my Dad was already absorbed or overwhelmed with his new insta-family and had abdicated (in my mind, anyway) a lot of his parenting responsibility (particularly when he allowed his new wife to throw me out of their house).

My mother, who often said that she felt like she was growing up with me because her teen years had been so repressive, had been seriously dating a man, Bill, who lived in Hanover, NH (basically just across the river from Wilder) for about a year and a half. She met him at a Parents Without Partners meeting and they hit it off. He had four children from his previous marriage: two daughters who were in college, a son a year older than me, a daughter 2 or 3 years younger than me. He lived in a 3-bedroom duplex in Hanover owned by his mother, who lived in the other half.

Mom and Bill came to visit me at the Braeside one day in late May or early June. I was in the kitchen, doing dishes, and they were acting … strange. Not that smiling and holding hands is strange, but when Mom tried to get me to look at her left hand, palm down – that was strange. And I still didn’t get it; she actually had to tell me that they’d just come from (I think) Fred Doubleday’s (actually, Aunt Freda’s and my grandmother’s cousin – they were named after the same beloved Fred), the Justice of the Peace in Woodstock. They had gotten married. I was happy for them, assuming that was what they really wanted, live and let-live, if it makes you happy, etc., and if I wasn’t, I covered it up because I didn’t want to upset my Mom. This meant that Mom would move into Bill’s, because he needed to be near his mother, who had health problems, and he didn’t want my now-step-brother & step-sister to change schools, which would have been Hartford. She rented the condo in Wilder, I think to some Dartmouth grad students, and moved. What did I care, really? I had my own place; what my parents did no longer really affected me. And I had realized by this point, that I really had no say in what they did and that trusting either of them was risky.

By early June, the owner of the Braeside had found a new manager, who would live off-site but be responsible for operating the motel. Deb and her son Kenny had moved up from, if I recall correctly, Tennessee. Shortly after I met her, one of my friends told me that Deb was her Aunt. I knew my friend’s mother, and I guess I could see a family resemblance, but where my friend’s mom was quiet and rational, conservative in appearance (little to no make-up, generally dressing like everyone’s dream New England mom, i.e., preppy), Deb was outgoing, colorful both in words (southern accent & dialect) and dress (lots of jeans and reds) and makeup (lots). She gradually let it be known that she and Kenny had run from a man, perhaps an abusive man, and that her sister had helped her out by giving her a place to go and finding this job.

I wasn’t entirely sure of how true this story about the man was or really what to believe from either Deb or Kenny. To be honest, it really didn’t matter. What ended up mattering was this: Deb started asserting her authority as manager and I, in my youthful over-confidence, started to resist the change. Of course she was going to do things differently than Annette did, but I didn’t realize that then nor did I adjust well to the change. In some ways, I suppose you could see it as me resisting any authority. I mean really: on my own at 17? Why was that, exactly? Would an outsider assume I had authority problems? That may be how Deb saw it – I was just a kid and what the hell did I know?

But Deb was also a functioning alcoholic and the functioning part of the equation started to fall apart the more comfortable she got with Cheryl and I. At the beginning of July, Cheryl pointed out the bottle of Jack Daniels Deb had starting keeping in one of our kitchen cupboards and that she would start each work day with a shot or two in her coffee. She got so drunk one night at the Gin Mill that someone called us and drove her to the motel, where she crashed on the couch (or maybe in an empty room?).

Cheryl and I had no direct contact with the owner, although Annette was still checking in every now and then and we could have (or did? I don’t remember now) told the owner about what was going on. But we both knew that would be the kettle calling the pot black. My boyfriend came over one night after school ended, maybe his last weekend in town before he spent the summer out west working. Cheryl drank us both under the table – literally, to the point where I had to help my guy to the toilet. Cheryl and I both talked pretty freely about drinking a lot, so who were we to go to the owner with this when really, there was no evident damage?

Eventually, Deb and I had a confrontation. I don’t remember it very well, but it ended with her firing me and me being only too happy to get out of there. But now I had another problem: where would I go live? My mother had rented her condo. My cousin had taken my room (or was planning on taking it) at Aunt Freda’s. This left me with one option: my Dad’s house. I think he’s even the one I called to come get me after Deb fired me. And I must have been in touch with him and my mother, I’m pretty sure they both knew about what was going on with Deb.

So in mid-July, I moved into my Dad’s. Once again, Annette came to my rescue: I had three weeks before my boyfriend was flying me out to spend a week with him and Annette’s mid-way connection, her twin sister, needed help in the fried dough stand. The first fair I worked with them was in Norwich. The only thing I remember from that fair was stuffing a 1’x1’ block of shortening into the deep fryer, which was fun for the first 2 minutes and not so great after that. The next fair I worked was in Cornish, NH. The woman who ran the cotton candy and sno cone stand ended up needing help more than Annette and her sister, so I learned how to make cotton candy and sno cones. The Cornish fair was much busier than the Norwich fair and at the time, I remember realizing that I was too busy to look for anyone I knew. It’s funny to me now, but I didn’t even know enough to look around for J.D. Salinger or his wife, who figures prominently in the Cornish Fair, particularly with quilts.

The last fair I worked was further south in New Hampshire, probably somewhere around Keene. I spent the weekend with Annette in her sister’s family’s trailer, which was literally a trailer hauled by an 18-wheeler converted into living space. I think I slept on the living room floor or the couch and I was ever so thankful for the shower in that trailer. I really liked working in the cotton candy stand; it got so busy that you no longer had to think, just do. Not-thinking requires a lot of soda (to replenish the fluid lost through hot humid afternoons in what is essentially a little tin box) and as much cotton candy as you can get away with (a lot; I never got sick of it).

Annette’s husband was supposed to pick his daughter up on Sunday for a visit that during that coming week. He had agreed to give me a rider to my Mom’s, in Hanover, where I’d get my laundry done, get a good night’s sleep; the next morning she would drive me to Manchester, NH and I’d fly out to spend a week (or two?) with my guy. Well, he didn’t show up. She called and waited, called and waited, and pretty soon, it was getting late. It became clear that he wasn’t going to show up, so Annette drove me to the bus station in Brattleboro and paid for my bus fare to White River, Jct, where my mother picked me up. I felt awful for Annette’s daughter, who had been looking forward to a visit with her Dad. She didn’t understand why he hadn’t shown up (neither did I). I found out that later, he thought it was the following weekend (or so he said).

Arriving late, too late to do my laundry according to my mother, and tired and with a plan (for the night and my life) that went completely off the rails, arriving in a house that really had no room for me – a house planned with me specifically not in the picture (I would bunk on the couch) – I lost it. I think the laundry issue was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I started yelling, screeching probably, and throwing things around. My mother was trying to shush me because (I thought, and still think) “Oh my god! What will my new mother-in-law think? What will my new neighbors think?”

I had had similar outbursts (if I’m being somewhat objective) or tantrums (as they are known in my family) for much of my life. Definitely tantrums was I was smaller, though I’d called down from, say, 7-13, and then with the divorce and puberty I started losing it again occasionally. One day shortly after my parents split, probably June or July of 1986, I took the little goldfish bowl and the three resident zebra danios (which I’d gotten for my 13th birthday, in early May), told my mother I didn’t want them anymore, and proceeded outside with them. When she tried to stop me on my way to the brook across the street where I was clearly going to dump them, maybe by telling me they’d die in the brook, I ended the very short argument with some shrieking and by smashing the bowl on the ground and running back in the house to hide in my room (“If you’re going to bawl, go bawl in your room,” I had heard many times and so that is where I went.)

So this latest outburst was nothing really new for my mother. But unlike previous outbursts, I had no safe place to run to – it wasn’t my house, it would never be my house. I ran out the front door and down the street and ended up in a hedge up against (I think) some condominiums. I heard my mom & step-family trying to find me, but I stayed in the bushes until I calmed down and then I walked back to the duplex. I did do laundry that night, though there was not enough time to dry everything so I wore a damp dress on the plane for the reunion with my beloved, who’s family life was even worse than mine.

I’m sometimes surprised I actually came home from that trip. It would have been so easy to start a life out west, but that wasn’t what I wanted: I didn’t want to run away, I wanted to legitimately get out, to graduate from high school, make all of my hard work and advanced classes count for something by getting into college and then living happily ever after. The happily ever after of not going to college, or not going far enough away, wasn’t so happy – I associated a lot of my unhappiness with Vermont and, of course, my family (for one other reason I still haven’t explained). Though I ran away, or threatened to run away, many times when I was younger (let’s say, under 10), when actually faced with the possibility, I couldn’t leave everything behind and do it.

When I got home, my Dad had found a car in my budget and bought it with the money that I had been saving. He helped me set up insurance, which I paid for, showed me how to check & fill the oil, and one weekend, replaced the muffler. I found another job that August; I would work Saturday and Sunday mornings at the Village Inn serving breakfast to guests and stay through 4pm, when the owner would come back and to check guests in and start setting up for dinner. I also must have started late summer soccer practice.

I also ran into Cheryl and her daughter somewhere, probably that fall. Cheryl had started AA and had met a man, another recovering alcoholic, there. She told me that one night, not long after I left, she drank so much that she blacked out, which wasn’t that unusual. But she had beat her daughter. Cheryl was (and is, I assume) a gentle, well-intentioned woman who would never do that to her daughter, but the evidence was there in the bruises and the overturned furniture. She stopped drinking. I don’t know under what circumstances she left the Braeside, or where she or her daughter are now. They are, I guess, two of the people I left behind and didn’t look back for, too afraid of slipping into that life myself.

So things fell apart and came back together again, but not for long.

Dear Dogs

Dear Jacey, Lily, and Moose,

I know we’ve had this conversation before and it’s obvious to me that you did not absorb the information I have attempted to communicate in the past. First of all, please learn English, learn how to read, and get a device that will connect to the web to read this post. God knows there’s enough equipment laying around the house that you could use, even without opposable thumbs.

The mailman drives by our house twice every day except for Sunday and government holidays. I expect you to recognize him as a non-threat after – how long has it been? 5 years? more? – and yet you continue to bark at him like he’s going to hop the curb and crash his little truck into the house. That goes for the FedEx guy and the UPS guy too, even though I suspect they’re often exceeding the speed limit as they careen down the street.

In addition, please stop barking and charging the door every time the doorbell rings. You guys should be smart enough to bark only after you figure out whether or not it’s someone we know. A sure sign of this is when I say “It’s okay! It’s ____!” Door-to-door salespeople are definitely bark-worthy, but not if they’re Brownies or Girl Scouts. We all get excited when the doorbell rings; all I’m asking is for a silent charge to the door.

And while I’m pretending you understand what the hell I’m saying and might actually comply (would a sticker chart help?), could whoever’s been marking Ethan’s room and the basement please stop? You should have gotten the message after we gave all 3 of you dirty looks while spraying Nature’s Miracle everywhere. But no, we had to pull out (and actually use!) the carpet cleaner. I even spent money on some dog repellent stuff that obviously doesn’t work. So, let me say plainly: please urinate outside only. We all know who’s house this is, but you don’t see me peeing on the carpet, do you?

With love and treats for good dogs,

M