My Grandpa was a typical low income American from immigrants living in New England. I'm under the impression they were from the Finnish/Russian border area. You can do the math on that one concerning my anti communism stance, "for I know evil when it is before me".
They called him Patchy because he was from The Patch. His birth name was Berthel Ragnar. He was a very handsome man. I look almost exactly like him but a female, and I hope a way more attractive version. The jaw, the beady eyes, the pretty good skin, and the most excellent strong cheek bones. All of which I did not choose. That is not a proposition of life.
My father grew up in a tenet house in a factory town in Massachusetts (thank you spell check). The town had a grey tint to it, the grass, the sky...all the time. I think it was despair. His father was an alcoholic that would disappear for days and weeks...I've even heard months. My father didn't tell me this...I was just listening when everyone else thought I was talking. I didn't hear much bad talk, it was mostly how much he loved his grandchildren, particularly my older sister with her locks of golden hair. Mine was always dirt brown and stringy. I don't remember this grandpa well. I remember when he died though...or was very sick and looking through to deaths door. He died of cancer...you have to whisper that word in a factory town.
We were living in Seeb, Oman. I think it was around 1978...?
The phone wasn't used often; and my mom was on the phone a lot I had noticed. It wasn't cheap to call long distance back in the day. (Holy shit I have to say back in the day and actually mean it.) You didn't have a chance to talk to your family much...you wrote letters bitches. There was a desk to the right of the door to the hallway outside, on our very shiny terrazzo floors . They were ivory white with bits of black, and grey with tiny sand colour sprinkled throughout (that terrazzo floor is a story unto itself). The phone was on the right of the desk and to the left was a stack of air plane tickets to be filed out. We were different then normal people...because my father worked for Pan Am and Pan Am was kick ass.
When we would go back to the States it was always an event. Traveling always meant, best manners, best behavior and a lovely hop to Bahrain on Gulf Air. Gulf Air hops were always worrisome for me more so than the 727's and on an awesome trip...the 747's. Their aircraft were small and always felt rickety. The siding inside would shake and rattle and not just during take off and landings. The orange juice was really tang and I hate tang. You also had to know where all the exits were, how to open the plane door and what to do in case of a hijacking. We always had to be aware of our surroundings. There were wars literally to the left and to right of us, Dofar and, well all that Iran shizzle and all the other lovely events that seem to have happened since the beginning of time...and never, ever, wear polyester because it will melt to your skin in a fire.
To add on to travel fun for parents of 4 lovely children, when we arrived in New York, before deregulation, you had to switch airports coming and going. One for International travel (Newark?) and the other for domestic (LaGuardia?).
"Taxi!" My dad would yell as we all lined up with suitcases inside suitcases. On the way home they would be filled to the brim with hubba bubba and new clothes...and anything else someone might have needed for us to pick up. My dad hated/hates New York and worse the drivers, he didn't swear in front of us girls and if ever did he still says, "Excuse my French." My mom on the other hand swears like a sailor thats been out to sea too long. Oh wait that's me, I just get it from her. I liked it when we would get one of the old taxies with the doors that opened in opposite directions. I still feel at home most amongst old things. I think it's in my blood.
My first ex husband wrote a paper for his Masters on air line deregulation so I know almost everything from every angle on it to an absurd point. I'm hearing while you all think I'm talking yo;).
I don't recall where we always stayed when we would go back east, if it was Mrs. Balls house or not, but I do remember something of the sort. Mrs. Balls house was an old wine coloured Victorian on Chestnut Street, the light shined a bit brighter there. She was nice to me. She rented out rooms, like the Forrest Gump story but completely different. There were stairs when you came in the house, nothing grand and palatial, but had a great sliding rail. Up the stairs was a hallway and three doors; heavy, dark wood sturdy doors. We would go to the one on the right, I think. I spent most my time outside playing super heroes, I was always Storm or Wonder Woman, or in the kitchens. Inside stuff was boring. We weren't allowed to be bored. Only uninteresting people allow themselves listlessness.
This would be a different time though. There was no travel for the 4 of us kids. My brothers went to The Rodgers, Carol and Mr. Rodgers and my sister and I packed a small bag each and headed to the Batstones. It was like a vacation to me. I didn't care if I slept on the floor. I loved staying with them. Mr. Batstone was the 'Weather' man, he would call me his little white witch. White witches control the storms. Mrs. Batstone had to stitch me up a few times, she was a legit nurse. She was one of my moms best friends in the whole wide world. ( I think there are only two for my mom. She's blessed to have had them and I am too because I got to have them in my life for a time as well). I think she was one of the Sultans nurses, maybe that's a story I made up though. They had two kids, Charles and Rachel. I looked up to Charles, he was good friends with my older brother. Rachel was way cooler and a year or two older than me and friends with my sister. I was just a little kid that was always climbing and falling and spying and talking. I've had so many stitches I've lost count. They used to called me scarface. The scars have faded with time.
I didn't miss my grandfather after he left us, I didn't really know him.
"Every thing dies."
...and I was young and busy.
This is an adults perspective of a child's life events. Memories morph from a child's perspective to an adults perspective. Some of my accounting is wrong. I'm sure of it...memories blend with memories and we create that which we want to see so the past will fit our today. This is a tenet of my life.
No comments:
Post a Comment