A Foggy Memory

It was the last period of the day – gym class.  After dressing down into shorts, a T-shirt, and sports bra, Ashlynne moved from the locker-room into the gym.  Coach was setting up for basketball scrimmages.  Ashlynne was never athletically gifted – coordinated enough to smack a softball and run bases in the church league, and enough rhythm to cheer and do a dance routine, but running while dribbling a big orange ball?  Throwing the ball to a teammate without mixing up steps and dribbles into a travel?  Forget it.

An hour ago Ashlynne’s mom, Kaitlyn, blew a gasket; Ashlynne used her lunch money to buy small bags of chips at the vending machine instead of utilizing the school’s excuse for a lunch program.  Her mother’s reaction surprised Ashlynne; the two had always joked about how disgusting school lunches are.  She didn’t imagine her mother was upset about the nutritional value of potato chips – this was the woman who kept the house stocked up on Little Debbie snacks for breakfast and after-school snacks.  Who refused to buy apples and bananas because she didn’t think her children would eat them.  Yeah, sometimes the fruit went bad.  But, hey, there were Little Debbies to devour, too.

Kaitlyn was probably pissed because the school secretary called her at work when Ashlynne tried to cash the check meant to cover this week’s lunches.  Ashlynne noticed the secretary wincing when she overheard Kailtlyn yelling over the phone.  A bubble burst – they were not a perfect family if her daughter was skipping meals and eating junk at school.  What did Ashlynne think her mom had been working for all this time?!  Ashlynne didn’t share her opinion that Kaitlyn worked because she couldn’t stand being shut up in the house with twin babies.  It didn’t help that last year Kaitlyn had shared a memory with Ashlynne; one of how colicky baby Ashlynne was and how difficult it was to put up with the constant upset stomach, the loud cries.  The only one who could ever calm her down was her older brother, Hunter.  He’d sing softly in the rocking chair, walk around outside in the evening breeze, snuggle in his own bed until Ashlynne fell asleep.  Kaitlyn had some peace this way, was able to tend to baby Ethan, Ashylnne’s twin.  It was no wonder to Ashlynne that Kaitlyn ran to work.  This was, of course, not how Kaitlyn saw the memory.  Kaitlyn meant it was hard to hear her baby be in such discomfort and feel like there was nothing that would truly help.  But of course, teenage Ashlynne heard what she wanted to hear, heard an echo of the truth she accepted in her heart.  There was something wrong with her from the very beginning. 

Ashlynne didn’t bring up that conversation – just mumbled an apology she didn’t really feel.  Kaitlyn said they would discuss the issue later that evening and then she slammed the phone down on her end, leaving Ashlynne to stare at the receiver in her hand before quietly placing it back on the cradle on the office desk.  The school secretary looked at Ashlynne with sad eyes, handed her five lunch tickets in exchange for her mother’s check, and offered a couple dollars for the vending machine.  “I’m sorry,” she said.  “I didn’t think –”

“It’s okay,” Ashlynne cut her off.  She picked up the lunch tickets, left the dollar bills on the desk, and walked to the girls’ locker-room.  In the bathroom area, she grabbed paper towels, soaked them in cold water, and held them to her face as tears spilled past her eyelids and turned the cold rough paper warm.  When the tears stopped, she threw the paper towels away, soaked fresh ones in cold water, and again held them to her face until the splotchy redness faded from her cheeks.  Then she dressed down and made her way out to the gym.

Not wanting to add more frustration to her day by being confronted by a lack of athletic ability, Ashlynne asked Coach if she could just run laps all period instead.  He looked at her like she was a nut.  “You’d rather run for fifty minutes instead of playing ball?” 

“Yeah.  Is that alright?”  When he shrugged his ascent, she started off.  Around the outside of the basketball court, up the stairs to the bleachers, across the very top, down the stairs, and around the court again.  The class started every day with five laps, and Ashlynne found extra comfort in the monotony.  One foot in front of the other was something she could dominate.  Around the court, up the steps, across the top of the bleachers, back down the steps and around the court again.  Her cross-trainers beat a rhythm against the backdrop of the bouncing basketballs and the triumphant cheers of her classmates as they drove in lay-ups and sunk three-pointers.  Ashlynne stomped up the stairs to the bleachers, slapping out her frustrations with every step.  Why couldn’t the secretary just cash out the check?  And offering a couple dollars for chips after she overheard Kaitlyn's berating?  Ashlynne don’t want her pity.  Yeah whispered a voice inside.  You’re feeling sorry enough for yourself as it is.

Around the basketball court, pound up the stairs, across the top of the bleachers, down the stairs again, around the court.  Ashlynne’s calves were burning now, her sides ached.  Her breaths were heavy puffs, gasps.  She liked this; the physical pain numbed her emotions.

Pounding up the stairs again, she began releasing her anger.  Realized her mom was probably just having a stressful day and had overreacted to the exchanging check issue.  They’d talk about it tonight, unless Kaitlyn forgot and just got wrapped up in a show instead.  Was it wrestling night?  Law & Order?  Some new reality contest series?  As the sweat ran down Ashlynne’s neck, making her shirt cling to her back, beading in a pool between her breasts, she felt her stresses float away, evaporating off her mind as her body tried to cool itself.

Eventually she was lost in the slap, slap, slap of her feet on the gym floor, the stompstompstompstomp as she puffed up the stairs again, the basketballs pounding on the floor and her classmates hollering at each other as they enjoyed their game.  Down the stairs, around the court, up the stairs again.  Across the bleachers and down, ‘til Coach blew his whistle and shouted, “Shower!”

Ashlynne slowed to a stop, leaned against the brick wall of the gym, and drew in ragged breaths, trying to bring her heart to a slower, steady rhythm.  When she wasn’t fighting for every breath any more, she headed to the locker-room.  The busses would leave to take students home in about twenty minutes.

Normally she didn’t bother with a shower in the locker-room after gym class, preferring to wait for the privacy of a shower at home.  So did the other girls – well, most of them stayed after school for track or softball practices and would get sweaty all over again anyway.  Ashlynne normally didn’t work this hard in gym, though.  Her clothes clung to her body, her pony tail was drenched.  Sweat streaked across her splotchy red face.  You look ridiculous that voice taunted again.  But, no one could tell she'd been crying before class.

Ashlynne decided to at least rinse off before changing back into her regular clothes.  She didn’t have a towel, though.  Crud.  She decided just to do the best she could, subbing her sweatshirt for a towel.

In the shower area, Ashlynne chose a corner faucet out of view of the entrance, hung her sweatshirt-towel on a hook a few feet away, and turned the shower faucet on, giving the water time to heat up before she stepped beneath the spray.  She stripped out of her clothes and tossed them in an opposite corner.  Before long, the shower area was full of steam and the water was hot – too hot to stand under. 

Although Ashlynne had never showered at school before, there was an eerie familiarity in the steam-filled room and the hot water searing her skin.  The sound of water hitting the concrete floor felt amplified; every drop that splattered at her feet echoed in her head.  Muffled out the banter of the girls by the lockers.  The steam was everywhere; she couldn’t see the faucet control on the wall, had to feel blindly until her hand settled on it and turned the dial.  The water still burned as she stood under the spray, but she clenched her jaw and tipped her head side-to-side, rotated under the burning spray till all the sweat drained away.  Ashlynne lost herself in the familiarity – it wasn’t a comfortable knowledge, and she wanted to figure out what dark something was lurking.  A memory of a hot shower, a room full of steam, a dial she couldn’t find, water she couldn’t cool.

She turned her back to the shower, yanked the elastic band out of her hair, and tipped her head back as the water ran over her head, down both sides of her body.  She discovered bright red rivers twisting across her breasts and stomach.  She stared at her body, unable to make sense of the painful awareness, unable to place her memory.

“Ashlynne?!”  A voice snapped her away from trying to figure out what was going on and her heart slammed into her chest, panicked.  Hunter?  Shit!  She could have sworn that was her oldest brother’s voice, though reason dictated it must’ve been coach, trying to prod her along.  Hunter wasn’t even in the state anymore.  She had to get dressed and run to catch the bus home, or she’d have to wait at the school until her parents picked up Ethan from practice.  Which meant Kaitlyn would have to cook dinner tonight.  “One more way you’ll disappoint her today,” piped Ashlynne’s inner voice.

Ashlynne pushed the negative thoughts aside, turned off the water, grabbed her sweatshirt and briskly dried off – as well as she could with a sweatshirt, anyway.  She slipped the damp sweatshirt over her head, gathered her gym clothes, and headed to the lockers.  Hastily pulled on her jeans – no panties, they were sweat-soaked – and stuffed the rest of her clothes and her cross trainers in her bag.  Her wet hair left little rivulets across her cheeks and forehead.  She slipped into flip-flops and rushed out of the gym, toward the busses.  “Don’t get left behind,” she heard Coach calling after her.

Little kids were lined up outside the small elementary school; there were still a couple minutes until the bus would leave.  At her small country school, elementary, middle school, and high school students all rode together.  Ashlynne slowed to a walk and had her breathing under control again when she climbed the bus steps, said “Hi,” to the driver, and chose a seat toward the back of the bus.  All she could think about at that moment, as she leaned against the window and stretched her feet across the seat, was why her mind screamed “Hunter!” in a panic when the coach called her name.

She closed her eyes and tried to push all thoughts out of her mind, but the edges turned black and everything flooded – the conversation with Kaitlyn, skipping lunches, the creepy feeling in the shower, and hearing Hunter’s voice in the middle of everything.  Anger built up inside and she desperately wanted to change into running clothes and make everything melt away.

She heard another voice just then.  “Jeez, you look like shit.”  And a chuckle.  Right away she knew it was Ethan’s friend, Colt, but she wasn’t in a mood to joke around or be pestered.  She just wanted everything to disappear.

Thunder shower

I'm still polishing some newer pieces, but here's a snippet from what feels like a lifetime ago: one-year-old Christina greets a thundershower.

One summer evening - it must have been mid- to late-July - Christina and I were playing in the front yard.  It was a warm evening, an enjoyable break from the typical sweltering summer heat I still haven't grown accustomed to after a lifetime of living in southern Idaho.  I sat on the porch swing and swayed in the gentle breeze while Christina ran across the grassy yard chasing leaves that floated at the whim of the wind.
Just as I was calling to Christina to come a little closer to me - she had ventured deeper into the lawn, further away than this new mother was comfortable - a great gust of wind sent all of the leaves in the yard twirling skitter-scatter in the air, each caught in tiny little twisters, dancing around my baby and evoking shrill peals of laughter.
Soon after, the sky turned gray, but was quickly lit with a great flash followed by a tremendous ka-kra-boom!  A typical summer thunderstorm was brewing and I jumped up, ready to race to Christina's rescue and quay the fears and tears she was sure to have after such loud noises and bright flashes.  As I rose to my feet, though, the most surprising sight greeted me.  While my heart was racing and my ribs still rattling over the recent unexpected skylight, Christina was merely amused.  She stood in the yard, dancing - a motion which consists of bending the knees repeatedly while sticking her buns out behind her, arching her back, and smirking - and waving at the sky.  She wasn't frightened at all.  Apparently thunder storms were an invention God designed specifically for her amusement.  And, so long as the thunderbolts failed to pierce the rain clouds, I was more than happy to let Christina dance and wave at this new experience.

Lessons in Confidence

My babies are giving me lessons in confidence.  Let me explain.

I love watching my children play at the park.  I am continuously amazed at the way Christina makes friends.  You have long hair?  I have long hair!  You’re six?  I’m 6 ½!  Your knees are skinned?  Mine, too!  Let’s be best friends until it’s time to go!  I’ll race you down the slide, across the monkey bars, to the teeter-totter!  And laughter and merriment ensue, interrupted only to offer me staccato comments on their play, as though I’m not sitting on the bench watching her enjoy herself.  Mom!  My friend over there, he’s really fast and he likes running with me.  Christina runs off to chase her new friend.  Mom!  That girl over there has long hair like me.  Christina runs over to said girl, they hold hands while running to the slides.  Mom!  I found a girl.  She’s in first grade like me.  She has a little sister, too, only she’s three and Hope is four!  Christina gives me big hugs and kisses my cheek, then runs off to join her friend again.

Watching Hope feels more akin to my childhood social memories.  She enjoys playing with her sister, and plays with whatever other children Christina is playing with, but breaks away after a while to walk around and explore on her own.  Hope swings by herself, finds a pile of rocks to reorganize, feels the rough bark on a tree, swings a stick around to fend off some monster.  I take the stick away before she can whack someone.  She finds an older girl with a fistful of lilacs and asks to smell the tiny white flowers.  The girl gives her a group of them, Hope runs over to me and squeals over the flowers’ delicate beauty.  Insists I put them in my bag so she can have them forever.  Hope sees a woman with a toddler; wanders over to them and engages the mom in conversation.  I like your baby’s dress and her shoes.  The mom smiles and says thank you.  I like the look of your baby’s face.  The mom laughs.  Hope has a unique way of phrasing things sometimes.  Hope tries to play with the little girl; the little girl grabs fistfuls of sand and – before the other mom or I can prevent what’s about to happen – dumps it on Hope’s head.  The mom apologizes repeatedly, and I brush the sand away from Hope’s scalp as best I can.  The mom reprimands the toddler, the toddler cries, Hope looks confused – why did that baby dump sand on me?  Why is she crying?  The mom tries to get her little girl to apologize to Hope; the little girl refuses.  Hope tries to hug the little girl; the little girl screams louder.  Mom scoops up her child, apologizes to me again, and says she has to go.  Hope tells her Bye.  I like the look of your necklace and runs off to find Christina again.  They play some more, but Hope’s soon by herself again, walking slowly around, picking fistfuls of dandelions, singing made up songs.

Hope’s dance is different from Christina’s – Hope engages with adults, peers, and babies – though for Hope, anyone younger than three years old is a baby.  Christina focuses on who she considers her peers: six- and seven-year-olds.  Christina’s not mean or rude to children who don’t fit her preferred group, but she’s not excited about them, either.  She doesn’t squeal tidbits of information about the five-year-olds at the park.  Hope rarely interrupts her activities to seek my approval.  When she’s done picking flowers or sorting rocks or slaying imagined monsters, she’ll report to me.  She’ll share her adventures, but not interrupt them; she’s already confident in her four-and-a-half-year-old independence.  Christina's forging confidence; she flits back and forth between her newly-made friends and her mommy.  She’s flirting with independence the best way an almost-seven year old can, I reckon.  Putting her tender little self out there, sharing little pieces of her heart with her peers and trusting that they will find some common ground together.  And when – hooray, success! ­– common ground is indeed found, she runs back to me for confirmation, to hear that’s wonderful and I’m happy for you or I’m glad you’re having so much fun.

And it is wonderful and I am truly so happy for her, that she feels confident enough in herself to do those things that I struggle with today, have struggled with my entire life: giving another person an honest look at who I am, what I value, where my life experiences have taken me.  

Grandma

I can see her now, in the kitchen.  A pair of blue slacks like the sky on a clear day.  A flowery blouse – no sleeves – with a collar.  The only woman I can think of who wasn’t afraid to show her arms in her older years.  She was always proud of her petite frame.  We could have shared clothes in my teenage years, had our styles aligned.

I must’ve been about five that morning, maybe six.  No doubt still in my pjs, home-cut mullet still rumpled and ratty with sleep.  Morning breath probably thick in my speech – we never brought toothbrush & toothpaste with us.  Why would we?  We didn’t use them at home. 

Grandma never seemed to care, though.  I close my eyes and see her smiling at that ratty little girl, a big hug as she wished me good morning.  She was making pancakes.  She made the best pancakes – light and fluffy, wonderfully golden brown.  As many as we could stand to eat.  With warm syrups and bacon and hot cocoa, too.

The best part of pancakes with Grandma wasn’t the smell – melted butter and hot coffee, a freshly baked cake to devour after our evening dinner.  It wasn’t the pastoral setting – high on a hill, miles of pasture around us, not another house in sight.  It never occurred to me then that someone must’ve come out to tend those fields.  Grandpa never did.  I wonder about that now, decades later.

No, the best part of pancakes at Grandma’s was that Grandma could make pancakes in just about any shape you could ask for.  Stars, crescent moons.  My brothers teased her, asking for basketballs or watermelons – obviously she could do those.  My request was always the same, and she must’ve known what I’d ask for as sure as she knew the sun would shine down its golden warmth or that Grandpa would catch the most fish that afternoon.

Still, after a tight, morning-breath-drenched, I-love-you-this-much hug, she asked me, “What shape pancake do you want this morning?”

And her eyes twinkled with delight as mine surely must have, too, when I answered, “A bunny rabbit!”  I’ve tried, in my adulthood, to make bunny rabbit pancakes and they inevitably bear better resemblance to watermelons and amoebas.  I did, however, surprise my girls with heart-shaped pancakes for Valentine’s Day.  And I enjoyed, as Grandma must’ve, the amazed look on their faces, disbelief in their voices, “How did you do that?  How did you make these?”  Christina was convinced someone had taught me.  And as she and her sister devoured their holiday treats, I drifted back to that kitchen, the dining room with shag carpeting, and I saw a lovely lady in pants blue like a robin’s egg, a flowered sleeveless blouse, hot pink lipstick her only makeup.  Hair freshly curled in tight, short curls.  Soft eyes smiling over a coffee cup while her granddaughter devoured bunny rabbit pancakes and cocoa.  In that moment, watching my girls live out a moment of my history, I was intensely thankful that not all of my early childhood memories are sad ones.