Several years ago, my sweet sister came up to Alabama to help me care for my mother who had Alzheimer’s. It was a difficult time for me and there were times, I thought I would surely die before she did.
You see, mother not only had Alzheimer’s but she was a bi-polar schizophrenic with Alzheimer’s!
When my step father died, I had asked her doctor for some meds to keep her manageable, which he was kind enough to provide me. The problem however was getting her to take them. Getting her to take them resulted in me getting a black eye, which had my brother not seen it coming and blocked it would have resulted in a far worse shiner than it was. It was still bad. Mother had not handled the death of her husband well and I had noticed a marked difference in her behavior afterward. Understandably of course.
There were many times early on in their relationship that I had wondered if those two even loved each other. I had always thought he married her to give his four children a mother. He was in the Navy and gone all the time and his kids had been taken away from their mother due to abuse and neglect and were now in foster homes in Boston.
Little did he know mother’s mental state, as she was absolutely charming when she wanted to be. So, here these poor kids go from one abusive parent to another and he’s away at sea.
Mother on the other hand, was needing to get away from her abusive, inattentive, unambitious husband (my father). Mother had grown up poor and she aspired to be rich in America and that was the last thing my father would ever strive for. Even so, she’d learned some bad habits from him when it came to discipline which we paid for dearly.
Many years later, we’d all managed to survive and they, my step father and her, had managed to stay together. Granted early on he’d been away most of the time. When he retired from the Navy, he went to college for a short time, but with her ragging on him all the time, he finally took on as a trucker, where he’d be gone for long periods. She had many solitary days in the middle of nowhere on a couple of acres in California. Eventually, they’d move to Tennessee. While he was away she’d go on about how much she missed him and how hard he worked. Five minutes after his return, she’d be yelling at him! I would get so aggravated that his only response was always, “yes Vicky”. He never fought her, argued with her or anything. Now, I look back and realize that he knew and accepted her state of mind. She did make sure the kids were well fed, well cared for and though her discipline was harsh and often unreasonable, she did make sure their physical needs were met. I guess he figured it was the best he could give them and that she did the best she could. He was never mean or ugly to her no matter what she dished out. Never. For that I loved him. As I’ve mentioned before, she was harder on us girls than the boys, so my step brother and brothers grew to love her in ways we girls could never. And, so it went.
I was walking with my step dad one day and noticed an almost imperceptible wince. I asked him if he was alright and he said, “yeah”. I told him I didn’t believe him and had he gone to the doctors yet? He said he had an appointment the following week and I insisted I wanted to know as soon as he knew anything. Two weeks and four days later, he’d laid down on the floor to watch TV with mother on the couch beside him. The two of them had fallen asleep as was their routine. When she went to arouse him, he was gone. He’d been diagnosed with liver cancer the Friday before. He died on a Tuesday. She’d fortunately had the wherewithal to call the police, but they took their time to get there. Given her state of mind, she was notorious for calling them all the time. I would later find regular bills (amounting to thousands of dollars) from the police department for excessive false alarm calls. Did you know they did that? I didn’t.
So now he’s dead and there’s no will to be found. Single handedly, I spent days going through tons of paper trying to find a will. There was one record book with my name in it, but it was nearly forty years old and it wasn’t formal. I would later find 4-5 half started wills and that was it. Mother in her state of mind would hide things. I found so many multiples of documents and items around the house. She would hide them so well that if they couldn’t find them, they’d buy another. Oh, and QVC was her best friend. As she wouldn’t leave the house, she shopped online! But I digress.
So here I am, mulling through everything, going to court to get custody of her and her estate and afterward tracking down insurance policies and VA benefits and doing this all alone. I would talk to my sister on the phone and after two years of this, she made up her mind to leave her job and come up to help me. She had asked me a number of times if I needed her to do so but I vacillated saying yes. My other siblings, including my steps couldn’t. She was single and in a better position to come up but she’d be giving up her hard earned clientele and I couldn’t promise her anything that would match what she was making there. After some time, exhausted, I relented and said, yes. A few months after, I would have a mini stroke and end up in the hospital. By then, we were pretty settled in tag teaming mother’s care, but for the next ten days, she was on her own. I couldn’t have been more grateful.
Later she would tell me why she’d been so willing to be there for me. It wasn’t just because I was her sister or because mother needed our help. The tyranny of mother’s mental illness and the hardships we’d endured with her resulted in there being no love lost there, not for either of us but for some reason more so for her. She told me she could stand to lose mother, but she didn’t want to lose me because of her. It would be later that she and I would heal from that. Now, years later we are able to mourn the mother we never had and the mother she may have wanted to be or could have been.
What took me down this road and reminded me of all this is a story Linda Bethea has been sharing on her blog: Nutsrock . (There’s still time to catch up on it, so you may want to check out my link to her story. BTW if you want to go to the very beginning, it starts in April and is a worthwhile read of “Charley’s Tale“)
It was her latest installment that triggered the memory of my sister and the Red Bra. I’d not remembered the incident until my sister shared it with me. She calls it her “story of the Red Bra.” She said, it was in part, the reason she came to help me. It was because she would never forget how I stole a red bra for her. Incredulously I say, “I stole a red bra for you?! I don’t remember that.” As she tells her tale, I begin to remember what and how it all happened.
THE STORY OF THE RED BRA
My sister was the youngest of my siblings at the time. (This was prior to the reincorporation of the families)
It happens that she was just starting to mature and her little breasts were just budding. The boys in school were absolutely merciless and would pass by and pinch the girls, thinking it was funny. I don’t know why no one tells them that this can be extremely painful to us during this growth state. Dad was still around and he was just as bad, if not worse, thinking it was funny. We girls would walk around the house with our arms crossed when we passed him. It was not a good time.
Mother in general was unapproachable so you can imagine how difficult it was for my sweet, shy little sister to even broach the subject, but she did. Mother did not disappoint and proceeded to laugh and rail on her about how ridiculous her request was, saying. “you’re too young”, “too small” and too everything. The answer was an adamant “No!”
It was humiliating, but she sucked it up, retreated to our room and didn’t ask again.
In those days it wasn’t unusual for us kids to walk into town and on some occasions we’d take the bus. We’d hang out at the rec center and park or the plunge which was all within a few blocks of each other. It was a different time then.
As a kid, I was quite the thief. If I wanted something, I’d take it. (Not one of my proudest moments, but I was a natural) Although we weren’t poor, we kids weren’t allowed to get and or have the many things my peers were allowed to. As it was, I was an outcast and I was so desirous of being accepted and being “one of them”, that I guess I reasoned this was how I could do that. If I could just have what they had perhaps they’d like me. I really don’t know how my mind worked then. I was just a kid.
As I recall, it was shortly after her denied request, that I took my little sis into our local Five & Dime, i.e. Woolworth’s or Kresge’s, I don’t recall which. We had both.
In those days merchandise was all laid out neatly in bins. If you picked up an item, you folded it back up and replaced it to the best of your ability as neatly as you found it. It was common courtesy in those days. The only counters that didn’t seem to make it were those with cosmetics. For some reason, I’m guessing girls especially, would open up a tube of lipstick and forget to roll it back down before putting the cap back on it, resulting in quite a mess. For some reason, I don’t recall ever kyping makeup.
None the less, we went to the bins where all the bra’s were and started digging in, selecting a few before proceeding to the dressing rooms for her to try them on. These bins were the least neat given the nature of a bra’s composition.
I remember her trying on several ones and yes, at the time, many were too big for her, but that wasn’t the point. She needed body armor and that was all there was to it.
Why, we settled on the red one I don’t know, but there was obviously no accounting for taste in our selection, so we did. When things would get tough for her; when she thought there was no one else who would rally for her, she’d remember the Red Bra. She said the memory of the Red Bra would always be a reminder that she could always count on her big sister. Over the years, jealousy on both our parts would cause our relationship to wane and at times waver, but our love never did.
My stealing of one Red Bra so many years ago, now serves as a reminder for us both and how we could count on each other. She was there for me when I needed her, as I was for her so many years ago. It is the memory of the Red Bra that moved her to come to my aid and the story of her memory that makes me grateful for the bond that grew from the experience.
We now live on opposite ends of the States but we talk all the time and I miss her horribly as she does me. For a little while we got to be girls again and I miss that.
What an amazing flower. It reminds me of the Saguaro cactus in Arizona that blooms for one day.
I loved Heath Ledger. Loved his work and his innocent persona whether real or not. No one ever really knows. I’m hoping this work will give me more of an insight in this young man I would have wanted to know.
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*** (out of five)
I Am Heath Ledger is a cinematic portrait of Ledger the artist. Devoid of gossip and any hint of salaciousness, it will disappoint the TMZ crowd but should prove rich for film students, particularly those of the art of screen acting. It is so tasteful and craft-oriented that, even though Naomi Watts is one of the prominent interview subjects, no mention is made of her and Ledger’s love affair. Nor is any image shown of Ledger with an alcoholic beverage, a joint or in any state of mind other than alert and engaged. His death is dealt with quickly, at the end, after a single mention of “demons”, a reference to an “unravelling”, and a few nods to his insomnia.
So dispel thoughts of getting any “dirt” and revel instead in the actor, director, sometime visual artist…
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I was just in a bar with hubby that had kids running all around and thought “A kid friendly bar, what a novel idea”. This one takes it to a whole ‘nother level. Leave it to the Brits. They are Brits, aren’t they?
‘Kid Friendly’ pubs and restaurants are usually synomous with CRAP pubs and restaurants. There are a rare few that manage to combine great food and setting with a chilled attitude towards crazy kids. These, sadly, are usually fully booked and rammed at the weekends and I’m not that organised to book and plan my life. So instead, when Saturday rolls around and we feel like eating out, we end up in ‘kid friendly’ locals. They are the only place we can let Eden truly be himself and play with his motorbike whilst sitting on the table and simultaneously banging a fork on it and watching Andy’s Dinosaur Adventures. Love him. Go for it mate, this place is Kid Friendly.
Let me tell you about our recent experience at said locals. We rocked up to the huge car park just off of a trading estate. Quaint. Eden loves lorries though so…
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Dreams. Who can understand them? Why do they come in convoluted frames, none of which make any sense?
I woke up to a scene of me kissing Keith at a taco stand. Not the Keith of today, but the Keith I knew over 50 years ago. I was 19 then.
There is this unfulfilled longing so deep inside me, I can’t explain it.
In my dream, before that, I’d been in a room, perhaps a hotel room. We had two rooms. Two keys. We, being my husband and I. There was a small girl and a boy with us. The boy was older, a teen, I feel like I should know him. The girl, a small child, is it Tina? I’m not sure. In any case, she’s in the other room alone. Why? I don’t know. Why wasn’t the boy in there and not her?
All of a sudden I felt my husband groping for me, wanting to make love, but there was someone else in the bed with us. It was my sister Sandy! I push her out and him away insisting, “we can’t there are too many people in the room”. The boy is on a cot watching. Sandy is now at a desk writing, but facing us. He is writhing like an uncontrollable beast, I want him too and tell him we have another room.
I search for the key and the little girl, while he continues to urgently paw at me irritatingly oblivious to anyone else in the room. Something is nagging at my brain, I don’t know what. I try to get away.
Suddenly, I’m at this taco stand and Keith is there. It is small. He is dickering with the people there or perhaps just talking. He sees me and comes toward me as though he’d been expecting me. I kiss him and just look at him, then kiss him some more. I want to keep kissing him. His breath and his face feel so good to me. The dimple in his smile lights me up like I remembered it. He was so good to look at.
He gives me this shit eating grin of his and hands me a taco. I take a bite. A carnita’s street taco. Yum! It’s good, then I continue to melt into him again, just kissing him. I sense my sister, like a conjoined twin, hanging nearby. Is the little girl there too?
He smugly asks, as if he is sure of the answer, “Are you coming?”
I continue to kiss him but momentarily pull back and sweetly say “No”.
He asks, “What do you want?”
I think for a moment and say, “I don’t know”.
Or, do I?
What do I want? What is missing?
But, I do know. I think.
In my brain, I’m thinking “I want security. I want to feel safe. I want to know you’ll be there for me. You can’t give me that.” But the words don’t come out.
I think of my husband, he’s like Keith.
But who’s the boy?
I’m guessing he’s my husband, who will forever be the little boy who will never grow up.
I know he loves me but I need more than passion. I need an illusive more.
I thought of Jesus’ self sacrificing love. Love that knew no bounds. Love til death.
Is that it? Do I want to know he’d die for me?
My sister Sandy? Growing up, she was my shadow, only 13 months younger and always in my way, yet me always feeling responsible for her. Does she need me now? She has her two boys, but does she need me and won’t say? I don’t know.
My husband keeps telling me I need to quit worrying about my siblings, they have other family members to care for them, just as I have my kids. He knows my kids will care and look over me when the time comes. Hmmmm?
Dreams. Who can understand them?