The Blog I Never Use

When something real happens, when something really real happens, you leave part of yourself with that event. For better or worse, part of who you are stays forever attached to those moments in time. That is why our emotional development sometimes stops as a result of severe trauma, that is why victims of abuse become trapped in that moment, compelled to relive the past.

When something real happens, when something really real happens, it never seems real; it lives in a acrid fog, chewing little holes in your soul. At the time, it seems ironic and perverse that the very things that have the greatest impact on our lives are never quite in focus. I don't know, maybe they are in focus, it is just that we are not, or maybe it is the nature of life that important things are in the gap created by a paradox.



Dad didn't stop talking. It was early in the morning and he kept talking. Usually a phone call lasts only a few minutes when it comes in the morning, but this one kept going; Dad's voice kept talking in that calm voice that he has, the voice he uses when someone is hurt, the voice he uses to solve my problems, the voice he uses when he can't solve the problems.

". . . called the police yet? Okay, you need to do that first and then call me back, okay?"

Okay, so there's been a crime of some type, probably just something stolen. Why would they call Dad about that? Dad and mom mumbled to each other, mom's voice was quietly frantic. The phone rang again and Dad picked it up on the first ring.

I couldn't go back to sleep, so I went downstairs, where Dad was on our family phone. For some reason, I didn't want to make noise, so I shoved my feet against the walls on either side of the stairs and walked on the diagonal boards there, the way I did when I wanted to listen to the television after bedtime so that my parents wouldn't hear the stairs squeak and send me back to bed.

Mom was on the couch and I sat on the piano bench. Time stopped as I listened. I still had no idea to what, but I listened, and time stopped; bored and scared and curious and wondering why I couldn't get an answer. I'm still waiting.

I know what happened, but I know what happened on that day like I know what happened in a dream: the knowledge is there, but I have no memory of finding out. Did dad tell us when he got off the phone? Did mom tell me when she realized that I was becoming very disturbed, and feeling neglected? The only thing I'm sure of is that I didn't figure it out on my own.


You know how family is: you have relatives, who live far away and for whom you care, but in reality, they are little more than acquaintances who have an almost legitimate demand on your attention; then you have family: people who go out of their way to spend time with you and love you in clearly demonstrable ways, even when you don't deserve it. Well, I have so many relatives that I would go hoarse before I could name all of them, but I have a fairly small family. Among those in this smaller group of family, I had two aunts and three uncles, one cousin, and my grandparents (both my mom's parents and my dad's mom). No matter what their failings, and they have them, they always went out of their way to be family: they moved to the same city, or they invited us over whenever they could, or they came over to help when we needed it, or they took care of us kids for awhile.

My cousin Todd was our hero. He could eat a full meal (enough for three) and then be hungry in two hours. He used to go woodcutting with us when we lived in a house that only had wood heat. He had the best rants ever. In fact, when I really want to express my anger in a humorous way, I channel Todd, "O come on! Can't believe . . . just, aaaakhkh!" Print can't really do it justice, either in its tone or in the humor we found in it, but he was our hero, and he was on the phone to Dad.


"Here, I'll give you my knuckle-ball," uncle Ed said as he pitched the wiffle-ball for us. It was one of the best days of the summer, and Uncle Ed kept pitching to us after all the other adults had gone to do adult things. It meant a lot to us that he kept pitching, but it means a lot more now. Uncle Ed had to be hurting, he was partially paralyzed on his left side and couldn't walk without dragging his leg, but he kept pitching, and we all had a great time.


The neighbor boy ran up to the house through the little pathway between fences while Dad talked to Todd again. He was carrying something in his shirt . . . kittens, he put them on the ground, they were wet. I don't remember how many there were, but they had been ours until we gave them to the neighbors, after their momma said that they could have them. I don't remember how many there were, but one was dead and another wasn't doing well. He said that he'd tried CPR, or maybe he did CPR while we were watching -- it's fuzzy-- that saved the second one, but the first one never woke up.

We took them to Mom; to this day I can't think of anyone who is better of taking care of sick kittens. She was raised around animals and I guess that prepared her for kitten emergencies. She wrapped the dead baby in a towel for Dad to bury when he got home. My dad is my hero.

She had us wrap the wet kittens in towels too, but only until they were dry, then she took the little one who had to be revived and kept it near her neck so that her body heat would comfort him. I think we fed him from an eye-dropper for a week. I don't remember that he died, but I suspect that is just my memory trying to protect me from it; we all put a lot into trying to save them. I think we needed them to be okay.


I think that was the last time I remember seeing Uncle Dan when he wasn't angry. He took us to Dairy Queen for Blizzards, a new menu item at the time, and one which I will never like. I talked to him a few years ago and found out that he liked Uncle Ed and that his death hit him hard, I didn't even remember that the two men, from different sides of the family, had even known each other.


I hate someone, I don't know who, but I hate them. Dad went and helped to clean up. He went to help Aunt Net and Aunt Sue clean Uncle Ed's grey-matter from the walls of his bedroom. To this day, I don't know who it was who decided to abdicate their job and force a widow to do that. I guess that she wouldn't have needed to, if his insurance hadn't expired a day or two earlier, but as it was, she could not afford to hire anyone for the job, or to pay the deposit.


We were in the back seat of Uncle Ed's car. Aunt Sue was driving, we were looking for animals on our side of the road (part of the game Uncle Ed had made up to entertain us while we traveled to Multnomah Falls Lodge for lunch). He had assigned point-values to animals and you got to add up the points of any animals that were on your side, as long as you declared that you had seen them. Most animals had a 5-25 point-value, I think, but horses were 200. Uncle Ed didn't even try, and we were a little bit frustrated. Then we passed a horse farm on his side, he had made up the game and assigned horses such a high value because he knew about the farm; what he did not know was that the farm had either shut down or had moved the horses to greener pastures. It was great.

When we got to the lodge, at which my aunt and uncle had intended to buy us fantastic gourmet lunches . . . we ordered hamburgers: we went from the far side of Beaverton to Multnomah falls for hamburgers . . . and we loved it.

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