Category: Relationships

Daddy’s Girl

 

My father fathered four females. 

I am the eldest.

“My name is Stacye, and I’m a Daddy’s Girl.”

Of course I am.  We all are.  We have a Daddy…we are girls.  And, like all good southern girls, we actually call him “Daddy”. 

Addressing him that way comes naturally.  Admitting to it conjures images of Orson Welles, syrup dripping from the corners of Joanne Woodward’s unlined mouth, and a discomfort that smells like warm gardenias.

By now, you have an image.  My blonde hair is long, as are my legs.  My eyes are large, and probably blue.  There’s a natural curve to my lips, which are carefully painted pink; never red.   And, you would be right.

Except, the image is that of my sister, my baby sister to be exact; the one who still throws her limbs on either side of his recliner as she sprawls across his lap, the one that bakes for him, calls him daily, and houses him when he leaves the crystal sands of his beloved beach for important family events, such as his birthday, Father’s Day, Thanksgiving, and Christmas.

But I was there in the early days…

On Saturdays, we logged hours in his two-toned El Camino, driving around town doing errands.  His “Honey-Do” list became our “Trip for Two” list, as we traversed suburban side-roads between the post office, hardware store, garden nursery, and occasionally, the local mechanic.

Mostly, we talked.

“Never forget who you are!”  I especially loved that one.  “You’re a Howell!”

He said as though it meant something.  He said it as though mere mention of our name was enough to garner the respect of anyone within hearing distance.  He said it so often that I believed it.

He told me stories of him and Joe Wiggins.  It was always “Joe Wiggins”, never just “Joe”.  Perhaps there was another Joe.  I don’t know, he never said.  But, he never mentioned his childhood friend without inserting his surname.

I remember the sun being particularly bright one Saturday afternoon.  We’d probably just dropped my car off…again.  The dilapidated shop occupied most of a block-long side road.  They specialized in foreign “jobs”, such as Hondas, Toyotas, Datsuns, and Cortinas.  They didn’t actually specialize in Cortinas.  No one did.  Because, no one east of the Atlantic drove one…except me. 

“Why don’t you divorce her?’  My right hand swept blonde wisps from my face.  The air conditioner in the El Camino had stopped working weeks ago.

“Because Howells don’t divorce.”  He said it as though it were true.  He said it as though he was raised by two loving parents instead of a crotchety grandmother who insisted he sweep their dirt floor each morning before mounting the newspaper-laden bicycle he later rode to school.

And I believed, because I didn’t know.

He taught me about cars.  He didn’t change his own oil.  He had “Eddie, The Mechanic” to do that.  But, he taught me to change mine.

He lay under the car, while I leaned across the engine.  We changed the oil, added water to the battery, and checked all the other fluids.  When we were done; large, continent-shaped swatches of my flannel shirt were missing.

“Battery acid.”, he said while ordering me inside to change my shirt with just a look.

But I kept it.  I kept the shirt.   I even wore it a few times.  Now, I’m sure it lies alongside my holey Peter Frampton t-shirt; the one I kept for almost twenty years before deciding that I really never would wear it again.

But I will…

Angels will sing, harps will play, and there I’ll be…Daddy’s Girl…wearing a holey flannel shirt over a faded Peter Frampton t-shirt.

“Do you feel like I do?”

Hair Raising

It’s fitting, I suppose, that I have unruly hair.  I’m a pretty unruly woman.  But, sometimes, I think it’s my mother’s fault…

Some of my earliest memories are of my hips wedged between my mother’s ample thighs atop our ultra-chic, avocado green, vinyl couch.  For reasons known only to her, she insisted on using a comb on my hair.  And, not just any comb, but one of those barber’s combs with skinny, pointed teeth that were so close together a dime wouldn’t pass through them.  As she raked those teeth across my scalp, I gritted my own and prepared for the blood that was sure to start running into my eyes just any minute.  Occasionally, I howled, until I realized that only made her angry, causing her to plow even deeper.

The only respite from the raking came when she found what she referred to as a “knot”.  I don’t know how it happened or why.  I only know that every single time my mother raised a comb to my head she found the hair at the nape of my neck to be a tangled morass that inspired her to mutter mild epithets between groaning tugs.

There was lots of “I’ve never seen anything like this in my life!”, even though we both knew she’d seen it just last Saturday.  And she whined a lot.  Occasionally, the comb she extracted contained more than hair.  The mass more resembled a bird’s nest than a knot, with wisps of lint and the occasional tiny scrap of paper woven into the mix.

And then there were the permanents…

For years, my mother lined us up on linoleum that was scored to resemble stone, if you were willing to allow that stone could possibly be tinged the same avocado green as the couch.  By now, she’d invested in detangler which allowed her comb to slice through our tresses, unfettered.  It was pretty smooth sailing, really, until it came time to roll.  Because, rolling required wrapping, and wrapping involved small wisps of tissue paper, and, once again, she met her match at my nape.

At this point, she turned us over to my grandmother who owned a beauty shop on the ground floor of what would now be termed an assisted living high-rise.  The real money, however, was made styling hair for regular customers who no longer required a return appointment.  She spent Saturday mornings at the funeral home.  Mother dropped us off after lunch and picked us up several hours later.

“Remember now!”, my grandmother called from the porch where she stood with one waving hand raised.  “Don’t wash it for at least two days, so you don’t wash it out!”

I spent the ride home calculating how I could gain entry of the bathroom before my sister. 

I drove myself the last time my grandmother curled my hair.  By that time, I was compelled by more than style.  By that time, the trek across town, and the smelly chemicals, the pulling, the tugging, and hot minutes spent under the hood of a hair dryer were a trade-off.  Because, after she curled my hair, we could visit.  She took me outside to her sun porch.  She showed me her plants, some of which were decades old.  She talked to me about them, told me how to grow them, and pulled up tiny samples for me to root when I returned home.  It was worth the thirty minutes or so I would spend with my head in the sink later that evening.

The last time my mother tackled my hair involved one of those new-fangled curling irons; the kind encased in plastic bristles, the kind that not only curled your hair but brushed it, too.  She was dolling me up for some kind of event.  It may have been Easter.  Easter was big deal at our house.  It was one of two times, each year, that my parents would accompany us to church.  We dressed in new dresses and wore pantyhose from freshly cracked eggs.

My mother separated a swath of hair from the crown of my head, twirling it around the plastic-bristled, metal shaft.  Steam billowed from the contraption in her hand as she marked time.  Time came, and she rolled her hand in an attempt to un-wrap.  But, it wouldn’t.  The curling iron, with its rows of plastic bristles, had a death-grip on my hair.  Steam billowed from the crown of my head as my mother pulled and whined, pulled and whined.

“I’ve never seen anything like this in my life!”

Whines turned to whimpers as we both imagined what I would look like after she cut the hair at the scalp in order to remove it from the shaft.  My mother cursed.  My sisters watched in horror.  Finally, the hair loosened.  I never saw the curling iron again.

Two weeks later, my mother made an appointment for both of us at the hair salon she frequented.  Despite odiferous armpits at the end of her pendulous arms, Sandra could feather with the best of them.  Kristy McNichol had nothing on me…    

I was in the eleventh grade.  I don’t know why I remember that, but I do.  I drove quite a distance to the salon and was somewhat taken aback by the pumping, bass-driven beat of the music that greeted me as I entered.  “Toto?  We’re not in Kansas anymore…”   

 A tall man with sallow skin under his brush cut rushed, as fast as his leather pants allowed, to reach me.  I left with what amounted to a crew cut.  And, I loved it…but I never did it again.

Since then, I’ve been shorn by a tattooed biker chick, one Valley Girl, a middle-aged woman with an unfortunate spiral perm, and one really nice Vietnamese man.  He didn’t try to talk to me.  I like that in a stylist.

Several weeks ago, I got the urge.  You know the one; that feeling that you have to have your hair styled…NOW!  Several weeks ago, the Valley Girl had sent me home looking like something the cat had dragged in, and it wasn’t the first time.  As I left work, I made the decision to stop at the first salon I passed.

It took longer than I anticipated.  I was almost home.  The sign on the marquee read “Famous Hair”.  The fact that it occupied a space just two doors down from the market was a huge selling point. 

She was introduced as “Nancy”, but I’m willing to bet her green card reads “Tran” or “Nguyen”.

“What you want?”, she asked, whipping a black, nylon robe round my neck, matador-like.

I produced a copy I’d made of a style I’d found on the internet.  Nancy laced tiny fingers through my hair as she studied the picture, frowning.

“But it doesn’t matter…”, I laughed.  “I gave up a long time ago.  My hair does what it wants to do…and I let it.”

Frayed Strings

 

No one loves their children more than I do.  My youngest is thirteen now, which only goes to prove that all the minutes I spent wishing he could be my baby forever were for naught.  But I knew that…

To my credit, I’ve turned those mournful minutes into reasons to be grateful.  When he recounts an exchange with another student in school, I pay attention.  The day will come when sharing won’t be so easy.  When he calls “Mom”, as I walk past his darkened room, I stop and listen before reminding him, again, to go to sleep.  When he allows me to take his hand as we walk, I feel it as I hold it.  And, when he wraps his arms around my waist, and rests his head against my chest I thank God for the blessing.  Every little boy hug, every little boy kiss, could be the last.

He turned thirteen last week, three days before school let out for summer. 

“Do you want a party?  You could invite your friends from school, the guys from your baseball team, and some of your football friends.  We could go to the park.  You guys could play baseball, and we could cook-out.”

Shane sat silent, looking through the window to the backyard.  Movement in his eyes told me he was considering the offer.  He’d attended several birthday parties this year.

Valerie invited him to his first boy/girl, night-time party.  There was dancing, which led to sweating, which provoked Shane to stealthily comb the health and beauty aids aisle during our next visit to the grocery store.

Chelsea’s mother went one better and rented a pool-side clubhouse.  As we pulled up, the outer walls of the building seemed to vibrate in time with the disco ball sparkling through an upper-floor window.  Expecting hesitation from Shane, I turned in my seat to offer words of encouragement from someone who has personally experienced countless disco balls.  The backseat was empty, the car door slammed, and by the time I turned around Shane had mounted the walk towards the door without so much as a wave good-bye.

A pattern began to develop, and I saw my mistake.

“Oh…I just realized all the parties you’ve gone to this year were given by girls.  Boys your age don’t have birthday parties, do they?”

Relief colored his face.

“Not really…”, he smiled, lowering his head.

“Ok!  So what do you want to do?  We could go out to dinner.  Your choice!  Or we could go to the movies.  You could take a friend….You tell me.  What do you want to do?”

“I want to spend the weekend with Josh.”

Josh is his oldest brother.  He married just before Shane’s birthday.  He and his wife live in a rural area seventy-five miles away.

Shane left on Friday.

Friday night I had dinner out, and for the first time in a long time, no one offered me a children’s menu.  My companion and I enjoyed uninterrupted adult conversation.  And when we left, there were no tell-tale crumbs beneath our table.

Saturday I slept in, and woke to a quiet house.  I never realized how much noise is generated by the simple act of breathing until mine was the only breath drawn.  I took my coffee to the patio and never felt compelled to grab at the table beside my chair in hopes of steadying it.  Birdsong fell on my ears without accompaniment.  No one asked me any questions.

I spent the rest of the day doing as I pleased.  I shopped without uttering the word “no”.  I turned my Ipod up as I gardened, never giving a thought to what might be going on inside the house.  I gutted the playroom, and in so doing generated quite a pile for the next charity pick-up.  He hasn’t touched those toys in years…

I organized his dresser, and added several threadbare t-shirts to the aforementioned pile.  The one with the hole in the collar has bothered me for months.

I baked cookies for the neighbors and no one whined, “You always make the good stuff for other people!”  I watched tennis on TV without giving advance warning of an imminent takeover of the den.  Music wafted from speakers mounted beneath the eaves as we grilled on the patio and no one asked me sardonically, “Why don’t you like rock music anymore?”

As I turned out the lights above the mantle and closed the sunroom door against the night I thought, “So this is what it will be like when he is gone.  I can do this…”

The phone rang and I jumped to answer it.

“Hello?!”, I never gave a thought to sounding casual.

“Hey, Mom.” 

Those two words began tales of Clydesdale horses, front flips from diving boards, and a dog Shane loved enough to bring home.

“I’m glad you’re having a good time.”

“Ok, Mom.  Gotta go.”  Male voices parried in the background.  I understood the distraction.

“Ok…”  Silence in the line told me he had hung up already.

For the first time in thirteen years Shane hung up without saying “I love you.”

But he does…

On My Own

Her hair was young.

Her face was not.

Her eyes, behind glasses, were quick.

 

 Her hips were wide.

Her smile was not.

Her hand, on your collar, familiar.

 

I watch as you see her;

the tousled hair, and past the glass, the eyes,

which though focused on mine, fill yours with a light I barely remember.

 

And I know what I might never have guessed…

on my own.

 

© Copyright 2007-2010 Stacye Carroll All Rights Reserved

Driving Home

“Did you get it, yet?  I checked, and it’s shipped.  I really wanted you to have it by your birthday.  I’m sorry it’s going to come after….” 

The last word swung back and forth along the invisible line connecting their cell phones.  She saw it getting larger, and then smaller, hurriedly rushing at her with the force of resignation, before dancing away in a pathetically hopeful soft-shoe.  Her birthday was still three days away.  “After” no longer meant just her birthday.

She smiled before she spoke, knowing it would sweeten her tone.

“Don’t worry about it.”  She chuckled softly as much for her own encouragement as to ease his angst.  “It will come, and I’ll love it.  I know I will.”  The blinders she’d donned earlier in the day, when he’d called to tell her the news, remained firmly in place as she trained her eyes on a colorless traffic light.  Every word, every action, required a decision and focus.  And though her car sat motionless for several minutes, she maintained a 10-and-2 death grip on the steering wheel.  She only breathed when she had to.

Even before he spoke, she knew he was crying, again.

“I don’t know what’s gonna happen…”, he began.

She interrupted with resolution.

“Yes, you do.  You know what’s going to happen, because it’s the only thing that can happen.  We’ve talked about this.”  She stopped to breathe and drew in the dust of her words.  “From the very beginning we’ve talked about this.  There’s nothing to think about.”

“Ok…”  The second syllable rode the wave of a sob he couldn’t contain.  Both were quiet while he tried harder.  The cars around her began to move, and she moved with them.

“Ok..”  This time he whispered the offending syllable and control powered the rest of his speech.  “…but know this.  I will never forget your birthday.  Every year, on your birthday, you will hear from me.”  The long “e” stretched longer on the end of a quiver.  He cleared his throat, and she imagined him sitting taller in his leather office chair.  The car in front of her slowed, forcing her to shift her feet.

“I promise.” 

The words echoed between them, reminding her of all the promises he had to keep.  He lived with a woman he’d promised to love and cherish until he died, and children, whose care was promised by their creation.  She pictured him wearing a promise fashioned of cloth under one of his sensible suits as he offered an easy smile of welcome to those who would follow in his church-sanctioned footsteps. 

Night had fallen while he spoke, and as she eased the car to a stop under another albino traffic light she tried to imagine him alone, unaccompanied by his promises.  She thought she heard him sniff as he finally swam into view wearing a gaily colored madras shirt; the kind a family man wears on vacation…because that’s all he would ever be.

“Don’t do that.”  Though spoken softly, her words rebuked argument.  “Don’t make a promise you won’t keep…because you won’t…because you can’t…because promises mean everything to you.”

A whispered “I love you” caressed her ear as she made the final turn towards home.

“Promise.”

Punting

 

It was late….

Darkness swaddled winding concrete pathways, separating injured playing fields, where echoes of parental calls of support lingered just above the distant tree-line.

The sound of slamming car doors bounced, softly, off firs enclosing the parking lot; and warning calls of parents to street-dancing children muffled.

And, that’s why I noticed her; she who was arriving just as everyone else was leaving.

The rubber band she’d twisted, earlier in the day, into her wispy, blonde hair was giving way, mocking facial lines that had deepened as the hours passed. Amidst the shadows, her face suggested Eastern Europe.

Two small girls of similar wisp and structure ran behind her as she began the descent towards the park. Each child clutched voluminous mounds of plastic grocery sacks.

I imagined their small hands cramming the sacks into receptacles dotting the park, above signs that read “Please clean up after your pet.” I’d always wondered who filled them.

But, they had no pet with them.

I slid behind the wheel of my own car, juggling my keys while I watched. The girls danced excitedly, taking turns leading the tiny caravan, unaware of their mother in a way that said they knew she was there, and always would be.

Just as they breached the fir-line, the woman slid her cellphone out of the pocket of her belted shorts.

And, I recognized the opportunity…and kinship.

I have been that woman…

A Walk on the Mild Side

I don’t know how it happened.  I’ve actually spent time thinking about it…

 One day I realized I had traded “Afternoon Advice” on Sirius’ Playboy channel for Dr. Laura.  At first, of course, I declared myself “old”.  The racy language and vivid, spicy, radio-wave images painted by Ms. Granath’s croon had become too much for me; distasteful, even.  And while I didn’t necessarily agree with everything Laura Schlessinger said, I could, at least, listen without cringing.

 Truthfully, she sucked me in with logic.  And, talk about your “no-spin zone”!  Dr. Laura doesn’t dance, much less dip.  Dr. Laura thrusts without benefit of parry, and her aim is infallible.  She is no nonsense, an arbiter for personal responsibility, and able to cut to the quick without drawing a single drop of blood.

 If you are fat, her advice is “Eat less, and move more.”  Who can argue with that?

 If your ninth-grader fails English while excelling in Computer Science, she suggests you recognize the blessing in having his strengths exposed early, and encourages you to find an outlet for his love of technology.  Remember, Bill Gates began his march towards the Fortune 500 in his father’s garage, without benefit of a college degree.

 At the same time, if your adult son makes the decision to “shack up” with his “unpaid whore”, she advises that you shun the couple until your son comes to his senses by making his “honey” a certified, marriage certificate bearing, part of your family.  My son has lived with a girl I think of as my daughter for most of the last six years.  When pressed on the idea of marriage, he explains he wants to be sure.  He only wants to marry once, and sometimes she acts “crazy”.  I get that.

 Dr. Laura has a prescription for “the crazies”.  She even wrote a book about it, entitled “The Proper Care and Feeding of Husbands”.  My first thought, on hearing the title, was in recognition of its clever turn of phrase.  My second was that it reminded me of a manual written for the owner of a new pet.  And, there’s the rub…

 In the book, Ms. Schlessinger, who is quick to remind her callers that she is not, in actuality, a medical doctor, counsels women to woo their men with sweetness.  If your man breaches the doorway of your comfortable abode wearing a scowl, shoo your children to their rooms, and put your tongue in his ear.  If he complains about dinner, sit in his lap. and whisper your plans for a midnight romp over the spoon in your hand as it carries the plane into the hangar.  And, if he behaves as though his dirty clothing only enhances the pattern of the rug in your bedroom, tip-toe through the piles of synthetic fibers while waiting for him to unwittingly toss his dirty underpants into the hamper, and then shower him with matriarchal positive reinforcement. 

 Dr. Laura favors use of the word “Feminista” in reference to women raised in the “wild-child” era of the seventies.  That would be me. 

I remember smiling, sardonically, upon first hearing her use the word.  It’s been used before.  I once watched parts of a pornographic film bearing that title.  It actually contained a story line, which explains why I only watched parts.  Men don’t watch pornographic films for the story line.

 On second thought, I think that title was “Fashionista”…never mind…

 My point is this; after months of listening to Laura Schlessinger counsel well-meaning women hoping to save their marriage, or their children, or their children’s marriage, or their children’s children, I have realized that Dr. Laura has made a fortune by simply turning the tables.  She’s quick to hold feminists to a mirror, to highlight their role in the emasculation of men.  And, as a flashlight trembles inside one emaciated hand, the other ties a quick knot in the apron strings of a woman whose only goal is to do the “right thing”. 

 I don’t completely disagree with the notion that the women’s movement smudged the line of demarcation, leaving many men confused, loathsome to assert what heretofore was accepted as God-given.  It’s a problem.  But there is another side to that coin.   

 While some men cringe and stumble over words their father would have spoken freely, others see the change as permission to be “less than”, wallowing in their evolution.  This will, at first, draw a girl’s eye, but wears thin relatively quickly.

 I am struck by the irony.  Ms. Schlessinger rales against stereotypes inherent in the feminist movement while reducing men to a race of singularly visually motivated creatures who can forget anything, as long as sexual activity looms in their very near future. 

 A stereotype turned inside out is still a stereotype.