Tag Archives: Family

We Sold Their Lives Today


We sold their lives today.

Sixty years of collecting,

lying there like so much rubbish,

just waiting for someone to make an offer.

Selling memories is heartbreaking business.

First it was two for a dollar,

then six for a quarter,

and finally,

ten for a penny.

I waded through

too many

salvaged coffee cans, flower pots, and garden tools.

Shame on you, Grampa.

We all thought Gramma was the pack-rat.

Everything is half off.

I watched her struggle to maintain composure

when the offers were low;

she wanted to hold on to that tiller-

the one he used for so many years.

I wanted to scream “NO!” for her

when she sighed consent

and hung her head,

too weary and old to

argue again.

So many times she heard it-

“Do you want to keep this?”

“Take it,”

was always her reply.

What she meant was,

“Take it, because I have to

know my memories are being held

onto by those I love.”

We hauled them away by carloads, their belongings.

Some were worth much;

others just worth the idea,

“This was Grampa’s.”

or

“This was Grandma’s.”

Now they’ve become our memories.

Memories of the time when

we couldn’t

make time wait,

and our hands were useless to

stop life.

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For Grampa


I noticed the sky this morning,

the morning you left us.

It was beautiful;

rose-colored and coral.

I thought of the old saying-

you know the one-

Red sky at morning,

sailors take warning.

And I started to cry.

It wasn’t warning sailors,

and I knew it.

It was warning us,

all of us that are left

that the world would be a little bit darker soon,

because you were going Home.

I knew;

that was why I held your hand maybe a little bit too tight

right before I had to go.

I figured it might have hurt,

but I knew you wouldn’t mind.

You would have done the same

if you’d been able to.

Now I have to figure out

how exactly my little boy is going to

grow up knowing just what a great man you were.

He’ll only see pictures of you,

the ones that prove me right-

that you were the best-dressed man that ever lived,

and so handsome.

(More handsome than all your brothers. Shhh.)

When he grows up,

he won’t get to remember what it was like

to wander through your garden with you,

admiring the stunning array of flowers

you and Gramma worked so hard on.

My son will never watch

Gramma, with the most tender of touch,

comb back the glorious strands of white and grey

from your forehead.

You know, I didn’t mind it a bit

when you missed a haircut or two.

There are far too many balding older men in the world.

It always seemed a shame to clip

the admirable abundance of hair you retained.

I’ll tell you a secret now.

Don’t be mad.

I always hated your favorite hymn.

In the Garden was never quite grandiose enough for me.

But you know I’ll play it for you anyway,

when it’s time to say goodbye.

The words, I really don’t mind, though.

And when I am digging in my own dirt,

I’ll sing them to myself

and think of you.

“I come to the garden alone,

when the dew is still on the roses…”

I maintain my opinion that

Crystal Gayle was always prettier than Loretta Lynn.

I keep saying it,

hoping you’ll come back and argue with me.

Loretta never knew what she was missing,

but all the rest of us will,

until we see you later.

 

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Is This Love?


pup

I think it is.

Everybody, meet Stevie Monroe. Part English Mastiff, part Newfoundland, all adorableness.

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The Diary of Sparklebumps- May 29th,1994


A continuation of yesterday.

We went to Auntie’s today. It was fun. Paul (my cousin’s friend) is kinda cute. When we got back, I actually got to hold my kittens. There (oops, they’re) so cute! We watched It’s A Wonderful Life, and I really realized how wonderful life is.

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Summer of Love


There are times when I can be an absolute bore. Or boar, depending on the day. I know it’s quite impossible for you to believe it, after all I’m so sparkly and witty and all, but all those sparkly witticisms can take a toll on a person, so much so, that all she wants to do is sit and read. (To be honest, that’s really all I want to do on my non-witty days too.)

Anyhoo, I , perhaps unwittingly, made a decision that I would no longer be waiting for the good times to happen, and that I would forcibly cause them to happen. Which is why I made a point to go with my Rockstar to his boring -ass late-model races this summer, and the zoo, with my friend from work (where we witnessed giraffes copulating for the mere seconds that I guess it takes), went to see my favorite band in the ghettos of Spring Lake Park (more on that later) and am working on a fabulously legendary costume for the Renaissance Festival which I shall attend with my Delightful.

This may seem like small and uninteresting turds to some of you, who travel the world and dine with kings and such, but considering that this was the first summer in 3 years when I’ve actually been able to get out of work occasionally, it is huge. I may even get to go to the South Dakota State Fair. (Which I only want to attend to see if their deep-fried goodnesses are a rival for Minnesota’s.)

In order to keep my Rockstar’s daughter from being bored at her mother’s while we slave away at work during the days, she goes to S.D. to visit her grandparents, so she hasn’t been around much since school let out. There was a few days where I got myself out of my selfish reading slump enough to take her to the beach, and then there was today.

I was not exactly thrilled at first when my Rockstar suggested that I watch his Daughter on my half-day off yesterday, but then I thought of all the wonderful things we two could do together. Apparently, the Daughter had been racking her brain too, for she woke me up with a schedule. It was to be like school, complete with bathroom breaks and recess. I acquiesced to her request, and off we went.

I wondered how long it would take her ADD self to realize that a half hour of quiet time (her idea, mind you) was too long, and I was right on target when 15 minutes went by and she was ready to go outside. We went, and she realized her friends were out, so Teacher Daughter  said I was “allowed to read” while she “did important teacher stuff.” I obeyed.

Our “field trip” for the day was a walk to McDonald’s to meet my Rockstar for his lunch break. We realized we had left entirely too early, and decided to take silly pictures of ourselves along the way, which resulted in a fit of giggles. After a healthful lunch of French fries and sugar-filled soda, we walked back, marching in time to each other, and busting out laughing when we weren’t.

I’ve come to realize this having a non-Daughter is not as tough as it sometimes seems.

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We’re All Mad Here


I received a visit from the people who bore me this morning. While normal family gatherings are complete with hugs and mashed potatoes and maybe a beer or two, this one seemed like more of a covert encroachment.

I may not have yet mentioned that a few weeks ago, I decided to in not such impolite words tell my parents to fuck off. I admit, I was not raised to so forcibly express my emotions to my elders, (the whole, respect thy mother and thy father thing) but I had decided that since my parents didn’t have the balls enough to tell my half-sister they no longer wished to know her, I would show them mine and tell them I no longer wished to know them. After all, don’t we all get to blame our parents for our fucked up lives at one point or another? In actuality, I didn’t blame them for a thing, because really, if they hadn’t been the way they had, I wouldn’t have turned out as delightfully disturbed and amazing as some of you all think I am.

Anyhoo, I was in my car for a moment when I saw their desert-colored Chevy and mini camper circling me in the work parking lot as one would imagine a shark would circle. They parked, and I took in a deep breath to prepare myself for the onslaught of “we love you”s, and “we pray for you every day”. I was not to be disappointed.

After receiving a hug from my upset mother while receiving a pitying look from my father for my eternal soul, they asked what it was that had happened to cause the riff I had specifically created between us. I told them that they have three other children, none of whom want to see them, and though I had not exactly been rude about it, I agreed with their decisions. My parents then went on to say that my siblings chose the lives they live, and that it was not my parents job to fix them- to which I silently wondered why I myself was not allowed such luxury.

Then, my mom announced that they had been informed by a family member of a certain blog I had created- a blog of such filth and pollution that it could hardly be named. After asking why I would call myself “the bookstore whore” (because they so closely read and interpreted my insane ramblings), my mother asked if I was, in fact, possessing of multiple personalities- because the sweet little church girl I was FIFTEEN YEARS AGO was nowhere apparent in the last 2 of 446 posts I’ve written. I nodded, admitting that yes, there is no way possible that I could be possessing of only ONE personality- one of a girl who was raised in church and then left out in the real world to make her way.

“Well, maybe you need some help; maybe you need to talk to someone.” They had chosen that moment to announce that this was an intervention- the time to save me from my fucked-up and histrionic self, the time to rescue me from my back-slidden ride into eternal damnation. My father alternated between trying to hold his tongue and sporadically bursting out with reassurances that God loves me and the like. My mother broke the news that all my aunts and cousins are “deeply concerned” about me, because I am living a life of apparent derangement with my Rockstar (a title at which my dad scoffed condescendingly at) and working as a Pizza Slut while playing piano on Sundays at my Auntie’s church, and writing about it for “the WHOLE world to read!” (They seem to think that I am up for any naughty deeds with any man who asks, despite the fact that I mention my Rockstar and our relationship on nearly every post. I do not deny that I am up for anything, but as far as with who- I choose my Rockstar until he chooses otherwise.)

I began to realize at that moment that while my parents are maybe partially right to be concerned over my supposed lunacy, that the fact that we were having such a conversation in the parking lot of a mall in the blustering wind while I was supposed to be working was, in fact, madness incarnate. I announced that there was no need to further our discussion, for the crazy don’t know they are crazy, and will forever argue with a person that their opinions are correct.

I do not know what will happen from now on, but I have been assured by the people who see me on a daily basis that, while I am quite kooky in my own way, I have a long way to go before I am tranquelized and made to wear a straight-jacket as my fashion statement.

As for multiple personalities, I don’t think I’ve had one yet that people haven’t found charming.

 

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The Woman In His Life


I had a good talk with my beloved brother yesterday.

I’ve mentioned him on occasion, but because of my early onset of Alheimer’s that I seem to be suffering from this week, I do not recall exactly what I have written about him.

My brother is the product of my flaky mother and her first asshole husband. (Which technically makes my brother only my half-brother, but we shall not split hairs- mainly because the ones on my head are already split.) Let us just say that because of the tender age my mother was when she gave birth to my sibling, he did not receive the care he perhaps may have gotten if she had been 30 and fully matured. He was 12 when I was born, and excited to have a beautiful baby sister who was me.

I was far too young to remember much about the time he lived with us before my dad kicked him out for smoking pot, but I remember fondly the brotherly love he bestowed upon me- namely, flicking the end of my nose, (that hurt like a bitch!) and swatting my ass with a flyswatter after I repeatedly spit on his leather jacket, which I did only to show off to his friends. I did not get know truly know him until I was 18 and out of the house, because my parents treated him as a pariah, and were afraid he would be a bad influence on me. (As if I wasn’t a bad enough influence on myself.)

My Brother had a nervous breakdown at his last job, around the time I got to know him, and was diagnosed with depression and some other mental issues I fail to recall at this time. I remember the first time I went to visit him after not knowing him for most of my life, and found that he was not a normal person- mainly because he was much kinder, and more sensitive and loving than the normal people who go around only caring about themselves every day. We fast became friends, despite being complete opposites- he was raised with no structure while I was raise in an invisible churchy prison; he has no job while I have for the most part worked overtime my entire working life; I have a faith I believe firmly in, while he hasn’t an idea what to believe.

Because we did not exactly grow up as brother and sister conventionally do, we have many conversations that I’m not sure normal siblings have. We talk of love, and sex, and dreams. He told me of the one woman he truly loved, a 350 lb. black woman who he had worked with and gone to movies with who had been 15 years his senior. I told him of my deep desire to have children, and of how we should start a band, because he plays drums and I piano, and we both adore music.

When I was with my ex-husband, he could not understand why I visited my brother so often. “He doesn’t have a job” and “He lives off of disability” were his repeated statements. I tried to explain to him that a job (or lack thereof) does not make a person who they are, unless they intend it to be that way. While I do not necessarily carry a deep devotion to family, I see my brother as my brother, whether he has a job or smokes alotta weed or is depressed more than the average person.

About 9 months ago, my brother told me he met a girl, and I was ecstatic for him. It did not take me long, however, to realize from what he told me that this bitch was a crazy useless ‘ho, who perhaps unintentionally was preying on my brother’s sensitivity. I could not hide my dislike for her when he introduced her to me- after I left she was quick to ask my brother if I hated her.

I’ve not had a lot of time to go visit my brother in the last months, but we’ve talked on the phone enough for me to know he’s had a tough time letting go of this insane chic, but when I talked to him yesterday, he calmly told me he has come to a conclusion: He is convinced that I am the woman in his life.

His statement is not to be thought of in disgusting incestual terms, for he means it not in that way at all. All he meant is that I am the one woman who has always been there for  him, and never let him down, and never expected anything from him except for him to be himself. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that he has been that to me as well. He always is happy to see me, and expects naught from me except my sisterly love.

Incidentally, I’ve been together with my Rockstar for 3 years, and he has yet to meet my brother, “the man in my life.” Don’t ask me why, because I know not the reason.

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