My latest visit to see the Wifey found me on her home turf. Normally, we meet at a location halfway between where we both live, making it easier on both of us in terms of driving distance.

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 This Christmas is a bit sad this year....Merry Christmas to all, wishing every one of you are surrounded by ones you love and your hearts are filled with happiness.

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I don't remember the exact year that we went "artificial" with our Christmas tree instead of purchasing a fresh one, but it was the year after mom had it out once and for all with one hapless Douglas fir that refused to stand up straight.

 

Mom never had much luck when it came to choosing the best tree. I mean, they always looked good in the parking lot of Moore's A&W where we had picked up ours, usually the first week of December (back when people started thinking about Christmas after Thanksgiving and not sometime in the middle of October). However, more often than not, once we got that "good-looking" tree back home, it wasn't as good as we had thought when we picked it out.

 

There were some underlying factors that explained this. Maybe it was choosing it at night when it was too cold to spend a little extra more time scrutinizing the Douglas firs on sale. Maybe it was the poor lighting; you know the strands of 60-watt bulbs illuminating the lot created a lot of shadows that could make any scrawny, crooked tree look good. Then of course there was the timing-get to Moore's too late and all the good ones had already been picked through.

 

There were one or two good Christmas tree years when the one we had bought at Moore's cooperated when Mom placed it in the red and green metal stand and screwed in the three butterfly-like screws to hold it up.

 

And even if there were some bare spots in the tree, we could always turn it around so they would face the back or fill them in with some extra ornaments. Problem was you sometimes didn't know what the tree was going to be like when you did get it home. Once it "warmed up" inside the house, those bare spots suddenly appeared.

 

Then there were the needles. Unless you cut down your own there was no way of knowing just "how fresh" your tree really was until after you got it home. It smelled fresh at Moore's-you know that wonderful and delightful Christmas tree smell that is one of the top ten great smells in the world, just after a new car smell-but just how fresh it would be in your living room was another story.

 

Needles that might have seemed fresh when first inspected now suddenly appeared dry. It was not like you could go back to Moore's and exchange the tree for a fresher one; nor could you get your money back (at least I never knew anyone of trying) for having been sold a potential fire hazard. Caveat emptor as far as I know does not include Christmas trees.

 

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when we had it out,
the other night,
I reminded you
of how you used to
whip me
with that
cat o' nine tails
when I was a boy

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At approximately 10:58pm EDT yesterday, a new human emerged into the World, thereby allowing me to fulfill my destiny as the Crazy Yet Fun Maiden Auntie. The Sacred Vessel (my sister-in-law) has brought forth my nephew. All parties are doing well (although my brother seems a little shaky) and I am now, officially, an aunt.

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I wrote the piece that follows in response to a writing challenge issued by my friend Amy Hickman last year on the now-defunct writing website, thisisby.us.  With Father's Day arriving tomorrow, I am reminded that this one will be the fifth consecutive one since my daddy died on January 8, 2005.  Like most such losses, it does become more bearable, more capable of being accepted, with time.  But I still miss him, and I thought that in his honor, since I won't be getting him a card or some dopey necktie again this year, that I would share the piece with all of you.  Maybe there is something in it that will speak to you.

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What follows is a blurb I sent to my hometown weekly, The Mount Hope Clarion.  I hoped for the editor to contact my children, interview them and write an article about their accomplishments.  He printed my words as I sent them. - exactly.  So I guess I was published (without a byline).  Ah well...there is a first for everything.   I'm smiling as I write this.  Who needs a byline when you've got two docs in the family?

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The ice cream man is a big fucking deal around my house. Do your ears hang low? can be heard a mile away blasting from the truck's loudspeaker putting children of all ages on alert, as if to say,"I'm coming, you know what to do!".

My 3 year old daughter, Madigan knows what to do.

"Huhwy, Icreamau comin'!" she exclaims with impeded speech.

The music's volume gradually increases as the van pretending to be a truck appears creeping up the street.

"Icreamau!! Icreamau!!" Madigan says, pointing and jumping in place with smiling excitement.

The music stops as the truck pulls to a stop 18" from us.

The ice cream man comes about 4 times a week and on the days he doesn't come, Madigan suggests to me that he might be lost.

"Hi, Icreamau!"

At this time I intervene and negotiate the transaction between my child and the stranger in the ice cream van pretending to be a truck. This particular ice cream man always has some one riding shotgun to take the money and retrieve the chosen ice cream from the freezers in the back of the van. Sometimes it is a child approximately 12 years of age, probably his child. Sometimes it's a woman approximately 36 years of age, probably his wife. The ice cream man is the driver and the brains behind this business, he never touches the money.

If we have enough money, I tell my daughter she can have the Sponge Bob ice cream for $2.50. If money is tight that day, I tell her she has to choose between the 4 ice cream pops on the dollar menu.

She makes her choice and I hand the appropriate amount of money to the person in the passenger seat and hand Madigan her chosen ice cream.

"Say thank you, Madigan."

"tanku!" she says in her small voice.

Smiles are exchanged and the ice cream van slowly creeps toward another group of people further down the street. I sit with my daughter where grass meets road and I help her unwrap her day's treasure. In seconds, Madigan has ice cream all over her face and she looks at me with a devilish grin as if she's getting away with something and enjoying it greatly.

"Tony!! Icreamau!" she screams to the little boy down the street as ice cream juice trails down her face onto her hands and continues spreading up her arms.

Tony comes running with his mom behind him. There is a cul-de-sac at the end of our street, so if you missed the ice cream man the first time around, you can catch him on the rebound. And that's just what Tony does.

On the ice cream man's rebound is when I actually get to see him. The driver's seat is now facing my side of the street and Madigan waves as he passes, saying "Bye, Icreamau!" The ice cream man smiles and waves back.

The ice cream man always looks the same. Always. He is a hefty man in his late thirties who can always be seen wearing sunglasses, even on overcast days. There is black stubble on his face that never seems to grow, as if it has already found its permanent length and home on the ice cream man's jaws and chin. His dark hair is short and is a windblown mess. Yes, he looks like an alcoholic who can not keep a job that requires more of his hygiene or appearance. But no one complains. He doesn't either. He must make a decent amount of money or this endeavor would not be worth his time or what little effort he has invested. He is timeless.

As far as Madigan is concerned, the ice cream man only exists when he is driving down our neighborhood street playing Do your ears hang low? .He is not independent of his ice cream van pretending to be a truck. To Madigan, his name is Icreamau and his identity goes only that far. I will never ask the man his name because his name is not important to me and if I were to see him in line at the grocery store, I probably would not recognize him outside of his truck. He brings excitement and joy to my daughter as if he were among the ranks of Santa Clause or the Tooth Fairy. He appears, spreads cheer, and then, just like that, he's gone, but never lost.

As the sun begins to hide behind the mountains, Madigan and Tony sit at the edge of the grass eating their ice creams as they talk and giggle and delight over the fact that the ice cream man is a big fucking deal around my house.

"Free Range Chickens," the sign proclaims, "Free Range!" A tribute to health and goodness and organic, sun-grown wholesomeness.  

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According to the vintage Coca Cola weather vane on my deck; it is 96 degrees. I smile, and think about my mother. The vane was hers. I remember the day she found it. I hear her voice in my head. "Ahnah it was in the trash, lying there. Someone actually threw it out. People." I see her smile through closed lids.

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She stands in disbelief,
watching as her name
is erased
from the family line:
a Bible,
a tree,
a tombstone;
pick your metaphor,
it really matters not.

What matters here
is that she is being erased
as easily
as a misspelled word
or a mathematical error.

Whisked away
with a flick of the
wiper
like a bug or a gnat or an unfortunate
splat
on a window screen.

She has become
She Who Shall Not Be Named
except
in lies
and tall tales
and stories
designed to make the teller feel
good
and
to make her feel
bad.

The stories and the lies
and the made up alibis
are killing her
inch
by
inch,
bit
by bit,
just as they were intended.

And just when it could
not
get any darker
any later
any deeper,
she finds it,
small,
precious,
necessary,
that Will...

The will to
live
The will to
stand
The will to
run

and she wrests the eraser
from his hand,
from their hands,
and begins to scrub
furiously
at the pages of her life...

and she erases them, before any
more
can erase
her,

The deliberate orphan.


Copyright © 2009, Kimberly R. Kelly. All rights reserved.

 

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My husband naturally wakes up and starts his morning at five each day. I like to stretch my blanket cuddle till 5:35 and that is after I've hit the snooze button at least twice. Moving from my dream world to reality comes in parallel intervals until the sounds converge as one. Tuesday,  I heard the  usual click of toenails on hardwood. I incorporated the sound to be my 120 pound Shepherd trying to rouse my body for my daily exercise with one of the over 40 and fabulous  gals on channel 12. At the same time my conscience level was saying,"The dance of this animal next to your bed is not familiar."  Simultaneously my husband is calling my name in a whisper as he stands in the hall turning the light on. I open my eyes to see I am nose to nose with a beautiful fawn colored dog,  his chin laid on my mattress as if we've known each other forever. I didn't even think about the comfort of my bed, I suddenly felt like a child on Christmas morning. I gave the precious visitor a loving hello and he returned my greeting with the jiggle of his tail.

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"I'll be there as soon as I can."

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Mommy and daddy brought him home in a beautiful blue velvet outfit, soft as his newborn skin. Not even 24 hours old....against Hospital wishes, my children brought their son home to be loved, for every moment he had, and Ayden was.

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