Twisted Valentine
Copyright vcwriter17B
Sometimes, when you look back, you can see how a series of choices led you to where you are. Was that destiny, good or bad luck, or just something random? I guess that opinion depends on whether you like where you went.
My journey started with a nontraditional family. I grew up with my grandparents. My mother and father were only kids when I came along and neither really ever played that role. Being raised by her parents was probably better than being raised by either of those two, but in truth we'll never know.
Actually, in the US, nontraditional families are pretty traditional. There are a lot of ways to come by them - war, financial need, disease and poor judgement among them. They're just not the stereotype of what a family is
supposed
to be. But then again, what family is? In 1971, only 7% of Americans lived in multi-generational households. In Census-speak, that's three or more generations living together. With rising housing costs and stagnant wages, now it's upwards of 18%.
In my case, the kids married before pregnancy, a shotgun wedding after his mother found condoms in my dad's dresser. They were divorced by the time I was two. As Tina Turner sang, "What's love got to do with it?" Probably not much. My mother later tried to justify her actions as a way to get out of her parents' house. That didn't work as they both wound up living there, but she found another way later. My father never offered an explanation.
To be fair, they both became rather successful at least in their careers. At the time I was born, that outcome may have seemed at best uncertain. They had a lot of growing up to do, and experiences to acquire. In Mother's case, that included losing a couple of teeth falling off a small cliff. Trying to frame a picture of a large wedding party for a newspaper for which she worked, she kept stepping backwards. Just like in a cartoon, that last step was.... Oops! Yep, stupid stuff like that happens in real life.
A fourth grade teacher had given me a rash of garbage about my family. She was an old and nosey woman who didn't like anything that misaligned with her sense of propriety. It didn't help that no one in my family would talk about what happened or even why my last name was different. It took me 16 years to get any kind of explanation, and I'll never know the entire story. Between egos, failing memories, and deaths, there's really no way to sort it out. And maybe it really doesn't matter. We can't fix the past.
What we can do is enjoy the humor that crops up in such an existence.
My mother really didn't like her parents, the people who raised us both, so she made a point of staying at least 400 miles away for most of my first eighteen years of life. She would visit for a long weekend maybe three or four times per year, but that was it. Her visits including her spending time with friends from college who lived in our town and using card games with my grandmother and I to avoid any meaningful conversations. She mastered the art of being present and absent at the same time.
By the time I turned 16, mother decided that it was easier to put me on a plane than to visit the parents she didn't want to see. That started my adventures as a traveler. I got to know the regional carrier we nicknamed Agony Express. That was a perfect moniker for several reasons:
It was close to the actual name of the carrier.
It fit the small, cramped planes.
It fit the insanely bad routes.
I mean, how many carriers would have a 300-mile flight with three intermediate stops? The small plane and crazy itinerary were designed to promote car sickness. Not air sickness, never up long enough. The flights had a rhythm to them, like a ballroom dance.
Up down, bounce.
Up down, bounce.
Up down, vomit.
Up down, crawl down the ramp.
For more money, which no one wanted to spend, you could get a nonstop on Trans Wobbly. The navy pilots they hired were accustomed to fast take-offs, often scraping the aircraft tail on the runway, and abrupt landings with a little drop and bounce at the end -- think tailhooks on carrier decks. You learned quickly to snug down the seatbelt as much as you could tolerate.
By the time I hit college, I'd become something of a seasoned traveler. I knew the drill with baggage, airport security and ticket counters. I'd learned that a smile and simple courtesy could lubricate any difficult situation - apparently airport personnel met too many who didn't know that and were grateful to find someone who did. I couldn't do cute, too hulking a guy for that, but I could do nice.
However, family did their best to keep things interesting. The second week of October my first year was pure whiplash. I hadn't heard from Mom for a week or two, so I decided to call her just to chat. A guy answers the phone, and when she finally gets on, "Oh, that's John, your new stepfather." Heck, I didn't even know she was dating.
The next day got even better. There's a call for me. I pick it up, and this deep male voice says, "Hi, Bill, you don't know me but I'm your father. I'm in town working on a project at the NRC building across from your dorm. Want to meet for dinner this evening?"
Father? Last he was in my life I was age two. No memory.
But I'm a college student. Free food, ok, I'm down with that.
Fabulous steak dinner and my introduction to Brandy and Benedictine, still a favorite.
Two days, two "new" parents. Imagine if that had kept going....
Mom's marriage to what was my second stepdad didn't last all that long, and by junior year she was back in another apartment. That year, the holiday schedule got messed by weather. I was in Atlanta for a chess tournament and couldn't get back to see her. Her airport was iced for days. We reset the visit for a long weekend over her birthday.
Mother was a woman of many ironies. While at that time still looking young and sweet, she carried a verbal switchblade, always ready to strike. One of her favorites sayings was "he/she meant well." To her, it meant that the person had the right idea but was too stupid to make it work. She had the ability to butcher a person and leave the victim smiling and thanking her. That plus tenure got her the gig as department chair.
Her mastery of sarcasm made no one think that she could have been born on Valentine's Day. By the time of this particular trip, I was a solid 6-foot, 20 year old, looking a couple of years older courtesy of a well trimmed beard. Mother a munchkin at 5 foot and 38 looking like 28.
This birthday trip was noteworthy for several reasons.
First, there was the elderly English professor, a reincarnation of Casanova in his own mind. Mother had hauled me out to campus and turned me loose in the college library while she held office hours. I was debating which grad school to attend or taking a year off and working. At one point I got tired and a bit hungry and returned to her office. She opted for plastic food from vending, and that's where we ran into the wannabe Don Juan.
Apparently, he had badly underestimated my mother's age in his bungling attempts to seduce her. As we entered the vending area from the corridor, he was raising his hand to insert coins into the coffee machine. He nodded to us. Mother took that exact moment to offer in a sugary voice, "Oh, Donald, I'd like to introduce you to my son."
The coins hit the floor, his head jarred an acoustic ceiling tile, he did a midair pivot and screamed, "Your what????"
I had no clue that a 60+, obese lush could have ballet moves in him, much less get that kind of air.
