Lessons from Grandpa

When asked who I admired most and why, I always answered, “My grandpa because he built a business from nothing.” When he passed away, I found out just how famous he was in the music world. I did not realize prior to his funeral just how many lives he had touched. He was just my grandpa, the man who led our family. Going to visit Grandpa at the office was a big deal. So was a chance to go to his house. I have fond memories of holidays at his house.

One of my favorite moments with my grandpa was when he would gather the “grand girls” (me, my sister, and two cousins) on his bed to share a story with us. We would giggle with excitement until his serious tone would signal to us it was time to settle down and listen.  Most of his stories dealt with not drinking and getting an education. These were what he valued.

My favorite story is “The Bridge Story” which was always told when Grandpa drove the family down to Galveston to have lunch at Gaido’s. When driving from Houston to Galveston, there is an overpass called the causeway.  It’s really tall and allows for people to get on and off the island while boats can drive underneath in the bay. The original bridge is one that goes up and down so boats could pass. It’s still there, almost always raised up.

As we would drive over the causeway, Grandpa would tell us about a guy who got behind the wheel of his car after drinking too much. He was driving across the bridge and did not realize the bridge was being raised for a passing boat.  As his story goes, the guy drove off the bridge and drowned. My grandpa always ended the story by adding that the car drowned too. We would silently look out into the bay and imagine a guy and his car drowning because he drank too much and drove his car.

I’m not sure if this is a true story. I think the make, model, and color of the car was different over the years. He wanted us to not drink and drive. I think out of all the “grand girls”, this story stuck with me the most. I cannot say I never drove after drinking, but I can say that I’m terrified of bridges. I do my best to avoid them, especially suspension bridges and those like the one in Galveston that goes up and down.

I always have to tell “The Bridge Story” as I drive over the causeway, no matter who is in the car with me. It’s tradition. I’ve even been travelog with people who were talking and I couldn’t share the story aloud, so I told it to myself in my head. I wish I had recordings of my grandpa telling his stories. 

My Rambling History Full of Holes

I don't have many memories before the fourth grade. There are a few bits and pieces in my brain, but I think a lot of it comes from the pictures I've looked through or the stories I have heard. When I turned 30, I created a scrapbook of my first 30 years. I went through old pictures and papers and found out some interesting information. I was born in Houston, Texas, but my parents were currently living in California. Only my grandmother from California was mentioned in the birth announcement from he newspaper. My parents went back to California after I was born. In fact, I have a California social security number. I learned shortly after becoming a teacher and someone saw my social on a sign-in sheet. She asked if I was born in CA. I told her no and asked why. She said it starts like hers, 546. I thought that was odd since I was born in Texas. That was before I knew my parents were living in CA.

So, my parents went back to CA. My parents stayed married for about a year after I was born. There a lot of happy photos of my first year. My dad, who I did not know growing up, was always smiling at me and looking so proud to have me as a daughter. My parents split when I was about a year old. Now, I always believed that we were in Texas and moved right in with my Nana, but it turned out we spent a mysterious year in Las Vegas. My mom was with a man. We lived there for a whole year. We didn't move to Texas until I was three. WOW!

When I found this out, I had a ton of questions! I never had any idea that we lived in Vegas. I don't know who this man was. I found out I was hospitalized for pneumonia for my second birthday. There weren't pictures of this birthday in any of my photo albums and I saw my medical records that showed I was in the hospital. I asked my mom about this time. This whole part of my life I didn't know existed. She was quiet. She said she didn't want to talk about it. She wouldn't say anything. I asked my grandma (her step-mother). She said she doesn't know much. She said she and my grandpa didn't meet me until I was three and we were back in Texas. All she knew is that the guy my mom was with wasn't very nice.

So I've pieced together that we came back to Texas when I was three and we lived with my Nana. From then until she passed away when I was twelve, my Nana was my caretaker. My mom was very self-involved. She was getting high, and partying, and doing who knows what part of the time. Nana made sure my needs were met. She cooked for me. She washed my clothes. She look care of my long, curly hair.

Nana died when I was twelve. I told her goodbye when I left for school. She wasn't feeling well. I gave her a kiss and told her I'd see her after school. I came home to a note that Nana was sick. I can't remember much. My sister had been home with her when she had her heart attack. My Nana went by ambulance. My mom wouldn't let me go to the hospital to see Nana (now that I'm a parent, I understand that). I wrote her a letter. My dad was home with us. I remember my mom coming home from the hospital after being with Nana. My dad met her at the door and hugged her. I drifted off to sleep shortly after. The next day, my parents told us Nana had died. I remember my dad crying. I was so sad. My Nana was my everything. She took care of me. My mom was sober by this time and around more, but what would I do without my Nana?

One of the first things that happened is my mom cut my hair off. It was down to my waist. I'm ashamed to admit it, but my Nana still washed my hair for me. My mom said she wasn't going to take care of it, so it got cut off. It wasn't super short, but it was no longer down to my waist. My sister and I started staying alone after school and on the long summer days. I was old enough to take care of us, but I missed having Nana there. Both our parents worked.

I still miss Nana today. I still imagine her as she was in 1988. She'd be in her late 90s by now if she was even still alive. When I got married, I wanted her there. When I had Alex, I wanted her there more than anything. My mom seems to have no maternal instinct, and I attribute all my maternal instinct to my Nana. She was always there especially when things were bad. I remember having a dream when I was in high school where I was riding in a car with someone. I heard a voice from the backseat, turned, and saw my Nana. I asked her, "What are you doing here?" In the dream, I had the knowledge that she was dead. She replied, "I would never leave you." This has stayed with me all my life. I feel like she is with me, but I wish I could hug her. I wish she could still hold me when things were tough.

I started writing this about my memories and how I feel like there are so many holes. I wonder if my brain has blocked these things out and if I should leave them there. I wonder if it is information I should know. I guess it's buried for a reason. My mom and step-dad married when I was five. My sister was born right before I turned six. I called him Bob for the longest time. I'm not sure when I decided to start calling him dad, but he is the only dad I have ever known.

There was a point when they split. My sister was young. My mom dated some asshole whose name I think was Frank. Nana was absent was a part. My mom hired babysitters. I don't know where my sister was. I can't picture her with us.  We lived in a house that always had ants in it. My step-dad would come pick up my sister and me and take us to K-Mart and for lunch. He would buy me a Strawberry Shortcake doll each time. I don't remember what my sister would pick out. She may have been too young.I treasured these moments. At some point they got back together.  We lived in this house when Hurricane Alicia hit. All I remember is trying to make canned ravioli and was mad that the microwave didn't work.

We lived in a great house on Huntington Field. I loved that house. It's not the one I always dream about, but it was a great house. I have a lot of great memories playing in the yard and having adventures all over the house. This is the house we lived in when my mom went into rehab. My Nana was still alive. This is where my memories begin. When my mom was in rehab, my dad rented the movie, Stand by Me. My mom was so mad. I remember this. I guess because of the bad language (R rating). Maybe it was because the kids were looking for a dead body in the movie. In this house we had our own rooms (my sister and me), a playroom upstairs that housed our Barbie town, a huge backyard we hunted frogs in, and rooms that were warm with family time.

Then we moved to Plum Point into a house that was full of fleas. My dog, Baby, had never been covered in so many fleas. This is where we lived when Nana died. This is the house where we lived when I had the large chalkboard I played school with. The Barbies were housed in the formal dining room we didn't use, but it was a huge downgrade for them. From here we moved to Spring Grove, which is the house I always dream about. Then an old man was out for a walk one night on our street and was shot in a drive by. My parents promptly decided to move to Sugar Land. I had to start at a new high school my junior year.

All these things have shaped me into who I am today. I wonder how much those things I don't remember have shaped me. This goes back to me wondering if knowing what happened would matter. If those things are important. Is what happened in Vegas important? Do those holes need to be filled in?

How I Became the Christmas Grinch

We celebrated a secular Christmas in our house until I was in high school. It was suddenly taken away without explanation. This moment ripped the "Christmas Spirit" from my heart and left a deep, dark hole. It left a bitterness toward the happiness of the holiday time. It wasn't the symbols of Christmas I missed, but the family traditions that went with decorating the tree and opening gifts on Christmas morning. Taking Christmas out of our home took away a reason for the family to do something together.

I looked forward to getting the tree and ornaments from the attic. It was fun to unwrap each delicate ornament and relive the important memory behind each one. We had a Miss Piggy angel whose wing would fall off every year. We super glued it back on so she could hang on our tree another year. We had a Garfield ornament where the front showed him looking out the window at the snow, but when you turned it around, you saw his back and the Christmas tree. There were mine and my sister's first Christmas ornaments, mine obviously from 1976 and hers more updated from 1982. Each year we went to select a special ornament from the Hallmark store with the year on it. I looked forward to going to the store and looking at all the new ornaments for the year. We'd select one to add to our tree.  This created a new memory to unwrap for the next Christmas.

We had stockings and special stocking holders. I would hang these with care by the fire place with anticipation of candy and other things that could possibly fit inside.

I would love when the sun went down and darkness would blanket the house, so we could turn on the twinkling lights and (if cool enough) have a fire in the fireplace. It was a warm, happy feeling. Something that brought my dysfunctional family together. It brought warmth and peace to the house. I wanted it to always last.

Then the brightly colored, carefully wrapped presents would appear under the tree. I do not believe Christmas is about presents and hate how commercialized the holiday becomes each year. But, the presents under the tree were so pretty and filled with wonder. My sister and I would find the presents labeled with our name and shake them trying to guess.

We'd leave a note for Santa with his milk and cookies. We also always left a carrot for Rudolph so he could lead the sleigh. When we were young and still believed in the magic of Santa, falling asleep was so hard. I couldn't wait to wake up and see what Santa brought. I also couldn't wait to see what had been under the tree. It was an exciting time.   We had really elaborate Christmases for people who didn't have a lot of money. We pretty much received all the hottest new toys and everything on our lists. Now that I am grown up, I see that my parents were probably trying to make up for all the crappy stuff by buying us a lot for Christmas and Hanukkah.

When my dad decided to convert to Judaism, my parents no longer saw the need to celebrate Christmas in our house. I guess we did it for him all those years. Since we only celebrated the secular Christmas, I didn't understand why it had to stop. We didn't do the religious parts. They weren't removing a holiday "our people" didn't celebrate, they were removing years of family bonding and traditions.

I've been pretty grumpy about the holiday since then. Like I hold something against it. I don't embrace it. I don't want much to do with it. I'm bitter. I should direct that at my mom, but instead, I direct it at the holiday. I feel bad about this.

Drug Rehab

My mom got high in her closet every night. My sister and I would be sitting on her bedroom floor because back then we watched TV as a family, and she'd go into her closet and snort cocaine. I knew she was doing something bad in there, but when I was young, I was not sure what it was. I never went in her closet. I knew it was off limits, and I am a rule follower.

She went into rehab when I was in sixth grade. We lived in Alief, still on Huntington Field. I was ashamed to have a mom in drug rehab. I told one friend about it at school. We were changing in the girl's locker room and she kept asking about my mom. Another time, I was next door on my friend's swing set. I remember the warm sun in my face as my her mom asked a lot of questions about where my mom was. I did not lie back then either. I tried to answer her without lying or mentioning drug rehab. I do not remember how I satisfied her curiosity, but I remember the relief of her being satisfied with my answer and going back inside her house and me getting to swing with my friend and be a kid.

My dad was good to us while my mom was getting help. Monday nights we went to Pistol Pete's Pizza which was kind of like Chuck E Cheese. We'd eat dinner and get to play games. It was during this time that I perfected my skeeball game. My dad taught me to aim for the forty instead of the fifty. It was easier to sink the ball in the forty over and over and still get a high score. A high score equaled lots of tickets which meant lots of prizes.  Monday nights at Pistol Pete's continued ever after my mom came home because AA meetings were on Monday nights.

Rehab and AA for my mom meant therapy for us. We would go to therapy at the hospital. The kids, my sister and me along with the other children who had parents battling addictions, would meet in the small room with a male counselor. He wore glasses, had brown hair, and asked a lot of silly questions. I learned early on not to give silly answers because he would probe deeper trying to find the dark reason for my response when all it really was a silly answer from an eleven yer old girl who wanted to be home playing Barbie instead of in this room with him and these other kids.

West Oaks Hospital would have "family days" which were supposed to resemble BBQs and carefree times. I guess these days were created for patients to feel like they were having normal family time. To keep them connected to the family they left at home so they could get clean.  These never felt real to me in the sterile beige rooms with plastic blue furniture. It wasn't comfortable. It wasn't home.

After rehab, my mom was more physically present. Less nights were spent in the closet. She watched full tv shows and movies with us. We could depend on her to pick us up after school if we needed her to. Drugs still took my mom from me. She was not part of the early years like she should have been.

dreaming

I struggled with today's writing. I was trying to write something more upbeat, but it's not what I have inside me right now. I started a piece on belonging, but I couldn't quite get the words right. Here's a peek into my dreamland.  

Last night I dreamed I was hanging out with some girlfriends. These girls have been my friends for around twenty years. We met in college. Over the past couple of years I have felt a strain between us. There were three girls in my dream. One I'm very close with, but in the dream she kept making excuses to do something else. One of the other girls was pointing out everything wrong with my apartment. She didn't like the food I was serving or the dishes I was using. She wasn't happy with the options I had for seating. She was being very difficult. The third girl was an ex-friend. She stopped being friends with me over a year ago. She has been acting like a middle school girl and trying to turn other friends against me. In the dream, she was using my favorite pink cup that says, "Princess" on it. I was so angry that she was using that cup.  It was like she was replacing me among our friends.

Dreams have always fascinated me. I remember doing a research paper over dreams my senior year of high school. I am always trying to figure out why I have the dreams I do. What do they mean? What is my subconscious trying to tell me?

My biggest fear in the whole world is alligators. I'm terrified of them. I can't even stand to see them on TV. I know in my mind this fear is totally illogical.  I can even pinpoint when it started. I was watching an episode of "When Animals Attack" on Fox. There was a lady in Florida who was talking about walking to her car with her groceries. She heard a hissing noise and thought it was a tire.She looked under her car and there was a large alligator. It wasn't just hearing this terrifying story on TV. I felt the fear once a week when I attended classes at University of Houston, Clear Lake.  When you enter the campus, there are signs that state "Beware of Alligator". After seeing these, I kept imagining leaving class at 9 PM and there be an alligator hissing under my car. The fear grew from here.

When I'm highly stressed, I'll dream about alligators. I'll be in situations where they are near me. I'll be in situations where I am running from them.  I'll be in situations where I'm scared to death. I know when I start dreaming of alligators that I'm stressed or worried about something. I wish I would dream of something else because I'm so scared when I wake up.

When I feel out of control in my life I have a reoccurring dream about driving a car from a backseat. This car is always traveling down a freeway with lots of curves and overpasses. It's ridiculous how scary these rides are. I didn't even know it was possible to drive a car from the backseat.

I recently had a reoccurring dream about having a baby. In the dream, I always had a little girl. I would exclaim, "I finally have my Miriam." These dreams would make me sad and confuse me. When I didn't have another baby by thirty-five I was so sad. I always wanted to be pregnant again and have another baby. I definitely wanted a little girl so I could have my Miriam Elizabeth.  It took a little while, but I finally came to terms with not having anymore babies. Then I got heart disease and found out how high risk it would be for me to be pregnant again. So, when the baby dreams started, I was confused. If I had made up my mind that I was over having babies, why was I having these dreams. I even had one dream where I found an abandoned baby girl and was still ecstatic to have my Miriam. I felt like I had to mourn the decision not to have a baby all over again.

One final dream that I encounter all the time is a house we used to live in shows up all the time. It was our house on Spring Grove. Some of the dreams that I have here take place in the past and some the present. We moved out of this house when I was sixteen. We only lived there a short time. So, why does this house always show up in my dreams?

The other night I dreamed that my family was moving back there without me. They said I could come, but I couldn't bring my stuff. Then when I said I would leave stuff behind, I was told I could have my big room back to myself. My mom said I would have to share it with my dad. I couldn't understand why my family was treating me so poorly in this house that means so much to me. In real life, I'm having some struggles with them. My mom upset me Sunday night, so it probably triggered this dream. But, why this house? Why?

They say dreams are a window to the soul. I'm not sure what my soul is based on these dreams I have shared. There is so much I am still trying to understand about my dreams and who I am when I am awake.