I should have known upon waking up this morning that this pic flashing up on my feed from four years ago was a definite sign from the heavens to stay in bed watching Gracie & Frankie and quilting.
Did I do that? No.
I got ambitious. Took my first solo bike ride in thirteen years over to my cousin’s house on the other side of town to see if it was still possible (it was), then decided to actually fulfill a promise to my Dad to take my Mom out for an airing (without a leash, but it was tempting).
What does a four-year-old toilet pic and taking Grandma for a walk have in common?
Huh. How am I going to hook this one together? Let’s give it a shot.
The above photo is one of the best Pittsburgh potties I’ve seen because there are walls. One of the few memories I have of living here before moving out to Illinois is a scary toilet with a makeshift wall or sheet, surrounded by spiders in our old house in the North Hills. The above is the kind of potty you dream of after making the mistake of stopping at Taco Bell after the age of thirty-five, the kind where the magazines never change, but there’s always another angle you can dig out of the advice column in Reader’s Digest.
I really liked this bathroom. The house had a three-season room in back, too, and was all one level except for the damned stairs up to what would otherwise have been a ranch.
I looked at about twenty houses with my folks before my kids got out of school that year, then I broke. None of them were the house they’d left. None were in the North Hills. None felt big enough.
I was working three (four?) jobs at the time, lived with six people in a two-and-a-half-bedroom house, had just lost both my grandparents, and could only dream of buying any of these houses myself…but they weren’t enough.
In plenty of parallel universes, you’re supposed to ask for help when you need it. HA! Not this one, baby. Asking for help lets people know there’s something wrong. That’s a no-no. I’ve found most people prefer to let me know they think there’s something wrong, and they’re concerned. Very concerned. Maybe I should be more concerned.
Yeah. I know. I’ve been here for twenty-five years. I get it. I got it when I was told by grade-school friends that my Mom was talking to the Holy Spirit during a night out in Chicago. I got it when the neighbors kept calling after I’d moved away after college, so I went home to “fix” what could never really be fixed and started kissing my future goodbye. I got it when I said no to a job in Japan because I knew if something happened at home, I’d have to leave. I got it when my college counselor pulled out my grades and said, “Have you considered Yale? UCLA?” and passed it up because people like me can’t do those things. I remember it every time I take off clothes that smell like dog piss and think of all the times I must not have been able to hide the smell.
I broke after being screamed at by someone who I’d tried to calmly ask for a hand, who then proceeded to scream at me what a loser I was, what, with my loser jobs and my bastard kids, WHY THE FUCK COULDN’T I HANDLE IT?!
Yes, my kids were in the car. I dropped them at day camp, drove home to quick write my stories while crying and shaking.
That was the person the concerned people talked to like an adult, while they asked me what I was going to do to fix it all, make it better, take away the hassle of concern.
Breaking meant losing my Mom. I ran out to drop my son at a baseball game downtown, and, when I got home, my six-year-old daughter noticed Grandma wasn’t home.
Full, internal meltdown with a mom smile. “Hon, I bet she just took a walk.” Daughter in car, neighborhood cruising commences.
For everyone who locks their doors when they see groups of black teenagers on the street, you’re dead wrong; when looking for an old white lady wandering aimlessly, they’re exactly who you ask for help, and they oblige. Unfortunately, all signs pointed to the river.
For the love of all that’s holy, the woman gets lost in my house, but somehow found her way all the way DOWN TO THE RIVER. My worst parenting moments include, (a) hunting Granny down with two kids in the backseat of my car, and (b) hunting Grandma down with my kindergarten-age daughter, wondering what I was going to do with her if Grandma had done a header into the Mon.
*Spoiler alert: Grandma’s still around.*
I know, I know, plenty will be horrified by a gallows joke about suicide, yet it’s how my mind twists to weave it into the family tree. The tendency is like having the power of the Force in the family, but everyone turns the light saber inwards and it burns away all traces of self esteem and leaves a dark sense of humor as a scar.
The Holy Spirit (or that of Granny) came to the rescue.
My uncle was visiting Granny’s grave when he got the urge to ride over to Carrie Furnace, down by the river. I’d just driven by; he arrived just in time to find my Mom climbing off a slag heap.
That was four years ago. Almost.
That’s the kind of shit I hide in my mental basement. It’s the kind of shit I hide in the real basement, but it’s hard to sneak out our real basement because the alarm system announces to everyone, “Basement door open,” when I do it.
Here’s what’s currently hidden in our literal basement:
Chickens!
Gaaaaah! They are so cute! They are so dumb! If I put it on Facebook, I’m asking for a very nasty note from my cousin about being a suburban wannabe, but…
(a) I have a very large yard and already checked our city bylaws;
(b) I built a coop two years ago;
(c) I’m confused as to why I’d get a nasty call when she’s never been to my house because it’s in a “bad” neighborhood.
It makes me sad, though, to not share the joy of these long-awaited little chickies. My friend shared hers, and people are excited, but I know that’s not for me. People would just politely ignore it, because, while I can take on the responsibility of children, grandparents, and parents all at the same time, chickens are clearly too much for my bird brain.
So, I keep this one closer to my heart, in the basement where Grandpa used to hide his cigarillos and I hide my dreams, where there’s space for my mess, the shit I have to hide to avoid the lure of the Mon and the slag heaps.
Incidentally, we just got a response on the house negotiations we’ve been in for two months to move back in with my folks, but with lots more space. Thirteen years of scrimping and working and waiting and, now, the concerned calls have started again and we’ve been Coronavirused into a corner.
This is why I don’t dream, anymore.
My Seedy Affair 