Father's Day

I woke this morning slightly sad at the thought that I will not see my father today. It isn't like that... he is still alive (last I heard) and living five or so miles away. Despite years of living in the same household, we are complete strangers to one another.

I think back to the breakfast I made one father's day morning. Card cast aside and food untouched. I think about when he left me to walk home from school... how someone picked me up as I walked along the highway. I think about my husband paying my father to come work in the garage or the yard just so I would get to see him. I try to think of a genuine moment between father and daughter not involving physical injury or illness but nothing comes to mind.

My father and I do not know each other. I do not understand why he never thinks of me or why he tells me lies when he knows I know the truth. He does not know what I am studying in college and what I want to be "when I grow up". In fact, as I grow older, I am learning that it is okay if he doesn't think of me, doesn't care about me. Perhaps that is the way it must be.

I see with more clarity the actions of the man who protects me like a father. My husband is - in a way - my father and my mother. He is my brother and my lover. He is everything a man should be. He would fight to keep me safe, cross through the gates of hell to make me happy. His love is unconditional. And maybe that is what father's day SHOULD be about: the men who mean everything to us.

To my beloved husband, you are my everything. Happy father's day.

The Christmas Myth

     Christmas is a remarkable and complex time of year. Everyone buys into the idea of a perfect family event. The everywhere we find movies showing families overcoming differences on Christmas, miracles occurring and general goodwill toward our fellow man. All of this is simply propaganda that. There is no ideal Christmas- the holiday is what you make of it.
      Eight years ago I had purchased a new house in the fall of the year. It was a large property in the country. In short, it was more land than house. However, it was my own little slice of weed-infested heaven. After several months of unpacking I was finally ready for the grand reveal. I recruited a kind-hearted roommate to assist in the food preparations and I invited my whole immediate family for lunch on Christmas day.
      As the day approached, I inquired about changing the meal to Christmas Eve. I wanted to avoid any time conflicts and to actually have a day of rest. My Mother, bless her, threw a small tantrum. "You said Christmas Day and we have all made plans that can't be changed." Locked in, I began preparations for the meal.
      We shopped for turkey, ham, corn, eggs, potatoes, pies, cakes, pineapple glaze and sweet potato fluff. After spending hundreds of dollars - more than one but less than three- we were prepared to ,start the cooking. By noon on Christmas Eve preparation of the vegetables had begun. The ham was baked and everything that could be prepared early was cooked. At around midnight I finally went to bed, setting my clock for 6 am so I could start the turkey.
       That Christmas was a warm, rainy affair. Much like this year in the Southern United States, the temperatures were unseasonably warm and the rain on Christmas day turned my new driveway into a muddy slush. Those forsaken rains began around 10 am on Christmas morning. So did the phone calls.
        The turkey went in at 6 am. Lunch was scheduled for noon so the guests were expected to arrive between 11 am and noon. I have a fairly large family so a turnout of between ten and fifteen people were expected. Around 11 am my Father called. After several minutes of pleasantries he passed the phone off to my Mother, who promptly informed me that an Uncle was having Christmas at noon and she wanted to go there instead of visiting my house. However, she was gracious enough to say that the family would come by later to eat.
      After thirty minutes of shock and the realization that I was on the verge of passing out because had been cooking for six hours without eating, the three people that bothered to show up sat down for a lunch feast. After all of the work we were left with tons of food. I called friends and neighbors to come over after the rains stopped to help get rid of everything.
      My family was kind enough to call and offer to show up - five hours later. Gathering my wits, I politely declined due to the sorry shape of the roadway and the fact that I was not feeling well after going so long without eating. I held a grudge over the event for years... now I understand that it was a breakdown of the Christmas facade.
      This Christmas I am preparing a breakfast for a few family members. It will consist of bacon, eggs and waffles. All of these are foods that I would eat whether anyone was around or not. I am not planning on a magical event because I have realized that the magic does not exist. I am neither expecting expensive gifts, nor am I providing them for others. A small amount of fellowship with my loved ones is enough of a present. Then, when everyone has gone home and the dishes are piled high, the solitude I find will be the greatest gift of all.
      Do not buy into the Christmas Myth that everything has to be perfect and that you must be surrounded by people to be happy. My happiest moments occur when I am settling in for a nap with my two little dogs in a bed full of fluffy pillows. Some may say this is a sign of antisocial behavior or depression. I say it is a sign that I have not been fooled by the movies and stories and myths of Christmastime, and I am very much happy with who I am and that I am.

Here's to Grand Beginnings

  Storytelling is in my DNA... and with a life like this, there are many stories to tell. I like to think I am an average girl but I have lived a life that is anything but average (so far). I hope that my thoughts and insights bring you a laugh, a tear, or simple entertainment on an otherwise boring afternoon.

    I have been inspired by the very personal stories of @Lesim - http://lesism.blogspot.com/ and the funny, quirky and thought-provoking banter of others. If they can share so much, shouldn't I share a little?

    Black Ink is my effort at presenting the stories, poetry and nonfiction of my life. The words are here to inspire creativity and to let you know that you are not alone in this mad, dysfunctional world. We are here together, hopefully sharing our stories in this digital maze of black ink.

Christmas Discoveries

     Her eyes peered open in the dark. Everything was concealed in shadow. Head under the blanket to hide from the monsters that lived in the room, she peeked out. There were no monsters on Christmas.

     She slid from beneath the blankets and shimmied down from the top bunk. She shared a room with her little brother. He couldn’t be quiet so she didn’t bother to wake him up. He would just be loud and make a bunch of noise. She had to check the presents before he got there anyway so he didn’t break or steal anything of hers.

     Her favorite nightgown hung down around her ankles. Garfield splashed across its front. She got the nightgown when she was in the hospital, sick with a high fever and blood poisoning from a scrape she got off of a piece of metal. The kids in her class gave her the nightgown because she missed Easter that year. She wore it almost every night.

     She padded barefoot out of the bedroom and down the hallway. A few articles of clothing were scattered here and there but it was mostly organized. Brown carpet covered the walkways. Down the little hallway and out into the living room she went.

     The Christmas tree was still on, lights flashing in strings of crayola colors. By the light of the tree she looked around the room. Beneath the tree was bare. No presents were stacked up in brightly colored wrapping paper. That was okay. “Santa doesn’t wrap the presents,” she thought.

     The living room was small. The front door of the singlewide trailer had a small window, one of the rectangular styles that only let in a little light. The kitchen window let in more light from the streetlamp outside. The countertops glowed in a pale white light that was cooler and more artificial than moonlight. It wasn’t a greatroom. There was a half wall that separated the kitchen from the living room. The brown carpet made the division between the rooms. It gave way to dingy linoleum on the other side of the front door.

     Several little girl paces from the Christmas tree was a pile covered by an afghan blanket. It was a blanket that someone had crocheted by hand. Her aunt Mary, blonde and skinny like the little girl, was learning to crochet. Perhaps she made the blanket. By the light of the tree, its colors looked dark. The little girl was sure they were brighter. Rusts and yellows and browns and greens appeared to be shadowy in the darkness.

     She crept quietly toward the pile of presents. “Santa covered them up so we wouldn’t get up and play with them too early,” she thought. “Mama and Daddy will be mad if we make too much noise too early.” Quietly, she tiptoed over to inspect the pile. It was long and irregular. She tried to peer into the holes but it was too dark. She tried to pull the blanket from under one edge of the pile but it was too heavy. “What kind of present is this?” she thought excitedly.

      One small finger reached into the blanket, peeking through one of the holes in the pattern of the afghan. The hole seemed as big as the world in that moment. She stopped. Her finger had reached something… something warm and covered in cloth. It was a man sleeping soundly.

     She stopped, drew back and looked at the pile beneath the blanket. Then, by the flickering Christmas tree light she could make out the shape of feet at the other end.  If this wasn’t the presents then they must be somewhere else. She drew back and looked around the room. No piles, no boxes, no bows or decorations were present except for those on the tree. No presents.

     The little girl’s heart sank. “Santa didn’t come this year.” She turned away from the sleeping stranger and padded on bare feet down the dark hallway. She shimmied back up the bunk beds and climbed back under the covers. There was no Christmas to discover so she went back to sleep.