sarahntastic

I have always felt ill-equipped intellectually to read poetry.  Perhaps I hadn’t enough life experience or the right frame of mind to appreciate what a smart man so simply explained to me is “just concentrated prose.”

And so I have read a bit of poetry recently.

“Music Swims Back to Me” immediately took me to a time my mother broke into a million pieces.  My father’s mother, my beloved grandmother, the only mother figure my own mother knew, died.  We were all distraught.  She was the most loving, funny, silly, sweet person all of us knew.  My mom had a horrible mother.  My grandmother took my mother in when she was 17, cared for her, and loved her as her own for 30 years.

So, when my grandmother died, my mom left us for months.

She was with us physically, but so far gone emotionally, we had no idea what to do.  Most attempts to coax her out into the world were met with anger, lashing out, screaming, complete and utter despair-filled, fetal position on the floor, sobbing.  She checked out of life.

She remembers little of this now, many years later, long-recovered from this break.  This wasn’t the first time my mother exited reality for the broken place in her mind.  Her recollection is disjointed, makes little sense.  Yet she remembers details so tiny and specific, I often think she created them in her mind to soothe herself:  the exact shape of clouds on a particular day; music on the radio when we would go for drives; a book I suggested to her.  These are the sort of details she would never, ever remember under normal circumstances.

Having had my own tortured mental breaks in my life, I know how important these tiny, pleasant bits are.  What swims back to you when you are broken is what keeps you, in the sane times, remembering why you never want to go back again if you can help it.

Her father was a raging alcoholic.  He beat them all for his own personal recreation.  Her mother, her brother, her.  He threw her against the brick fireplace and broke her clavicle when she was a small child.  He berated them all; he viciously beat them all.  And yet somehow she was his favorite.  She stared him in the eye while he beat the shit out of her.  He had a respect for her that he didn’t have for her mother and brother.  Because of this, her mother resented her and abused her emotionally her entire life.  She would spend most of her adult life chasing her mother’s love.

In 1968, she was 17, angry, and hurt because her father forced her home from college simply because she was dating a Jewish guy.  Otherwise she wouldn’t have been home that day when he returned from after-work drinking, enraged by Black Panthers and hippies and socialists.  He beat her while she sat in a kitchen chair, staring at him.  When he was finally done, she left, with nothing.  She got in her car and drove 200 miles west to a family friend.  She had the phone number of a former college acquaintance from California.  She called.  He drove 1,500 miles to get her.  She left with him and just a few clothes she had sewn for herself, waiting for this kid to come get her.  She wouldn’t return to her home state for many years.

He was angry and hurt, too.  He left college because the money ran out.  He had a large, close family, but he was the youngest and left behind a lot.  In 1968 he was 18.  He drove 1,500 miles to rescue someone he barely knew.  He brought her to California, and she was immediately embraced by his family.  His mother loved her as her own from the start.  His mother said, whenever anyone asked how she could take in a stranger, “she was a child. I never understood how her own parents could throw away their child.  Now she is my daughter.”

After a year living and working together, she asked him if they were going to get married.  They did.

Then they had three kids.  And lots of pets.  And a house with a pool.  And vacations.  And their kids grew up.

And they stayed married.  Continue to stay married.

After he saved her and she saved him.

Get married young, stay married forever.

…that my grandmother loved me.  Always.

We spent our “real” Christmas with my brothers and sister in law the week after Christmas in Santa Clarita. A text from my SIL said “bring lots of games, I’m ready to play.” So, we brought cards and games and headed down the road on Sunday.  We forgot about the part where SIL is massively competitive at Uno.  But more on that later.

We started with Zigity on Monday, our “real” Christmas Day.   First, no one listened to the directions.  Everyone whined.  My mother was always two steps behind.  My father thought it was funny to make up rules.  My SIL wanted to kill all of us because she is very serious about winning.  We finally gave this up for UNO, SIL’s favorite game.  This time, at least, we all know the rules, but that doesn’t keep my dad from trying to cheat, my brothers having side conversations, and me zoning out.  Then true colors came out.  That is the true colors of my mom and SIL.  My mom was thrown a couple “skip” cards in a row and then someone went out.  She yells “I DIDN’T EVEN GET TO PLAY THAT ROUND.” Everyone laughs, she is serious.  A couple more games, SIL and mom play cutthroat but then it’s time for dinner and we are done.

No card games Tuesday because we went to The Getty Museum, but we were back at the Uno on Wednesday.

Let me give some back story on my mother and game playing:

My mother is the absolute most competitive game player I have ever met.  When I was much younger (7, 8, 9 and up) she taught me Gin, Rummy, Mulitple Solitaire, Boggle, Scrabble, and more.  She played my 7 year old ass like we were in a casino and she had serious money on the line.  She didn’t let me win, ever.  Besides that, she would win, go out, or make a triple words score and screech “HA!” or some other sort of grandstanding celebratory yell.   You might think this would have developed my competitive side.  Um, no.  I always feel bad throwing down a Draw 4 on someone in UNO or going out first in Gin.  I have been known to lose a game on purpose just so the person who cares more about winning can do so.

But get this….she doesn’t even pay attention half the time.  She can’t remember which direction we’re going in UNO or if she discarded last in Rummy.

So, Wednesday is Uno, all day, starting at 7:30am.  We play and play, but not without drama.  She was totally pissed off because my SIL, the UNO pro, kept throwing her Draw cards.  She wanted to know the score every round.  My mom called my brother an “idiot” and my dad a “stupid idiot” at various points when she thought she knew what was going on but really did not.  And then when I teased her about her competitiveness she screeched “I GUESS I’M A FUCKING IDIOT” and looked like she might cry.  Then when my dad had a ton of cards, she goes “oooooh, do you need the ooooold-laaaaady card holder for all those cards?” neener-neener!!

People, we were playing UNO!

We moved on to mulitple player solitaire.  Now, I grew up playing this with my parents.  It was one of the ways I would get to stay up way past my bed time.  However, I would be completely overwhelmed by them because they would inevitably stand up and play by slamming cards down faster than the other, screaming, asking me who got it first, and otherwise GOING TOTALLY NUTS.  My dad only participated because he knew it made my mom crazy not to win.

So, Thursday is all day of this and yet again my mom is cutthroat, standing up, slamming cards, accusing everyone of cheating, and otherwise playing like a complete maniac.  My dad would ask what card was up on her side and she would say “I’m not telling you, if you can’t see it get your eyes checked!” Ay.

If you ever need to punish your kid, let me know.  I’ll set up a game of UNO with my mom.