Of Covens, Comforters, Aztec Gods, and Light-1
A Creative Memoir in 3 Parts. Part the First.
In a long ago past, teenage me embraced the dark. Dark rooms, dark clothing, dark souls. And so on. I thought I’d outgrown it but no, I recently gravitated back. Temporarily, but that’s a different story for a different day.
As a teen, I blended well in dark rooms. Rooms with mahogany walls, furniture, and brown bedspreads. Throw pillows were dark. Posters were dark. In both color and theme. I dressed in blacks, greys, and more browns. Tan if I felt upbeat. But mostly black. I wasn’t officially goth — it was well before that era.
The summer before senior year I’d mostly abandoned all things dreary. I was optimistic, happy, looking forward to my final year of high school and a bright and brilliant future as an actress, a singer, a philosopher or a juggler. What a nitwit.
Late June I relaxed on my family’s go-to vacation spot at our favorite east coast beach. The Atlantic’s crashing waves and smell of salt water transfixed yellow bikinied me. I stretched out on a giant pink and green towel imprinted with white letters— PEACE—easily read by the pilot operating a plane that droned overhead, flying a banner that advertised “Ashworth-by-the-Sea.” My sibs were yards away jumping waves, body surfing, and trying to drown each other.
Mom returned from the Boardwalk and bent to hand me lunch. I sat up when she pressed the icy cold can of Sprite against my arm. I took it from her along with a corn dog hidden somewhere beneath a pool of mustard. The sun made me squint so I turned my back to it and thanked Mom, resisting the urge to tell her she needn’t have skimped on the mustard.
Mom parked her too-pale body on a red sand chair beneath a frayed blue and white striped umbrella that would see its last season. She shook out of a sheer white coverall which, as far as I could tell, covered exactly nothing. She cleared her throat the way people do when they’re about to say something soul-crushing. “I’ve been meaning to tell you,” my mother said. “I’m glad to see you’ve stopped wearing depressing clothes.” She cleared her throat again. “I worried you’d joined a coven. Or some kind of cult.”
“They kicked me out, Mom, for refusing to smoke weed.” That’s true. Not the cult part but that I refused to smoke weed — its smell is noxious. I dated a guy once who—let’s save that for another time. I took a bite of corndog, spilling mustard onto my chest, then popped open the Sprite and sipped. Fizz shot up my nose and I sneezed.
“When do you plan to work on your room?” Mom asked. “Maybe check if a colony of ants has set up camp under your bed.” My mother was the quintessential neat freak. Take the proverb, “Cleanliness is next to godliness.” People will cite its origins as the bible, but it’s not. In fact, no one knows for certain where the statement originated. Personally, I believe Mom is the source—of that phrase and a number of others. I once found a list of “Hilarious Things My Mother Taught Me.” Nearly all ten lessons include statements my mother has made. For example,
“If you’re going to kill each other, do it outside. I just finished cleaning." (from “Hilarious Things My Mother Taught Me,” by Michelle Sandoval.)
Priorities.
“Ants, I tell you,” Mom shuddered. “And fungi. I’m afraid I’ll walk in some day and see mushrooms growing.”
I used my finger to clean mustard off my too small chest and popped it into my mouth. “So don’t go in.” I swiped more mustard.
“Then how will your room get dusted?”
“Point taken.”
Though I’d improved my dress, for too long into my adult years I continued to gravitate toward and accessorize with dark colors: brown (ugh) duvets and curtains, grey throw pillows and a truly hideous mottled black poster that nearly covered an entire wall. Triple ugh. On a trip to Mexico I bought a scary-looking giant Aztec wood sculpture. Sticking out the top was a head — of sorts. “Is that a god?” I asked the vender.
He shrugged and said, “sure.”
Five thumbs up!
I loved listening to this--so conversational and fun. I felt like we just sat down to have lunch together and you told me stories while we waited for our food. Great stuff.