After the Beginning

I don't know how long they courted before he learned of Mother's medication, but even after finding out, the man who became her husband was not deterred. He was convinced that he could bring forth enough loving passion from her to make the medications either irrelevant or unnecessary. He was wrong. He'd only seen her once, briefly, unmedicated, after she'd decided to stop taking her meds and did so for a few weeks, long enough for the half-life of the drug to wear off. It was a turbulent time, with her mood swings (and “swings” is putting it rather mildly) frequently bringing her to within an inch of her life, so to speak.

After that, he reminded her, often unnecessarily, to take her meds, even going through the trouble of buying her a pill box labeled with days of the week and times of day, labelled AM and PM. I think it irritated her. It's probably part of what led to the demise of their relationship. She hated feeling trapped as a prisoner-housewife. I think she longed to return to a more urban and urbane life. When we moved away from Butt-fuck Nowhere, we moved away from the rural life that had been driving Mother, as she put it, “batshit.” Although she enjoyed playing Bridge with the other women at the Woman's Club, she needed a greater reason to exist; she needed a purpose, goals to work toward, something with which to define herself outside of being a homemaker, since she did not feel like she was much of one, especially when comparing herself with her mother-in-law, who had grown up in the 1950's, eaten middle-American food, and managed not only to make it through college, but to graduate and work up to owning her own business. Mother wanted to make things other than just a single home for a single family, even if it was her own home for her own family. There had to be something greater to make her life meaningful, even if on it would still be on a very small, globally speaking, scale.

She scoured the paltry employment section in the local paper. The economy had entered a downturn, so there was not much building happening. Therefore, no construction management needed. She played Bridge online against other people from all over the world. I think that playing Bridge helped her maintain her sanity because, especially with the weekly games at the Bridge Club and at the Woman's Club, she was, at least, able to interact with others, even if only in a very limited fashion. All of them were retirees who were at least twice her age. She was not only the only non-retiree, but also the only non-Caucasian member of the Woman's Club, save one. Another Asian woman befriended Mother and invited her for games at her home. Unfortunately, most of the game days and evenings were couples' events. Because her husband did not play Bridge, Mother did not feel comfortable accepting. She missed out on those social events. Her husband was a bit of a loner, so he didn't introduce us to others, individuals or families, either. He was like an island unto himself, not even part of an archipelago. Lone.

For family and neighbours, we had Grandmother and Granddad, Great-grandmother, and Great-Grandmother's husband, a man she'd met later in life. This second husband would eventually outlive her.

I liked having Mum at home because she enjoyed baking, and would bake the bread we ate. She'd developed a sourdough starter, keeping a “mother” from which she'd scoop a bit of poolish for each loaf. She only baked pies and cakes for special occasions. She did bake cookies regularly, though, which was fun because I helped her measure, mix, form, sometimes by rolling, and place the cookie batter onto the baking sheets. She would put the cookie sheets into the oven and take them out herself. She wielded the spatula, moving the freshly baked cookies to the cooling racks. I remember eating a lot of homemade cookies. We also had pies that Grandmother would bake and invite us over to eat with her, though of course, she, herself, would refrain from eating the butter- or shortening-saturated crust.

There was something indescribably delicious about being a child in the countryside. It was only after we left behind our Holstein-patterned cat and her tuxedo brother that I realised what had made it Home. I missed our cats, but I did not miss taking allergy pills in order to interact with them. I missed playing in the snow, but not the ensuing pain that followed the numbness. All these things I associated with Home (with the capital H), and when we left, we left those things behind. Mother would have to either find another or make a new Home for us.

Without realizing it immediately, I would come to understand that I missed listening to the wind in the corn fields, feeling the coolness of the wood after walking through a sun-filled meadow, and the fish-peppered ponds, where Granddad would hold a fishing derby for the kids from their church every summer.

Before Mother's accident, we drove up from Virginia and I'd participated in one of Granddad's fishing derbies, though “participating” is an inaccurate description. Sans fishing pole, I was observing the older children without too much interest, playing and exploring on my own more than interacting with the god-fearing, who all appeared to follow blindly, of not happily, the myth perpetuated by their parents. Mother never lied to me and therefore never taught me a religion. She showed me the world as it was, without the sugarcoat of fantasy or the supernatural.

I missed random encounters with wildlife. Once, when I was about two or three, the family (Great-grandma, Grandmother, Granddad, Stepdad, Mother, and myself) were sitting outside on the patio in the early evening with glasses of iced tea when I came across a fawn who had been hidden under a bush by his mother. When I reached out to pet him, he said “Bahhh,” reared, ran forward, and butted me in the belly with his nonexistent antlers, knocking me back onto my bum to the great laughter of everyone else. The fawn ran off.