On the Fourth of July

July 4, 2009 - 7 Comments by Mishelle - Familija, Me, Myself, and I

Those rides home were always my favorite part of the day. The way my clothes felt against my sunbathed skin. The way my cheeks felt from all the laughter. The way my belly ached in that good ache kind of way. The way my parents recanted the whole day in the front seat of that snazzy Buick they bought from a guy named Steve who lived up the road and often stopped by with his brother whose name has since been forgotten. The way my father would turn around from the passenger seat to ask if I wanted to stop for *you-know-what. The smell of our wet beach towels. The light that was barely apparent through the car window. The life. The feelings. The sounds. Those rides home, those years spent, those times that are forever etched in my mind. Those rides home are my memories of childhood. When I think of my childhood I am sitting in that blue Buick, cozy, warm, radiating, and smiling.

Things never stay the same.

The blue Buick was traded in for a maroon Cougar and the last year we went to the beach my mother lost the keys in Lake Erie. I recall waiting around for the tow-truck/lock smith, in the empty parking lot. All the aunts and uncles and cousins had long since gone home. It was my mother, my father and I waiting.  Anger and frustration over the turn of events morphed into laughter and joking. After all, the car was days old.  To this day Lake Erie has a set of her keys. She’s long gone, but the keys are somewhere in the depths of that lake. Maybe they were found by someone who wondered how they got there or maybe they are lying still, untouched and waiting? It was late that night and we were all drained, but as we approached that familiar stand my father turned around and asked if I wanted to stop for you-know-what. We did and I had twist with sprinkles.

Things just seem to evolve.

The maroon Cougar was upgraded; there have been three Cadillacs parked in my parents’ driveway since. The beach was replaced with an above-ground pool.  And I’ve grown up and have had some kids of my own.    Sometimes when I get a bit too much sun on my shoulders I remember how it felt way back then.  Sometimes when I see a certain light in the sky, through the windows of my van I remember how the day escaped, on those fourths-of-July past, on our rides home.   And, sometimes when I see certain expressions on the faces of my children I am reminded of the glee that I once felt as a child.   That’s when I am certain of it.  That’s when I know that things have come full circle.

Things change yet remain the same.

*Today is my father’s 58th birthday.  Happy Birthday Tato!  I’ll buy you a beer at the Festival next week.  Or maybe we’ll just go for some you-know-what.  Honestly, though, beer sounds better to me these days.  See, things really do change!   Nah; things change yet remain the same because I still love me some ice-cream with sprinkles.  Twist with chocolate sprinkles, that is!

Old Don Gato

July 3, 2009 - 5 Comments by Mishelle - Familija, Me, Myself, and I

Maybe here name was Mrs. McCormick or Mrs. Fulton or Mrs. Adams?  Who knows?  I don’t remember her name, but I remember the day she read this poem to the class. This poem about a cat named Don Gato.

On a high red roof Don Gato sat.
He was there to read a letter,
Meow, meow, meow!
Where the reading light was better,
Meow, meow, meow!
‘Twas a love-note for Don Gato!

“I adore you,” wrote the lady cat,
Who was fluffy white, and nice and fat.
There was not a sweeter kitty,
Meow, meow, meow!
In the country or the city
Meow, meow, meow!
And she said she’d wed Don Gato!

I listened to the poem intently.  Gazing out of the window I remember staring at the white puffy clouds in the sky, taking every word of the poem in.    I pictured this old cat on the roof reading a letter from his love.   How his ears must have perked up when he learned that she would be his forever.  I imagined him smiling and purring, there on the roof, intoxicated by love.

O Senor Don Gato jumped with glee!
He fell off the roof and broke his knee,
Broke his ribs and all his whiskers,
Meow, meow, meow!
And his little solar plexus
Meow, meow, meow!
“Ay Caramba! ” cried Don Gato.

All the doctors they came on the run,
Just to see if something could be done.
And they held a consultation,
Meow, meow, meow!
About how to save their patient,
Meow, meow, meow!
How to save Senor Don Gato.

I remember as she read those two stanzas of the poem my focus went from the clouds outside the classroom window to my (now nameless) teacher’s lips. Each word she read was slow and deliberate. My chin rested in my hands and my brow furrowed; I felt tears stream down my young, ten year old, inexperienced-in-love face. Oh Senor Don Gato. Tragedy. Love. Then loss. How could it be?

But in spite of everything they tried,
Poor Senor Don Gato up and died.
No, it wasn’t very merry,
Meow, meow, meow!
Going to the cemetery,
Meow, meow, meow!
For the ending of Don Gato.

But as the funeral passed the market square,
Such a smell of fish was in the air,
Though the burial was slated,
Meow, meow, meow!
He became reanimated,
Meow, meow, meow!
He came back to life, Don Gato!

I don’t know what it was about this poem that got me, but it stuck with me for a long time. The other day I read it to the kids and they were all like, That poem made you CRY? They thought I was silly for crying about it. I don’t think I was.

For as long as I can remember I have been a cry baby. I cry when I’m happy. I cry when I’m sad. I cry when I’m angry. I cry when I say good-bye. I. Cry. Maybe it’s silly, then again, maybe it’s not. I think it just goes to show that I wear my heart on my sleeve. I think it goes to show that feelings I experience are deep and raw. I’m glad I have the ability cry. Because I equally have the ability to laugh.