The Marlowes and Deals

The Marlowes

Here is some of what I know about Marlowe history. Much of the story of Great-Grandpa Marlowe and his family is a rehash of a story I found in my father’s papers when I was young, written by one of his elderly cousins.

http://www.marlowtown.co.uk/marlhist.html

The name Marlow is English and indicates a location.  It literally means “what is left after the draining of a pond or lake” so people with the name Marlow lived in or near a drained pond or lake.   Many Marlows (and all derivations of the name) can trace their ancestries back to Marlow, Buckinghamshire, England.  In case you are wondering who you might be related to, derivations of Marlow include Marley, Marlowe, Marlo, Marloe, Merlau, Marle, Morley, Merlaue, Marlough, Marloughs, Marloughe, Marloughes, and Merlawe.

The following excerpts were taken from the out-of-print book ‘Marlow Family History’ by Dorothy Roane (1962, reprinted 1965, 1980, 1996)

Because of finding sharks teeth, tusks, and teeth of mammoth elephants and parts of wooly rhinoceros and dinosaur, it is believed that many years ago Marlow, England was submerged under water.  Also found in the Marlow area are flints and tools from the Stone Age, a Belgic urn, and spearheads dropped in the Thames in the Bronze Age, articles from the Iron Age, and coins from the Romans left in local waters. 

The Saxons came and drained the ‘mere’ (according to Webster’s Dictionary, “a sea, lake, or pond) and named the place “Merlaw”.  In Anglo-Saxon language this means, “What is left after draining a mere.” 

There is both a Great Marlow, which once contained about 1800 acres and to the east of this, Little Marlow, which had 1600 acres.  This land changed hands many times and at one time Edward the Confessor’s Queen owned Little Marlow and William of Normandy gave Great Marlow to his wife, Matilda.  The Knights of Templars are credited with laying out the foundations of the town and bridging the river with the first of three famous spans it has had. 

The story I remember is that John Wesley came to Marlow, England, and convinced some followers to come with him to Ireland in the 1700s, and that is how the Marlow’s came to leave England for Ireland.

John Wesley had an experience in which his “heart was strangely warmed.” After this spiritual conversion, which centered on the realization of salvation by faith in Christ alone, he devoted his life to evangelism. Beginning in 1739 he established Methodist societies throughout the country. He traveled and preached constantly, especially in the London-Bristol-Newcastle triangle, with frequent forays into Wales, Ireland, and Scotland. He encountered much opposition and persecution, which later subsided.~ http://www.ccel.org/w/wesley/ 

My Great-Grandfather, George Washington Marlowe, Jr. was born in 1814 in Dublin, Ireland to George Marlow and Catherine Smith. He married Jane Kennedy, who was born in Ireland on March 17, 1833. They had fourteen children altogether, three died in infancy. Mary was the only child born in Ireland in 1848. Then came Catherine, Theresa, Anna, Margaret, George, Agnes, Esther, Thomas (my Grandfather), Elizabeth and Charles.

The legend is that Great-Grandpa Marlowe was a Freedom Fighter in Ireland, and one day he was making a soap box speech and was approached by friends who told him that the British Bobby’s were looking for him with an order for his arrest. Handing him a ticket, they told him to hasten to Liverpool and take the ship shortly to leave for America, which he did. They said they would send Jane and the baby she was carrying when had found a place for them.

Jane, who was nineteen years younger than he was, joined him with baby Mary one year later, sailing on the Camillus from Liverpool on April 17, 1849. They settled in New York City, and lived there for fourteen years when they moved to Louisville, KY, and then Cincinnati, OH, and finally Chicago where they made their home for many years with some of their children joining them.  

Here is the record from Jane coming to America in 1849 from the Ship Camillus’ manifest. I didn’t realize before that she was only eighteen and a mother of an infant when she arrived:

Name: Jane Marlow
Year: 1849
Age: 18
Estimated Birth Year: abt 1831
Place: New York, New York
Family Members: Child Mary
Source Publication Code: 2597.51.1
Primary Immigrant: Marlow, Jane
Source Bibliography: GLAZIER, IRA A. AND MICHAEL TEPPER. The Famine Immigrants: Lists of Irish Immigrants Arriving at the Port of New York, 1846-1951. Vol. IV (April 1849-September 1849). Baltimore: Genealogical Publishing Co., 1984. pp. 1-200.
Page: 70
Embarkation: Liverpool
Ship: Camillus
Occupation: workman/woman
Passengers: 222
Native Country: Ireland
Destination: USA
Arrival Date: 17 Apr 1849

Great Grandpa was inventor, and constructed the Locomotive Headlight. He also perfected the Marlowe Smoke Consumer, which was first used in the North Side Roller Mills in Chicago.

Their daughter Catherine (called Katie) was so beautiful, men used to follow her on the street for another look at her. Of all the men seeking her hand, she fell for a Jewish man. As it was the mid-1800′s, and mixed marriages were not common or generally accepted, George and Jane naturally objected. She married him anyway, and they moved to Portland, Oregon. They lived happily, until one day Jane received a letter that Katie was very ill with inflammation of the bowels. Then, further word came that she was much improved; but then another letter came stating that she took a change for the worse and died. I have discussed with others what they think caused this, and present conjecture is that it was a ruptured appendix. A Sister in the hospital in Oregon wrote to Jane to say Katie was well prepared to die, and had a beautiful, peaceful death.

Margaret was the fourth child of Jane and George. She never married, and lived into her eighties. She was a darling, and when she laughed, everyone laughed. She took care of her father the last two years of his life when he was bedridden because of a broken hip sustained when he was ninety.

Charles, or Charlie as he was called, drowned in the Columbia River at Bonner’s Ferry in 1893. He was working as a surveyor, and was on a train which was stuck due to trouble, so Charlie and another young man rented a canoe and went down the treacherous river with its swift currents. The canoe became caught in one and overturned. Charlie was a very good swimmer, and the folks on the shore were not worried about him, they were worried about the other fellow, who was holding onto the capsized boat. However, when Charlie reached shore he was quickly drawn down by the quicksand, and his body wasn’t found until three months later. Of course, by then his body couldn’t be shipped home. The Indians there buried him and put a white fence around his grave. Mary and her husband Charlie Carson were living in Spokane at the time. Charlie Carson went to Bonner’s Ferry to see the Indians bury Charlie Marlowe.

My father’s cousin remembered that Great-Grandma as a wonderful person and quite religious. She was going from her kitchen to the dining room and between the parlor and back parlor and she saw her son Charlie who said to her but one word, “Mother.” It was at the exact time that he died.

Jane Kennedy was the daughter of a Spanish Princess, Mary Ann Carlos (or Costello, or Castillo). While at finishing school in Paris, the Princess became fond of a young lady named Kennedy. When they had social affairs, Miss Kennedy’s brother would attend and he and the Princess fell in love. Mary Ann returned home to give her parents the news, but they informed her that she had a pre-arranged marriage to a nobleman. So, she and her lady-in-waiting plotted an escape. They made a green ensemble. The dress and the coat were both trimmed with buttons and each was a gold piece covered with material. There was also a large belt, and sewn within she carried jewelry. The Princess and her lady-in-waiting left home one night and went to the seaport where they took a ship to Liverpool. She married her Kennedy lover, and was disowned by her family for marrying a commoner. He was disowned by his wealthy coach maker family because he married a Catholic, and they were poor but happy.

Great Grandpa Marlowe always stood erect and carried a cane, as most gentlemen did in his day. In winter he wore a black coat with a cape and in the pocket he always carried a bag of horehound candy which he thought best for children.  His long white hair curled on his shoulders and his beard covered his chest. At the age of sixty-five, he vowed never to cut his hair until the land he loved, Ireland, was free.

He was the perfect image of Santa Claus. One year he was asked by Marshall Fields of Chicago to act as their Santa. While doing so, he was approached by a gentleman from Hyde Park, then a fashionable part of Chicago, who asked him to come to his home early Christmas morning. The man sent his carriage with a team of matched horses for George, and ’St. Nicholas’ gave them a real treat.

George was a wise man. His advice included, “Never cover your forehead with your hair. Your forehead is the sign of your intelligence.”, “Never let anyone convince you that the works known as Shakespeare were written by anyone other than Christopher Marlowe. I know. I am a Marlowe, and it’s a family tradition.”  He said that Christopher was an atheist and was banned from England and in his exile kept writing and sending back his works to a friend in England for publication. Perhaps it was under the name of Shakespeare or to a man named Shakespeare.

He sang opera with Emma Abbott and Jenny Lind, and often in concerts for charitable purposes. At sixty-five, he was tenor soloist at St. Columkills Church in Chicago and people from all parts of the city went to hear him. He loved Abraham Lincoln, and made speeches throughout Indiana for Abe for President.  When Lincoln was assassinated, George draped his home in black.

They moved to Seattle, Washington in 1901, where his son George Jr. became Second Assistant Chief of the Seattle Fire Department. Great Grandpa and Great Grandma Marlowe were married for almost sixty years, until he died in 1907 at the age of ninety-two.

George said he wanted to live as long as anyone else lived. Up until his death, he retained use of all his facilities, and sang until the last, never forgetting an aria or the words to any opera or song.

Jane, who was much younger than he, lived another five years after his death, dying in 1912 at the age of seventy-nine.

Their son, Thomas John Marlowe, met Bertha Werhle at the Columbian Exposition in 1892. The Exposition was The Worlds Fair. They must have met at the dedication ceremonies on October 21, 1892 (in 1893 it opened to the public). http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/World’s_Columbian_Exposition

They married, and moved to Newark, New Jersey, where Bertha’s family lived. They raised six children. Adele was born on December 24, 1897; Katharyn was born in 1905 and died after marrying and giving birth. The story is that she passed away due to complications from anesthesia in the dentist’s chair (don’t forget, things were much different then).  After Katharyn came Bertha, who was born on August 2, 1907; Elizabeth who was born on May 2, 1911; my father Thomas John Jr., who was born on January 18, 1914; and the baby of the family, Frances, born on August 27, 1916. There were two other boys who were born and died in infancy, and both were named Thomas John Marlowe, Jr. That is how they did it back then. They kept naming the Junior until my Dad came along and lived.

Grandpa had only one arm. The story I heard from my brother Kit who got the scoop straight from my Dad is that Grandpa tried to catch a train by reaching out for it and lost his arm. He was a hunter in his youth, hunting Grizzly Bear.  I heard about his hunting prowess over and over when I was young, and whenever we went to the Natural Museum of History, I always thought the Taxidermied Bear was the one he killed, and now it would get me!  He love alcohol and carousing (I’m not sugar coating this), and Grandma Marlowe was left to rear the children. Look at the attached photograph and you will see the difference in their lifestyles. She was just fifty-two in this picture, and he was fifty-eight, but she looks much older than he does!  That is because she bore the brunt of most of the responsibility of raising their children.

One day during the Great Depression, a hobo came to their door asking for money. Grandma said she didn’t have any money to spare, but she gave him $10.00 to go to the store for her and get a sack of flour. She said when he came back and brought the flour and the change, she would feed him dinner. When Grandpa came home, he was livid.  How could she be so stupid to give a bum $10.00?  The hobo came back, though, and brought both the flour and Grandma’s change, and she fed him a good dinner.

Thomas Marlowe, Sr. died from complications due to alcoholism on October 18, 1939 at the age of seventy-two. Bertha Wehrle Marlowe died in 1963 from Breast Cancer.

Thomas Marlowe, Jr. graduated from Newark Engineering School in 1936, and got married to a woman named Marie.  They had twin daughters, Barbara and Patricia, in 1939.  Eventually, Thomas and Marie divorced. Thomas started his own engineering firm in New York City. He was a thirty-three year old divorced Catholic when he met her.

My mother, Elaine Marie Kall, was eleven years younger than Daddy. She was born in 1924 in Rockford City, Illinois to Gustav and Ethel Kall. She had a brother, Ralph, who was eleven years older than she was (the same age as my father; I never thought about that before). She had a privileged life, monetarily speaking, but she did not receive love and affection from her parents who were much older than she.

She attended Purdue University in Indiana from 1942 to 1946, and many men fell in love with her, and she was engaged many times. Her major was Communications. Upon graduating, she moved to New York City and got a job with the phone company. One day, her roommate asked her to chaperone a first date she was going on. My mother said she would, and off they went in the taxi to meet the man. The man couldn’t stop talking to my mother, or take his eyes off of her.  When they were leaving the restaurant, the man asked her if she would go on a date with him. She felt the connection, too, and said yes. Of course, the man was my father.

She was a mid-western twenty-two year old Lutheran, and he was a thirty-three year old divorced Catholic. Her parents were very unhappy about the union, and when they married in May of 1947, the Kalls did not attend.

Thomas John Marlowe, Jr. (they chose ‘Jr.’ instead of ‘III’), Tommy was born on December 1, 1947, and was doted on by parents and grandparents alike. Two years later, Charles, or Chuck as he is called, was born on June 9, 1949. Following closely behind was Christopher, Kit, born December 2, 1951; then Michael Francis was born on Leap Year, February 29, 1952.  The first girl in the family was Elaine, who was born on February 28, 1953.  She was spoiled by parents and brothers, and they nicknamed her “Sissy”, because she was their only sister. That lasted for a few more years, and James Joseph, Jimmy, was born on July 7, 1954. On December 11, 1955, Elaine was no longer the only girl, because Mary Christina, Tina, came into the world.

In 1957, Kathleen was born, but she was only with us for a short while, dying of SIDS (though they didn’t know what that was at the time) at three months old. Michael was five-years old, and he is the one that found her. It was a heartbreaking time for the whole family, and stuck with our family as part of our dynamic to this day. After Kathleen came Kevin Ian, born on May 7, 1959, and I followed exactly one year later, born on May 7, 1960. The last child, our lovely Karen Adele, was born on May 22, 1962, and our happy little family was complete.

Deals

The first and best deal I almost brokered was a scam, of sorts. Since I was five-years old at the time, I was incapable of knowing it was a scam, although I did know that it was not the entire truth.

I was walking home from kindergarten, when I happened on a woman in her driveway with a preschooler. She asked if I attended South Mountain Elementary School, and when I said I did, she told me that her child was going to be in kindergarten himself the very next year. “Well”, said I, “Isn’t that something?  I have been picked to be the person who shows the new kids and their moms around the school, so they can get an idea of what it’s like.” “Really, is that so?” replied the mom, skeptically. “Why yes”, I exclaimed, and added with a sly child’s greed, “and it will only cost you a quarter.”

A quarter was the going rate for all of our well-intentioned, spontaneously way-laid plans.  Fifteen cents was okay, and you could buy some candy, or maybe a comic book with it, but with a quarter?  You could do all sorts of things.  If you were down the shore, a quarter got you five pinball games (with a chance for a free game if you rolled the score over one hundred thousand, or if you “popped” a game by matching the last two numbers to the ones that came up for you).  Anywhere you were, you could buy ice cream and candy, candy and a soda, or two comic books with a nickel left over for candy!

When we had been friends for a couple of years (I believe we were nine or ten), Ginny and I made a potholder on a potholder loom.  Then we took our ‘sample’, and walked around the neighborhood, collecting quarters from our neighbors, with the promise of making them potholders, in colors they requested.  We firmly planned to do this.  That is, until we had the quarters.  Then, we were too busy eating ice cream and candy, drinking soda, and reading comic books to make a bunch of potholders.  We were very good at closing the deal, but there was no follow through.

But that day when I was five, and standing in the woman’s driveway with her and her child, she had the upper hand.  Oh, she was a shrewd woman!  She agreed to give me the quarter when she came to school with her son, if I was there to give them the tour.  She said she’d look for me.  There was no reaping of ill-gotten gains that day, but what a scam it would have been!  I almost pulled the wool over her eyes, almost had her right where I wanted her; asking the principal where the kindergartner she had paid to be her guide was.

I didn’t learn from my childhood fiascoes, though. Twice I was the worst Avon lady that ever existed. The first time, when I was seventeen, I actually took orders, but I never placed them. Then again, when I was much older, I thought I could make some money to get on my feet.  I paid for samples and everything I needed. That was the extent of that stint as an Avon lady, no doorbells rung, no orders taken, no money collected. Once, I went with a zealous friend to an Amway seminar, but decided to leave before the head spinning.  No, selling is not for me.

I see the successful salesperson; I have worked for successful salesperson. I envy their drive, ambition, and secure demeanor. I do not possess any of those things. One other important issue for me is this:  I could not sell something unless I wholeheartedly believed in it. When I worked for a certain diner in town in the early eighties, I was not enthused by the preparation of the food or the cleanliness of the kitchen. When a customer asked one day what was good, I replied, “If you walk up the street, to the right is the Town Hall…” I quit the diner that day.

No, selling is not for me.  Oh, but the deal!

NOTE:

Another unrealized post? Too many unfinished thoughts? Too bad. I’m kidding…I think. As most of you know, I was laid-off in April, and I am hoping to get my writing  juju back. Possibly it will be spurred by ennui!

Loss

Michael, I already miss you. I last saw you on July 10th, and somehow the time went by, and I didn’t come to see you again. Even though I knew you were in stage four lung cancer, I always believed you were going to recover.  Oh how I wished and prayed, as all wish and pray for their loved ones who have terminal illnesses.

I started writing this the day you died, Michael, but then I couldn’t continue. The grief of losing you and the life we live continuing on, merging, converging to create confusion.  You died on Saturday, July 21st, and one week later your 12 1/2 year old dog Kobe was diagnosed with diabetes.

Your wife, my sister Karen, stayed home for two weeks, but then returned to work. It’s so hard for her, but it’s a good thing that she did.  I am working from home now, so I volunteered to spend time with Kobe a couple of days a week, and my other brother-in-law Doug did, too.

I have been so glad to be there for Karen, for Kobe, for you, Michael. I like to think that you would be proud of me, or happy at least, that I stepped up and helped your family out. You and Karen were there for me in so many magnanimous ways.  Even when you didn’t think I deserved your help, you still helped me.  I can never repay the kindness, so I don’t try.  I just do what I think is right, now.

It’s now been over seven months since you have passed. We have not forgotten you, but think of you each day. It feels like you were just here, and it’s so weird that you are not.

I haven’t written anything since Mike died. It seems I have just been drifting day to day…just trying to get through it. Get through what? Winter? Sadness? Life?

My cat Cherie died in January. Doug came to help me take her to the vet. She had not left the apartment since I took her to be spayed when she was six months old. Five years later, I picked Doug up at lunchtime, so he could catch her to put her in the carrier and we could take her to Dr. Levine’s. She wasn’t eating. She was losing weight, and appeared to be panting and thirsty. She had to go, but I knew she would be difficult to catch. Doug cornered her in the hallway, wrapped her in a towel, and she was dead before she reached the carrier…I think so. I think she was dead even before he put her in there. The carrier door fell off, and we were fighting with it, trying to get it back on. I worried she would try to scratch her way out, but she didn’t move.

I knew then she was dead.  I started freaking out, but Doug, in his constant pragmatic way, said, “I think you’re right, but let’s not panic. She may be in shock. Let’s just get her to the vet, and see what they say.” We got in the car and started driving the few blocks to the vet. I called Karen to tell her, and I was thinking,  ”Oh my god, I’m in the car with Doug and my dead cat, pretending that there’s a chance she’s just in shock.” We got to the vet, and I knew she was dead, but I was still upset that someone was not coming NOW to help us. That was about a three-minute wait that felt like forever.

We went into the examination room, and the vet, she was amazing. She was yelling for tubes and sticking a tube down the cat’s throat and blowing in it. It was shocking and there was a minute there when I thought, “She just may bring this cat back to life”, though even while I was thinking it I knew it was a silly thought. I knew the cat was dead and she was just being valiant, because it was her job.

Sharon was diagnosed with Non-small cell lung cancer just about the same time as Mike. Sharon, my best high school friend, the Lucy to my Ethel. The love I had for Sharon was incomparable. We used to dream we would be rich wives and lunch and shop together everyday, but as usual, life had other plans and we drifted apart, but always apart and back together, until one day we didn’t drift back together.

Sharon died on March 1, 2013. I found out because Ricky posted a message on Facebook saying that he was so sad that she had passed. What? She passed? I don’t know why, but I always thought I would be one of the first to know. It just felt that my love for her was so strong, so lasting that everyone would know that I needed to know. Another silly thought, because honestly, I wasn’t a part of her world when she finally left it.  When she left it though, I lost it.

It was so hard to deal with because she was so young, and Mike was so young. It was so hard to deal with because 2012 had been a year of loss, and I had such high hopes for 2013, then we lost a bunch of loved ones again. It was so hard because I had these really awesome memories of Sharon and I, and I could never tell her again, “Do you remember…?” I think that is what is so hard for so many of us when dealing with loss.

Sharon’s wake was hard, it was so hard. I couldn’t believe it was her in the coffin, and I said, “She doesn’t look like herself”, but her cousin Marie said, “Meg, they did such a good job. She was so sick, she looked so sick. She looks pretty now. She’s wearing her favorite suit and necklace.” So, I looked at her again, and she did look so pretty, and so at rest. My poor little Sharon. God, I loved that girl.

The funeral was even tougher, because I knew that this is it. It’s over. You will never see her again. But, it was funny, too. It was held at Our Lady of Sorrows, the church Sharon and I used to go to for Midnight Mass, and yes, we were stoned. One time we got the giggles in church, because we were amazed that the ceiling didn’t fall down on us heathens. It was times like that, and there were a lot of them, that I would really miss. So I was standing there next to Harry, Sharon’s high school boyfriend and lifelong friend, while the priest was talking about Sharon, and I was thinking about the ceiling falling in on us, and I was laughing to myself. And I was thinking about how Sharon would feel about me laughing, and I laughed again.

It’s like that with loss. Laughter does ease the pain, and as we are further removed from the immediacy of the loss, the laughter becomes even more important. Now, when I think of Sharon, I think of the fun times, and I smile. I smile when I think of my brother-in-law, my best friend, my mother, my father, and all of our loved ones~so many~that have gone before. Loss is life; the end of it. It’s inevitable. Laughter is a device life gives us to face the loss. I miss each of them so much. I just hope to be of such character to be missed as much when it’s my time to leave you, and you will laugh; oh god, how you’ll laugh.

Note: since I began this post, I have been laid off…yes, an unemployed bum, again.  It has taken me ten months to finish this story. A tumultuous and sad year, but summer is almost here, and the promise of a new life. Another new start for this old life.  And I remain forever grateful, to those who have passed on, and those of you still here on this orb, offering love and encouragement. I love. I love. I love you all. Thank you.

 

Mommy and ALS

I wrote this in 2011, but I guess I never posted it on this blog! I’m not thrilled with the (lack of) fluidity of this story, and maybe severely edit in the days ahead. However, I wanted to publish it now, so that you all could get a feel of what it’s like to live with ALS, as a patient, and as a loved one of a patient.

My mother Elaine was born on October 2, 1924 in Rockford, Illinois. She was a fabulous beauty with many suitors, and a few fiancés, but of course, life intervened and she made it through college to move to New York City, where she met my father, married, and had eleven children, one of whom died of SIDS at three months old.  She was an actress, lecturer in her church, politically active, and a Children’s Librarian for many years at local library.

One day in 1980, she started feeling a sore throat.  It bothered her, but she was not one to run to the doctor’s office.  She kept saying that she would go if she didn’t start to feel better soon.  She said that for a month.  Finally, she realized the sore throat was not going away, and she went to the doctor, who sent her for tests, and she found out she had Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis or ALS for short, or as it is commonly known, Lou Gehrig’s disease:

“Henry Louis “Lou” Gehrig (June 19, 1903 – June 2, 1941).  Gehrig is chiefly remembered for his prowess as a hitter, his consecutive games-played record and its subsequent longevity, and the pathos of his farewell from baseball at age 36, when he was stricken with a fatal neurological disease.”~Wikipedia

I must admit, when I found out, I moved within months to California.  I was twenty-one years old and subconsciously but selfishly knew that I could not watch the events unfold.  I could not lose my mother.

During the next year, Mommy struggled to live each day, but she continued to work in the South Orange Public Library as a Children’s Librarian.  She lost her voice completely, lost use of her legs and had difficulty using her arms and hands.  She was confined to a wheelchair, and had no real form of communication except her eyes and guttural sounds.  This was causing intense depression for her, as she was a Communications Major, Actress, Writer, Librarian.  Before she could no longer write, she was keeping a journal of her feelings about the onset of this disease.  One day I read in her journal how hard it was to lose one’s voice, of all things, when your life is built around communicating.  It was heartbreaking.

The children of the library to the rescue!  They held a benefit to raise money to buy a newly designed computer for my mother to use at the library.  She could type into the computer, and it would speak for her!  This was quite a miracle in 1981, and it meant she could continue working with the kids, whom she loved so well, and who loved her as much or more.

I moved back to South Orange, as my big sister Tina had written me to advise that Karen could not bear the brunt of the caretaking alone.  My father was eleven years older than my mother, and crippled by intense love and a pre-sense of loss.  My brother Kevin helped of course, but Karen really was the primary caregiver for my mother.  The other brothers and sisters were older, with young families of their own, and limited time to offer assistance.  So, I returned.

The disease continued to take its toll rapidly, and my mother continued to fight back. She just would not give up on the quality of life.  She wanted to wear what she thought were her finest dresses (she would be so mad if I tried to choose what she should wear, she was sick, not daft!), all the food she always ate such as steak and pizza, albeit pulverized, and of course, her Five-O’clock Cocktails.  We would make blender drinks, and she would have her cocktails through a straw.  She was happiest when her fragmenting world showed signs of normalcy.

She insisted on going places.  The shopping outlets, plays, out to dinner.  She didn’t want to be a shut-in.  There were many people back then who had a problem with a dying woman in a wheelchair enjoying life.  I don’t know how much that has changed, but I pray our world is wiser, and we realize that we may very well wheel that chair one day!  Also, wheelchair accessibility in the early eighties was so limited.  We would show up somewhere, and find we could not continue with our plans due to narrow aisles or no elevators.  There were days we were so happy to have just a little more time together.  There were days we ended up so disheartened by an unmoving world in our wildly changing lives.

A woman wrote to Mommy and said, “I don’t know how you do it.  I saw you at church, and you are so brave.  I have just found out I have ALS, and I am really scared.”  This woman was embarrassed, as the world wanted the dying to be.  She locked herself away and ate baby food, and was gone in six months.  I have finally learned, from this experience and others like it, that no matter what the world throws at you, you have to fight.  Even if you don’t win the war, the battles won make you a champion!

As the disease progressed, and the caretaking became more difficult, my mother’s and my depression worsened.  I am highly ashamed to admit that I felt the need to confess all my life’s sins to my mother.  Why?  I cannot explain it.  Somehow I felt she needed to know.  I wished the moment after, and forever since that I did not do that.  The hurt on her face was clearly readable.  There was complete communication coming from her eyes.  I had cut her deeply.  I could not take it back, but I wish I could have said, “Only kidding.”

After that, I left for California again.  I was selfishly immature for a twenty-three year old.  I went back to Cambria, California, and worked as a prep-cook in a local restaurant, and cocktail-waitressed, and sometimes bartended in the big Saloon.  I lived in an apartment above the saloon without a phone.  On the morning of June 25, 1983, my boss from the restaurant came knocking on my apartment door, and calling my name, waking me up.  Did I think, “What is she doing here?  She never comes here.”  No, I knew.  I started crying immediately.  I went outside and placed a collect call to my sister Karen, who confirmed it.  Mommy was gone.

I tried to work and act like it was no big deal.  I made it through the first night, but the next day I broke down on the restaurant’s kitchen floor.  I had no money to return for the wake or funeral, and so I remained in my little apartment above the bar, getting drunk and crying over the pictures of and letters from my Mom.  I stayed there for a week.  Part of my heart stayed there forever.  It was the first time I experienced such true life-altering loss, and I had removed myself from the epicenter of support.  You would have thought that would have been a lesson learned.  Of course, it wasn’t.  The lessons I should have learned from this eluded me for many years.

I heard the Funeral was big. There were police escorts.  Everyone loved my mother so.  I still hear from so many people how much she meant to them, to their parents, to their children.   I am so proud to say that Elaine Marie Kall Marlowe was my mother.  I just wish she could see I am finally learning the lessons she tried to teach through her words, and when there were no words, through her actions.

Daddy

 I know I have left so many stories dangling in this Blog: the story of Mom-Mom and the Sparks house, the story of The Army, the story of my addiction and recovery.  It has been a whirlwind of a Spring.  With the Walk To Defeat ALS fundraisers and two showers, two wakes, a funeral and a 50th birthday party, we really have had a Social Season, for better and worse.  I am hoping that after next weekend, I will have restful times, find some inspiration and continue the stories I have promised ends to!

Next weekend is the culmination of the season, with the wedding of two of the best people I know, my nephew Mark and our lovely Molly.  Molly is a member of our sister family.  I say sister family in the sense of a  sister organization.  We have grown up side by side and shared many, many happinesses and sorrows.  Molly’s grandfather passed away one month ago today, and we were all there, sharing in the grief.  Her grandfather, who was father to my best friends in the world, was a fascinating, caring, giving man and the global community felt his presence in his missionary endeavors.  He was remarkable, and is greatly missed.   My heart is with my friends today, as they remember their Dad and Grandfather and how much he means to them.

When I woke up this morning I was thinking about my Daddy, which is not unusual, since it’s Father’s Day.  I opened my eyes, and my first thoughts were that my Dad had such a hard job, clothing and feeding and taking care of ten children at home, as well as helping his married daughter and her young family.  This morning I thought of all the lessons he taught me; lessons I didn’t know I learned until many years after his passing.  These lessons must have been those proverbial seeds that fell through the cracks; somehow they found light and grew.  I know now that he loved us very much, though I didn’t understand as a child.  I thought love had to be tied up in hugs and soft words.  I see now that my father gave everything he had to make sure his kids were taken care of.  He never said no, even when he should have. 

On Christmas, my father was a light.  One Christmas morning, my brother had a camcorder, and walked around the family filled house asking people what Christmas meant to them.  He found Daddy in the kitchen making more coffee for the masses.  Daddy’s answer to the question was simple but from his heart, “Giving.”  That was my Dad at Christmas.  He was like a kid at Christmas, but his happiness was in the giving, not the getting.

In August, my father was a joy.  He always took the last two weeks of August for vacation, and joined us at our rented Victorian in Cape May, New Jersey.  He also came the first two weekends, taking public transportation to Atlantic City, where Mommy would pick him up and bring him back on Sunday nights.  He stayed at home the first two weeks of our month-long vacation, but those weekends were really nice with our Dad.  He couldn’t totally relax.  He did a little though, and you could tell he needed it.   The last two weeks though, when he came and stayed, those were so wonderful.  He was so much fun then!  He was the Dad I always wanted him to be.  The one I dreamed he would be everyday!  The Vacation Dad!  Approachable, impulsive, smiling.  I miss that Vacation Dad.

Over the years I have come to realize, and everyday, that I miss my father in so many ways.  He was a wise man, but I never listened.  He was a loving man, but I never noticed.  I am listening and noticing now.  I was so lucky to have spent time with him before he passed, to hear some of his stories, and discover the man, not just the Dad. 

Daddy’s Passing
By Meg Marlowe~2009 

I remember that I was sitting in his hospital room. We were taking turns watching him; taking turns in the ICU waiting room.  I was reading a short story book, by which author I don’t remember now; I don’t even remember the stories.  But, I remember being thankful that I had chosen a short story book at the library the week before he was admitted. 

It was my turn.  My turn to sit with Daddy while he lay dying, which he did not want to do.  I was glad and sad to be there at the same time.  We had only come to know each other in the last four months, my having spent thirty-three years filled with animosity and mistrust; making for a difficult upbringing.

I finally had my daddy as my friend, and he was leaving me.  I decided to come home in November 1993, with my one year old in tow, because I missed my father.  I was always homesick for him when I went away, despite our overt displays of contradictory beliefs (arguments over me being young and dumb, and him being old and wise).  Daddy, I have to admit, was all I had left.  But, more than that, especially looking back now, always was the one there for me.  And, I was realizing that his way of dealing with children was the way he was dealt with as a child.  Yet you could see that he wanted more for us, and he tried to treat us better than he and his sisters were which is actually very sad. 

I had always heard that his mom was long-suffering and trusting and that his dad was a womanizing, one-armed alcoholic.  I knew there was some basis in that, but, I thought, it must be embellished.  However, I recently came into possession of a copy of a picture of their family.  I look at him, so happy and relaxed, I look at her, so worn and tired, and I know it’s all true.  And, I feel sad for the woman in the picture, my grandmother in the early 1920′s. 

I was relieved of my duties by a brother, and sent back to the waiting room.  I had been at the hospital for two days, and my family basically forced me to go home to rest.  I had slept for about two hours, when I heard Daddy yelling at me, “Meggie!  Meggie!”  I jumped up, and sped back to the hospital.  Everyone thought I was nuts (have I told you yet that’s true?).  But, I had to be there for him; and I was, until the end, and held his hand as he passed. 

When Mommy died in 1983, I was so scared to watch her die, that I ran away to California.  The day my sister Karen called to tell me she was gone, my boss got the phone call, as I didn’t have a phone, and work was my contact number.  I was working in a local restaurant and also cocktail waitressing in ‘the bar’ on the weekends in my small and lovely town of Cambria, California.  I lived in a little apartment above the bar. It was a Saturday morning.  I was sleeping off a hangover, as usual.  My boss came to my door and knocked, which she had never done before, announced herself, and I knew.  I knew Mommy was gone. 

 I shot out of bed, and ran to the payphone to call my sister.  She confirmed what I knew.  I cried and wondered what had possessed me to be so far away at this monumental time.  I had no money, and for some reason, this was the one time that Daddy didn’t bail me out of a predicament.  I was stuck on the west coast, slowly going mad from grief, and far away from the obligatory events:  writing the obituary and death notice, picking a coffin, and then the wake, the funeral, the repast.  I thought I was suffering much worse than the rest of the family, as I was all alone. 

That was until Daddy passed, which he did after several attempts to resuscitate him, on March 7, 1994.  I then found out what it is like to lose a parent as an adult, with the responsibilities that must accompany the sorrow.  It was a milestone for me, and one that I think Daddy would have been proud of watching me go through.  I stood strong through the next few days of public mourning, and was even there for his sole remaining sister, and my nieces and nephews. 

Losing a parent does teach lessons, and we grow in our fortitude, maturity, and perspective.  I learned these things from my daddy growing up, and from his passing, and moving on.

Daddy and his children, January 1994

The Abalone and Sea Elephant Story

Dear Readers;

I know you are waiting for me to continue the story of how I hoodwinked the Army, so the that I could continue on my debaucherous road.  I promise part two, soon.

My friend Dianne Estrada Randazzo Brooke inspired me to publish this story in blog form this morning.  She posted pictures of elephant seals on her Facebook page, and I thought, “My friends!”  Then, I realized I never did share this story with the WordPress world.  So, today Abalone and Sea Elephants, soon, Drill Sergeants and a funny Chaplain.

    The rainstorm in January was harsh, and flooded Highway One.  We stayed home for days, and watched the dirt slide down the mountain, heading to the sea.  There were no hikes, no campfires, no searching for jade and abalone shells on the beach.  We hunkered down as sure as an East Coaster is during a blizzard.

Then, the sun finally broke through, and we stepped outside, like Dorothy into the Land of Oz.  The land looked newly washed, and hung out to dry.  I ventured to the café in the morning, having no work for several days, as no tourists were able to make their way through to our Mecca.  I spent the little money I had left on a Breakfast Burrito and coffee, and watched the Pacific Ocean churning through the picture window in front of the restaurant.  The whales had already passed by on their way to Alaska, but you could see dolphins playing if your eyes were young enough, and you knew what to look for.

Roger came through, scrounging for a cup of coffee, and asked if I wanted to go look for abalone.  The abalone adheres to the boulders, and you use a crowbar to pry them off.  When you take the abalone home, you pound it and soak it in milk and lemon, then lightly bread it and pan fry it.  At least, that’s the simple way I made it, and it’s really wonderful!  I used some white wine, lemon and garlic in the recipe.  It’s every bit as good as or even better than a Calamari Steak.

In light of the fact that I had not worked in some time, and the larders were low; and because of the sumptuousness of Abalone Steak, my stomach ruled that going to the beach for abalone was a sublime idea.  I did not, for one second, take into account that climbing the mountains up and down would be a tenuous journey, with loose dirt and boulders.

I soon discovered that fact, as we placed our first foot on the mountainside, and slid down five hundred feet to the beach.  It was alarming, but okay, no harm done, we were both fine.  The sun was shining, and we had all day.  We were quick to realize that the return trip would be arduous, if not impossible.  Therefore, we concocted a departure scenario which involved walking a mile down the beach to Willow Creek, where we thought the boulders might be a better climb than the dirt.

We spent a few warm and sunny hours on the beach, and I did find a few abalones. I was getting pretty excited about dinner that night, and turned to tell Roger about my finds.  However, Roger was nowhere in sight!  We were both so wrapped up in our hunt, and must have drifted apart!  I started to panic, as the sun was going to go down soon, and I was not thrilled with the prospect of ascending loose boulders by myself in the dark. I called for Roger, but he did not answer.  So, I made up my mind to begin the journey home.

The first half mile was simple enough, even pretty after the storm.  Then, in the distance, I saw a beach ahead, with a lot of seals.  I was scared.  I had just moved to California six months before, and had never seen anything like this, except by the Wharf in Monterey, but there were a lot of people around there, and I was far away from the animals.  On the beach heading towards Willow Creek, I was very alone, and very afraid.  I told myself I couldn’t let that fear show.  That’s what we have always been told, right?  Don’t let your fear show to animals.

So, I headed towards the seal beach, and as I approached, seagulls began circling me, and screaming a warning cry to the seals.  My eyesight was much better back then; the image on the beach began to become defined when I was within a few hundred feet.  I saw these were not the cute seals I had seen in Monterey.  No, these were huge seals, and they had a strange snout which looked like a trunk hanging down their faces; and there were five hundred of them at least, covering an entire beach.

Now, petrified, I started to shake uncontrollably.  I gave myself a pep talk.  “Stop showing fear!  They’ll see you, and who knows what will happen!”  I had no idea what these animals were, although I could see they were some sort of seal, or walrus, or…?  I did not know if they were peaceful, or territorial.  I didn’t know much about aquatic life at that time. I was a twenty-one year old East Coast transplant with no historical knowledge of the Pacific Ocean, or its’ life forms.  I was about to jump out of my skin, I was so scared.  Eleven years later I was in labor, and high from a penthrox whistle.  I told the nurse, “I changed my mind.”  She said, “Honey, you can’t change your mind now.”  This was the precursor to that moment.  There was nowhere else to go but straight through these beasts!

So, I steeled my mind as well as I could.  Of course, my body refused to follow suit, no matter how hard I tried to control it.  I thought my knees would buckle, and they would eat me for lunch.  The seagulls were still screaming their warnings, “Stranger! Stranger!  HUMAN stranger!” and the seals began to take notice.  I had now reached the edge of their beach, and I was already scouring the scene for an escape.  Somehow, I remembered, ‘the shortest distance between two points is a straight line’, so I made a straight beeline; but to where?

The largest seal, the one with the longest snout, the one I presumed to be the leader, started to move towards me.  He was about one thousand pounds, but moved quicker than I thought he would.  His posse followed closely behind, like they were his back up.  When it came to a war between a thousand pound bully seal, and a twenty-one year old Yankee human, he really didn’t require assistance, but they couldn’t be too sure.  I guess they had not encountered many of my kind, either.   He was frothing at the mouth.  My mouth was dry and panting.

At the other end of the beach, there were seals blocking my passage.  There really was nowhere to go.  I was trapped.  The only other way out was a two hundred foot shale wall, which I was sure I would never be able to climb.  I knew I couldn’t, but I knew I had no choice but to try.   I did not start to run.   I figured they could not move as quickly as I could, but I could always be wrong.   I was in the midst of them, and felt it would not be hard for them to reach out and eat someone…me.  How did I know if they liked People Food?

As I reached the wall, I summoned all my courage, and made a jump for the wall, landing and digging my crowbar into the wall.  I moved as quickly as possible; and somehow, through sheer adrenaline and terror, I dug my way to the top.   I made it!  I felt so relieved, so tired, so emotional.  I was at the top!  I held the edge with one hand, and with the other, I threw the crowbar onto the top of the hill.  Or, I thought I threw the crowbar onto the top.  I actually threw it over the top, because this particular wall was only about three feet wide.  I grabbed a hold of the top with both hands, pulled myself up, and hoisted my body over the side, landing on the beach again on the other side.  Looking back, this wall obviously could not have been two hundred feet tall, as I landed in the sand with only minor pain.  It must have been much shorter, but at the moment of ascent, I was sure it was a way out.  I was so disappointed to discover that I was wrong.

The seals stayed on their beach, though.  They did not try to come around to get me.  They didn’t want to eat me; they just wanted me off of their beach.  So, I was still somewhat relieved, as at least I was past that catastrophe waiting to happen.  Now, to get off the beach, and back home!  I walked another half mile with no further incidents, but the sun had begun to go down, and I was getting worried.

I was glad when I saw the Willow Creek boulders coming closer into view, and excited to climb my way home.  But, as I approached the boulders, I became trepidatious about climbing them.  It only took elementary logic to reason that due to the storm, those rocks would have shifted, and it could be a precarious and dangerous feat to climb my way out.

As I stood at the base of the rocks, and looked up, I also looked down at the churning ocean, bashing against the boulders in the water.  I could skip climbing up this rock hill, and go around it in the ocean, walking another mile to the beach where there’s a driveway up the mountain.  I started picturing the worst outcomes of each plan.  Going up the rocks, I could be crushed to death.  Walking through the ocean, I could be swept out sea.

Suddenly, a whale of a wave, freakishly immense, arose quickly and came crashing down on me, sweeping me out into the open sea.  It was so quick, I had no time to panic until I was already there, being bashed between boulders, head and shoulder and hip to rock.  I grabbed each one for dear life, only to be ripped violently away each time, and thrown against the one next to it.

Of course, I was praying.  “Dear Lord, Oh Lord.  My mother is sick, Lord.  I am so young.  This would kill her.  Please don’t make my mother suffer by my dying, Lord.  A child should never die before their mother, especially when their poor mother is sick.”  That didn’t seem to impress our Maker, as He ignored my pleas, and let me continue to be battered by Nature.

“Dear Lord, Oh Lord.  I know I haven’t been a good person.  I know I have done drugs and drank too much.  I know I never go to church.  I know I curse.  Oh Lord, if you let me get out of here, I promise I will go to church every Sunday, and never curse or carry on again.  Lord, hear my plea, and help me get out of here.”  Again, God just pretended I wasn’t talking, and I started to panic.  God didn’t care!  I was going to die, and no one even knew I was here!  I was crying and fighting the current, and hanging on each time I was smashed against the next boulder.

Then, after about fifteen minutes of torture, I got tired.  I got very, very tired.   I stopped praying, and stopped fighting.  I thought, “Okay Lord, if this is the way you want it to be, then there’s nothing I can do about it.  Obviously, this is it.  Please let my Mom know I love her.”  Then, I began to drift.  Off to sleep, and out to sea.  My mind and body  relaxed.  All the panic and urgency were gone.  I surrendered to death.  I accepted my fate.  I passed out.

I woke up on the beach, and realized I was alive!  I began sucking in breath…beautiful, wonderful air.  I didn’t die!  I was laughing like a crazy person.  I couldn’t  believe I had survived.  All of a sudden, Roger came strolling up to towards where I was lying.  He was looking at me as if I were a conch shell he discovered on the beach, like he was thinking, “interesting, maybe I’ll pick it up.”  He came to a stop right next to me, and said, “Oh, there you are.  I was looking for you.”

I was lying there, sopping wet, seaweed strewn over me, sputtering for my breath, with bumps and bruises covering my head and body, and he said, “Oh.”  I didn’t say anything, I didn’t even ask how he got there.  I got up, and followed him off the beach I had landed on, the beach where he found me.  We easily clawed our way through the sandy dirt to the top, to the road, to Highway One.    We went to his friend’s trailer, where we drank Hobo Coffee, and I regaled them with my story of terror.

When I returned home, I recounted my tale as a religious experience.  Of course, I was laughed at so many times.  This was Big Sur, and the only thing atypical about my adventure is that I lived through it.  Once my story was out, I was told of so many people in similar situations who were swallowed by the Pacific Ocean, never to be seen again.

It has now been thirty-one years since this event occurred.  I still think of it often, and I am still grateful that I received a second chance.  Unfortunately, I broke all the promises I made in the sea.  I continued on the path of addiction and dangerous behavior, and had many life threatening experiences.  I am grateful for having survived not only my ocean adventure, but all the dangerous situations I put myself into.  The reason this one resonates with me so much, though, is that I danced with Nature.  I learned to respect the power and awesome brutality as well as the beauty of Nature.  I have been intimate with her.

 

The Camaro and The Army

In the summer of 1988, I was living in a trailer with a roommate in Jolon, CA.  This trailer park was mainly occupied by soldiers (and their families) stationed at Fort Hunter Liggett, the base there.  I was working in the bar directly off-base, and met a few guys that I was hanging around with.  We usually went for drive, went to the lake to swim, or stayed at the bar and drank.

Then, one night, someone introduced me to Mick. I was twenty-eight, and he was thirty-nine.  He was, well, the only word to use for Mick is virile. He was a virile specimen of a man.  Absolutely cliché; but I can’t think of a better cliché to describe him.  He was a Drill Sergeant on base, and all the men called him, “Gunny”, after the Clint Eastwood character in Heartbreak Ridge, Gunnery Sgt. Tom ‘Gunny’ Highway.

Tall, bald (though he thought he was balding, so he did the comb-over with his last measly strands), brilliant blue eyes, commanding presence.  I fell under his spell within a minute. 

Mick had just returned from Berlin a few months before, and was living in Pacific Grove with a Captain friend of his stationed at Ford Ord in Monterey.  Mick was stationed at Hunter Liggett, and stayed in the barracks five days a week, and at his apartment on the weekends.  Once we met, he began spending all of his time in Jolon, and we double dated with my roommate and her boyfriend, Mick’s friend Top (Top Sergeant).  Top became a dear friend of mine then, who really looked out for me, even after Mick and I broke up.  Damn Army nicknames, I cannot remember Top’s real name!  Then again, I can’t remember my roommate’s name either.  She wasn’t really remarkable, though.  Mostly, I remember her selfishness when it came to her ailing mother.

Her mother stayed with us, and I began caretaking for her.  The ironic thing is that I fled to California to avoid all the heartache associated with taking care of my mother, who passed away from ALS (Lou Gehrig’s Disease) in 1983.  Five years later, I was cleaning and dressing and feeding a stranger.  Now that I am older, I can look back and see that my roommate was no different from me.  She was not mature enough to handle it.

My relationship with Mick became intense quickly.  That happens when wildly jealous and possessive men meet immature, insecure women.  Within weeks he was accusing me of sleeping with many of his soldiers.  I was sure that meant true love.  He came to the bar when I was working and stared down all the men, so they wouldn’t talk to me.  My tips dwindled radically, but many began to offer advice.  Over and over I heard, “Why are you with that old man?”  That’s funny, now that I am fifty-one, but when I was twenty-eight, I thought the advice givers were jealous because Mick was a man, and they were boys.

Mick grew so jealous that after one month of dating, he asked me to quit my job, and move into the apartment he shared with the Captain in Pacific Grove.  I readily said yes, not only because I thought I loved him, but I also felt it was time to distance myself from my roommate and her burdens.  I moved in and met the Captain and his girlfriend, Susan Jones.  Mick and the Captain where never there during the week, and Susan was working, so I was left to my own devices all day, every day.

I also had Mick’s 1987 Red Camaro.  He bought the car and had it shipped to Germany, and then when he returned, he had it shipped home.  It was a real beauty, and the love of his life.  The car wore a bra for protection!  He kept her immaculate.  I don’t know why, but Mick trusted me with that car.  Silly Mick. I was a callow twenty-eight year old with lots of time on my hands!  I would drop him off at Fort Hunter Liggett on Sunday night, and pick him up on Friday night.  In between, it was just like I owned a 1987 Red Camaro with a bra on it.

The Camaro and I had so much fun.  We took my nephew for a ride on a two lane highway at one hundred miles per hour.  Someone from Hunter Liggett saw that and reported it to Mick.  Called up on the carpet, I did the only thing I knew how to do: I lied.  That soldier was crazy!  It absolutely wasn’t me (a blonde with a young man matching my nephew’s description)!  I don’t know if he bought it, or wanted to, but he just forgot it, and we stayed the way we were; my now beloved Camaro and I.

I took to going for joy rides in the daytime, and stopping at bars.  I was going to the Wharf in Monterey a lot, and drinking at Domenico’s on the Wharf.  They made a Scorpion to kill for.  After drinking a few of them, I almost killed myself, and others.  I was blasted drunk, driving down Alvarado Street, and smashed Mick’s pretty Camaro into the vehicle in front of me.   There was no damage to the truck, but  Camaro had a few dents.  I was incredibly lucky that the occupants of that truck were illegal immigrants that did not want the police called.  Neither did I, so we went our separate ways.  My real worry was concocting a believable story for Mick.

When I called to tell Mick about the accident, I said the guys in front of me stopped short, and when I spoke with them, they didn’t speak English, and that I didn’t realize  anything was wrong with the car until I left the scene.  He kept saying, “Well, at least you’re okay, and that’s what matters”, but I could tell by his tone that was not true at all.   I didn’t know, or maybe didn’t want to know, but I realized later that was the moment when Mick started trying to get rid of me.

As far as I knew, we were still happy, so I kept enjoying my escapades.  I drove to Paso Robles, and met a bartender who shared my interests in carousing.  We began to go out for drinking and driving dates in Mick’s Camaro.  We only drank and ran around and had fun.  I had no sexual intentions towards the bartender, but word got back to Mick that I was cheating on him.  There were a lot of jealous women in our area who thought a Drill Sergeant was a real catch, and they weren’t too happy that a young chickie caught him!

One day, Mick came roaring into the apartment, carrying a dead rattlesnake that he had either killed or found. I can’t remember now, but it seems he killed it, because I remember being pretty scared by the symbolism of him carrying that thing in and chopping it’s rattler off with a butcher knife in front of me.  After he dismembered the snake, he turned to me and told me to get out.

“Why?”, I cried, but he was glaring at me with all the venom the snake had once possessed.  He would not answer, but I really thought in my demented mind that I was madly in love with him, and could not understand why he didn’t feel the same way.  I begged for an answer, and he finally told me that people had seen me with the bartender, and they informed Mick that I was having an affair with him.

I denied any knowledge of the bartender, said it wasn’t true, the women were just jealous cows.  He wouldn’t listen, even though I was crying and pleading for him to believe me.  He grabbed some things, and headed for the door.  As he left, he said he was returning in two days, “And don’t be here”, and got in the Camaro, and took off.  I had lost my man and my darling car.

I immediately became despondent.  I thought the women had set me up in a great injustice.  I thought I could not live without Mick. I felt like such a fool, but couldn’t admit to myself that it was my fault, that I had acted dreadfully and irresponsibly and selfishly.  I had to blame the women and become the victim.  I had suicidal thoughts; at least peripherally.

I left the apartment, and went to the beach two blocks away.  I sat staring at the waves, and thinking.  Mostly, I was thinking, “Oh poor me.”  I stayed there a while, letting the crashing waves calm me down.  I think at that moment, I realized this was nothing to be so dramatic over, but if I wasn’t dramatic about it, how would anyone know just how wronged I’ve been?

I got up, walked to drug store, and bought over the counter sleeping pills.  Then, I went to the liquor store for vodka.  They carded me, which really never happened, and I didn’t have my license on me.  I had to walk back home and get it.  I thought, this is my rotten luck. I am trying to kill myself and can’t even do that right.  I returned, showed my ID, got my liquor, and walked home.

When I got back to the apartment, it was still early afternoon.  Susan was there, and when I saw her, I started crying again.  I told her what had happened, but gave her the same story I gave Mick. I don’t know anything about this bartender.  I had the vodka in my hand, and the sleeping pills were on the table, and she took the vodka and told me I could either have a drink, or a sleeping pill, but not both.  By then, my eyes were so worn out from crying, I chose the sleeping pill and slept until the next morning.

When I woke up, and realized that I could not get him back, I set out on a revenge campaign.  I had two days to make my presence known in his life for a very long time.  I made a cup of coffee, and sat down with a pen and a pad.  I began writing snippets of love songs and love poems that I knew by heart, and then I wrote a lot of my own poems and sayings, too.   I cut each song and poem fragment into a little piece of paper, using Susan’s pinking shears to make them decorative.

After creating many of these scraps of paper, I hid them all over Mick’s apartment, in all his personal things.  In his boots, coats, videos, Medicine Cabinet, drawers, coffee cups, pillow cases.  I hid them everywhere that I could think of.  I was trying to make it impossible to forget me, so I hid them in places I thought he may not find them for several months.  Then, I took his toothbrush and left.  Why did I take his toothbrush?  I thought it was clever of me, but it didn’t occur to me that he could just go to the drug store around the block to get a new one.  Still, I felt guilty about it.

I had called Debbie, my sister-in-law Marlene’s sister, to ask if I could stay with her.  She had a house in Lockwood, which is right next to Jolon.  I moved in with her, with Mick’s toothbrush in my possession, and cried for a few days, miserable and sure Mick was the love of my life.  I listened to Linda Ronstadt sing, “Love Has No Pride”, and Patsy Cline and Bonnie Raitt and all the sad girls sing, and thought I knew their pain.  I was Camille; simply a tragic heroine in the melodrama of life.

I still had Mick’s toothbrush, and it was bothering me.  Why didn’t I throw it out?  Subconsciously, I think the toothbrush was symbolic of the culpability I refused to take.  If I gave the toothbrush back, I could be exonerated.  I walked the six miles to Fort Hunter Liggett, and waited for Mick to come out of the barracks.  He never came out, so I handed one of his soldiers the toothbrush and a note saying, “Sorry I took your toothbrush.”

I stayed with Debbie for a few weeks in Lockwood, then went to stay with Marlene, my brother Michael and their family, also in Lockwood.  Marlene wanted to know what I planned to do with my life.  That was a good question.  I was twenty-eight, with no job and no prospects, and living off of my relatives who barely could provide for their own.

I started thinking that if I went into the Army, it would spite Mick, and at the same time show him that I am really a tough and cool woman, and maybe someone he should be in love with.  One day I was visiting a friend in the mountains, and told him what I was thinking.  He said it was cool if it was what I really wanted, but I shouldn’t join the Army in a French Foreign Legion way.  I said, ”What are you talking about?”  He said, “You know, when people are forlorn about lost love, so they run off and join the French Foreign Legion.”  I thought that was hilarious, and assured him that was not what I was doing, when I knew that was exactly what I was doing.

A few days later, I went to Salinas, where the Army Recruiting Station is, and spoke with a Sergeant Flowers about joining up.  He was a handsome young Southern man, and I was smitten.  The plot thickened!

Sergeant Robert Flowers and I began a torrid affair.  He began taking a vested interest in my training for the Army, after I naturally joined up, not only to spite Mick now, but to appease Bob.  I trained in the daytime, power walking for twelve miles a day in the oppressive high mountain valley heat.  At night, I went for rides with Bob, conducting an affair in a pick up truck.

I took my ASVAB test (like a SAT for the Army), and scored very high.  Bob called me a few days later, and told me that the Army thought I cheated, so I had to take it again.  I got the same score the second time.  I wanted to go into Cryptography, but I couldn’t get a good enough security clearance, since I owed money.  Yes, a security clearance is dependent on your financial record, among other things.  I suppose it shows how reliable you are.  I couldn’t argue that up until then, I hadn’t been very reliable.  So, I chose communications.

After a few weeks of this, I decided to go home to visit my father and family while I still could.  Who knew how long it would be until the next time?  I spent a few months with them in South Orange, New Jersey. I kept thinking of Mick, how I thought he did me wrong.  I wanted him to feel like he had made a dreadful mistake. I wrote to Susan, and asked her to tell him I was going into the Army.  I received a letter from Mick, addressed to me at my father’s house, and in it he said he was proud of me, and sent me three pictures of him.  I was so happy, over the moon.  Now I had to go through with it.  

While I was in New Jersey, I went to the MEPS (Military Entrance Processing Station) in Newark (now closed) on June 30, 1988, and took the Enlistment Oath, “I, Margaret Marlowe, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God.”

I stayed in New Jersey until the time came to be shipped off to Basic Training.  At that time, the Army gave you three choices of where you want to go, then sent you somewhere entirely different.  I was to spend my Basic Training right in Fort Dix, New Jersey.  But first, I had to fly back to California to be processed through the MEPS in Oakland.  Sergeant Robert Flowers picked me up from the San Francisco airport in October, 1988.  It was a beautiful day, and we drove from the airport to Half Moon Bay, and stayed in a lovely little Motel overnight.

The next day, we continued on our ride south to Lockwood, where I would stay with my brother and his wife for a few days, until it was time to take the bus to Oakland.  We  stopped to pick a pumpkin from a sweet little roadside patch on the side of Highway One, then drove straight through.  That was the last time I ever saw Bob Flowers.

A few days later, I was on a bus to Oakland, and the enormity of what I was doing was finally sinking in.  I started to realize this might be a big mistake, but I wasn’t sure how to stop it now.  I didn’t think I could.  I had already taken the oath. I was locked in.  We arrived in Oakland, and spent a day at the MEPS being processed.  Many of us met in the smoking room there.  It was a long and boring day.  As night approached, they loaded us onto a bus, and put us up in a Motel for the night.  The next day we would depart for our various bases to begin Basic Training.

We were given explicit instructions that we were not to leave the Motel property, or consume any alcohol.  It would be hard to consume alcohol without leaving the property, and they had chaperones with us in the Motel, so they thought we had to be good, and stay safe in our rooms, worrying about the next day.   A few hours into our stay, there was a knock on my motel room door. I was sharing the room with one other girl. She answered the door, and it was some of the guys that we had met in the smoking room at the MEPS.  They said they were making a break for it, for the night.  They wanted something to drink, and just to get away for a while.  I sensed adventure!  I loved adventure!  “Count me in!”, I said, as I threw my shoes on and ran out the motel room door.

We lurked in the shadows, crouching and hugging the motel wall, then…we made a break for it!  We were humming the Mission Impossible theme song, singing “Dun, dun, dun, dun dah dah, dun, dun, dun, dun dah dah” lowly.  When we had made a clean get away, we all began running and laughing at the same time.  None of us had ever been in the area before, and we had no idea where we were going.  We just knew it was exciting.

We walked for a while in the darkness, and didn’t see much, and it wasn’t such an adventure after all.  We came to long freight train moving slowly in front of us.  The guys all said, “Come on!” and jumped on a flat car then jumped off on the other side.  The flat car was moving along, and the next car was a locked container.  They were yelling at me to stop being a chicken, so I took a running jump, and I was on the car!  I did it!  Now, I had to get down. I was more scared of getting off than I was of getting on.  They were yelling at me again.  What was I going to do? Just ride that car until the train stopped?  I would be in trouble with the Government.  I was Military property now.  I jumped, and landed on my knees.  I scrapped them pretty badly and they bled, but I was so exhilarated, I didn’t feel any pain.  Adrenaline rushed to my brain, and I barely worried that the next day, someone might see my bruises and ask how I got them sound asleep in my nice, safe room.

We found a liquor store, bought some beer, and drank it all the way back to the motel.  When we arrived at the tracks again, there was no train, and I didn’t have to be a daredevil twice.  We were all a little tipsy, but still stealthy as we tiptoed back to our rooms and fell happily asleep, having anesthetized our fears.

When we woke the next day, they took us to the airport, where we boarded planes for our destinations.   I arrived at Newark Airport, and a busload of us were taken from there to Fort Dix.  We arrived in Fort Dix at four in the morning on a late October day.  It was just like in the movies.  The whole bus had slept, but then we all awoke as we approached the base.  Groggy, we all got off the bus, and were greeted by a not nice barrage of orders.  In my mind, I said, “Oh my.  It appears I have made quite an error in judgement”, or, maybe it was more like, “Holy shit, what did I do?”  I knew at that moment, I would have to find a way to get out this predicament.

Next time: My Month in The Army

Whitney and I

     I am heartbroken over Whitney Houston’s death, but I am just as saddened by the press her death continues to receive.  This is not because I am a huge Whitney Houston fan (though I agree, no one ever sang “The Star Spangled Banner” better).  It’s because her death has created a debate about stars who ruin their lives with drugs and alcohol.  Her death has refueled a rather heated discussion between her fans and those who aren’t, about Whitney’s lifestyle, about Bobby Brown, about other stars who have had drug and alcohol addictions.

     The truth is, alcoholism and drug addiction lead to piss poor behaviors.  The things you do as an addict, you cannot imagine doing when sober.  Running the past scenarios of your life on your brain’s projector, you cringe in horror, seeing yourself starring in a role so repugnant to all human senses.  How could you have been that wretched person? 

     I recently made the decision not to write a book, at least not at present.  This has nothing to do with my complete and total lack of discipline, though my inner taskmaster breathed a sigh of relief at the news.  I realized that I am not ready to offer up all of my darkest secrets; and if I wrote a book, and it became popular, the evil-doers who know my darkest secrets would most assuredly step forward to share with the world just how base I had become during my crack-cocaine usage.

     It’s not that I worry about blackmail, because I have nothing to give, and would never pay a blackmailer; choosing instead to reveal all that I had tried desperately to keep hidden.  Why would I, a self-professed ex-crackhead, who has revealed many instances of despicable behavior on my part during the drug years, try to hide anything?  I don’t see it as hiding the past to spare myself.  I do believe I am sparing my children from knowing so much, that they will never be able to get past it.  I think I am saving my loved ones from irreparable pain.  Or maybe it is true, that I am just scared to let everyone know what a monster I really was.  What monsters we all can become when vexed by the enslavement of addiction.

     I have discovered that there are many people, some of whom I had considered friends, who feel that drug addiction is a sign of moral turpitude.  I have read, from famous news people and the average man on Facebook and community websites, that Whitney was no good because she continued to use.  They concede that she tried to get help, but that she died before the help took hold shows that she didn’t have the desire to change.

     I think for you to understand how much I resent that stance, we need to do a quick recap of my life:

• I smoked pot for the first time when I was 11.
• I started using hard drugs when I was 14.
• I started going to bars and drinking every day when I was 16.
• I started using cocaine when I was 18.
• I started using crack cocaine when I was 45.

     In between these addiction milestones, I tried numerous times to change, and sometimes I did, for a while.  I became a Born Again Christian when I was 22 years old.  I went to A.A. when I was 23 years old.  I went to A.A. again when I was 36 years old.  I went cold turkey several times.  Some of these fixes only lasted for days, some for months, some for years.  I tried!  I tried to change, and just when it seemed I had, I went back to the addictions that made me feel like so much less than a person.  The addictions that made me act like so much less than a person.

     When I was 45 years old, on September 6, 2005, I smoked crack for the first time.  I don’t know why I remember the day so clearly.  Zach and I had just moved out of my boyfriend Johnny’s house, and were going to begin to have our own lives, just the two of us.  When I think back, he must have been so full of hope.  As an alcoholic, drug addict mother, I dragged him down some dark paths, and he must have thought, maybe this is the change we need.  I think he must have held that futile hope throughout his entire childhood.

     We got our very own little apartment, and Zach started school in Lyndhurst, NJ on that very day.  I was at a funeral in the morning, where I saw the thug that I had a crush on two summers before, when I was still with Johnny.  I wasn’t with Johnny anymore though, so I made my moves, and The Scum (my Dad’s favorite nickname for all the men I dated) came to call on me after Zach returned home from his first day of eighth grade.

     I sent The Scum out for coke, but he came back with crack.  All my friends who had tried crack, or were addicted to crack, had made me promise I never would touch the stuff.  But, The Scum said, “One time won’t hurt you”, and of course, I believed him.

     By December 1, 2005, I was checking into The Sunrise House in Lafayette, NJ for my first in-patient rehab. I stayed in detox for seven days, during which time Zachary stayed with Johnny, my ex-boyfriend.  I had lost my job just days before, since I never showed up for work, but continued to collect a check, which was going straight to The Scum and crack, not to rent and food and Zach.  As soon as the job was gone, The Scum was gone, too. 

     I stayed at The Sunrise House for a seven-day detox period, having fun, but really not grasping the gravity of my situation. It’s as if once I was removed from the physicality of the insanity of my life, I forgot that it was so bad; and I missed it. I missed the drugs and The Scum and all the drama and my heinous behaviors.  I also missed Zachary very much, and convinced the staff that I needed to be home for him.  Zach told me later that my week away was great, the best time he ever had with Johnny.  Of course, I had to rush home to destroy everything.  I was using again one hour after returning home.  I called The Scum, and we went to Newark to get our hook-up. 

     After that, there came a series of rehabs, out-patient, in-patient, therapists (who said they wouldn’t see me again until I completed treatment).  I lost my job, my car, my apartment, my son, my family, my friends.  Everything.  Those of you who have followed this blog know how desperate my life became.  Lucky me.  Lucky me, because I was left alone with myself, and I had to make a decision about what to do.  Die as a crackhead, and have Zachary and my family have to tell everyone, “Meg died as a homeless crackhead?”  Or, live?  Live my life, pull my act together, and try this shit one more time?

     I checked into my last in-patient rehab on October 23, 2007, and my life began its drastic and dramatic change, that continues to this day.  I have a job, an apartment, my son, my family and friends.  I have a life.  I was lucky.  I lived long enough to get it.

     Whitney had two strikes against her:

• She was rich and famous.
• No one would let her fall.

     Whitney’s struggle had to be so much harder than mine, because no one around her would allow her to find a bottom.  And even though bottoms can drop out, and lead to even lower bottoms, if you live long enough, you just might get it.  Whitney’s bottom could never drop out, because someone was always there to catch her when she fell.  Someone was always there to tell her she was right, to give license to her baseness.  You can see that Whitney wanted to be free from the dependence on drugs and alcohol.  Anyone who has walked this path can hear the sincerity in her voice.  She didn’t get that wish.  But, not because she didn’t try.  

     People tell me they respect me more than Whitney, that I am different from Whitney because I “got it.”  I contend, and will stand by my belief that the only differences between Whitney and I concerning drug addiction, is that I was lucky enough to live long enough to just finally stop.  That I was lucky enough to have people around me that stopped being around me and left to me to, yes, basically die.  That is what gave me life.

RIP, Whitney Houston, and all those we knew who didn’t get the time to get it.

We Interrupt This Story For 9/11

     I know my next blog is supposed to be about when Darlene and John rescued me from The Cat House, and brought me to their tiny home in Sparks.   I have no valid excuse for taking so long to write it, and will not bore you with the details of my malaise.  After what should have been days but has dragged into weeks, here is what I have so far:

Sparks, Mark Espinoza, Mom-Mom and Phil

      Zach and I woke up living in The Cat House in Reno, and went to bed all moved into his nanny Darlene’s house in Sparks.  They had a small one floor home down the street from The Plantation Casino.  The house was separated from Interstate 80 by chain link fence running along the highway, and a small road and tiny yard.  You could hear the cars all day and night.  Just to the right of the highway sat Reno Airport, and the racket from jet engines roaring was deafening.  Just like any noise, after a while you got used to it; but we would have to pause movies, stop conversations, or turn the music or television all the way up when airplanes flew overhead and semis hastened down the freeway. 

     The house was a small ranch, with a living room, guest room, kitchen, bedroom and bathroom.  Darlene gave Zach and I the guest room, which was really her son Phil’s room when he came to visit.  There was no bed in there, so I got the floor and Zach, who had slept in the king size bed at The Cat House with me, was back in the playpen.  Darlene’s nineteen year old, Joe, slept in the trailer in the backyard. 

    From the moment we met, Darlene and I bonded instantly.  She was only nine years older than I, but she had that mother persona that some people are just born with, so of course she was motherly towards me and Zachary.  She hated that anyone would consider her motherly though.  She still wanted to be considered a young, hip biker chick, which she had been, but those days were long behind her.  Now she was a legally blind, tired mother to two maladjusted boys, and struggling to make it through each day, while her husband went gallivanting around town with his friends, male and female alike.

      I was going to work on it and hopefully finish this chapter of the travails of Meg this weekend, but I came across something I wrote last year that I wanted to share with you, about what my kids and I experienced on September 11, 2001.  I know that you each have your own stories of that day.  The entire country went through a tragedy akin to losing a loved one, as of course thousands actually did.  For those of us living in the Northeast, the loss was palpable and instant and terrifying. 

     After the towers went down, there was a period of time when we all truly pulled together as a nation.  They say that is what people remember most about that time.  I remember it, and it was like the rose on the grave, special and beautiful and sad.   I would like to share this little piece about that horrific day with you, and hope that you will comment with your stories.  I think we need to pull together again. 

How It Was For Us, 9/11/01

      I lived in East Rutherford, right across the River, and could see the World Trade Center clearly.  I worked in “The Twin Towers” on Rt 17 in Rutherford, on the fourth floor for P&O Nedlloyd, a Vessel Owner-Operator.   On September 11, 2001, we were sitting at our desks working very hard, as we did everyday in the shipping industry, and listening to WPLJ on the radio.  The morning DJs were bantering back and forth and making wise-cracks, like they always did.  At 8:48 a.m., they interrupted their usual frivolity to say they received a news bulletin that a plane had hit the North Tower of the World Trade Center,  They were speculating whether it was a commuter plane or private plane, and why a plane would hit the tower.  They could not see the tower, and at that point, who would have suspected a passenger jet?  

     The DJs didn’t seem to have much information, but since we could see the towers ourselves, we went outside for an early smoke break, and found ourselves watching a horrific scene.  We had customers and friends in those buildings, and it was overwhelming.  My boss came late while we were outside, and acted as if it was nothing, telling us to come back in.  We were watching huge plumes of smoke rising in the sky and over the city, and she did not seem to understand that this was already an alarming and significant event where surely there must be loss of life.  We went in with her, but we were so shaken, there was no way to work. 

    We kept the radio tuned to WPLJ, and by the time we had reached our office on the fourth floor, they knew it was a passenger jet, and were discussing what could have happened to cause it to crash into the tower. It was only moments later, at 9:02 a.m. that another jet crashed into the South Tower, and then the DJs knew.  Then we all knew.  This was no accident.  This was terrorism.  In the hearts of most of us that day, this was the beginning of war.  We just knew it; we just didn’t know how right we would be, or how long it would last.

     As soon as we recovered enough from the shock of the reality, we went back outside, and would not come back in.  We all just stood there for a very long time, watching the disastrous results of something we did not understand, and crying.  We had no idea who would do this, though many did.  At 10:00 a.m., we watched as the first tower began to fall.  That’s when my boss came out of her shock (which is what it turned out to be) somewhat, and started crying. 

     A security guard came out of the building and instructed us to go back and in and get our things.  We were being evacuated.  I grabbed my purse quickly, and ran to the stairs as the building management had disabled the elevators.  No one knew how widespread this attack would become, and since we were right across the river from World Trade Center, no one was taking any chances.  As I was heading to the stairs, I passed my co-worker Barbara’s desk.  Stunned, she never left her chair the entire morning, and now would not get up to leave.  I had to coax out of her chair and walk her to the stairs.  She was one tough broad, but she was terrified. 

     As I walked shaking to my car, I turned and watched the North Tower fall, and the sky filled once again with smoke and debris.  I began to cry even harder, uncontrollably, and I was sure the world was over. 

     It was so incongruous, the beautiful day, and watching this nightmare.  I had called Zach’s school, to try to get him, but they said they weren’t releasing the children.  When I got home, my landlord was freaking out.  He said we have to get Zach NOW, and he ran to his car, yelled for me to get in, and barely waited for me to shut the door before he tore up the street, along with all the others driving like the world was coming to an end.  We got to the school, and all the parents were there, crying, and demanding their children be released to them, which I did also.  I rushed Zach to my landlord’s car, and my landlord sped away, this time without my even shutting the door first.  Again, we weaved our way through chaos. 

     I called my step-daughter, Morgan, who was in her first year at Bergen County Community College.  She had no idea what had happened.  I told her, “Come HOME.”  I was separated from her father, but he called me, and we decided to gather all our children at his home.  I went to Sean, my other stepchild’s high school, and picked him up.  He was mad.  He did not understand, and certainly did not want to spend this time with us.  There was yelling, from both of us.  My daughter called to tell me that people kept hitting her car with theirs as she was driving, and she didn’t know what to do.  I told her, “Don’t Stop!  Just keep driving.”  Morgan made it home, and Jim, Morgan, Sean, Zach and I holed up in Jim’s apartment until the next morning, much to Sean’s chagrin and my relief.  

     The panic in the streets made it feel certain the end was near.  From the standpoint of our communities across the river, this was a war headed straight for us.  My landlord packed up his family, and headed to Pennsylvania country.  This turned out to be ironic, as the brave heroes of Flight 93 caused it to crash in Shanksville, Pennsylvania, which prevented it from reaching its intended target, thought to be the United States Capitol Building or The White House.

     It was the worst day of our lives.  The death toll kept rising, and our hearts kept sinking.  In my area, we never felt safe.  It was like living on the California Coast after Pearl Harbor.  You were sure you were next.  All the stories of the victims became personal, and though we were scared for ourselves and our children, we were devastatingly heartbroken by the loss of life, the loss of thousands of lives of people who were vital members of their families and societies only moments and hours before.

   I will never forget as long as I am alive; how could I?  Not one of us who lived through that day will ever forget, will we?   Each year, raise a toast to those whose lives were lost, to those valiant heroes who worked and fought to save others, many losing their own lives in the process, and to those who miraculously survived.  Each year, raise a toast to New Yorkers, the Tri-State, Northeasterners, all Americans who didn’t know how they would live through it, but they did.  We did.

 *Please feel free to share your stories in comments.  I look forward to reading them.  Next Week: I promise to continue the Saga!

The Cat House

     The Cat House really fell to disarray after Rob and I left.  After all, Doc and Mark were working and carousing and drinking and smoking pot and not much else.  There was simply no time to clean.  Besides, they didn’t really believe in cleaning.  Not cleaning had almost become a religion to them.  If Jeff wasn’t Mark’s best friend, nothing ever would have been picked up or wiped down.  That’s not to say that Jeff was a clean freak; far from it.  He would just have moments of disgust that forced him to perform some perfunctory household chores.  He put in minimum effort and yielded minimum results, but at least someone was doing something about cleaning. 

     When I moved in with the baby, the first thing I had to do was to turn their world upside down and truly give the entire Cat House a good scrubbing.  I think even the strays were shocked at the way the place shaped up.  The carpet was disgusting from bachelor druggies living there for so long, but there wasn’t much I could do about that.  We didn’t own a vacuum cleaner, so I just swept the rug with all my might; a little trick I had learned in Big Sur. 

     Doc worked at The Gold and Silver as a cook, and Mark and Jeff worked on the floor of casinos.  Most of the people I knew in Reno worked in the casinos in some capacity.  Doc worked the evening shift, but Mark and Jeff worked at night, which meant that they were around all day long.  I was working the morning shift as a waitress at The Sands Regency Hotel and Casino on North Arlington.  

     I had finally found a good babysitter, after going through a lot of scary rats.  There was the babysitter who didn’t show up at six-thirty in the morning to get my son, so I went to her motel room, and discovered she was too busy getting drunk to watch Zach.  I owed her for a few days of babysitting, but decided not to pay her because she clearly broke our implied contract by choosing to get drunk instead of watching my son. 

     Weeks later, she showed up in the cafeteria for Sands employees and began threatening me.  She was screaming and going crazy, and had to be escorted out by security.  She then found out my address and began sending me threatening letters.  I decided I’d better pay her the money I owed her, because I had a baby to protect, and I didn’t want the crazy lady showing up at our house. 

     I found a babysitter in the paper, and started to take a bus to bring Zach to an apartment complex to a woman who advertised as a professional babysitter.  The next day, I brought Zach there in the morning, and the woman told me that she was up all night listening to gunshots, and that was not unusual.  I made a mental note that I had to find a new babysitter as soon as possible.  I showed up to pick Zach up after nine hours apart, and he was still strapped into his stroller in her living room.  Obviously, we were not returning to this professional’s home. 

     When I was still in the motel, I had a boy-toy (that’s what they called them then) named Billy who was nine years my junior.  We were never serious; he was never serious with any of his girlfriends, including the one he lived with.  He did come around a lot though, because I bought beer, and because we really had so much fun together.  Billy was a wannabe gigolo, but I thought, a gigolo with a heart.  He began babysitting for Zachary. 

     By the time we moved into The Cat House, Billy and I had a real relationship, even though it was really strange.   He watched Zach in the day, and we played together at night when he wasn’t with his live-in girlfriend, or any of the others.  He never shirked his responsibility to Zach though, and I was really happy that I finally found someone who cared about Zach.  Billy watched Zach and was around even after we moved into The Cat House.  We were still having fun together, going to the Nevada State Fair, to a Pantera and White Zombie concert (where we saw Rob and the Stripper), and to our favorite bars with our friends.  

     Our friends were really people I had met and brought together.  I met Garrett Smith when I lived at the motel.  He was staying in a motel up the street from mine.  He introduced himself as “Smith.”  I asked what his first name was, and he told me “Garrett”.   He had long brown hair and a full beard, was overweight but looked at peace with his body, and only wore tie-dyed tee shirts.  He was kind, smart, funny and a real cool dude.  We started hanging out, and when I moved to The Cat House, he would come to visit.  

     I was also having a great time with Jeff, Mark’s friend, who had become one of my best friends too.  We were alone in the house most afternoons, as Mark slept all day, and Jeff never slept.  Jeff wasn’t much older than I was, but had a full head of grey hair that made him look much older.  Once, he asked me to cut his hair, and I believed I could, but we found out I am not a good hairstylist when he ended up looking like George Washington.  I cracked up, but I don’t think he was too happy about it. We always had a blast just doing stupid stuff, though.  Many afternoons, we would play Pantera’s “Respect” or some other song we both loved, and march around the living room and sing and laugh.

     There also was Mark Espinoza, another person I met at the motel, when he and his wife Lisa would come to see their friend Chip.  We became fast friends, and often went out as a foursome, even though I was not involved with Chip.  One day Mark and Lisa took Chip and I out to eat, and told us that they were getting a divorce.  It was shocking the way they were so cool about it, but I could see in Mark’s face he was just putting up a façade.   I got him alone and he opened up and told me Lisa found a new man.  They had been together since high school, and it really crushed Mark. 

      When I moved into The Cat House, my friends came together, and Jeff and Garrett Smith and Mark Espinoza and Billy and I all began going places together, or just sitting around the living room drinking beer and watching Zach do cute things in his walker.  When I introduced Garrett to the others, I would say, “This is Garrett Smith”, to which he would reply, “Just Smith”, so we all started calling him “Just” and the name stuck and seemed to suit him.  We clicked as a crew, and I was as happy as I had been in a long time. 

     Billy was part of the group until one day when he had the baby out, and came home drunk. I freaked out because Billy was driving all over the place stinking drunk with my son in the car.  It was really the last straw, as I had begun to realize that having a boy plaything was sucking my wallet dry, and not very satisfying, since I was sharing him with a lot of other women.  I began screaming, and grabbed Zach from Billy’s arms, but he didn’t get what I was yelling about and was telling me to calm down.  That just pissed me off more, so I put the baby in his walker, and pushed Billy right out the door.  He said he still had things in my house, and just like any fighting woman worth her salt would, I threw all his things directly at him.  A shoe made contact with his head, which was extremely satisfying at the time.   

     Now I was without a babysitter again, but I had just met a man named John who worked maintenance at The Sands who said his wife loved babies, and she would really enjoy watching my son.  I found him, he called his wife to tell her we were coming, and we took a ride over to his house in Sparks, right next door to Reno.  His wife Darlene came running out of the house very excited to see the baby and was very kind and gracious towards me, and I really liked her.  I thought, I have finally found a safe place for the baby.  I started to relax and thought maybe things would finally go our way. 

     In order to get Zach to Darlene’s house and get back to The Sands by seven in the morning, I had to wake up at four-thirty.  We didn’t have a phone in The Cat House, so I would get myself and the baby ready, then go to The Carrows Restaurant behind our house at five-fifteen and use the payphone to call a cab.  I used the same cab company every day, and everyday got the same cabbie named Scotty.  Scotty would drive us to Sparks, I dropped the baby off, then he would drive me back to Reno, and I would just make it to work on time.  I was never late though.  

     Things were working out and I was very happy, until one afternoon, when I came home to find Doc, Mark and their friend Scooter smoking something out of tinfoil.  I didn’t know what it was then, I had never seen anything like it.  I only knew that it scared me, and left the house and went to The Carrows and called Darlene.  I told her I thought the baby and I were in trouble.  Fifteen minutes later, John was there, and told me to pack all of our things up.  We moved in with John and Darlene that night. 

Next time: Sparks, Mark Espinoza, Mom-Mom and Phil

Rob Found and Lost and Found and Lost

     Debbie and I got back to the motel at about 4:30 pm.  I fed the baby, and then went outside to the front of our room, like everyone else at the motel did.  We were a big dysfunctional neighborhood of losers of various types. 

     There were single drunk mothers, stripper mothers; single hillbilly fathers whose children had no teeth, and single singles.  Single singles were men and women with no children, no husbands or wives, no attachments of any kind.  They were young and not so young men and women who rolled alone and still gathered a lot of moss.  They had made very bad decisions for themselves; so much so that they were grouped with the lot of us, even though they had no baggage holding them back from changing their lives at that very minute.  They were just too tired to shake off the past and move on.  Crappy was comfortable; it was what they knew, and that was okay with them. 

     As we sat and drank our beers, I thought about the future, and what it could hold for Rob and I.  All I had to do was keep bringing the baby around to see him.  That would wake him up and make him realize that he wanted us more than heroin and his stripper girlfriend.  He had never been an ideal boyfriend, but I still wanted to believe that he could be an ideal father.  

     Two days later, I decided it was time for another trip to Rob’s rooming house.  I didn’t want him to forget that he had a child and a woman who really loved him; someone he had once said he loved, too.  I went to Debbie’s door, and asked what she was doing that afternoon.  It was a silly question, because she never did much, except hang around and consume massive libations and sundry drugs and wait for her abusive boyfriend to come visit.  She agreed to accompany me and the baby back to the rooming house.  So after downing some liquid fortification, off we went. 

     When we were nearing the rooming house, I could see the stripper on the porch, and saw her run inside.  Rob was not there.  We climbed the stairs, Debbie helping me with the carriage, and rang the bell, but no one came to the door.  Debbie said, “Just go in and knock on their door”, so I did, pushing the baby’s carriage in front of me.  Debbie followed us in.  As I approached, I could hear a vacuum cleaner’s loud hum muffled by the door.  I knocked and knocked and banged on the door, and the stripper finally opened the door a crack. 

     Through the crack, I could see Rob lying on the bed, looking pretty zoned out.  The stripper asked what I wanted, and I said I brought the baby for Rob to spend time with.  She said, “He doesn’t want the baby”, but I replied, “Too bad, he’s here.”  She screamed several hurtful things regarding Rob’s decision to have nothing to do with me or little Zachary.  I answered, “I want to hear this from Rob.  Rob!  Speak up!  Be a man and tell me yourself how you feel”, but Rob, who was about twenty-five feet away from me, just ignored me and continued to stare at the ceiling.  

     Then, the stripper said something that absolutely infuriated me.  She yelled, “He told you he would pay for an abortion!”  Oh, I went completely ballistic!  I may have started foaming at the mouth as I shrieked, “Well, that’s pretty amazing considering that I was supporting HIM!  He’s a fucking liar!  I bet he’s lying to you, and you are falling for it, because you are an idiot!”  I had forgotten at that moment that I was Rob’s idiot, too.  

     I turned the carriage around, and walked out onto the porch, and Debbie and I carried the carriage down the stairs, and headed down the block, with me shouting all the way about what a lying bastard Rob was.  We got back to the motel, and I cried and drank beer until I passed out. 

     I had spent so long dreaming about getting back together with Rob.  Even though I tried to tell myself that the dream was over, I wasn’t ready to give it up.  I held this dream not only for myself, but for my son, too.  I didn’t want him to grow up without a father.  I doubt anyone wishes their kid’s Dad wouldn’t stay; at least, not at first. 

     A few days later, I ran into Doc on the street.  Doc was one of Rob’s roommates at The Cat House when we stayed there.  Doc told me he was working at The Gold and Silver Inn on Fourth Street, so I took the baby there for lunch the next day.  When I walked into the restaurant, Doc introduced me to the waitresses, and it turned out that they all knew Rob, and his whole family.  As soon as the saw the baby, they knew he was a Clary.  The waitress Joyce and I were talking about Rob, and she noted, “He’s gorgeous, but he’s an ass.”  That pretty much summed Rob up.  

     Since the fight with the stripper, I had been trying to eat, but my stomach was a knot from the stress of trying to pull myself together enough to work a plan to get Rob back.  Mostly, I tried to take care of Zachary while drinking, sleeping and crying.  When Joyce asked what I wanted to eat on that first day, I ordered a grilled cheese and Brandy Alexander.  I only took two bites of the sandwich, but the drink was marvelous, and I downed it.  After that, Zach and I were regulars at The Gold and Silver Restaurant. 

     One day, as I was sitting at the table pretending to eat and drinking my now usual Brandy Alexander, the entrance door opened, and Rob and the stripper came walking in.  We all looked up, stunned, but no one was more surprised than Rob and the stripper.  They never would have suspected I would be there, taken in and nurtured by his friends.  I saw Rob’s mouth drop open; then, without even discussing it, they both turned sharply and flew back through the same door. 

     It all happened so quickly, and I don’t think any of us said anything for a few seconds.  We all just sat there with our mouths open, too.  I spoke first when I whispered, “That fucking asshole!”  I got up, left the baby’s carriage with Joyce, and ran out of the restaurant to catch them and confront Rob.  When I got outside, they were nowhere in sight.  Just a couple of seconds of shock had allowed them enough time to disappear. 

     I didn’t file child support, though when I spoke with my father, he begged me to.  I still loved Rob, or thought I did, and somehow I was still delusional in my belief that he would get over the stripper, get over the drugs, and come back to me, and to Zachary.  I was running out of money though, so I found a day care that took infants, and started interviewing for waitress jobs in the casinos.  

     I got a job at the Sands Casino, and walked to The Cat House with Zach one day to find Doc and tell him about it.  I found Doc, Mark and Jeff all home, and told them that I got a job, and now needed to move out of the motel.  They suggested that I move back to The Cat House with the baby, so the next day, I did.  Good-bye motel and motel-dwellers.  I returned the house of the stray cats and open doors, the house of laid-back pot-smoking bachelor men who at least had a heart.  Things looked like they were going to get better, and they did; at least for a little while.

Next up:   The Single Mother in Reno Saga Continues in The Cat House…