7-ELEVENS AND DAIRY QUEENS

"I so wanted to be, but just wasn't one of those kids who could celebrate the impulsive, unbridled lawlessness of youth. My brothers could; they reveled in the freedom every used-horse under the hood allotted them by breaking speed limits, blowing engines and speakers, burning rubber and clutches, and stopping at 7-Elevens and Dairy Queens minutes before dinner. They too made wrong turns and got lost, but they did this deliberately. For them, losing their bearings was fun and not a reason for fretting over gas gauges going down or heat gauges going up. If dilemma presented itself, they'd cobble a solution. I, on the other hand, followed the rules and worried about calamity, circumstance, and all that could go wrong with things that had multiple moving parts - like cars and bodies." *an excerpt from my illustrated cancer memoir "Car Dealer's Daughter"

ONE OWNER! LOW MILEAGE! DRIVES LIKE NEW!

"During the summers, my older brother and I had the job of shuttling used clunkers from Philadelphia back home to Schwenksville where they were overhauled in preparation for the weekly Manheim Auto Auction. We never got to drive them in their refurbished state - only the pre-tinkered/pre-polished phase... after pistons had impaled engine blocks, heads had warped and twisted, and fluids had burned the color of molasses (the sort of condition Ralph Nadar would have declared unsafe at any speed). My little brother always came along for the ride."

*an excerpt from the introduction of my illustrated cancer memoir "Car Dealer's Daughter"

1960

"My father always drove the latest model automobiles - usually a black Mercedes with a fawn interior, from a year that didn't exist yet."

* this is the opening line and painting from my illustrated/painted cancer memoir entitled CAR DEALER'S DAUGHTER

EMOTIONAL ARMOR

"The rattle and clink of my clumsy emotional armor echoed in my ears as I left the room."

* from CAR DEALER'S DAUGHTER

D-DAY (DAD DAY)

A DYING BREEZE

The time had come; it was 8:15 on the morning of August 14th, 1998 - thirteen days after my father’s 63rd birthday. We all took note of the fact that he was about to die at the same time, and on the same day as the Manheim Auto Auction he had attended without fail for as long as we could remember; it felt fitting.

*an excerpt from my cancer memoir entitled CAR DEALER'S DAUGHTER

"WHIPPED CREAM AND OTHER DELIGHTS"

The old Hi-Fi had found its way to a corner of this room and was now living out its days in dusty silence. Dad had purchased it sometime in the early 70’s; in its heyday, it used to tenant the den. For a brief period of time, my mother listened to it while preparing dinner, but mostly it was only ever played on holidays - accompanied by hors douvres, stiff cocktails, and laughter. Other than a few Christmas records, the only five albums I ever remember being in my parent’s “collection” was one Barbra Streisand, one Judy Collins, one Henry Mancini, one Nina Simone, and one Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass: “Whipped Cream and Other Delights.”

These albums were still inside its oversized, blond, wooden frame; Herb Alpert was well worth another listen.

This album was mysterious to me as a child; its lime-green cover depicted a naked woman lathered in whipped cream. After close inspection, I discovered that a majority of the whipped cream had been faked in by using a draped cloth. There were no lyrics to this album - just instruments playing songs like “Butter Ball,” “Lollipops and Roses,” “Love Potion #9,” and “A Taste of Honey” - all the titles were edible. The biggest mystery to me was how this album was ever allowed in our house; we didn’t seem like that hip a family. I recall my father bringing home “Tropic of Cancer” and all hell breaking loose; this album seemed to fit into that same category - warranting underground viewing and listening from behind closed doors. But there it sat - in the den - audaciously and bodaciously for all to see.

As a kid, I was a worrier with irritable bowels and gassy stomach. At night I was a tooth grinder and sleepwalker. During the day I was painfully shy, and often mistaken for a boy. I turned inward, and upward to my bedroom where I would listen to my own collection of music, and draw. I didn’t understand half of what I listened to, but was intrigued and felt somehow these bottomless lyrics were written with me in mind. Joni Mitchell told me that “laughing and crying were the same release,” Neil Young “needed a maid,” James Taylor was “a walking man,” Cat Stevens “listened to the wind of his soul,” Rod Stewart felt “no mandolin wind couldn’t change a thing,” and Nina Simone just “wanted a little sugar in her bowl.” I eventually grew to understand these profound lyrics, discovered that drawing and music were one and the same, and that both calmed my nervous heart.

*an excerpt from my cancer memoir entitled CAR DEALER'S DAUGHTER

DISPARATE PARTS

While on a shopping run to K mart to pick up paper towels, toilet paper, stool softeners, shaving cream, a “better pillow,” a pack of undershirts, and some more skin lotion, I came across the toy aisle and some jigsaw puzzles; I thought puzzles might be fun for all of us to do together.

The selection was limited, but I chose three: a covered bridge scene, a Pennsylvania Dutch motif, and a close-up of colorful hard candies.

The puzzles ended up being more of a hit with my mother and I, than my father. Occasionally Dad would pad into the living room, hover next to the card table - now referred to as the “puzzle table” - place a piece or two, feel satisfied with that, then shuffle back to the den.

We had permanently set the card table up in front of the green leather couch - behind the sliding glass doors, overlooking the pool. New puzzles were purchased weekly - now ranking in importance with prescriptions and groceries. We’d sit quietly for hours - with an occasional outburst of “Yeah baby!” after an arduously sought after piece snugged into place.

But for a sporadic “coming up for air” to watch something impressive or comical that Mother Nature was performing through the plate glass doors, our noses were glued to piles of puzzle pieces.

Putting puzzles together was the first thing to take my mind off all the turmoil that was going on; I’m guessing it was doing the same for my mother, because we’d both go for the “puzzle table” the same way one goes for a stiff drink - in the hope of it granting temporary sanity at the end of an awful day. Mom would sit with her glass of Chablis, and I with my pretzels and juice; as we put all the pieces together, I thought to myself, “Perhaps, someday I would.”

*an excerpt from my cancer memoir entitled CAR DEALER'S DAUGHTER

GOOD GRIEF

Dad had just gone up the driveway in a maroon colored body-bag: thick plastic with a quiet nylon zipper - reminding me of an insulated pizza delivery bag used to keep orders warm upon arrival. I had watched him go up the driveway in shiny black cars my entire life - leaving too often, but never for always.

I sat with my mother at the front porch picnic table; we didn't say a word, but smiled at one another the way people do who just survived a disaster - happy to have pulled through, but fully aware of the loss. I was relieved I would no longer have to helplessly watch my father being tossed against the rocks, pulled under the white water, and sent over the falls, but I couldn't help thinking how my mother was next. This was one of those clearly marked moments in time that fits squarely between past and future. My five stages of grief had overlapped, and were all out of order.

*an excerpt from my cancer memoir entitled CAR DEALER'S DAUGHTER

THE LONG AND WINDING ROAD

Halfway down the drive, I could see my parents standing on the front porch. I parked the car, turned off the engine, and watched them for a second through the bug covered windshield - like a dream or a silent movie I knew would soon fade to black. When I opened the door, a rush of fresh air woke my stuffy road trip with a slap; I automatically gathered the maps, crinkly fast-food bags, and loose change that surrounded me, while fumbling to find the equilibrium I had lost somewhere between the getting there and arriving.

I watched Dad slowly navigate the porch walk's uneven stones with a cane. I could see small cuts on his face from shaving; the chemotherapy had left his skin papery thin. His bald head exaggerated his features - which were now caricatures of the originals. His ears and nose appeared large and doughy in contrast to his downy and delicate skull. His teeth looked fake - like Chiklets in a forced smile. His hazel eyes seemed surprised to have lost their brows. Suddenly Dad looked very small, old, and vulnerable; he was uncomfortable with his new look, and in having me see him like this for the first time.

*an excerpt from my cancer memoir entitled CAR DEALER'S DAUGHTER

"WHEN I WAS YOUR AGE..."

My father would often remind us of how "spoiled we kids were," and of how "lucky we had it." We were told over and over how "he had to work when he was our age" - how "his job was shoveling chicken shit out of chicken coops" - how "by six years old, he smoked, drank, swore, and had been sent to a shrink." How could I compete with that?

This legendary story had been told many times over the years - his age getting younger with each recital. As I "lazily" floated - watching clouds do the same - I knew I should be doing something more constructive than observing puffs of condensed water vapor enter and exit my field of vision - something more productive than counting horseflies sipping droplets of chlorinated water from the rim of my inner tube. But, I also knew, had I started that very minute - working every day for the rest of my life - never could I eclipse my father's prison-movie childhood. So, instead, I "lazily" floated - imagining him as a six year old, a toddler, an infant shoveling chicken crap - cigarette hanging from one side of his mouth, and whiskey scented swearwords spilling from the other.

*an excerpt from my cancer memoir CAR DEALER'S DAUGHTER

CARRI-ON WITHOUT MERCY

It was one of those velvety summer evenings, brimming with the hallmarks of a fairy tale: crickets rosining their bows, moon flowers tuning their trumpets, and fireflies preparing to gild twilight in pale gold enchantment. The candied colors and perfumes of peach, pear, and plum topped off the half-light; these trees were a May Day gift from my mother to us kids, and were planted out in the field - up near the vegetable garden. The first several summers after placing them in the ground, I imagined my brothers and I as our respective trees. My older brother Todd was peach; every season, no matter the conditions, he seemed to effortlessly produce hundreds of sticky drupes, much to the delight of family members and thousands of honey bees. Peach pies, peach preserves, peaches in cream, peach stains on t-shirts and faces - when I think of summer, I think of fresh cut grass and peaches. My younger brother Tedd was pear; he was persistent, but not fecund. Despite being planted between a rock and a hard place, he was determined to produce something; his fruits were small and few, but sweet none the less. I was plum; I had been cursed with leggy limbs, borer, and blight. Concerned that my tree's inferior yield somehow reflected my worth, I kept a nervous eye on each passing harvest; I'd watch my tiny fruits mold and fall to the ground - hoping for better luck next year - trying my best not to take it personally.

 

We watched a buck, two doe, and a fawn nibble at what lay at the foot of the old peach tree (despite its thirty years, and spindly, blistered trunk, this tree was still quite an impressive fruit producer). Mom had just finished commenting on how lovely this all was, when we looked up to see three turkey buzzards circling overhead - wheeling low and curious, and paying no mind to eventide's curfew.

Mom casually said, "Look Bill - they're coming to get us." There was some laughter, then a long silence as we watched and thought about the obvious. Our fairy tale evening had suddenly turned Grimm; sugar, spice, and everything nice had been replaced by poisonous fruit, carrion stew, and a moral yet to be revealed.

*an excerpt from my cancer memoir CAR DEALER'S DAUGHTER

THE CANCER RIDE

I was the required height for the ride, my seat belt was on, and the wheels had engaged; ready or not (click, click, click...) I was committed.

*an excerpt from my cancer memoir CAR DEALER'S DAUGHTER

LOOKING GLASS

When I first arrived home, I went up into my childhood room to unpack my things. As I stared into the fisheye mirror that hung on my bedroom wall, I thought to myself, "Perhaps this was a contributing factor to my low self-esteem and poor body image growing up." Either way, looking into that distorted exaggeration of reality, at that specific moment, felt appropriate - like I was about to enter "that" world.

*this is an excerpt from my cancer memoir CAR DEALER'S DAUGHTER

THE WEIGHT OF THE FAITHFUL

Aside from yearly holiday and special occasion trips home, most of my adult relationship with my parents took place over the phone. I usually spoke with my mother, who later reported to my father as to what I had been up to; much was lost in translation. If it was a Sunday (the only day my father wasn't at work) then it was all three of us on the phone at the same time.

These three-way calls often turned into trivia based squabbles between my mom and dad, as I listened in as the silent third party. "Bill, the name of that actor was Mitchum, not Mitchell - you keep calling him Mitchell - get the Almanac." The Webster's Dictionary, Book of Hoyle, and The World Almanac were the three reference books that held the power to end most every argument between them. These dog-eared referees had the final say, but never the last word; each face-off ended with one of my parents declaring, "HA! I WAS RIGHT!"

I'm not sure if happiness was a goal in my parent's marriage; their example of "union" wasn't what I wanted for myself, but seemed to be what worked for them - or simply, what seemed to be. Their relationship was like an old car held together by MacGyver riggings; it got them to where they needed to go, but I have no idea how it ever passed inspection.

*an excerpt from my cancer memoir entitled CAR DEALER'S DAUGHTER.

SAVE OUR SOULS

If you've ever been to rural, southeastern Pennsylvania during the summer, you know that the sun is a scorcher, and the air is thick with humidity and clouds of pesky gnats; this summer was no different. There wasn't as much rain as usual so I needed to supplement the gardens daily with a sprinkle from the hose. It felt as though I was giving the thirsty plants just enough water to make it through another day; it felt careless the amount of time I had to devote to such things. That's how everything felt that summer - insufficient - like we were all surviving off crumbs. We were able to eat, sleep, laugh, and cry just enough to make it through another day.

*an excerpt from my cancer memoir entitled CAR DEALER'S DAUGHTER

HOT SHOWERS

My father was a very clean man with a ruddy complexion that always glowed. He'd stand in the shower until the water ran cold, then emerge crimson. As weak as he was from the cancer, he insisted on taking a shower daily, and did so right up until his last week of life. He'd pad up the stairs and get the water running until steam filled the room. I'd help him out of his clothes and watch him lift his edema filled legs and feet up and over the edge of the tub. I'd stand outside the shower juggling his morphine pump with one hand and the shower curtain with the other - just praying he didn't fall.

The shower's steam blended the existing smells into a dank, musty mix: morphine, medical adhesive, the plastic shower curtain, the recently flushed toilet, acrid body odor, and the rubber feeding tube with its incessant leak. I had inherited my father's acute sense of smell - making it a mutual and unspoken appreciation for just how pungent this blend truly was. I know it pissed him off being the source of such malodor. I'm not sure if this was the actual "smell of death" they speak of or just death's overbearing cologne.

I'd help him wash his back, legs and feet; he'd wash his face and genitals. And like every shower he had ever taken his entire life, he'd stand there until the water ran cold.

* and excerpt from my cancer memoir CAR DEALER'S DAUGHTER

DIGGING UP BONES

A rare moment of downtime afforded me the luxury of snooping through my parent's attic one afternoon. Boxes of old books, cards, pictures, letters, school projects, and homemade Halloween costumes filled one corner of the room. Trunks were stuffed with moth-eaten regalia: my Nana's ratty fur coats, my father's old army uniforms, and my mother's Beaver College varsity jackets. There were two dead television sets, a few small appliances waiting for rewiring, and numerous dusty mousetraps - some sprung, and some still set and baited with oily, fossilized cheese. A century of attic heat had kiln dried the rafters - raising the grain and fraying the knob and tube. There was a single window sill, thick with bat droppings and hollow bug carcasses. One bare bulb cast a weak yellow light that created a fading evening ambiance no matter the time of day.

* an excerpt from my cancer memoir "CAR DEALER'S DAUGHTER"

GETTING PAST THE "F U" IN "FORGIVE YOU"

I woke up thinking about my father and this poem.

"How Do We Forgive Our Fathers?"

"How do we forgive our fathers? Maybe in a dream. Do we forgive our fathers for leaving us too often, or forever, when we were little? Maybe for scaring us with unexpected rage, or making us nervous because there never seemed to be any rage there at all? Do we forgive our fathers for marrying, or not marrying, our mothers? And shall we forgive them for their excesses of warmth or coldness? Shall we forgive them for pushing, or leaning? For shutting doors or speaking through walls? For never speaking, or never being silent? Do we forgive our fathers in our age, or in theirs? Or in their deaths, saying it to them or not saying it. If we forgive our fathers, what is left?"  Dick Lourie

*this is an illustration from my cancer memoir, "Car Dealer's Daughter"

THE CHARIOT

"Huge wheels and frisky steeds speed the rate at which the driver's willpower can be realized - making the world accessible to anyone ambitious enough to seize the chariot's reins." the Chariot card in the Gendron deck.

This is an illustration from my cancer memoir entitled "Car Dealer's Daughter."

THANKS HANK

The list is long - of musicians over the years who have moved me, and helped me to understand what it was I was feeling. In 1970 I was only ten; I had no "man to pick up after," "no egg to fry," but somehow, listening to WFIL, late at night on my single ear-bud transistor radio, Marilyn McCoo had the ability to make me feel her pain. 

As a child, I was a worrier with irritable bowels, and gassy stomach. At night I was a tooth grinder, and sleepwalker - during the day I was painfully shy, and often mistaken for a boy. I turned inward, and upward to my bedroom where I would listen to music, and draw. I didn't understand half of what I listened to, but was intrigued, and felt somehow these bottomless lyrics had been written with me in mind. Joni Mitchell told me that "laughing and crying were the same release," Neil Young "needed a maid," James Taylor was "a walking man," Cat Stevens "listened to the wind of his soul," Rod Stewart felt "no mandolin wind couldn't change a thing," and Nina Simone just "wanted a little sugar in her bowl." I eventually grew to understand these profound lyrics, discovered that drawing and music were one and the same, and that both calmed my nervous heart. 

One musician who has always been a constant - who has helped to validate and shed light on my feelings - is Hank Williams. He wrote plainly, and to the point - letting me know that after pain, there was happiness. Happiness and pain spin like his records. THANKS HANK. 

The above cartoon is from my illustrated cancer memoir called "Car Dealer's Daughter." This image of Hank Williams is an 18"x24" painting I did - just to keep my painting fingers limber and Hank's memory alive on one wall of my apartment. I worked from a 1949 black and white photo included in the "Complete Hank Williams" collection.