Monkey Business

I’m not sure where we saw a spider monkey, at the zoo, on a television show or maybe I was studying monkeys in school, but my brother and I wanted a monkey.

I was nine or ten years old; he was three years younger. We had moved from our rural home in Missouri to Washington, Illinois. Like most children, I knew that parents needed an occasional manipulation in order to get the answer children desire. Therefore, I was not pleased when my little brother, too young to be trusted to speak for us, blurted out that we wanted a monkey.

Normally this approach did not work well, but our dad didn’t say no. Instead he walked to the kitchen, found a small empty, metal coffee can and walked back to the living room where we waited, confused  by his silence.

“We can have a monkey if you save up for it,” Dad said. “You can put in part or all of your allowances until we have enough money to buy one. As you add money to the can, I’ll add some, too.” With that, Dad pulled his wallet from his back pocket and dropped the first dollar bill into the can.

I know that I had to be grinning from the inside out because I was happy to save for a monkey. I ran to my purse, got out some change and dropped it in. I knew I wouldn’t be able to buy as much nail polish and lip balm as I normally did with my allowance, but that was okay.

As time went by, our childlike commitment waned on the monkey project with contributions dropping to nothing. Good thing, too. What in the world would we have done with a monkey?

Through the years, I’ve thought about the monkey project. I’ve even used it on my own children, from time to time. Instead of saying a flat out “no”, a wise parent supports the ideas and dreams of a child with encouragement and guidance and helping them commit to whatever to that dream means to them. 

It was a good lesson.

Santa came to the Party

Getting dressed up to go anywhere was a pleasant experience and exciting for a little girl. Between Mom and Grandma Minnie, I was well supplied with beautiful dresses that often rivaled any imaginary princess.

It’s the Christmas season and my brother and I are excited to go to a party—a Christmas party.  We have high hopes that we might receive a present or candy at the party given by Mr. and Mrs. Duncan, good friends of my Grandparents.
 

When we arrive, I’m pleased to see a Christmas tree, but more than that, the niece and nephews of the Duncan's are there, too. During the evening, the adults laugh and talk. The children play. *Anna and I are matched well as playmates, as are our brothers, and there are yummy desserts to eat. I don’t think the party can get any better, but when our attention turns to a commotion at the front door--someone dressed in a red and white suit.

“Ho, Ho, Ho, Merry Christmas!” he shouts.

Santa! I look at my little brother sitting on the floor and his eyes have widened to a quarter's size. My stomach is doing flips, feeling both nervous and excited.


Santa sits in a chair. Then, one by one, Santa lifts each child to his knee and asks what we want for Christmas. When it's my turn, I too sit on his knee, feeling shy. He asks me the same question that he has asked those before me. It is after I tell Santa what I would like for Christmas that I look past his merry façade and realize Santa is Anna's dad.

As I climb down from his knee, I glance over at Anna who is smiling, but not looking at me. At that moment, I think two things. I hope that she doesn't recognize Santa as her dad, and I vow to keep this secret forever.

Fast forward to 2013, when Anna and I have reconnected on Facebook. I post the photo of Santa and me and share the secret I'd kept for so long. Anna, who ended up being a childhood friend, commented on the photo.
 
“Teresa, I knew it was my dad, but I hoped my younger brothers still believed.”
 
She had carried a secret about Santa, too.

 

~~~

And before you question the wisdom of wearing the Santa mask, I will tell you that perhaps it was common in those days for some Santa's to wear masks or it might be that he wore one  because the risk of being identified was there. No matter  the reason, it didn't seem odd to me at the time.

 

*Name changed to protect the person's identity.

A Christmas Memory (1)

Growing up rural, we didn’t have lots of extra money, but my parents were generous in giving their children wonderful birthdays and Christmas’s.  Presents consisted of both wants and needs, but more than that, the Dugan-Powell Christmas also consisted of (extended) family gatherings and church activities. Great Christmas memories!

Sometimes we opened our gifts on Christmas Eve, but I remember one Christmas where we were to open our gifts on Christmas Day. My younger sister and I shared one of the two upstairs bedrooms. This didn't seem ideal when I became a teenager. With seven years between us in age, she was still into toys--lots of farming toys with animals--everywhere.  But, sharing a room was necessary and wasn’t as bad as I thought at the time.

One Christmas Eve, during my teen years, my sister had a hard time going to sleep. This happened from time to time, but usually because she was scared or wanted a reason to sleep in my bed, instead of her own. This particular Christmas Eve, however, she was just too excited to sleep. More than once, I told pleaded with her to go to sleep so that Santa could come to our house. I had all but given up my coaxing when, right on cue, we hear a jingling noise on the roof over us.

“Is that Santa?” my little sister whispered.

I was just as surprised as she was and at first said nothing. Then I realized it must be our cat with her bell collar on and took advantage of the opportunity. “Yes! Now go to sleep.”

She closed her eyes and soon thereafter fell asleep (or she pretended well). And all because our cat decided to climb on the roof and give a little jingle of her bell collar. Anyway--I think it was the cat.

The Year

The United States in 1973

I was living the summer before my final year at Buffalo High School. These things were going on in the world around me:

January 1 of 1973 began on a Monday.

President: Richard M. Nixon
Vice President: Spiro T. Agnew
Population: 211,908,788
Life expectancy: 71.4 years

News: Nixon, on national TV, accepts responsibility, but not blame, for Watergate; accepts resignations of H. R. Haldeman and John D. Ehrlichman, fires John W. Dean III as counsel (April 30).

Economics:

Median Household Income: (current dollars):  $10,000 – 12,000
Unemployment:   4.9%
Cost of a first-class stamp:   $0.08

Super Bowl: Miami d. Washington (14-7)

Movies:

The Harder They Come

American Graffiti

The Exorcist

The Sting

Last Tango in Paris

 

Books:

Do With Me What You Will by Joyce Carol Oates,

Gravity's Rainbow by Thomas Pynchon,

Breakfast of Champions by Kurt Vonnegut,

(Source: Infoplease.com)

Prices:

Average Cost of new house- $32,500.00

Average Monthly Rent- $175.00

 

A gallon of gas- 40 cents

AMC Javelin car -$2,900.00

Eggs -45 cents a dozen

 

(Source: thepeoplehistory.com)

 

 

The Waiting Summer: eXplanations

 1973

Is that cheating? Using X in that way? Oh well - you think of a word that begins with X for me. 

 

 

You need to know that I am not 17 in this photo but 16. The point of the photo is the dress. This is the dress I made that I wore to get a job in The Arrangement.  P.S. I am sooo darn cute. Seriously.

 

Me without makeup, but I must say I love this photo enough to marry it. Not sure why.

 

Look at those high waist maroon pants. Whew... nearly to my chin. I don't remember the blouse, but I made the seersucker jacket. I wore a lot of things with a long sleeves under a short sleeves. Can you see the red in my hair?

 This is me trying not to be photographed but featured in my post I Strum. You can't see, but my jamming partner and I are NOT alone in his room. The room was full of jammers. Yes, I was the only girl, but my friend's mom was in the next room. And, trust me when I tell you that, I was scrappy enough to beat them all to the floor, if needed. Oh and that's my guitar in the front.

 

First of all, I want to say that there has never been a prettier mom than I have. She remains beautiful. And look at her hair,  how cute is that all flipped up? I think this photo of me looks like my nine year old granddaughter. I may even see my attitude in her, but we won't talk about that. The picture was actually taken in March on my 17th birthday.

 

 

This is who I cut out of the previous picture, my ittle bitty sister (middle) and brother (far left)  -- except he was as tall or taller than me. Look at his cool hair.  This is the table where my mom taught me how to count money back to my customers in The Count Down.

 

 

New photo: I think I was 17 here because of the clothes. Could my shorts be any shorter? Believe it or not yes, the summer of 1974. Here it looks like I'm saying, who me? I'm not. I'm watching to see what my dad's doing AND pulling up my tank top. This is the front porch I dropped the flaming towel from in Tea Towels and Trouble. Guess what? I kissed plenty of boyfriends in that swing. Don't tell my folks.

 

 

 

These were my favorite bells of the time. You'll have to believe me when I tell you that the bells on those things earned the title of elephant leg. (Sigh) I also totally loved my halter top. I talk about my elephant leg bells in Signs of the Time.

 

 

Here's the rest of the photo. My bro got a haircut  it appears.

 

Well that's all the eXplanation I have for now.

 

P.S.S. If the A-Z doesn't end soon, I may lose my mind.

Casting Shadows

My spider phobia is really unexplained, except for one night. The bedroom I sleep in has three beds in it: mom and dad’s full sized bed, baby brother’s crib and my small bed at the end of the room, located at the front of our farmhouse. My parents feel their children are too young to sleep upstairs by ourselves so we sleep in their bedroom, until further notice.  

I’m supposed to be asleep because it is nighttime and because I was told to go to sleep. But, dishes clanking, along with the voices of my parents, keep me awake. Outside the bedroom door is the living room where light from the kitchen spills into it, casting shadows. I can’t see my brother in his crib because the solid part of his bed blocks my view. But, I know he’s there because I saw him lowered into his crib earlier, half asleep.  He’d whimpered once, waking up to rock himself back to sleep.

I strain to lift my head, off the pillow, to interpret the humming that is my parents’ conversation, but instead, their voices become the lullaby that lulls me to sleep. My eyes flutter to close until something in the kitchen clangs.

My eyes fly open and I look at the curtains on the window above me and at the ceiling that seems to glow in the semi-darkness. I lift my arms outside the quilt, that’s been tacked together with yarn, and play with the strings. My eyelids are stronger than my four-year-old determination and close, melting into my cheeks.

The next time I open my eyes, I’ve been dreaming and the gloom of night swallows me. The house is quiet and darker than before, except, for a dim light somewhere casting new shadows. I close my eyes to all that scares me then squint to survey the bedroom.  My heart pounding in my chest becomes a drummer’s solo in my ears.  I want to call out to my mom, but I’m too scared to get my voice outside my head.  The big bed seems far away. I see the outline of two lumps in the big bed, which are my parents. Something on my bed vies for my attention and I turn my head back to face it. As I look over the quilt that’s covers me, I see hundreds of shadows that become spiders, racing atop the quilt.

I clinch my eyes closed and force my voice outward. “Mommy?”

The big bed unfolds and one of the lumps becomes my mother. “What is it?” Mom says, in a whispery and sleepy voice.

 “Spiders – all over my cover,” I cry.

She says something about it's only the threads on my quilt and not spiders and firmly pats the entire area of my covering, with her bare hands then smoothes it flat. “There, I’ve killed them all. There are no more spiders. Now, go back to sleep.” She leans in close to my face; the shadow of her face consuming mine. My mother’s breath touches my cheek, followed by a kiss.

My eyes close as she tucks me in again. I feel her energy and peek to make sure she’s still there, but the burden of heavy eyelids triumphs.  

The next morning, my bed is empty. A search finds me sleeping behind a big rocking chair in the living room.

[Significance: Since that night of imaginary dream spiders, I’ve had an extreme (and often paralyzing) fear of spiders.]

The Triangle

by Teresa Powell Coltrin

It is July. I am 18 and my boyfriend is still 17, for another month. We are sitting in his parents’ living room, my true love and I, and – his ex-girlfriend. It is an awkward place we find ourselves in.

I am working at a garment factory more precisely a coverall factory. I’ve worked there for month. I’ve moved out of my parents’ home (I move back the next month) and rent a nice Spanish style trailer decorated in red and black, next to a truck stop, five miles out of town.

On this day, I’m driving back to work after my lunch break, in my green 1965 Ford Mustang. On the way, I happen to glance across the fields to my true love’s home and see a car parked in the driveway. It takes me a nanosecond to recognize the car.  My heart jumps to my throat trying to suffocate me. I pull into the first driveway I see, turn around and race to his house.

Once there, I stumble out of my car then slow down to walk up the steps to the front door. The door is open. I step inside, say hi and look around to see that his parents are not home. We are alone in our  triangle. *Sally is sitting in a chair to my left. He is sitting in a chair to my right. He looks guilty. She has a plastic grin on her face.  I walk to the couch and sit down. My heart is pounding in my chest. I’m hoping I don’t die in front of them.

My true love has picked up a newspaper and pretends to read it. I’m doubtful that he is, but the newspaper helps hide his face.

No one is talking until I say, “What’s going on?"

I hear his voice from behind the paper, “Nothing. Sally just came over to see me. That’s all.”

I’m doubtful and turn to look at her. Her face is now red and she giggles. I look back at my hidden true love. “If you are my boyfriend, then it’s not right that she is here.” I say this like she’s not in the room and like I am the keeper of righteousness.

“I know, I told her that,” he says. The newsprint moves a little.

“I only came over to see him,” Sally finally speaks.

I’m so angry that I take a deep breathe to keep my voice from cracking when I speak, but it doesn’t help. “You need to choose between us right now or I'm out of here.”

He lets the paper fall to his lap and on the short cut-off jeans he’s wearing and looks at me. His face has turned pale which makes his brown eyes darker. “I’ve already chosen. I told her that before you came in.”

“Told her what?”

“I told her that you’re my girlfriend now.”

I stare at my pale true love, then say. “Okay.” I turn to look at the third part of the triangle and say, “You need to leave.”

She leaves. My true love stays mine.

~~~

 

* Name changed