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

18

I’m eighteen and it’s early summer, steamy hot, and 1974. The Eagles are scheduled to perform at the state fairgrounds, an outside concert. I tell my boyfriend *Ricky, I want to go. He wants to go, too. His parents are out of town and he decides to “borrow” their pickup camper so we can be there the night before. Ricky’s best friend *Billy wants to go.

 

I’m the only one with a real job, so I contribute gas and buy some of the food. Billy also brings food. We arrive at the fairgrounds late afternoon where I see mostly pup tents, vans and people prepared to sleep under the stars. My boyfriend is nervous about using his parent’s camper and announces that we can’t use the camper bathroom; we cannot leave any evidence that we’ve used the camper. I’m not a happy camper about this decision.

The boys and I sit inside for a couple of hours talking until they decide to use the campground restrooms. I wait for them outside and watch hundreds of people morph into a thousand people, mostly under the age of thirty. Day is turning to night. Campfires light the grounds. When the boys return, we stay outside to talk and watch our new world unfold and the camp’s dynamics change.

“I’m going to the bathroom before it gets any darker,” I say. Neither boy offers to escort me. I go alone.

I find a path to walk on until it ends then change my course. I have to weave through people who are sitting and standing who seem high and happy. Some are clothed, some are naked. My upbringing tells me not to look, but of course, I do.

I walk into a thick haze of marijuana smoke that covers me and I cough. I hold my breath and realize that the building is still too far away and lift the lower half of my smock shirt to cover my nose and mouth. Now, my stomach is exposed which invites another problem, unwanted attention.

“Come here, baby,” one guy says.

“Where you goin’?” Another reaches for me.

I feel more annoyed than scared and let my shirt fall back down. I hold my breath again until I meet a group of people dancing around a campfire chanting something. For some reason, this scene reminds me of the book Lord of the Flies. I’m holding back my laugh when a man grabs my arm and motions for me to join them. I shake my head and pull away.

Ahead, I see the restroom and follow a skinny girl with long straight hair, wearing a tank top and jeans, into the women’s side. Once inside, the girl turns around and I see she’s a dude with a beard. I walk back outside again to see if I’m in the right place. I am. As stall doors open other men, as well as women, exit. I want to look like I’m ok with it, but I’m shocked. I hurry in and out vowing not to return to the restroom until morning.

Back at the camper, we go in and lock the door. I can’t sleep much because there’s lots of loud unrelated music playing and people noise. Around 1 a.m., I hear a scream and look out every window, but see nothing. A couple of hours later, the camp roar goes silent and I sleep for a couple of hours.

The next morning, the boys and I are up early. We eat our junk food and decide to visit the restroom. Most of the time, things seem to look better in the daylight, but this time it’s only different. Bodies still litter the landscape—lying flat and still. The fires are out, but leave behind glowing and blackened embers.

We need something to do and head for the concert area to claim a seat. Hours later we join thousands of people to listen to The Eagles in concert. It was worth it.

 

*Names changed.

Perfect Timing

by Teresa Powell Coltrin

My little brother is four. I am seven. I’m in our kitchen walking past my mom who’s been washing clothes all morning, in a ringer washer. I look out the screen door and push it open—slightly.  Flies are lined up on the screen waiting to come in, some fly up, but with perfect timing I close it before they do.

 “Stay in or out—the flies.” Mom reminds me again since I’d been running in and out, of the house, all morning.

Through the screen, I watch my brother jump off the low back porch to the grass and climb back on. He does this two more times. He has strapped around his belly, a holster. In the holster, he carries a shiny cap gun. He sees me, pulls it out of the holster and shoots. I’m not offended because he’s been shooting everything in his path all morning. He jumps off the porch again and disappears around the corner of the house.

It’s summer, mid morning and hot. I open the screen door again—wide this time. With my eyes squinting from the sun, I step out on the planked porch. I let go of the screen door and it slams behind me.

“Teresa, stop letting the door slam,” Mom says, emphasizing the syllables in my name. I hear impatience hovering in her quiet voice.

My brother jumps out of nowhere and shoots me again. “Play cowboys and Indians with me.”

I shake my head.

“Play with me.”

“No.”

He jumps off the porch and shoots the sky. I’m hot and walk back inside again, letting the door slam. “I’m thirsty.”  

 Mom frowns and stops what she’s doing. “Get a drink.”

I go to the water bucket on the table against the wall. We’re not allowed to yet, but my parents draw the water from the well outside the back door. They use a long metal cylinder attached to a rope and a pulley that is lowered into the deep well. The cylinder collects the water and after it is pulled up out of the well it is centered over the bucket and the water is released by pulling a lever at the top.

I stand on tiptoes to reach inside the bucket to grab the cold metal dipper full of water and lift it up and over. Familiarity helps me expect the cool crisp taste before it reaches my lips.  Later when we move to the city, I’ll discover how fresh our well water tasted compared to tap water. I try to steady the dipper and aim for my mouth, but it sloshes, spilling drops on my everyday dress and on the floor before I get to drink it. After I gulp down the water, I use the back of my hand to wipe my mouth and my dusty bare toes to wipe the floor, leaving a muddy streak where the water had been. I drop the dipper back in the bucket and walk to the screen door again.  This time, I remember to close the door carefully behind me.

When I step onto the porch, my brother shoots me again. “Play with me,” he yells.

I’m feeling annoyed, but say, “I’ll play cowboys and Indians if first you play dress up with me.”

My brother is thinking, probably remembering that dress up means dish towels tied on his head with a ribbon to simulate long girl hair. He shakes his head no. I’m thinking on how to convince him to play what I want to play. I hear a gunshot in the distance and watch my brother collapse to the porch floor, his little gun falling beside his body. I run to the door and scream that he’s been shot—that he’s dead. My mother shoves the screen door wide open and runs to her little boy lying on the porch. As I watch him, my arms become weak and tears have rushed to my eyes. Then I notice his mouth twitches slightly and becomes a grin. His eyes pop open. Then just as fast as he had fallen, he jumps to his feet.

Perfect timing for a four-year-old cowboy.


 

A Good Deal

As unwilling captives, we breathed in exhaust fumes mixed with dust and a little fresh air that blew through the open windows, in clouds. The school bus sailed along the gravel road until it hit a pot hole which sent its occupants half a foot in the air and back down again, in their seats. At the front of the bus, a small child flew into the aisle and sat there.

My friend, *Jack Tate, with his back to the bus driver and feet in the aisle, faced me from the seat diagonal to mine. I sat on the edge of mine leaning in, while holding onto the bar at the top, to hear what he was saying. I could see Jack’s mouth forming words, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying.

“What?”

“I have baby rabbits for sale.”

We’d left childhood behind and blindly walked into adolescence without much warning. Jack was a year younger, a nice kid, easy on the eyes with dark blond hair and beaming smile. He was my bus friend.

“How much?”  

“Two dollars.”

“That’s a good deal,” I said, not knowing if it was or not. Our conversation ended when Jack waded through the kids in the aisle and got off the bus.

I don’t remember how much bargaining or pleading I did that night at home, to be able to buy a bunny, but the next thing I remember I was at Jack’s house buying one of his rabbits. I named her Suzy. 

Suzy was a doe with soft white fur and pink eyes. Her front feet were dainty, but her back feet were long with sharp claws. I learned fast how to hold her to avoid injury. For me, it was love at first sight. Suzy did her rabbit thing and I provided most of what she needed to grow into an adult. That summer, I planted a garden just for Suzy so she’d have fresh lettuce every day. When her trust in me grew, we bonded and soon I had introduced her to a leash (baling twine) so that we could take short walks together--girl and rabbit.

I spent hours sitting in shaded clover patches, my long skinny legs outstretched, with my rabbit grazing from the safety of a rope. Even though she seemed content, I recognized wanderlust in Suzy's pink eyes. Maybe she longed for another rabbit or a greener yard. I knew the instinct was there and how one clover could lure her to another, without a thought of me or the consequences.

One dew covered morning, I rushed outside to feed Suzy grabbing a handful of lettuce on the way. That day, I planned to do something that young pet owners often neglect, clean her cage and go for another walk after that. But, as I walked up the hill, I could see Suzy’s cage and that she wasn’t waiting for me at the door as usual. I ran over the slick grass to her hutch only to find that the door was not latched and Suzy was gone.

The door wasn’t mangled and there was no evidence of a struggle, only a door left unlatched by me. I believed that Suzy was still alive and with a racing heart full of panic I started searching, our mini-farm, high and low for my bunny rabbit. After that, my family helped in the search walking the open fields behind our barn and the woods surrounding us.

We didn’t find Suzy. But, for weeks after that and even the next spring and summer, I watched for white spotted baby rabbits that would give evidence that Suzy had indeed survived and was a part of the wild rabbit community, but there were none.

Rabbit love is complicated—but only for the human.

~~~

 

*Name changed

Rural Entertainment




When I was a kid, in the nearby town of Buffalo, MO, there was an outdoor movie theater—a drive-in. I know that doesn’t seem unusual since there were many sprinkled across the USA then, but our drive-in movie was special. The Autoscope did not have one large screen but somewhere around 120 screens (opinions vary on the number) positioned in a circle. Cars would pull into individual parking spots facing a screen that was about the size of the old projection screen—give or take. Next to the car on a post was a clunky box with a cord attached. You would hang this box on your rolled down window which would allow you to hear the movie.

The quality of the picture, for that time, was great. And the audio coming from the clunky boxes was good, too.

Memories of my Autoscope experience:

•     Hot muggy nights watching a movie from your car

•     Food smells from the concession stand

•     Cars cram packed with teenagers

•     First dates

•     Family outings

•     Kisses

•     Cats and dogs coming up to your car

•     My boyfriend (became my husband) wanting me to sneak him into the drive-in in the trunk of his car so he wouldn’t have to pay.  (He’d done it before. I declined. But, I thought it was funny.)

•     A violent second date with someone who took out his frustration (can't remember why) on the windshield of his father’s car and thankfully not me. (I can’t believe I dated him 2 or 3 more times before ending it. He was clearly unbalanced. I discovered the reason why—later.)

I watched many movies at the the Autoscope, but I only remember a few. The first (I think) was with my folks: Bonnie and Clyde. I thought the movie was very exciting. I found out later the movie didn’t cover all their murderous ways.

The thing I remember most about this movie was Bonnie’s (Faye Dunaway) hair.  If you know me at all then you may remember my curly hair woes.  I tried to make my puffy hair be smooth and fashionable like Ms. Faye Dunaway, but without the product and machines of today and it was not going to happen. Instead, my best friend who had  straight hair mimicked the style perfectly.   

I can only remember a few titles of the movies I saw at the Autoscope, but there were others.

•     Bonnie and Clyde

•     The Towering Inferno

•     The PoseidonAdventure

•     Deliverance

•     And a slasher movie .I can’t recall its title but I can remember the slashing--yuck.

Sometime in the mid (I think) 70’s the Autoscope’s individual screens were replaced by a big screen. We took our children to see movies on it, but it wasn’t the same.  

Read more about the Autoscope

Reminisce magazine has an article and photo of it here. 

You can see a postcard of it here.

An article (1954) from the Box Office Magazine seen here tells about the Autoscope projection process, shows an aerial view of the drive-in and a photo of the concession stand.

Missouri still has a few drive-in movies see here. One of which, I'd like to visit is the Sunset Drive-in in Aurora, Missouri.

Significance

You would think growing up in a rural community in the 6o's and 70's would mean a life without entertainment, but not at all. We lived within 30 miles of a couple of towns that held entertainment opportunities. The drive in movie theaters were just one source of fun.  

I will always cherish my childhood entertainment memories with one of those being the Autoscope Drive-In.

Sources: Wikipedia, http://www.reminisce.com/2011/03/autoscope-drive-in-movie-had-a-screen-for-every-car/, http://www.americandrivein.com/states/mo.htm,

Hurschel Powell - Grandfather

GRANDFATHERS

You hear about grandmothers all the time because they are awesome, but grandfathers are just as significant in a child’s life. Boys need their fathers and grandfathers, but girls need healthy opposite sex relationships, too. These relationships are essential to a girl’s emotional growth and often determine how they (females) relate to men as adults.

I feel connected to both my grandfathers even though they passed away years ago. Frank Dugan, my maternal grandfather, passed away when I was around six months old. We lived with my grandparents the first few months of my life. (You can see their home in my sidebar.) I’ve always felt a connection to my Grandpa Frank, but that will be a story for another time.  

Today, I write about my other grandfather Hurschel Powell who holds a very special place in my heart. He was a farmer. He was in the military. But, most importantly to me, he was an excellent grandfather.

MEMORIES

When I was 3 or 4 years old (I think) my grandfather needed to go to town 20 miles away. And he took me with him. I remember feeling happy that I got to go with him. I remember a couple of things about that day:

·         I rode in the middle of the front seat switching from standing in the seat to kneeling. I could see better that way. No seatbelts in the car then. Car seat? What was that?

·         I liked walking hand in hand with him, but my favorite part was when he lifted me in his arms and carried me. I could be right next to his heart and pleasant face.

·         He let me pick out a toy. I chose a tiny glass doll.

Other memories of my grandpa:  

·         He took my brother and me for rides on his tractor.

·         He was never cross with me. When my grandmother would scold me or tell me I couldn’t do something, he would explain why it needed to be that way.

·         He was very handsome.  

·         He was tall.

·         He took me fishing in a creek on the farm.  

·         He knew who I was as a child and let me be me.

INFLUENCE

I knew my grandfather loved me. His hugs said it. His attention to me said he cared. In the last months of his life when he was bedridden from Parkinson’s disease and I sat by his bed painting my fingernails, he couldn’t talk easily but the twinkle in his expressive eyes told me how much he loved me. I was 12 years old and was still a fan of his.

I've seen in my dad these past years reflections of my grandfather. That's a good thing.

SIGNIFICANCE OF FAMILY

The influence of family is significant to a child. We know that healthy family connections contribute to a child’s well being. Children learn some of their identity from their parents and extended family members as well.  Healthy family relationships teaches a child useful strategies for living life.  

Whether you're a parent, aunt or uncle, a grandparent or whatever your role is to a child, do it well.