alisonnissen

The first love of my life stood tall in the front yard, looking at the large chestnut tree which provided shade in the summer and mountains of leaves in the fall.  He had the paraphernalia in front of him.  A large thick rope, an old car tire, and me, his trusted assistant.

 I sat on the grass looking down the steep hill in front—the type of hill meant for sledding on days when all the cars were snowed in; the type of hill meant for complaining when you had to climb back up.

“Hey, Al?”

“Yeah, Dad?”

“You ready?”

“Okay.”

My dad looked at me as he rolled the tire towards the tree.  “Okay, I need you to stand here and hold the tire just like this.”

I calmly stood and placed my hand on top of the tire. Dad picked up the rope and tied a large knot at the end.  He started to move the rope back and forth till it gathered momentum; he swung and the rope reached high into the sky and fell back down.

“You missed, Dad.”

“Yup. Let’s do this again.”

With a serious look on his face, Dad started to rock the rope again. He swung and he missed. He repeated the process once more.  As he swung, he chanted, “The third time’s the charm,” and the rope rose into the sky, arced and landed softly on the other side of the branch.

I looked at my dad with awe.  Here was a man who could do all sorts of things.  He could run marathons, he could mow the grass, he could trim trees. And now, he could install a tire swing in the front yard.

 In my excitement, I jumped for joy. “You did it!” I screamed and clapped my hands together, letting go of the tire only to watch it slowly roll down the grass, off the small retaining wall, onto the driveway, and down Chestnut Street.

“Geesh” my dad yelled between gritted teeth as he hopped off the wall and started to sprint after the tire.

I covered my face with my hands knowing the tire was headed towards Philadelphia Avenue traffic four blocks below—unless my dad could stop it.

“Run Dad,” I hollered into my megaphone hands.  The tire bounced as it passed Broad Street; it swerved a little as it passed Church Alley; it gathered speed as it bounded towards Second Street and out of my line of sight.  I held my breath as I waited to hear the inevitable sounds of scrunching metal and blaring horns.

Time stood still.  In what seemed like hours to my eight year old mind, I waited.  Then, slowly, methodically, I saw my dad, my hero, rolling the tire back up the hill. He pushed and rolled and pushed and rolled that tire all the way back up to the house.

He looked at me when he reached the top, picked up the tire and set it down by my feet. “Okay, Al, let’s do this again. But this time, carefully hand me the rope.”

I lay in bed, eyes opened, heart racing. My breath quickens.  I hear the swishing of blood rushing through my ears. Silver shards of light flicker through the cracks in the aluminum blinds. The whooping of sirens blast outside my window.

A bullhorn blares, “Stand Back!” I glance around the room and fixate on the shadows dancing on the wall, thrown there from the glare of the street lamp outside my townhome.  Two golden retrievers stay peacefully asleep unaware of the panic rising within me. What to do?

The bullhorn continues; an alarm sounds. A drug bust? I don’t know my neighbors.  A murder?  A crime of passion? I am undecided about my safety—alone in the house—hoping the situation is under control.

“Stand Back,” the gruff voice booms again, “vipshor armed.” I can’t understand the muffled words, but I know that someone has a gun. Beads of moisture form on my upper lip.

“Psst,” I whisper to Sandy and Chestnut.  They do not budge. “Sandy? Chestnut? Look out the window,” I say again. They are unresponsive to my plea.

I slowly roll off the bed and onto the floor afraid to make any noticeable movements which might be seen from the outside. A tail wags. “Shhh, look out the window,” I order. More tail wagging.

The voice outside continues. “Stand  Back! Vipshor armed!” A woman hollers and I hear the clanking of metal hitting metal, the scuffling of feet. Another siren blares in the distance; a car door slams.

I grab Chestnut, the one-hundred and twenty pound mutt and drag her to the window. Tail wag. She smiles at me and kisses my arm. “No, look out the window.” She does not.

I crawl over her and reach for Sandy’s collar.  I pull her towards the window and hold her head up so she can see. “What’s happening?” I drop the collar, her head falls to the ground; she rolls onto her back, four legs comfortably spread into the air.

“Damn dogs, you’re supposed to protect me.” I look at them helplessly and decide to crack the blinds. I move to the corner of the casing and put my finger between the bottom two aluminum slats, prying one away from the other.

A woman in a pink bathrobe and white slippers hovers over the Dodge Stealth RT Turbo racing car in the parking lot. Her frustration is evident from my second story vantage point.  She points her keys at the car and scrunches up her face. “Stand back,” I hear clearly, “Viper is armed,” the car commands.  The woman screams and stomps both feet on the ground.

I turn and lean back against the wall.  The dogs scoot over to me, smiling, tails wagging in unison. “Some protection you are,” I say as I rub their bellies. Two hundred pounds of dog and I’m the one looking out the window at a crazy lady trying to open her car.

There they were on the floor. The brightly colored striped canvas mangled, wooden fragments lay strewn over the beige berber carpet. Dead, as if shoes could have a life.  I picked up some pieces and cradled them in my hands.  The pair I carefully and caringly picked to match the black sheath funeral dress. Not too high as to lose balance, not to low as to look casual.  The ones in which I could walk behind the caisson that pulled the box carrying the ashes in the light blue tissued covered paper urn with Papier-mâché flowers.

Heat rose to my face.  It had been a year, more than a year.  It had been sixteen months but those shoes were special. They weren’t like the ones with the faux leopard skin he chewed up last week, or the gold strappy sandals the night before.  They weren’t even like the $180 running shoes he retrieved from the top shelf and ripped to smithereens.

Tears, unwelcome, began to pour down my cheeks when I saw the beast.  I screamed with a force let loose from the devil himself and stomped towards the scoundrel, picking up more pieces along the way. I charged, he ran, the couch blocking his path.  I could see the fear in his eyes as my rage burned.  Four letter words sprung from my mouth without control, the usual filter gone.

A whimper.  A soft whimper came from the couch.  But not from the mutt.  I saw the seat cushion raised vertical to block my view; to protect him from my wrath. A boy, eight years old, sat on the white stained cloth covering the sofa’s frame.  Hands shielded his face.  Suddenly, I could see through his eyes the maniac that was me.  Dropping the pieces, I turned towards the child and wrapped him in my arms. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, two sides of a coin.  I kissed his forehead and apologized. Remorseful of my rant.  Overwhelmed by my emotions, beaten, weathered, disappointed but not hopeless.

I sat next to him on the stained fabric, full of trash and cookie crumbs and dried my tears.  Solace swept over me.  They were only shoes I said, I should have been more careful.  “Mommy shouldn’t leave things out for the puppy to find,” I told him.

“Yeah,” said the soft whisper in reply.  “My feet must really stink because he only likes your shoes.”

“Yeah, your feet do kinda stink.” I sucked up the snot from my nose and laughed.  Leaning over, I gave my sweet boy a fake tickle.  He giggled.

“Mom.”

“Yes?”

“You have too many shoes anyway.”

We sat in silence for a few more seconds.  I wondered what type of mother terrorizes a child and a puppy? My plight, my grief, my anguish is no excuse.  I hoped that one day he might forget my tirade but at that moment, at that very moment, I knew he had forgiven.

“Yes, son, I probably do have too many shoes.”

I am a mother. I am a wife. I am a teacher. I am a volunteer. These sentences roll off my tongue. I am a writer, does not; but it should—if I choose to accept it.

As a writing professor (on an extended sabbatical), I know a lot about the craft of writing and for the last year and a half, I have tried, in vain, to convince myself I am a writer. I don’t yet accept it; but I should.

I should accept it not because I am making mega-dollars as a published author—I’m not; not because I see my words written in multiple languages—I don’t; and not because I’ve won awards and prizes—I haven’t. I should accept I am a writer because I write. I write about my memories and my fantasies. I write about my struggles and my joy. I write because I enjoy it.

I have had the fortunate opportunity to delve into books and explore them on a personal level as well as a professional level. Teaching literature is like leading a complex book club and as long as someone has actually read the material, they can interpret it almost any way they’d like. But maybe it is this intimacy with literature that has made me the reluctant writer. Would others judge my works the way I have judged F. Scott Fitzgerald, August Wilson, or John Grisham? Yes, of course they would—but it’s not me they are judging, it’s my writing or my subject matter.

Recently, I started my own blog which is a strangely intimate sort of publication. On it, I share my past experiences. I explore my areas of competencies (or lack thereof). I communicate with those who choose to sit and stay awhile. Most of all, my blog is a reflection of me and my life.

My life has taken interesting twists and turns. I had an ordinary childhood. I received an education. I married my college sweetheart. So far, it’s rather dull. I became a Marine wife. I mothered two challenging sons. I became a full-time caregiver of a dying husband. I earned a graduate degree while raising two very active boys and taking care of a person with Lou Gehrig’s disease. I was widowed at the age of 37.

This is not the normal path of an ordinary person—which I was, and still am. My life is not easier or more difficult than others—it is just different.

My favorite band, Better than Ezra, has a song entitled “Extra Ordinary.” I want to share my stories not because they are extraordinary, but because they are extra-ordinary. People often say to me “I could never do what you did.” But in reality, my life isn’t extraordinary, it’s just extra-ordinary, and yes they could; it’s not like life always gives you a choice. Unless you want to become a writer.

Jimmy walked onto the elevator like he owned the place.  He studied the buttons. Promenade Deck – P, Bridge Deck – B, Lower Deck – L.

“Oh, I get it, Mom, each deck is a letter, neat.  So, ours would be U for Upper Deck.”

Jimmy had waited excitedly for this vacation.  Not because he would see the Bahamas or Mexico, not because he would have no baseball practice for a week, and not even because he would have no homework.  No.  Jimmy’s enthusiasm stemmed from five little words:  “Teen Room/No Adults Allowed.”

His parents could do their thing, Jimmy could do his.  And Jimmy planned to make the most of it then return home to Altoona Junior High School to brag about his trip.

“Alright Dad, I’ve got my key.  I know, Mom, I’ll be home at 6:00 to get ready for dinner. Don’t worry, I can’t get lost, we’re on a ship in the middle of the Caribbean, remember?” Before his parents could respond, Jimmy bounded down the hall and off to find the Teen Room.

He wasn’t disappointed.  The room looked like a Las Vegas infomercial.  Big screen TVs flashed images on the wall; pool, foosball, and ping pong tables lined one side of the cavernous space.  On the opposite side stood a row of old-school pinball machines with blinking lights and electronic whirling sounds.  There was even an Xbox section set in the back.

The “bar” offered a variety of sodas and snacks and the young stewards who worked there looked cool enough to know how to play every game.  Yes, Jimmy thought, this is a dream vacation.

It didn’t take long for Jimmy to immerse himself into the cruise ship life.  He would eat breakfast, stroll the deck, and join the water volleyball game that started each day at 10:00am.  He would eat some more, test out the water slides, and finish his day challenging this guy or that girl to various gaming competitions. He sometimes won.

But Jimmy never played the best gamer on the ship, Heather, who was fifteen and already in high school.   She had wavy brown hair, a sunburn line over the middle of her nose, and smelled like lilacs, whatever lilacs were.  Whenever Jimmy stood near her, he feared he was seasick.

Then it happened, the most embarrassing thing ever.  Jimmy finished his morning breakfast.  He took his stroll around the deck.  He played volleyball.  He wrapped himself in a towel, and headed towards the elevator.  He pressed the button.

When the doors opened, Jimmy stared straight into the hazel eyes of Heather.

“Well, are you getting on the elevator?”

“What, oh yeah,” he said hoping to keep his rapidly increasing breath under control.

“What floor do you want?”

Jimmy couldn’t believe his luck.  He was having a conversation with Heather, the high school girl who could beat everyone at any video game. He knew his face was red, but he hoped she’d think it was sunburn.

“Well,” she said again, “what do you want?”

Confidently, Jimmy said, “I want U.” Then his genuine smile turned plastic, had he really just said I want you? Oh, the humiliation!

Heather looked at Jimmy.  Her lips parted into a small smile; she blushed. Heather turned and pressed the proper button.  The doors closed and silence filled the elevator.

Afraid of what to say next, Jimmy waited for the doors to reopen, which they did, and he watched Heather leave.

The next day, Jimmy and his parents packed their belongings and left the ship leaving the encounter with Heather to haunt him daily.  Haunted, that is, until he met Danielle, the long-legged blond with dimples in her cheeks.

*A fictional story of true events