Conversations With The Dead: October, 1974

Wednesday

Dear Teresa,

I'm taking a chance and sending this to your old address just hoping you'll get it. I tried to call you Sunday so I could tell you I was leaving town & couldn't get anyone. Everything happened so fast & I was riding with this girlfriend of mine and had to leave when she wanted to...

I've been having more trouble with Sonny. His son lives in Fort Worth and happened to come in where I was working & I knew it'd only be a matter of time before he showed up because he's been calling Mother & Mother Wise, trying to make them tell him where I was. He just won't believe I'm not comming [sic] back & he's still drinking & seems to think he can make me, from what Mother said. So, this girl that was working where I was, was going to move here, (she had an uncle here that just opened a place, & he needed waitresses & wanted her to work for him) & she said if I wanted to get away before he showed up I could come too, because her uncle needed about 5 waitresses. So, at the last minute I decided I would, for everyones sake. This time, I won't tell anyone where I am, not even Mother, so maybe he'll give up & stop bothering everyone. If he thinks I'm in Fort Worth & seeing you, he might even start calling your daddy, & Patty, & I sure don't want that. I'm the one that married him & it's my problem, no one elses. And if I can keep working (without having to run from him all the time) I'll have enough money to get a divorse [sic]. Her uncle pays real good, & we share an apartment & ride to work together, so I won't be out much money. And we are close enough that I can come up to see you, every few weeks. I hate having to do it this way because I won't get to see you like I want to, but I don't know what else to do right now. I just hope you understand. Sonny's a sick man & he can't help it, but I know he'll try to hurt me & I can't take the chance of him maybe bothering other people just to get at me. He's just not responsible for his actions. But I can call you, & as soon as I make enough money, I'll come up on a Saturday. (I'll let you know when, ahead of time). And your birthday present will be a little late because I'll have to mail it, but I want to call you first, so I'll be sure you'll get it. (I didn't even have enough money to call you last Tuesday night, that's how broke I was, & I won't get paid until Friday, but I'll wait until Monday to call, to give you enough time to get this. I want to be sure you'll get it before I mail it). I hope you like it. I just wish I could have seen you, before I left. I know it'll be 2 or 3 weeks before I can get back, at least, & it seems like it's been forever since I saw you last. But, like I said, I'll call you & we'll make a big day of it, when I do come. O.K.? I promise honey, I'll try to make it all up to you somehow. Things will settle down some day. And I already feel more relaxed, just knowing that there's no way Sonny can possibly know where I am. I was nervous all the time in Fort Worth, wondering when he'd pop up again. And maybe after I get the divorse [sic] he'll have to accept the fact that I really mean it.

I like my job & everyone is real nice. Kathy (the girlfriend) is a lot of fun & really nice.

Well honey, I guess I'll close so I can hurry & get this in the mail & I'll call you Monday (your birthday!) & see if you got this. If you did, then I'll mail your present the same way. I love you very much, & miss you terribly. Be sweet & pray for me.

Love,
Mother

*I guess I got my birthday wrong. I'm only nine. I'll be ten in a few days. And I do pray for you, Mom. My prayers go up in the shape of a pyramid. You're at the top. I ask God to protect you, keep you safe. Then I pray for my hamster, Ben, and continue on down the list of important people and it takes me forever to finish. I pray that the communists won't invade our country because the films they're showing us at my new Baptist church are about communists shoving bamboo shoots through the ears of people who believe in Jesus. I don't know if I'd admit I believe in Jesus or not. I'm scared either way. And confused.

Conversations With The Dead: Bay, AR May, 1974

(Wednesday)

Dear Teresa,

Honey, I was so happy when I got your letter, & thank you for the very sweet mother's day card. It really was sweet. And thank you for your pictures. You're so pretty in them. You get prettier every day. And you look so sweet with your hair long. Sonny just had a fit over your picture, & a bigger fit when he found out you cut your hair (ha). He loves long hair. But I've gotten mine cut too. I still had all that hair that they messed up at the beauty shop, on the ends, & I just had to cut it off. I cut it off pretty short, to get all those dead ends off, but will probably let it grow long again now that that's off.

I'm real proud of your grades at school. You've always done real good so keep up the good work. You'll be glad you did when you get to high school. It'll pay off.

I've been awful sick this past week. Didn't even feel like going to church mother's day. I've had the flu, & one of those bad sinus headaches. It's beginning to ease up a little now, but I sure have felt bad. I've been in bed since Saturday.

Well honey, I guess this is all for now. Thanks so much for the card & pictures. I love you very very much. Stay as sweet as you are.

Love,
Mother & Sonny

*I remember that picture I sent you, taken at Holy Name Catholic School, blue and gray plaid uniform. I liked my hair long, too. My stepmother cut my hair -- Patty. I got lice from somewhere and after treating my head with whatever noxious solution, she cut and permed my hair. After we took the rollers out the phone rang, so I brushed my newly curled hair while Patty talked on the phone. When I set the brush down, a flurry of little brown bugs scurried away from the bristles. My stepmother began to cry when I told her, pulled me to the kitchen sink and sprayed my head with Raid. She spritzed between sobs. I felt sorry I disappointed her.

And Mom? Sonny likes long hair because he'll need something to pull you around by later on...

Letters From The Dead: Bay, AR May, 1974

Dear Teresa,

Well, I guess you're tickled because school will be out pretty soon. What are you going to do this summer? Do you ever see Charlotte & Necho?

Sonny & I are turning into real farmers (ha). His uncle wanted us to stay here a while & help him to get his cotton planted & I'm learning all about farm life. I've been helping his aunt around the house while he's helping his uncle. His aunt & I planted a big garden & picked strawberries & all of us killed a hog & cut it up & put it in the frezzer [sic] & I've even learned to drive a tractor! You ought to see me. Really tho [sic], I've been enjoying it. Besides doing all that, we cook 3 meals a day (we get up at 4:30) & carry them water out to the field when they're working. We stay busy all the time. It's a good healthy life tho [sic]. Wouldn't mind doing it all the time if we could find us a place.

Guess what? I got my ears pierced. That'll surprise Charlotte. I got me some real pretty earrings. I want to get me some with a little gold cross if I can find some.

Well, I guess this is all the news for right now. Write me & let me know how you are. I love you very much.

Love,
Mother & Sonny

*Charlotte is my older sister who married her high school boyfriend at the age of 16. At the time of this writing, she was 18 with two children and soon to be divorced. And FYI, my mother hated getting up that early, sweating, cooking and dirt.

Letters From The Dead: 4/24/74 (Dedman, AR)

Dear Teresa,

How are you doing honey? It's been so long since I've gotten a letter from you. Why haven't you written? I hope you're not hurt or mad at me, because I couldn't come down there like I'd planned. I really couldn't help it honey, and no one was more disappointed than I was. It seems like the harder I try to get there, the harder it gets to make it. Seems like everything that could went wrong this time, so I'm not even going to promise anymore. I'll just wait until the very last minute, to tell you I'm comming [sic].

How is David doing these days? Is he still with Granny? He hasn't written me since before Christmas.

Sonny and I will probably move away from here before to [sic] long. It's fixing to start their tornado weather any day, and as many as we've already had, I don't think we want to stay. Last year in May one came and blew away half of Jonesboro. They're really bad here. But we haven't decided yet just where we do want to go. I imagine we'll go up to Indiana for a couple of weeks, but if they don't have alot [sic] of work up there, we may move back to Texas. I don't think we'd want to live in a big town tho [sic]. I'd rather live in a small town, and yet be close enough to Fort Worth, where we could see you all. Maybe you could even stay with us some, this summer. I really don't want to move to Indiana. It's just to [sic] far from you all, and I don't even get to see you now. I never would get to there. But we'll know what to do, I guess, before long.

Teresa, I love you so very much. Please don't be hurt at me for not getting to come down. I tried my best, believe me. Surely things will change before long so I can be where I can see you. I pray all the time that it will. I don't know why it's had to work out like this, but it's hurt me more than you'll ever know, because I haven't been able to see you. And please, try to get some pictures made for me. I don't have any of you or David. O.K.?

Well honey, I guess this is all. Please try to write me once in a while, so I'll know you're alright. I love you, and don't ever forget it.

Love,
Mother & Sonny

*My mother had just married Sonny Whitlatch, a man she met in Alcoholics Anonymous. They promptly moved to Dedman, Arkansas from Fort Worth, Texas. A year prior she'd left my father after 17 years of marriage (years of depression, drug and alcohol addiction, and suicide attempts). My father divorced her. At the writing of this letter she was 34 years old; I was 10.

Letters From The Dead

There's a brown legal envelope stored in a white cabinet in my office. Inside the envelope are letters postmarked from the '70s, almost a decade's worth. The letters are from my mother. She wrote them while on her "walk-about". She wrote me from various places she lived -- friend's houses, halfway houses, hospitals. Sometimes her handwriting was shaky. Sometimes she wrote as a mother. Sometimes she wrote as a child. She'd ask for my opinion, and I'd feel silly. I was ten. What can a ten year old tell a thirty-four year old? She'd tell me about new men in her life which was always a doomed thing for her -- relationships. She'd meet these guys at Alcoholics Anonymous and their demons plus her demons just made a hotter hell. It never worked out. She'd tell me about brawls she got into or that she'd seen God while she was in the hospital. She often complained about money, how she didn't have enough to see me or even call. Letters were all we had for nearly a decade.

We saw each other once in a while but not often, and there were times she'd say she was coming then something would come up and she wouldn't show. She once disappeared for three months -- no letters or phone calls. Then when she did come around, it happened fast, like a phone call from out of nowhere and, "Can I come pick you up in an hour?" My heart skipped around like I was meeting a lover or something. Complete longing.

I read her letters every few years. I draw a map of her life as I read, rebuild her memory, start the tape of us. It takes a while to hear the soft lilt of her words, to see her frosted mouth speaking. I study the paper she used, pretty stationary or cheap thin white pages. I put the pages to my nose to look for her scent. I follow the path of her ink, place my pale hand on hers as it writes. She crossed her "T's" with a diagonal line through the base. I've never known anyone else before or since my mother who does that. Her other letters were loopy and straight up vertical. They look like lost children to me. Like her.

I think I'll post a few of these letters here. No harm. Her voice is a ghost now. She's been gone twenty-six years. It's strange to hear her voice again, which makes me feel like a child again. It's emotionally dangerous because that longing returns and a heat behind my eyes. My heart races and I'm ten again, she's called to say she's on her way so I pack a bag and wait on the front porch. But she never shows up.

Dumb Thoughts

I have absolutely nothing to say but decided to show up at the page and see what comes out. Often ideas spring up from nothing but not always. And the best way to open the ground is to write about something that happened today. Okay, today I lost my vision for a moment.

I was sitting at my computer and suddenly the words weren't as clear and I mean suddenly. I immediately tried to think of causes and decided the problem could be my imagination or something in my eye so I blinked a few times and peered harder at my computer screen. I squinted then opened wide, several times like an idiot. Same smudgy vision. I didn't have time to clean my glasses right away because my 3 year-old was climbing up my leg, down my back. I considered momentarily that I'd had a small stroke or something vascular in my eye had popped and was leaking rivers in my eyeball -- I can be neurotic. But my son was all over me and I had to get on with the business of life so I dismissed these thoughts and turned off my monitor.

An hour or so later I returned to my computer and noticed my vision was still blurry. I took off my glasses to clean them, first the left lens and then the ri---. Oh....the right lens was missing.

Remedial Parenthood

Richard Bach wrote in Illusions, "You teach best what you most need to learn." Frankly, that scares me.

I've noticed that with my second set of kids, born almost a quarter century after the first set, it's getting easier to teach them things. They still grate on my nerves just like the first set, but I have a sliver of additional patience now, and when I offer some snippet of wisdom or a how-to, it flies out of my mouth like it's been waiting backstage for a long time. Perhaps the information comes from long ago archives when I did all this parenting stuff before, or maybe I've forgotten most of it and am making things up as I go along. I have no clue.

It's a different world than it was in 1987 when my first child was born. I'll have to revise the curriculum. Back then, 6th grade was still part of elementary school. Now it's part of junior high (which was once called "middle school"). Ninth grade is part of high school now though it was once part of middle/junior high. A child's success in Kindergarten is now said to determine his or her success throughout the school years. I don't know why they have to keep raising bars and lowering thresholds. And the tests. Those keep changing, too, and the severity of their import. No wonder kids take Prozac these days.

My youngest daughter starts Pre-K this year and I bought her new backpack and uniforms the other day. It dawned on me that I have at least fourteen more years of waiting for kids to finish school, of intensive parenthood. When it's all said and done, I'll have watched at least 24 school years go by, 24 years of homework, 24 years of parent-teacher conferences, 24 years of shopping for new school clothes and supplies. This wake-up made me panic some. Will I survive all this again?

I vividly remember longing for a reprieve, for the day I wouldn't have to worry about kid's grades and school performance anymore and here I've signed up for it all again. No wonder people called me crazy. So what was I thinking when I signed up for parenthood again?

It could very well be that I didn't learn my lessons the first time. This might be remedial parenthood. My older kids grew up fine, but maybe that was beginner's luck. That was just a drill. This is the real and final test of my skills as a parent. I have no excuses now, can't shuck responsibility and say, "This is my first set and I'm clueless." No more rehearsals or the excuse of ignorance.

So life might just be saying to me as one who writes about life and is in the midst of remedial parenthood, You have a lot to learn. I've been told that more than once. It didn't hurt when I was young. As I've gotten older, it stings a little.

So are all parent/teachers forever learners? And do forever learners teach/learn parenting to the grave? When will I get a break?

The expression, "Learn by Heart" comes from a mistaken analysis of anatomical functions made by the ancient Greeks. They believed that the seat of thought was in the heart. As a species we've made lots of mistakes. We even hang on to illogical expressions because they're "cute" or because we're fond of what's familiar. Maybe I've become a fan of lifelong learning, of living as a child with children.

I'll be almost 60 when my last child graduates from high school. I've learned, at least, that parenthood doesn't end there. I may only be an adjunct teacher once my kids leave home but hey, I'll take any rest I can get.