Mom and Gram, sometime in the early 1980s.
The last time I saw Mom, she was lying unconscious in her hospital bed. I didn’t know if she would ever wake up again. After receiving the phone call that Mom was in a head-on collision, I gathered my strength and arranged to fly to Middletown to see her. Now, after five days in my old hometown, I had to return home, a 1,725-mile trip. I didn’t know if I would ever see her smiling eyes again, but my life is 25 hours away from hers and I had to go.
My cousin, Kaylie, never calls me on the phone. When my phone rang on Monday, July 15, I didn’t want to pick up the phone. I did because I knew I had to.
“Hi, Kaylie.”
“Did anyone call you yet?”
“No. What about?”
“Garget has been in a car accident.”
I have officially lived more of my life outside of New York State than in it. Considering the first 18 years of my life – minus a one-year stint in Hollywood, Florida – were spent in the Hudson Valley, I don’t think the New Yorker in me will ever go away.
I grew up about 90 minutes north of New York City, surrounded by trees, woods, and plenty of nature where I could, and often did, get lost. The first time I ever traveled into New York City was about six weeks before my 21st birthday.
When I say I sometimes miss New York, I am thinking of two distinct things – the variety of food and the trees. The people I know in western Nebraska don’t really understand the amount of trees I grew up around and how nature was always, and often literally, right outside my door.
Right now, I’m missing the trees.
I have often wondered how, statistically, I never became a drug addict, homeless, or ended up dead. Researchers have also found that folks like me, who endured immense traumas early in life, could keep going because there was one person who made a difference when it was needed to make you think you could keep going. This could be a few people over time and not always the same person. They were just the right person at the right time, when you needed someone. My grandmother was often that person in my life.
It’s not the first time he’s come to visit me. Michael Myers has appeared to me in dreams before. He always scares me. I’m conditioned to be afraid of him. He is, after all, a multiple murderer. Last night, he appeared just outside my window at 15 Corwin Avenue, the house in which I grew up.
He gently tapped on the glass with the tip of his knife. He stood there, looming over all the shadows filtering in from the moonlight. I was terrified, of course. Who wouldn’t be. Was he there to kill me? To kill someone else? I didn’t know. I rolled over and faced the wall, trying to pretend he wasn’t there. In my little mind, that would mean he would go away.
My mom had just taken me to get my hair cut. She had to run a few errands before we went back home. I was sitting in the front passenger seat. We were stopped at the red light by the police department when a friend of hers started talking to her from the next lane over. After a few minutes, her friend asked her who the boy was with her in the car.
“That’s not a boy, that’s Irene,” Mom said. She said it matter-of-factly like her friend was an idiot for not recognizing me. I was six years old.
My cousins, from left to right, Andrea, Kaylie, Jacob, and Patrick.
I can’t remember if it was 1992 or 1993, but I had traveled back to New York from Lincoln, Nebraska, to visit my family. I had called ahead of time and asked my Aunt Elaine if she would cut my hair. Most of my haircuts as a child were done by her.
I used to keep my hair short and had the same cut often. I knew Aunt Elaine. I knew she wouldn’t mess up my hair. “Just do it the same way,” was all I asked.
That’s right. We cut our bagels on the counter.
My mother taught me many life skills, most of which, I never knew I was learning, but there’s one skill I put to use every year.
I sat at the kitchen table for several hours after school working on my art project. All my markers were laid out on the table in color order, so I could see each one and think about what color I was going to use next. I picked up the burnt orange and glided the tip across the page, blending it when needed and making sure I colored evenly along the paper.
I came across this picture today of former Formula 1 drivers Martin Brundle and Ayrton Senna. Today is Brundle’s 63rd birthday. The first thing I noticed was the hand movement, which F1 drivers seem to make. It reminded me of the famous, and similar, conversation between Mika Häkkinen and Michael Schumacher. Then, I noticed the watch and said, “Hey. I used to have that watch.”
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