A fine day, a fine man

My dad, Johnny Walker. Think this is at his discharge. I respect his service, but I respect more what he told me once  that military service is an "honorable thing to do ... but it's not for everyone."

I think he barely made it through because he would have rather been in the Wynoose Bottoms. In fact there are some colorful stories in that regard. I think there were some folks who gave him a ride to his check-in station near St. Louis, only to see him sitting on the Liar's Bench in Noble when they finally cruised through town. And there are some colorful letters from him while in Korea during the late 50s. He didn't really want to be a soldier at that time, but in his late teens/early 20s did what was expected of him.

What I always knew him to be was a protector, and possessing a strong belief in fairness and willing to do what was needed to protect his family, friends, and way of life. For all of those reasons I am very proud to honor him on Veteran's Day.

New Life Eve

Oct 3 2014

Well folks, this is my last full day as an Illinoisan. Bloomington, IN here I come!

I want to thank all my friends and relatives for all your support, love, scoldings, laughter and tears as I have struggled through this decision. It has not been made lightly. The seed was planted in my mind over two years ago by my son (he has only himself to blame) during a ride through the hills and valleys near Bloomington. Since then there's been a lot of introspection, analytics and math (that's where the tears came -ouch), a lot of prayer with subsequent tingles and signs from that higher power who finally decided to give a clear signal via a highly scientific method. I have yet to play the numbers on the other side. Maybe next week. Woo hoo!!

Bye Bye Noble High School

“We could love and not be suckers. We could dream and not be losers. It was such a beautiful time. Everything was possible because we didn't know anything yet.” 

-- Hilary Winston, on high school

They - the ubiquitous "they" - claim that if you are patient, everything you've lost will come back to you. I really don't know that "they" said this at all, but I have heard it proclaimed by aunts and pseudo-wise individuals who state such with pursed lips, arched brows, and nodding heads. There must be something to it.

And while I have never been known to be too patient ...  look! After years of assumed destruction I now again possess my FFA Chapter Sweetheart jacket! Just in time for the farming season. In fact, I'm considering pulling it on and standing in ceremony when giant machines cut the wheat you see across the road. Of course, I can't get an arm in it so I would need to start a no-food-of-any-kind diet, and still wouldn't be thin enough by that point. Instead I shall wave it in support, like a flag of agri-patriotism airborne within the chaff and dust cloud that will envelop me, while "John Deere Green" plays from .... somewhere. No? Okay, maybe not.

Actually, this is a cool story with a bittersweet end. It begins with a gift of affection from a group at West Richland High School, or Noble High School, whichever you prefer, in a town nestled along U.S. Route 50 in southeastern Illinois. Small town, small school, big-hearted and big-willed people. The West Richland Future Farmers of America bestowed upon me the honor of being the Sweetheart of their chapter in 1979-80. It was a time when girls were slowly popping up in FFA, but not fully assimilated into the organization. I believe I was the last of the Sweetheart breed there, with opportunity and progress swooping in behind my departure - as is often the case. I was truly touched and surprised to be selected, though I never really understood what my role was as the Chapter Sweetheart. I recall I was to be in the yearbook photo, and missed that assignment while being in the French Club photo. I certainly hope I didn't embarrass them too much during my one-year reign, because I've always had a lot of respect for the FFA.

In the years that followed the jacket was put into a box with cheerleading outfits and other assorted items from my high school career and carted around to several locations. It last settled into a basement with a dodgy sump pump that was filled with storm water for a couple of weeks. I was on the cusp of moving out and had to leave what I assumed were ruined items, and was told the soggy, mildewed collection would be thrown in the trash.

Flash forward a few decades and I hear from a friend, who attended a ballgame at NHS, that my jacket was on display in a trophy case. Blink. Excuse me? The story goes that, obviously, the box was not thrown away and in the mid-2000s a relative of the agriculture instructor purchased it at a rummage sale. It was decided the jacket must be purchased and brought back to the school. Because it was "vintage." A symbol of the way things "used to be." You know, in the "old days." I never had the opportunity to view it there, although my son did. "It kinda looks like crap," he said apologetically. "Of course it does," I sniffed. "It's vintage."

In all honesty, the display of my jacket there was as much, if not more, of an honor as having received it in the first place. I am proud to have attended school in Noble. As with many who grew up in small towns in large agrarian regions, high school was at the epicenter of my teenage life. (Thank goodness I grew up and moved on, however. That much pleasure and pain should not co-exist - until marriage.) My memory is somewhat foggy of specifics, but overall high school was a time that is locked in a box of golden, Halcionic reflection, with a few jagged, sobering moments.

So much about life is learned in the microcosm of high school, with so many moments of unique discovery, extreme emotion, rallying sports events, and romance. Where else but high school does "walking the hall" qualify as a life experience? I could go it alone, or with a group, I didn't care, but there were groups of girls with actual strategy on how to walk the hall, and by which groups they would slow and converse with, and those they would avoid or intentionally ignore. I can see in my mind's eye the way the boys would sort themselves into groups, and stand in clusters in key locations - whether to be unavoidable to females or strategically in line to harass the poor freshmen trying to get by unnoticed. There was a group of rather obnoxious (but likeable, you know who you were) guys who stood at the corner of one of the trophy cases in the main hall. I learned to tune them out, yet look like I was staring directly at them - which I think may have made them just a bit wary of me. My trick was to focus just above their heads on one of the brass trophies that glittered in the light, and then other items like basketball nets from victorious games, and photos of champion teams or stellar track and field athletes. I would imagine the events at which these awards were bestowed, and the moment when the flash of the camera went off and captured those jubilant faces aglow with their achievement. After a while, I didn't even notice the boys. Not there, anyway.

I was intrigued by the photos. They spanned the decades of existence of the high school in Noble, and there were times I would stand before them and wonder where those faces were at that point, what they had achieved, and if they were happy. There were stories going on inside my head like so much cinema, imagining their lives. Occasionally my vision shifted and I would see my reflection staring back at me and wonder, "Where will I go? What will I do? Who will I be?"

So it was with some satisfaction I imagined another teenage girl staring at my jacket in the trophy case and wondering about herself. I hope they were good wonderings and beliefs and she marched into adult life with an open mind and a determined gait. I'm a little itchy when thinking of her wondering about me. That "Sweetheart" from 1979-80 - in the "old days." My life isn't exactly a fairytale, or a textbook success story. Not by a long shot, boys and girls. But it is my story, and one in which NHS is a strong supporting character.

But it's possible that girl just thought, "Eww, what a crappy jacket. It must be really, really old." Um, no, it's vintage, babe.

But it is not the jacket that is important, but what it represents. What it now represents is an institution that is no more. This was the last year of operation for the high school in Noble. Like so many throughout the State of Illinois, the West Richland Board of Education has been tasked for years with growing mandates and expense, and dwindling resources. There was a lot of debate as to how the district had come to its sorry state, and even more debate about how to proceed. In the end, members chose to end education as it had been known for decades on the western side of Richland County. The high school students will be absorbed by a neighboring district, and I hear the building will be leased to the local community college. That is a good thing, or at least better than sitting alone and abandoned, subject to inevitable decay. Still, it is the end of an era. And if my jacket was returned, what will become of the trophies and photos of those champions, and the mementos of existence encased in that hallway?

I hope for one last opportunity for alumni to visit the hallways and classrooms and gymnasium of the school. I hope to stare into those trophy cases and place there all the laughter and bellows, flirtations and fights, classroom discussions and chaos, and nights filled with thundering basketball games that shook the bleachers and raised our spirits as a community - and gaze upon it with gratitude. I will close my eyes to lock that vision inside my mind, then turn and walk away with a smile.

Thanks Noble.

Chi Cha, Sis Boom Bah!
Noble Wildcats, 
Rah ... 
Rah ... 
Rah!

Content Copyright © Shugacans/Leandra Sullivan. All rights reserved.

Old as she was, she still missed her daddy sometimes

Mom and Dad. One our first family snapshots.
I'm the one at left. Under Mom's shirt

(That's by Gloria Naylor, btw.)

It is Father's Day.

This is always a bittersweet day of recognition for me. My father died many years ago when I was 18 years old. He was 39. Thirty-nine. He died of a malignant brain tumor that had been taking its terrible toll for a bit more than a year. His death was bane and blessing. Blessing because his suffering - and that of those who loved and agonized in watching over him - was over. Bane because his physical life - and one aspect of life for those who loved him - was over.

But to clarify, a different type of suffering for those who remained after my father's death had just begun. A period of crazy contradictions. I had a feeling of being beaten, of standing in a vacuum with battered mind, body and soul. Of feeling at once on fire with pain, and frozen from numbness. Time stood still, and yet it had a way of tenderly and joyfully and agonizingly moving backward, making me watch my time with him move back and forth like a silent movie - viewing laughter I knew must sound like happiness, seeing whispers I remember made me smile. And time would push me forward into a future that was an empty room where I stood and stared at one wall and was angry and petrified. I would turn and look at another wall of that empty room and be sad, and watch Dad walk down the steps outside my bedroom window, that traversed the space from the lawn to the patio of the walk-out basement of our home, and he would put his hand above his eyes to peer in at me in the shadow of the early morning sunshine and say, "Mornin' daughter-son!" I tried to respond but no words would come out of me. This flickered on that wall of my grief like the projection of a home movie.

There was the wall that held my fantasies:
• Me in England on a trip and walking into a pub and a waiter turns around to take my order and my father and I share shocked expressions at seeing one another; he whisks me to a back alley to tell me his story of being a spy (like James Bond) and how he had to leave us abruptly for reasons of national security and our safety, and is undercover to find those responsible for such horrible threats. I help him solve this issue and return home with him. There is much fanfare, and we are reunited as a family.
• Me as a doctor in a large hospital where I become lost in a maze of hallways and wards and erratic overhead lighting and discover a pristine, white room with blinding light where my father sits in white clothing and is playing chess, and turns his head with its scalp of chestnut hair (which we did not see for much of his last year of life) and looks at me quizzically, though with a flicker of recognition. I learn he is part of a group of patients with fast-growing and destructive brain tumors who underwent an experimental treatment that has taken years to provide recovery. While the treatment has eradicated the tumor and is regrowing his brain, it has damaged his memory. AND ... unfortunately the hospital forgot about his special ward, so he has been lost. I help him regain his memory and return home with him to much fanfare, and we are reunited as a family.
• Actually there are many of these scenarios. I am riding a bike in Chicago and turn a corner and run him over and find out he was kidnapped and living as a smelly, unwashed hostage. I save him by using amazing martial arts on his oppressor. Or, he was at sea on a treasure-hunting boat, was thrown overboard by a great storm and washed up on an island, where I find him while on a cruise. (The Tom Hanks movie "Castaway" was a bit surreal for me.) You may notice a "rescuer" or "hero" theme going on here, which results from feelings of guilt. There has never been a reason for me to feel guilty, and it is all self-imposed. I don't think it is an unusual feeling for survivors. You just have to spend a lot of time in therapy and bars to get over it. (Kidding! Kind of!)

Then there was the wall in my room of grief that was blank. Just blank. I often stared at this wall for far too long.

In truth, my dad would be highly entertained at some of these notions. He was imaginative and creative and fun. He would also be sad. He was a man who, when he was alive, was very alive, and wanted everyone to be happy. Of course, that is what a self-involved teenager assessed of her still-young father.

I thought I was all grown up when he died, but we all know that I was not. Such life experiences have a way of making one mature in very awkward ways, and yet leave one stunted in others. Sometimes it takes a lot of time and some serious screw-ups to make all those "ways" plait themselves into some braid of normalcy. I don't know. I'm just blabbering at times. But I suppose all of this blabber is a way to honor my father by expressing myself in the way I know best: writing it out. I used to write him stories when I was little. And he had plenty of stories himself. In fact, I come from a long line of story-tellers.

I feel I came to terms with his death quite some time ago, but that doesn't mean I am not still a bit sad that he didn't get to meet my sons, or my daughter-in-law, or Jacquelyn Jean. I have a variety of beliefs in regard to his spirit, of if I shall see him again, or if he exists in a way that makes him supernaturally aware of us here on Earth. I won't bore you with the details, if even it is possible for me to effectively express my beliefs. But I will say that I am also happy this day  -  to have such a father. I know I am more lucky than some. And early this morning, while Danger was still sleeping, I drove down to the Wynoose bottoms where I know he spent a lot of his life along the river and in the woods and I talked to him. He's been telling me to get the hell out of here and try out some new adventures. I am thinking maybe I shall.

Who knows, he might just tag along for the ride. Now that would be a great story.

Content Copyright © Shugacans/Leandra Sullivan. All rights reserved.

Cherry Pickin' Time!

Content copyright © Shugacans/Leandra Sullivan. All rights reserved.

Wagon fun ...

Don't I look SMASHING? Kyle looks a bit dorky.

A friend tagged me in a Facebook post asking if I recalled riding home from church camp in the back of a station wagon. The type with the rear-facing seat. This was my response:

"I do not believe I was along for that drive. I do, however, remember actually OWNING one that was ancient but in good condition. Because I was poor. And needed something that could hold a kid and his wheelchair and another kid who had legs that grew like Pinocchio's nose. At first my son relished the idea of sitting in the back seat because it was different, and he could undoubtedly have extremely creative sign language conversations with oncoming traffic. Then during one drive I heard him squeal like a scared little girl and looked in the rearview mirror to see a semi truck attempting to mate with my wagon. I think Kyle might have been overzealous in his sign language. Afterwards he sat in the middle and complained about the humiliation of our crappy car. Ahhhh. Memories. ;^)"

That wagon was also my favorite place for some quality girl time. A Discman playing some Alanis Morrissette, Wallflowers, Sheryl Crowe, Oasis, etc., wine, and the occasional vehicle that cruised by my driveway made for some great evenings in the middle of nowhere after the boys went to bed. I always dressed for the occasion (flannel pajamas and coat in winter, spaghetti strap jammies in summer). And I always waved.

Just to set the scene, I will pretend this photo is of me and Kyle. Because I always dressed like that when  bringing him his beach toys as he sat happily and expectantly on the "observation lounge." I realize it's an image a bit hard to swallow. After all, he's a blonde. And he wore water wings.

Writing content copyright © Shugacans/Leandra Sullivan. All rights reserved.

Coming soon ...

"When I close my eyes to reminisce about my childhood, two images instantly begin to glow in the darkness of that inner-cranial theatre: an early-Elvis photograph and a slender, yellow can of lemon-scented furniture polish. I hear an actual buzzing in my head as these images flicker into life and begin to glow like neon. Such sounds ridiculous, but it is true. Soon the stage is bathed in yellow light - a stage much like that of the elementary school where I spent eight years. Pecan stained wood, the sides and back covered with heavy, crushed dark-red velvet, with the same on pull cords to open and close the stage to the audience.

The photo and spray can dance across the stage of my recollection ... curtsy and bow to one another, enjoy a few titillating spins, and some up-close and very personal waltzing. The black and white photo, with its shiny surface, wraps itself around the smooth, yellow can, which in turn arches itself into the photo. They render themselves to be like those animated intermission shorts at the movie theatre, if not for the hush of their performance and their intense and private passion. They stand in that clutch for some time, barely swaying from side to side, lost in their reverie of contact. But then they bound about to different areas of the stage, the photograph wildly spinning, then fluttering to the stage floor and contorting in a way to crawl to the edge of the scene, eventually nestling into a fold of the velvet curtains, its gloss fading to a dulled matte. The spray can continues to move about, its choreography at times erratic, at times steady, and with a frequent twist as if looking longingly toward the now-still photo. It eventually stands still on the opposite side of the stage, and the curtains close.

It is the dance of my parents. It is the dance I have often associated with love. It is the stage on which I put myself while deciding if I am ready to open the curtains to whatever moment, day, relationship, decision, or life that is thrust at me. The curtains open and I am caught there onstage under the paralyzing glare of a spotlight - unable to look out through the distance to the audience, and too frightened to turn around and see what is backstage."

Copyright by Leandra J Sullivan 

"Crushed Red Velvet"

O Little Tree ...

(From the "Catch-Up Collection," a Facebook post from Jan. 2014)

This is the Jay Tree at the home of my mother. 

It started as a seedling no bigger than a pinky finger and a bit puny in health, planted in hope for my son's future when he was around a year old. We didn't know what would happen to him because of his disabilities. 

More than two decades later his limbs might not be as strong in reality, but the mighty existence of this tree is a reflection of his spirit. 

So many people, places and things become ubiquitous, though not unappreciated, in our daily lives - so sometimes I don't 'see' the Jay Tree. A few weeks ago I was walking from my mother's doorway to my car and the reflection of it in the driver's window flashed at me and I turned around. Oh, Jay took my breath away.

Content copyright © Shugacans/Leandra Sullivan. All rights reserved.

Once upon a time ...

(Part of the "Catch-up Collection." Originally a Facebook post honoring the Nov. 30 birthday of my son and daughter-in-law.)

I hardly think the end of November should mark the end of giving thanks. So, tonight ... I am thankful for fairy tales. Well, more like events that have the elements to be fairy tales, but turn out to be of the gritty goodness that makes them reality.

Once upon a time - 31 years ago actually - two fair maids lived in two fair towns not too far away. Little did they know that their routes on the map of Life had already wound around, over, and through one another and would eventually crash nicely into one place.

Me & the Kylester

On that fateful day 31 years ago they both visited hospitals, prepared to give birth to their firstborn. One fair maid in a lovely Catholic hospital had been quite busy trying to show nurses, doctors, and nuns that labor didn't hurt THAT much. But, alas, she had greatly underestimated the event, and had unfortunately delivered some rather unfortunate language (there may have been a colorful, highly-descriptive version of the word "penguin" mentioned at some point). Therefore when her doctor inquired as to whether she would like to be blissfully unconscious for the birth, she assumed advancement in the process would mean advancement in discomfort and therefore said YES.

Funny enough, when the point came that her wee one was about to enter the world and she felt the urge to push, the point where folks were wheeling her bed swiftly through the hall to a delivery room, the point where she sat up and gripped the rails like a knight gripping a lance while charging on his valiant steed toward glory - well, at that point she thought it didn't feel so bad at all. In fact she felt somewhat giddy. However, the medical folk didn't seem to notice and when they pushed the gas mask toward her face she tried to refuse and one yelled "She's fighting it!"  The fair maid was saying "Nooooo I wanna do thiiiiiii....." as the mask was firmly placed over her nose and mouth and all her hollering did was serve to make her breathe in the magic air more quickly and, alas, she succumbed to the ether.

When she awoke it was in a white room where she imagined fluffy clouds and the song of angels. She knew she wasn't dead because she could hear her mother's signature footsteps in the hallway, and her mother's voice asking in which room she could find her daughter. (Truth is I was under the heavy influence of drugs and had been hollering for my mommy and could be heard in the waiting room. Mom came running. Likely to shut me up.) With her mother at her side, the fair maid asked for her baby, if he had his father's feet, and if she could please have a Big Mac. Starving, she was.

Later, after all the relatives and friends had left for the evening, she held her little bundle and marveled at his pinkness, effusive in her love of his pointy head (forceps), perfect fingers, perfect mouth, downy blonde hair, and even his huge feet. She knew he would need them to journey through life. As she stared at his face his eyes opened and she had a FLASH moment where she thought she could see into his soul (probably still the drugs) and saw it was a good soul and could see moments of his life like slow-moving film. Smiling, cooing, crawling, sitting, walking, laughing .. first days of school, riding a bike, holding a basketball, giving his heart to a girl, marrying a girl, and holding a bundle of his own.

Good drugs.

Little did we know that not so far away and a few hours earlier, the girl he would give his heart to was entering the world. Also a blue-eyed blonde. I am thankful every day for that girl. Jessie is kind, beautiful in and out, funny, with quirky and exquisite taste. She's an awesome cook who once made me bacon and egg muffins that I still dream of, and killer meatloaf. She has a deviously adorable and infectious giggle. She somehow is able to manage Kyle's 6'8" attitude from her petite throne. And together they made The Sprout - aka Jacquelyn Jean, the prettiest girl I've ever seen.

It's true, I have become one of those people. She fills me with a joy I never knew was possible. I can't even fully describe how I feel about Sprout, words just sort of fail me - as hard as that may be to believe. To say I am thankful is so inadequate. But boy, am I ever thankful. For her golden, curly hair and big blue eyes, her freely given smile with its curly-up corners, and the way she walks away and then turns back to smile over her shoulder as if to say, "Oh yeah. I'm adorable." The way she creates the most perfect, goofy photo ops. Her inquisitive nature, and her ambition. Her pureness. The way she holds things in her fingers and looks at them with the intention of learning something.

And her little huge feet. Which look a lot like her father's.

Happy Birthday Kyle and Jessie.

Content copyright © Shugacans/Leandra Sullivan. All rights reserved.

A livelier emerald twinkles in the grass ... 

(That's Tennyson, btw)

A few weeks ago I wondered if I would ever again see green grass. This winter has been such a terrible beast that all which was herbaceous died and withered in a way that seemed so final. Everything was sucked dry of its lifeblood, remaining stark, naked and limp from being frozen, thawed, and left to rot. I think it had the same impact on a lot of humans round these here parts, including myself. I suppose it boils down to what you're used to. We are not used to this, and therefore it kicked our butts. Some people are complaining about the cold again, as we have warm days mixed with some downright chilly days, but not me. If it's above 15 degrees and I have running water in all my taps, and am wearing less than three layers of clothing inside the house, I am pleased. 

Yesterday I saw the hubby had mowers out for service checks, and realized that the slight greening I have noticed in the last few days has turned into growing grass. I stepped out of my old clogs and stood barefoot on the lawn, looking at my toes wriggling in the fresh green blades of grass. This and the promise of gardening makes me want to call Little Sister and ask if she's ever found her toe seeds. It is a bittersweet, quirky question I want to ask her each year.  I used to do so when we were younger, then I became more mature and considerate. Now I will just write about it for the world to read. (Ahem.)

You see, I can't look at a push mower without having a flash of memory about the day my father came to the kitchen window, the height of which was perfect for framing his handsome head and neck, not revealing whom he was holding beneath the frame. His face was ashen, his voice terrifying in its quiet depth, demanding, "Nancy, get some towels and get out here. You have to help me. We have to find Kayla's toe." 

I had just gotten back into the kitchen, having snuck out and across the lawn to climb under the fence that separated our property from the junkyard next door. But in my defense, it wasn't a junkyard so much as a repository for amazing things. Inside and outside the track that ran in an oval on the property were thousands of items that begged investigation. There were a lot of weeds, bushes, saplings and a few trees as well, which only added to the magical wonder of the place. I was barely old enough for kindergarten, but had already found a second home there in an old, tiny camper. There were old swingsets and old cars and tires large enough to host secret meetings for hunched down secret agents who hadn't yet learned how to spell their last names. But more on that later. On this particular evening I had crept over while my mother cleaned up after dinner and my father went to do outside work. I had barely been able to fix imaginary dinner in my camper trailer when I heard Mom yelling out the window. "Leandra Jean, get in this house right now!" And I had barely gotten back into the house when Dad made his appearance at the window. Apparently Little Sister had escaped my mother's gaze and snuck out after me. Dad was mowing deep in the back yard, and began to walk backward with the mower at the same time Little Sister, only a few years old, ran to hug Dad's legs, her foot sliding under the deck. It was one of those horrible things that happens to good parents for which they punish themselves forever. I would grow up to fully understand this.

I recall the rest of that evening in flashes. Standing outside looking at the grass, noticing the blades, their texture, the way they were rooted in the earth. Looking up and surveying the back yard - our playhouse, a hutch with rabbits, a scratchy spot with a burn barrel in front of the railroad running behind our property, a large mulberry tree with the dog and doghouse beneath it. Hearing frantic cries and shouts in the background. Being told to LOOK. Next, I was in the back of our car, my feet on the floorboard between the front bench seat and the back seat, hunched down, my hands grasping the top of the seat, listening to my parents' frightened voices. I rose up to peek at Little Sister, who lay on my mother's lap, very quiet and with her eyes closed. Mom was holding up her foot, which was wrapped in towels. (It's true, I wondered where the toe was being held. I didn't ask.) 

Dad, driving like a madman, kept saying "Don't let her go to sleep!" while Mom kept crying and shouting my sister's name over and over, shaking her to keep her alert. I dipped back down, pressing my face against the cool vinyl of the seat, thinking about these things and how they fit together. A thought suddenly formed and I popped up. "Is she dying?" I vividly recall my mother turning her face to me, it being splotched and streaked with a torrent of tears, which scared me worse than my sister's bleeding foot. At first she loudly said "NO!" then kept swallowing hard, trying her best to be calm while she explained "shock" to me. My parents were quite good at explaining things to me at an early age. I crouched down toward the floorboard again, worrying about how this might all work out, so I occasionally jumped up to yell my sister's name. I thought I was helping but I think I may have sent my mother into shock each time I did so. That's the last I remember of the car flight to the hospital in O-Town.

The next memories have me in a darkened upstairs room of my paternal grandparents' large home in that town. I stood at the double windows and was able to see down the pitched porch roof to where my parents stood with Grandpa and Grandma. They were beneath the old trees in the front yard in a pool of grainy yellow light that snuck over from the laundry across the street. I could see the glow of my father's cigarette as it travelled from his side to his mouth. I could hear the murmur of their voices but not the distinction of words. I was being cared for there while they had been with my sister. I remember feeling very lonely.

I would come to learn that Little Sister had indeed lived, was being cared for in the exotic realms of The Hospital, and that despite attempts by physicians, she would be minus a big toe. I can't recall how long she was a patient there but it certainly seemed an eternity, and for the first time in my young life I was consciously excited one day when told I would get to spend time with her. (I sometime resented her interrupting my "only child" plan.) I walked through the shiny doors into the large hospital lobby filled with chairs holding someone's hand, and then someone else walked in carrying my little sister. Her foot was sporting heavy bandages and tape, but it didn't slow her down when she was placed on the floor because she began to crawl with wild abandon. I walked toward her and she crawled toward me and she was smiling, smiling, smiling, and, well, it was wonderful. I hope that I will always remember that moment, because it was a good one.

Life proceeded normally despite Little Sister's missing digit. I guess I thought she would be a true invalid and we would have to take care of her forever, but she was obviously young enough that a missing big toe really didn't hamper her physical development and ability. At least not in a way I can recall. Sure, she was often a klutz, but that seems to be a family trait for we girls. There is a reason my old science teacher called me "Meanderin' Leandra."  I hear when Little Sister tripped over his trash can soon after entering his classroom he rolled his eyes and announced she was continuing a legacy.

The handicap that I didn't fully appreciate was the yearning of a pretty little girl for a toe. To always have to wear socks if she even dared to wear sandals. To sit and rub that empty spot on her foot with a sweet, sad look on her face. To beg for toe seeds. She reasoned that planting seeds made other things grow, so why not a toe? Then there was a year soon after the accident she voiced her hope for a toe in her Christmas stocking. The idea of planting a seed in her foot and watching a toe grow out of it was both fascinating and horrifying. And a toe in her stocking? Tucked in with our traditional nickel, orange, peppermint stick, and chocolate Santa? Shudder. Still, I admit that I held my breath with the terrifying hope she would pull one out. That would have been awesome.

Little Sister never really felt sorry for herself. After all, so many people have experienced worse tragedies, and she's always been a champion for others. And rest assured, a missing toe on one foot really only gave her a firmer tool with which to kick someone's a** if necessary. But still, when I stand barefoot and watch my wriggling toes in the green, green grass I think of her and wonder …

What did they do with that toe?

Content copyright © Shugacans/Leandra Sullivan. All rights reserved.

Sista!

I am the oldest of three daughters, which makes me Older Sister. Little Sister is three years younger, while Baby Sister is nine years down the line. One of my earliest memories is of Little Sister strapped in what Mom called a "pumpkin seat," thinking she looked nothing like a pumpkin, and befuddled by the claim that she was "a present just for you, a real-life baby doll!" If she was my present, why did she get held by Mom and Dad all the time? And why was I always relegated somewhere that was not their lap? I would watch them in studied silence thinking I was missing something very important. I never did quite figure it out. 

I also recall standing by Baby Sister's crib when she was newborn and - while admitting she was another very pretty baby doll - telling my parents they had pretty much ruined everything. I wanted to be an only child and had a clear vision of how my life should have commenced from birth on. The sister issue made it virtually impossible. One sister I might have been able to dispose of, but two made it  tough and a lot more obviously my fault. Yes, I was a brat.

Oh, Little Sister. Three years now is a mere gasp in the breath of time, but during childhood it was ... Well, a lot.  She was, in my estimation, gross. Christmas was particularly disgusting. We always received giant candy canes in our stockings that took me a week to lick a good point on, whilst hers practically dissolved in her hands by bedtime. She'd squeal when she saw it cradled in the red felt of her holiday sock, pull it out in the wee hours of the morning, clamp her little moist hand upon it, and keep it there until its sad sliver was pulled from her hand at the point her head hit the pillow. From the moment she beheld it, that stick of sugar was in her mouth, around her mouth, in her ear, in her hair, in her poket, and then back in her mouth. Revolting. By the end of Christmas Day she looked like the most effective lint brush known to man - a pink-glazed face adorned by lint, dustbunnies, Santa's beard and small pets. She would totter toward me and I would shrink in horror, twisting and turning to evade her touch, gasping when her digits became one with my hair, groaning when her palm became one with my face. I would beseech my parents with silent, breathless looks of terror while they sat smoking their end-of-Christmas-Day cigarettes, acting as though they were spent and exhausted. They did not care.

Little Sister was always there, the tag-along kid. One afternoon when I was around eight a friend name to spend the afternoon and my mother's inevitable "let your sister tag along" followed us out the back door. We played in the sand, she tagged along. We played "house" in the playhouse, she tagged along. We played "Salem Witch Burning" at the burn pile, she tagged along - although she did look very confused by the theme. We played "Nurse Nightingale" under the mulberry tree, and she tagged along. Actually, in such cases she proved valuable as we needed a wounded person and a dead person and the dog could only be one. 

Revenge came when we played "Tarzan and Jane" on the swingset. My friend and I worked to shimmy up a pole and hang around, creating dialogue as we swung, suspended for as long as our pre-pubescent arms would allow. We weren't a mere few feet above ground, as this was no ordinary swingset. It was crafted of big, heavy pieces of pipe welded together by my dad. It seemed bigger than our house and heavier than our car, which was typically a hulking beast, so that swingset was like the Titanic. Little Sister began to whine. "I wanna be Tarzan. I wanna be Jane." I hung there, staring down into her pleading face and feeling annoyed. Then I was overcome with that lovely sensation when a great plan comes to mind. I dropped to the ground, sprung up and shocked her by saying, "Okay." Her eyes widened in surprise and delight, mine narrowed with cunning determination, as I headed to Dad's work shed. I used all my eight-year-old muscle to drag a hand-built sawhorse to the swingset, balanced on top and hoisted Little Sister up into the same stance, then lifted her so that she could grab the top bar. Oh, she was ever so pleased, as was I when I jumped down and pulled the sawhorse away. At first, she seemed very impressed that she was copying the feat of her big sister and friend. As we headed to the playhouse at the back of our large yard, she began to yell. Sure, she yelled a lot, but we got used to it. We occupied ourselves with the duties that come with playing in a playhouse built by a talented craftsman who spared nothing when it came to details. We opened the shuttered windows, opened interior cabinets and closets to survey their contents, sat on the windowsills and talked about fixing dinner with bologna and Pixie Straw candy. Then a realization dawned. It was very quiet in the neighborhood. I made a trip to the shed, then peered around its corner to view the swingset. Little Sister was gone. I glanced at the back door of the house and saw that the screen door wasn't completely shut - a tell-tale sign that a non-adult had recently gone through it. 

She fell. She cried. She told.

I decided to hide out. After all, the playhouse was a perfect place, as the shutters and door could lock from the inside as well. If they came after me I could hitch a ride on any train that ran the tracks right behind our yard. Inside my hideout I had a very nice Mulberry stick, a bandanna (we played a lot of "Hobo'", and some emergency goods (we also played "Tornado"). I had a dollar coin given to me by my grandfather that I always kept in a pocket, and the knowledge I could eat VandeCamp's pork and beans out of the can. I also had a mini can opener, and I knew how to use it.

My friend's mother eventually arrived and she ran off, throwing an apologetic look over her shoulder. That's when I started to feel worried. I watched as Dad came home from work and waved toward the playhouse as he went into the work shed. Mom came out to give him a hug and she waved as well. The dog lazed about in the sunshine, the cat played with whispery dandelion seeds, butterflies lofted in the warm breeze and birds twittered from the trees. Mom's lilting voice called, "Johnny Lee, Leandra Jean ... time for dinner!" I just watched it all from behind my plexi-glass door window - sweaty, lonely, and with an overwhelming need for the toilet. I also realized it was cheeseburger night; I was starving.

I decided to go in. Take the long walk. Swallow my pride and take it like a man. Or a girl. As I started across the lawn it was with swaggering bravado, but 20 feet from the back door I began to hiccup, then sort of choke, then just started bawling. When I walked through the back door my mother gasped, ran to me, hugged me and asked what had happened. Dad lifted me up to the sink counter and wiped my face with a damp towel. I stared at them in desperate, hopeful surprise, then at Little Sister, who sat at the kitchen table eating french fries soaked with ketchup.

She didn't tell? She really didn't tell. She smiled at me in all her ketchup-smeared glory (which was on her teeth, her nose, around her mouth, and in her hair), and I smiled back. I decided that day she wasn't so bad and I liked her for two weeks.

Funny how things work out. As adults, Little Sister is fastidious. She's the type with the kitchen floor so clean that one could eat from it. If one did such things. Her children were always pink from bathtime scrubbings. She gets highly annoyed if her car gets cluttered and dirty. I turn out to be the slob of we three girls. Yet she is always polite when she comes to my place, saying "Oh, your house looks nice." Like I don't see her eyeing the floor and the cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling and my latest unfinished project strewn about the place. And when I am at her house, and her friends come around, she always invites me to play. She is kind, funny, smart, and tries to take care of everyone - whether we like it or not. Tomorrow is her birthday. I hope it is a good one and she has a day filled with joy and laughter and a few moments of blessed peace. She deserves it.  And I want to tell her that, in the end, she was one of the best presents Mom and Dad ever gave to me.

I would go on to tell you about how Little Sister and I actually bonded on occasion, such as when we mummified Baby Sister with duct tape. But that's a tale for another time. Her birthday is in August. See ya then!

Content copyright 2014 by Shugacans/Leandra J. Sullivan. All rights reserved.

I hate them deerly ...(bad, I know.)

(Found this in my drafts folder. It's from a couple years ago, but decided to share it anyway. I owe it to my car. Sister.)

Driving. 8:45 p.m. Dark. Worked late. Tired. Want to be home. Minding the road. Minding the oncoming traffic. Minding myself.

Forgot to mind corn field to the west. Flash. What? Crap! Stand on brake. Kerthunk. A brown body bounds into corn field to the east.

What the hell happened???

Oh yeah, a deer. Make that two. I was lucky. The one in front, a lovely doe, made it almost all the way across the road in 2 seconds before the right front quarter panel of my car made impact with her leaping self. She sort of leapt up over the hood and I think a leg crashed down on my ride. I got out and hopped around to work off the sheer shock of it all, then went around to look. Except it was dark, so I felt. Wow no damage in the front, no headlamps busted ... oopsy ... yeah, she definitely left a mark. 

It happened so fast. Remarkably I also caught a glimpse and heard a slight scraping of another deer that jumped over the back end of my car. They must have been having a deer track meet, and I was the hurdle. The girl in front should be disqualified for touching the bar. 

It's amazing given where I live, but I have never hit a deer until last night and have always taken great pride in being very, very paranoid. I have had plenty of near-misses. I'm that annoying chick who honks every half mile on long stretches of road. After all, a local naturalist told me they are very poor sighted, but have keen hearing. I do the honk, then do the visual scan from left to right. Actually I do this most of the time. I'm certain I am perceived to be an idiot by oncoming drivers.

People always say "I didn't even see him/her/it until it was too late" and I would nod sympathetically, but be thinking, "Yeah right, you obviously don't use the honk 'n scan technique. Pfffft."

I didn't see them until it was too late. 

But I am lucky. I am ok, the damage is merely cosmetic, and my car operates just fine. BUT IT LOOKS ICKY NOW. Sniff. And I have a $500 deductible. Sigh. What to do.

I am irritated for certain. And now afraid that I am marked. Scared to death to drive for fear of hitting another. And it makes me question the logic of having to have a special tag to shoot the danged things. They cause so much damage. Not saying they aren't beautiful creatures, but so was my car. In a perfect world, the deer would need a license and at least liability coverage to be on the road. 

This cracks me up as I imagine it. Deer patiently trying to cross the road as we whizzzzzz by. Teaching their deer babies what a dangerous lot we all are. Forming lobbying groups to convince the deer legislators to allow for unencumbered OPEN SEASON. Tsking about how we just run in front of them and stop and give them that "human in sunlight" look.  Oy.

Be safe out there!

Content copyright © Shugacans/Leandra Sullivan. All rights reserved

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