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.