When I was 13, I got a job working in the kitchen of a nearby summer camp.
Blue Lake Fine Arts Camp.
The camp hosted a series of outdoor summer concerts.
As a reward for my hard work that summer, I was given tickets to a concert. A small envelope which contained tickets for my entire family . . . a generous and extraordinary gift. When I opened the envelope and examined the contents, my breath caught in my throat.
Count Basie and his Orchestra . . . 8:00 pm on August 18, 1979.
To say that my father loved Count Basie does not begin to tell the tale.
So many memories of my father dragging me out of bed in the middle of the night to listen to music. Do I feel that? Do I hear that? Do I taste that? Do I appreciate the genius that is this man?
The room is filled with the scent of alcohol exhaled.
He pulls me close and beats out a rhythm against my leg. Do I feel that?
He pulls me closer and hums into my ear. Do I hear that?
He waves an imaginary baton in the air with his eyes blissfully closed and then opens his eyes wide, presses his finger to my lips . . . presses his finger to my tongue. Do I taste that?
He takes my face in his hands as I try to look like someone worthy of this attention. Worthy of this music. He searches my eyes. Do I appreciate the genius that is this man?
He leaps into the air, turns the volume up, and he dances about the room.
Do I feel? Do I hear? Do I taste? Do I see?
Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.
He pulls me into his arms. Pulls me close. Dances.
I pretend to be too sleepy and clumsy to match his rhythms.
We stand apart and there is a moment when the room shimmers with the possibility of some undulating magic darker than that within the music.
An illusion.
My father smiles and leans forward into me, “You either get it or you don’t, girl. If this music doesn’t reach out and grab you. Grab you right . . . here,” and he moves suddenly to grab between my legs, “then I don’t know why I am wasting my time.”
We stand like that for a moment.
His eyes a challenge.
Mine empty.
I back slowly away, watching his red-rimmed eyes as they watch me make a space.
Between us.
I sit and pull my legs up into my chest. I wrap my arms around my legs and lay my face down on my knees, “You’re not wasting your time. He is a genius, Dad. Let me just sit and enjoy. I like to be still when I listen. There’s so much to take in. I like to be still.”
I sit.
My father drinks and dances and teaches me.
Genius.
I appreciate his genius.
And now . . .
I hold tickets to a concert in my hand.
Count Basie.
The thought of the joy these tickets will bring my father makes me giddy.
I am thirteen years old and I should be past the part of my life where my father’s joy holds any joy for me.
But I am not.
I work my morning shift at the kitchen. I stack small cereal boxes on huge metal racks. I crack dozens and dozens of eggs into a giant white plastic tub . . . double-handed and speedily, a skill of which I am very proud. I serve food. I wash tables. I clear dishes and load racks to be run through the enormous steamy silver dishwasher. I stand on a wooden step-stool so that I am tall enough to reach into the huge metal sinks to scrub pots and pans.
When it is time to go home, I smell of scrambled eggs and syrup and bleach. My pants are soaked and filthy from washing pots and pans. I am sweaty and disgusting.
I am ecstatic.
I pull my time-card and punch out for the day.
I collect my things and head out to my bicycle.
I carefully wrap the envelope of tickets in my sweater and place my sweater in my bicycle’s basket.
The first stretch of the bike ride home is hot and dusty as I make my way over the dirt roads that lead out of the woods where the camp is situated. I turn onto the paved road and I pedal faster . . . the dark surface of the road shimmering and undulating before me under the midday August sun.
An illusion.
I race to bring my father joy.
I pedal as fast as I can and race to meet the dark shimmering illusion that lies ahead.
I cannot wait.
I cannot even begin to take in all that you have told, shown us here. As soon as the word “father” crossed the page, I knew … something was coming. Just magic and heartbreaking. 13. Nothing is ever what it was at 13.
Also? Because I was in a hurry to finish, on the off chance I might be first (Yes!) so I wasn’t really done… let me add:
Of all the incredibly crafted lines in this amazing post, those last three… shimmering lines… hanging there, mingling in my mind with the dark knowledge of what lies ahead in your life… just slay me.
It didn’t seem so at the time, but looking back?
This was a transitional summer for me.
Changes.
Some things ended and others began.
In the months that followed, my parents separated.
Another chapter.
Thank you so much for being the first commenter today, Varda.
Your thoughtful caring words always soothe me.
Thank you.
Wow. Powerful and disturbing. My heart is heavy for you. Joy offerings for the dark illusion, to bring him light.
~Rene
Rene -
He is past light.
But thank you.
Tears prickle my eyes…and there you did it again.
And, yet again, I have no words.
And again?
Silence is just fine.
Sorry… just, wow.
Sarie -
I know you mean that you are sorry I went through that. I know your apologies are not for something you did. But even so? I despise apologies.
It was what it was.
It made me what I am today.
And there is no point in wishing otherwise or accepting apologies for fault that does not lie with you.
But yes . . . I know what you mean.
Thank you.
Oh my lovely kris,
My apology was for my lack of words. I knew you hated hugs…
My apology was that I snuck in the read on between
Oh, babe.
My apologies, then.
Although I did then get the opportunity to warn people off of apologizing to me.
But my apologies to you for misunderstanding.
Thank you for coming back.
LOL-Me and my coming back.
I had something great to say, but I smothered it.
So let me say this,
Reading this makes me wish I could be 13 year old me so we could totally go for a bike ride together and talk about 13 year old things, both feeling older than 13 because that’s the way life goes sometimes.
By the way…13 year old me was furiously protective, eternally helpful and constantly oversharing too…
I know you know what I mean this time.
So much love to you, sweet friend.
You smothered it?
Oh, you make me laugh.
Thank you for that.
And for everything.
These posts about your father always leave me feeling.. off. Like I’ve just witnessed a tragic accident.
My dad is not perfect. He’s not even a very nice person. But I have good childhood memories. Far more then bad. And I always try to remind myself that even though he was a barely there dad, it could have been much much worse.
I’m not sure if your father was still alive if he would be alive for much longer. I think us readers would form a mob. And then you’d feel all guilty for writing and invoking our wrath. And it would just be messy.
So it’s good he’s in the garage right now.
Amy -
I have good memories of my father, but they are difficult to grasp and hold.
The filter through which I view those memories imbues them with meaning that may not have been there at the time. It seemed at the time that there were simple happy moments. Looking back? I can’t seem to find them.
Sigh.
And yes . . . I am pleased with his spot on the shelf.
No giggling and snorting this time. Only my breath caught in my throat and tears threatening to spill. Thank you for sharing this part of you.
Jamie -
So pleased that you came to read and that you let me know you had been by.
Thank you.
You speak the unspeakable horrors of what parents can do to children. And of children who try to please them. And those parents stay parents, no matter what. Don’t you wish you could divorce your parents?
Jan -
I did divorce my dad. To the extent I was able, I really did.
I had very little to do with him after he moved out of our house, although he was still a presence.
The last time I saw him, I believe I was 15.
The last time I spoke with him on the phone, I was 18.
He died many years later.
And all I felt was relief.
This is so painful, yet so beautiful. That’s your hallmark, Kris…the ability to write about things that no child should know about in a way that reads like poetry.
This line crushes me, “I am thirteen years old and I should be past the part of my life where my father’s joy holds any joy for me.”
To know that he held that in his hands…that you were so vulnerable to him takes me back in time.
When you write of him, I feel myself tense.
I know all too well that desire to please…to bathe in that mirage.
Much love to you, my beautiful friend. So much love.
I agree with Nicole 100%, and she summed it up just right, “This is so painful, yet so beautiful. That’s your hallmark, Kris…the ability to write about things that no child should know about in a way that reads like poetry.”
Whitney -
Thank you so much.
Nichole has lovey words.
Thank you.
Me
Nichole?
I don’t even know what to say to that.
Thank you.
I tried so hard to not be vulnerable to him, but time and time again?
I thought it would be different.
And it never ever was.
Sigh.
Much love to you.
Thank you.
Kris
Christ…
Your writing aside (you know you are fabulous), this is… I don’t know if my heart or my stomach dropped faster. I don’t understand. I truly do not. Why this happens is completely beyond me. I am truly sorry that these things happen in the first place. Even sorrier that they simply cannot be fixed.
I’d hug you if I could.
You are lovely to have come by today, Brandon. Thank you.
No hugs.
No sorries.
But thank you.
You are an amazing writer.
I wish there was better assistance for people who suffer with mental illnesses. As your stories so heartbreakingly demonstrate, mental illnesses affect more than the ill.
My brother is bi-polar. We live in Canada, so I’m not really sure about the Mental Health System in the States, but I can attest to the fact that there are HUGE gaps in the Canadian system.
Teri -
My father would never in a million years have taken advantage of assistance even if assistance had been offered and made available.
And my mother had no power over my father at all.
So . . . yeah.
Gaps.
Another heart wrenching post where you have taken pain and turned into poetry. Your expressive and elusive words fall upon my heart only to have it cracked open to my own childhood memories.
Reena -
Much love to you, then.
So much love.
Me
It was not until I was in my 20′s that I learned that the reason my best childhood friend, J, had so many overnights at our house was that J’s dad engaged in similar drunken late night music appreciation lessons with her. J’s mom would call mine, and I would awaken to find J sleeping next to me. To this day, J can not bear Stan Getz.
I wish you could have had overnights too.
e -
I was not allowed to have sleepovers.
I don’t know that the subject ever even came up. No friends came to my house and I went to no friend’s house. That’s just the way it was.
The very first sleepover I ever had with friends?
I was 16 years old.
Two girls from my new high school invited me over for a sleepover.
I was nervous and scared, but I went.
And when I went home the next day?
I wept into my pillow for all that my childhood had not been.
Sigh.
Mourning a childhood that you were still in ? Sad. Also strengthening and clarifying…?
I was not a child at 16.
At all.
Others were in charge of me, but I was not a child.
I playacted with girls from my new high school, but I missed that part and there was no going back.
So I went forward.
Not always strong and clear.
But I went forward.
Wow. It is amazing how kids want to make their parents happy even if that parent is totally crazy.
You have such great recall of events in your childhood and are so great at retelling them.
:)
Lizzie -
I don’t remember every detail.
But I remember enough to tell my story.
That’s all I need.
Thank you.
“I race to bring my father joy”
Yes. Of course you did. Even at 13. It was not your choice to do otherwise.
The illusion was still in place.
Renee -
Sigh.
Yes, exactly.
And? and?…that’s all I kept thinking at the end. I didn’t want it to end there. But you know what? It is better that I don’t hear how your “father” did not react how your 13 year old self hoped he would.
I am sorry but he makes me so angry. I know he’s gone so I won’t call him a supreme douchelord. Oops.
Becca -
Want to know something strange? I was at the library yesterday and there was a woman unwrapping a crinkly bit of food to eat. The noise drew my attention and reminded me of something.
I started to tell that story (which includes attending the concert I mentioned in this post), but I realized as I started typing that the story I wanted to tell came before.
So I have some of the next part of this story written.
But decided that the next part was not as important as what came before.