Did I Just Lose My Marbles? Part II

Continued from Part I:

My teacher, Mrs. Meriwether was writing out our weekly spelling words on the chalk board.  As I copied the words in my notebook, I felt someone standing behind me.  I thought it was Mrs. Fredrickson, our teacher’s aide.  Mrs. Fredrickson was kind, patient and warm, with a soft voice that was always soothing, even when she was angry at us for being unruly.  She would often stand behind us, observing what we were doing in the event one of us needed help, she never made anyone feel stupid because they didn’t understand something.  Thinking it was her, I quickly whipped my entire body around in my seat.  There was no one there.   Mrs. Meriwether, who never missed a beat, noticed my abrupt movement and sternly said “Little Missy, we need to pay attention.”  I focused on the board again, and started writing the next word—m-a-r-g-a-r-i-n-e.  The feeling persisted. Someone was behind me and this time there was a slight pressure on my shoulder.  I was positive it was Mrs. Fredrickson. She always put her hand on your shoulder when she came up from behind.

 This time, I turned around slowly and casually, so Mrs. Meriwether wouldn’t notice.  Damn.  No Mrs. Fredrickson.  I did a quick visual scan of the room.  My friend Janice was trying to pay attention, but doodling.  My best friend Julie was diligently writing down her spelling words.  Jerry Toteman was tapping his pencil on his tablet, staring into space bored to tears.  And there was Mrs. Fredrickson grading papers at the back desk.  Completely freaked out, knowing that no one got up from their desk to touch me, I started to fight back the urge to run screaming out of the room.  Any method of trying to concentrate went out the window, so I closed my eyes as tightly as I could, wishing it would all go away and when I opened my eyes whatever was happening would be over.  Somehow, closing my eyes only made matters worse. I got a haunting image of Grandpa Short.  There, in his bedroom was his lifeless pale body lying on his bed, I was observing this as if I was in the room.  Trying not to escalate to sheer hysteria, rationalizing wasn't working. Why was I suddenly was thinking of my deceased grandpa lying dead in his bed in the middle of spelling?  The answer came to me; Well, this makes sense, my parents are at his funeral today. I am just thinking about that.  Then I went completely over the brink. It was that moment, it dawned on me I have never even seen a dead body!  I don’t even know what someone looks like dead.  So why would I be seeing him like that?  Then, without warning I started feeling like I did when he was around.  It was a familiar sensation, because he always made me feel content, happy and loved.

I sat there with the reality of sixth grade spelling words fading in and out. This strange invisible warm feeling took over me.  Trying to tune in with what was happening and struggling to digest what was going on while creating an illusion to Mrs. Meriwether that I was paying attention became increasingly difficult. The room started to spin and I began dripping with sweat.  I was in a state of sheer panic that I was suddenly going to pass out, or even worse, pass out.  I started mentally singing a compellation of old standards my mother had taught me to distract myself from what was going on.  It was like being a ten year old stuck in a senior center.

I quickly made the connection between how I felt and who this was.  Yes, this was Grandpa Short.  I was sure.  Oh no.  Not now.  What is happening? I am going to get in trouble.  How am I going to explain this one?   Had he stopped by to say “Hey, I am still here”? Was he still chained to my grandmothers demanding organizational schedule? Was he there to remind me my desk looked like a worksheet tsunami?  My eyes filled with tears as I tried to maintain my composure. Quickly and abruptly, spelling ended. 

Mrs. Meriwether put her chalk down and said “Class, just copy the rest of these words”, grabbed a tissue off her desk came towards me, and said kindly “Lets go out in the hall”.  I plopped down on the bench as she sat beside me

 “My dear, what is going on?”

 All I could muster up was “My grandpa died”.  That would garner the sympathy I needed without even trying to explain what was going on.  What else could I have said? 

“Gee Mrs. Meriwether, my grandpa died and he is right here.  Well, he isn’t.  Well, yea, I think he is. You see, when I was little, I could do this.  I thought it went away. This whole concept is blowing me away right now.  And you’re worried if I can spell “margarine”?  I’ve got bigger things to deal with lady.” 

She gave me the tissue, excused me to go to the restroom and take a moment for myself.  As quickly as it had happened, it disappeared and left me in a state of utter confusion and fear.  I was a wreck the rest of the day.

Later that evening, I sat on my bed debating if I should tell my parents. This was a tough call, on one hand I needed to talk about it.  On the other hand, I wasn’t quite sure how to approach it.  I decided to test the water and see what would happen.  I marched down the stairs and sat at the dining room table where my parents were having a discussion.

“Mom, did Grandpa Short die at home in his bed?”

“Yes dear.  You need to take your bath. Wait.  How do you know that?”

It didn’t feel safe all of the sudden and I lost my confidence. 

“I just wondered. He was really old. Maybe he just didn’t want to go to the hospital.”

I quickly excused myself and heard my mother whispering in an ultra sonic shrill to my father; “How did she know that?  We never said anything. She’s doing it again.”

I went to my room and sat on the floor, scared.  I wondered why I had to be such a freak. 

Did I Just Lose My Marbles? Part I

My maternal great-grandfather was a delightful man.  He was in his late seventies when I came along, and even in his older years he managed to maintain his sharp wit and larger than life personality.  As his first great-grandchild, I had a unique bond with him and adored him. The connection was inexplicably wonderful.  As young kid, he would tease me with the “got your nose” illusion, in which I would respond with a forced laugh thinking does he really think I fall for this shit?  As I got older and became capable of engaging in actual conversations, we would often sit on the front porch swing eating popsicles as he told me war stories along with tall tales of my ancestors.  I was far too young to appreciate them at the time, but how I wish I could hear them again as an adult.  His name was Elza, which I later found out, because he was always “Grandpa Short” to me.  He was given this nickname earlier in life by his friends, as he was barely 5’4’’.   His wife, my great grandma Essie, had a few well organized bats in her dust free belfry. Grandma Essie was the embodiment of obsessive compulsive disorder. I wonder now, knowing she was born in the late 1800’s if she substituted the ritual of obsessively flipping light switches with lighting and blowing out candles three times in a row to avoid impending death.   

The announcement from my mother that we were going to visit them would immediately trigger me to have suicidal ideations.  During the two hour drive, I would sit slumped in the back seat whining and fussing that I didn’t want to go, praying for a fatal accident, just to get me out of having to spend the day with her.

Their house was pristine with nothing out of order.  The yard was neatly manicured and was there to look at, not to walk on.  The kitchen was painted a light turquoise color, which always reminded me of a surgical room.  It was probably safer to have surgery in her kitchen than in a hospital, it was that sterile. If all that wasn’t enough, Grandma Essie had neurotically placed plastic slip covers on all the furniture.  This combined with the Kansas humidity and her lingering phobia from the depression that turning on the air conditioner was an “unnecessary cost” made for a dreadful, sticky, painful day.  At the end of the visit, someone had always left a deep tissue DNA sample behind on the plastic.  I was smart.  I sat on the floor.  By the time we pulled in their drive way, I had this osculation of emotions; anxious to see great grandpa and hoping that at best, someone had robbed them, tied her up in the basement with duct tape on her mouth so she couldn’t run her cake hole all day about how I had messed up her house.  Maybe they just wouldn’t notice she was gone.

Their house had a nauseating old people, freshly brewed coffee, Ben-Gay, glycerin suppository coleslaw stench.  All they had to drink was water.  Water?  Who the hell  drinks water?  What a delightful treat.  And even worse, all they had for me to play with was a large one gallon mayonnaise jar full of 101 glass marbles in it.  I could play with them, but only in the dining room, where Grandma Essie could “keep an eye on me”.  I always wondered what kind of damage she thought I could possibly do with a bunch of glass marbles, except out of sheer boredom shove them up my ass for entertainment.

 One horrific day, while thumping marbles around on the floor in a haze of momentary delirium, I wasn’t paying attention. A blue marble went down into the heat vent. I sat there in sheer terror that she would find out.  I could see her becoming rabid, spinning around like a neurotic dervish flipping her wig if she knew.  As the conversation began to wind down with my parents, I could gleefully see that an end to this torture was in sight. I was ordered (as usual) to count the marbles before putting them back in the jar. That was only after I had cleaned each marble with the wet naps that she stole from Kentucky Fried Chicken. This ritual was followed by setting the marbles on a towel to air dry, before placing them back in the jar.  Even the wet naps had a special drawer in the kitchen where they were neatly rubber banded into groups of five and placed in perfect rows.  I wasn’t allowed to open the drawer, because God forbid, if I used too much force pulling open the drawer the potential existed for some sort of disorder, which would surely activate the apocalypse. 

That day, when she shook her knobby little finger at me and said “There are 101 marbles back in the jar, right?” I did what any other ten year old would do. I lied.  I  nodded “yes”.  As much as I loved my Grandpa Short, I couldn’t get out of there fast enough and I sure as hell wasn’t going to shimmy myself down the vent shaft to find one stupid marble much less be a suspect in the federal investigation that was bound to occur.

The following week, my Grandpa Short passed away.  My parents didn’t say much more than that, all they ever really said was that he was just old and it was his “time”. My mother cried a lot and I felt bad for her.  I was upset because on the last visit I had not spoken much to him or had the opportunity to have some alone time on the porch.  It truly was my first experience with remorse over not appreciating time spent with a loved one and how precious that time is..........

Part II tomorrow.....it's a LONG story...like everyone has time to read the whole story in one sitting.