My mother was the star of the show. Whatever she said was done in fear of our lives. She used to beat us if we didn’t do what she said. We made it through somehow. It must have been the comedy that never seemed to end in the mess of our lives.
I can tell you many stories about my mother, Cyndi. Her mental health, drug use, and her anger, but most importantly I can tell you some good stories about my mother.
She had a right hook like a jackhammer. Could snap and a moment’s notice. With all her problems and craziness, I could not help but love her. She was 5’5 about 280lbs, blonde hair to her shoulders. My mother was like no other. She was sweet and kind and yet mean as can be. Most people hated her and I did, too, as I fought hard for her love and affection.
It was a rather warm morning on the Oregon coast. I was out of the trailer because my son was at school. My mom decided she was going to get some laundry done. I imagine her counting out her quarters for the washer or dryer as I’d seen her do many times. Then, setting the money for the drying on the counter. She’d grab the soap and the basket of clothes as a chicken wing dangled from her lips. Her hair would have piled on top of her head in a sloppy topknot, and at that time of day, makeup would have been optional. Everything would be normal, although normality in my family was fleeting at best.
The dance would begin when she opened the door and struggled to keep the basket of laundry intact and the dogs from fleeing. Some days she won. Others, the dogs made their short-lived break for freedom.
Finally, she made it out the door, thinking she was safe,
With her first step on the porch, she heard a creak, but the porch was old and knowing her, she probably didn’t give the warning noise a second thought. I can see it as clearly as if I was standing on the sidewalk. Mom went to take another step and the boards gave way. She fell through the floor, three feet down. Quarters and clothes flew everywhere.
Later, when I heard the full story, she admitted screaming both in pain and embarrassment. The trailer park drunk happened to be walking around, enjoying a smoke, when he saw her go down. According to him, he didn’t laugh, but I never believed it. A man with that much alcohol in his blood at that hour of the morning wouldn’t have been able to help himself. It was agreed by both parties — the injured and the amused — that the man did run over (his words — my mom’s were stumbled over) and tried to help.
Keep in mind he is 5’7 and maybe 120lbs. He tried really hard to help her, but it was not going to happen. He was way too drunk and had no strength to pull her out. Others arrived, time passed, but she got out.
First thing she did was call me. “Brittany, where the hell are you?”
“I’m out with this dude I met on POF, am driving around Newport. What’s going on?” I said in answer to what I assumed was her usual morning check in, although her voice alone told me something more was happening.
“I fell through the porch!” She wailed so loudly through the phone that my companion turned his head and raised an eyebrow.
I had no time to explain as I said, “No fucking way!” I was laughing uncontrollably.
“Yes, bitch. Stop giggling at me,” she said with a sense of humor.
“Well, if that ain’t a fat joke in the making, I don’t know what is.”
“Fuck off, when are you coming home?” You could hear the smile in her voice.
“I’m on my way now.” Hanging up, I look over at the dude I was out with and told him I need to go back home. On the way to back to the trailer I told him what happened. We snickered together. | BV