Sheila Pell 12:30 p.m., Feb. 23
- Community Blog
HOW ODD ONE REMEMBERS ONE'S PARENTS...
I gave them Hell! Difficult! I was impossible! A missing photograph of them as younger, my father spied her, he said, in Pleasonton, Texas...a place, I sometimes dream of, there was a long bridge, when we visited a favorite aunt and uncle of my fathers clan, whose kalouches could make you weep. Aunt Agnes had a special quality of welcomeness, which served her well versus that cudmugeon husband of hers. They lived near the end of the bridge in a grove of salt cedar trees, down a sandy path.
My last name is not latin, its Czech. (not thats theres anything wrong with latins, Mr. Seinfield). My middle name is my mothers family name of English, Scottish and should I admit?,Irish.
Oh yes, the photograph showed fhem facing the camera, standing together, with lit cigarettes in their individual hands. Behind them was a white picket fence and on the other side of it, a new model T automobile. Frankly, they were beautiful.
When they married, they were outlawed by both sides of the two families, one side Catholic and the other protestant Church of Christ, which finally after 3 boys born was resolved..Life was difficult, they loved each other with a passion for reasons beyound me. They married in 1935. I came along in 1938. the other 2 , 2 years apart. Life was hard then, depression a national hardship.They told of standing in a crowd listening to an outdoor radio broadcast by president FDR. (no wonder the Republicans still despise him).
In 2004, when I lived in Gila Bend, Arizona, I now just realized, it reminded me of Pleasanton, in its stark reality, And later when the recent recession was birthing, I wrote inspired by Obama's inaugeration* having escaped McCainland to Obamaland, I in Indio, Ca., homeless under a thorny retama tree wept (with Jesse Jackson apparently) at Obama's winning the election.
This idea that along the ponds at the Lincoln Memorial would be giant media screens, of American families of mixed heritages of race and otherwise, with the message: WE ARE AMERICANS, WE CAN ACCOMPLISH ANYTHING!
i'm not sure I feel that anymore. In Gila Bend, Az., their Lions club supplied me with a free pair of glasses, here in Vista, Ca., they didnt seem interested. I'm still poor as no doubt others are. The photograph is missing because my mother was ailing with Alzheimers, no doubt hiding it, she passed first, and my father two years later, because he repeatedly said, he "wanted to be where she was."
*Recently, the female prime minister of Australia said before Congress, the above line. And in 2008, CNN stole an internet idea I had posted on my then geocities website, which I viewed on a tv at the motel Vernon in Escondido, Ca., still homeless.
Must my pride as humility be so unrecognized? However, I carry my pain, as path, as the early Australians did as a penal colony. Ah well, whatever. jb. The other part of the media presentation, I had thought should have photographs of out national treasures, our places of sacred natural beauty. I write as most people breathe, And frankly, nature a better companion, and love for anyother not even a consideration. I feel like a dishonored rebel flag.
Why did I laugh when I penned that?
Oh jes, when my father spied my mother, he went and stole a watermelon from a rr car to present to her as introduction.
Ghosts from the past, in Gila Bend, i awoke one night and looked to a small window in which looked into my side little garden, and in technicolor, in 3D was the smiling face of Mozart which turned into George Washington, both smiling, apparently in Heaven, the latter scored some new teeth. One time, I told a native American indian woman, that I expected to wake up one day and find flaming arrows in my front door, She replied, "We dont do that anymore."
Perhaps War will as well be no more.
More like this:
- TO MAINE YANKEE SR, GRACIE PINOT, LIONS CLUB PRESIDENT — March 29, 2011
- READ BLOG BELOW THIS FIRST... — March 29, 2011
- THE TYRANNY OF METH — March 13, 2011
- 1st chapter — Sept. 29, 2010
- Where my father's trail ends — May 28, 1998