Saved by The Dead

Days disappeared like evaporating rain in the desert behind my little eyes. I was numb to life and did not care about anything other than school, church, and Vangie my one and only friend. Children can and do become numb to their environment when the need to survive is paramount. Survival takes on many cloaks of desperation and my cloak was a multilayer covering of fear and faith. Fear kept me on my toes and faith allowed me accept all the unknowns in my life. My days in Arizona were coming to an end, and in a way I never dreamed would happen. My days playing in the soft desert earth with doodle bugs and searching for woodpecker nest, and racing the wind on my powder blue bicycle, and stealing food, riding crazy horses, and sneaking into theaters, and inviting myself to dance classes and much, much more would soon be over.

(Image from Zillow. Florence AZ, the landscape of many imaginary escapades!)

I remember my last day in Florence as if it were tattooed onto my skin, forever a part of me, never to fade from my memory. I responded to the morning sun's relentless pokes with pent up frustration. I could not take one more sunny beam in my face because I was feeling as if I had begun to melt away into nothingness, and the sun was only making me melt away faster. I was reluctant to get out of bed. I could not find my wild stallion to prance into the bathroom, my big humongous wild horse had abandoned me. I could not find the energy to get dressed, nor energy to run from cockroaches. I sat, numb, on a bare mattress looking out across my doorless bedroom, watching bugs scamper here and there across the walls. I had not been feeling very well for some time, but on this day, I could not fight how my body felt, so I just sat on my bed with no interest in life. It would be almost 30 years before I put the puzzle pieces together and figured out I was ill with Hepatitis A. Not one adult knew I was ill and had been for some time. One of my brother's had Hep A after a camping trip into the mountains. He was taken to the hospital and treated, but no one noticed that I had contracted Hepatitis from my brother. I am proof that you can go unseen, even if you are ill with yellow eyeballs and peeing dark orange. I was not concerned about my urine, what 9/10 year old thinks about their pee? I was not concerned with my eyes because the truth is I never looked in the mirror close enough to see my own eyes. As bugs hurriedly ran between the door jam and the wall one of my brothers walked by my bed on his way to the bathroom. My brother chided me about not getting up and warned me there would be dire consequences to pay if I did not go to school. A warning I rarely received since I always wanted to be at school. Being at school was a far better experience than staying in the apartment all day. Cockroaches were not my most favorite playmates. I was not concerned about not going to school. I was not fearful of my father's wrath for he never did care if I was at school, or not, or home or not. I tried not to interact with my father too much toward the end of my time living with him in Arizona because being around him made me feel ill. His presence created an uneasy sensation in me for he had touched me in a way that made me feel creepy inside. My father touched me like the gas station attendant did, and like the older boy next door did and as he touched me that one time, he was looking at me with one eye open and one eye shut. My father's look reminded me of the cartoon character Popeye, one eye open one eye shut. He touched me looking like Popeye, one eye open one eye shut. I hate Popeye. On this day, a day I was feeling 2-dimensional, I was sure my father was not home and that made my choice to stay in bed a little easier.

(Maryanne Hughes Mesple as she looked while living in Arizona with her father) 

As I sat on my bed like a lifeless rag doll I heard a commotion outside the apartment. There were men talking, and the men were talking rather loudly. Their voices were so loud I became frightened and tried to hide under the bedsheets. I could hear my father's voice in the mix and the voice of a woman too. Suddenly, my older brother appeared in my bedroom and told me to get up and get dressed and to make it fast. His body language and pitch of voice let me know he was not kidding and I knew I needed to do what he asked and in a hurry - there was something terrible happening once again in our lives. I jumped out of bed and threw on my clothes I left on the floor the night before and put on my sneakers without socks. With uncombed hair and dirty clothes I meekly emerged from my sick bed, and slowly walked across the living room floor toward the front door where I could see the backs of both my brothers and their bodies were fidgeting in unison. I was confused because I believed both my brothers were at school or at least had been. How long had I been sitting in my bed? Hours must have passed without me even blinking or thinking? I was feeling weak, and faint but I knew I had to be present for what was about to happen.

I pushed against the screened door and as it gave way to my little body with a creak and a moan I stepped outside to stand between my brothers who were much older than I and much bigger. I must have looked like a wisp of a person between them. I watched as my father bellowed awful words  at two policemen. My dad's face was red and waxen looking, he had that one eye open and one eye shut look as spit flew from his lips! Every word he spat out of his mouth was filled with venom. Venom toward the police and venom toward a woman. Why was he using the word "she" I wondered and soon I saw why there was so much yelling and finger pointing and spit flying about and just who the "she" was that had angered my father so. There, standing next to a white car was my mother and standing next to my mom was a tall man with glasses. When I saw my mom I screamed, "Mommy!!!" so loud everyone fell silent and I bolted like a freed wild animal away from my brother's sides toward my mom's open arms! I jumped up landing in her embrace and burying my face into her neck I began to cry. I don't remember much else about what was being said or done but I do recall being put into the back seat of that wonderful clean, brand new white car and leaving Florence Arizona with my mother who had miraculously risen from the dead to save me, my two brothers, and some strange man. I must have fallen into a deep, healing sleep for I have only snippets of recall traveling from Arizona to Mississippi. I went from living in Arizona with my father, to living in Columbus Mississippi with my mother in one brief dream like moment. I truly was too ill to care about much, especially just who that strange tall man was who owned the beautiful white car. I had just celebrated my 10th birthday.

(Image found on Google, no credits given. 1963 Chevrolet Impala)

Mississippi. M I crooked letter, crooked letter I, crooked letter crooked letter I, hump back hump back I. Mississippi. A new chapter to my life with a whole new set of rules for adventure. 

I would encounter racism once again, toward my family and toward anyone who was not "white" even though segregation was beginning to end and all were to be treated equal. Where I lived that was not true. Here is a link that has a great story about Mississippi during the time I lived there.  Just click the highlighted sentence. 

Mississippi, It's like coming home, and for me it was. I was home, with my mother at last.

And what better music to capture a time in one's life than that of the Beatles as they emerged onto the music scene as musical, cultural shaping, giants.

(All stories blogged by me are my property and protected under copyright laws. No part may be used or reproduced in anyway without my permission ~ Maryanne Mesplé) 

Alabama Monsters

January of 1962 changed my life forever. My mom was called home to Arizona because her mom was very ill.  For reasons my mom has never been able to explain she did not take me with her and instead chose to leave me in Alabama with a woman named Mable. The first time I met Mable was the first day of staying with her. Mable. To this day I don’t like the name Mable.

Mable lived at the very end of a very long up hill dirt road. That dirt road was in Alabama somewhere close to Montgomery or Mobile, or maybe that ugly road was in Highland Home, I really don’t know. I do recall that before my mom left me with Mable, I was living in Montgomery for a small while.  My mom worked at a restaurant where I tasted my very first Lemon Meringue Pie. That pie made leaving the 331 worth it for a small while, well, at least until I licked the last smears of lemony meringue off my plate. My mom no longer owned and operated the 331 Roadhouse, which was my first home after my parents divorced. I loved living at the 331 because life was so rich and everyday was filled with something new and exciting. The best part of living behind a roadhouse in a cabin was the swimming pool and the backwoods. I loved playing in the woods with my friends but not so much with my sister. Nope, playing anything with a sister that is 9 ½ years older is only asking for trouble and pain.

I remember one day at the 331 I was really into pretending I was a horse. My imagination gave me a real horse snort and the ability to prance better than and rear taller than Black Beauty. I loved being a horse; it was almost better than riding a horse. One day, I don’t know what possessed me but I, being 4, was properly pesky with persistence and begged and begged Kathleen my sis to play horses with me. Kathleen did not want to play with a 4 year old. Kathleen wanted to play with the boys who flocked around her like she was made of chrome and beer. Finally, after pestering my sis sufficiently, I broke that last straw. My older sibling spun around so fast her tightly curled auburn hair swung across her face just like a horses tail! My sister gave me “that look” and then collected up a thin twine of a rope. Kathleen placed the twine in my mouth and tying it tightly around my head explained that if I wanted to play horses  – I needed to know what it was really like to be a horse. Kathleen then took my flip-flops away. Kathleen then peeled off a long green twig from a nearby bush and told me she was going to use it like a riding crop. I stood looking up at my big sister, bare foot with a rough piece of twine in my mouth and my big brown eyes were asking her what next? What next was her spinning me around, pushing me forward and then slapping that green stinging twig on my backside and yelling “giddy up horse!”

My loving 14-year-old sister made me run barefoot through dirt with rocks and stickers and grass and through briars thick with berries, all the while snapping the tip of the twig against me causing my skin to welt up. She ran me up the dirt road to the thick woods and then into the woods we went until I lost my imagination and began to cry. I learned when I was 4 what it is like to be a horse and I never asked my sister to play horses with me again.  But then, this was while I was still living my wonder filled life at the 331 and one of my last memories of 331 was learning what it really felt like to be a horse.

My memories of Mable’s were different in texture than my memories of other times in my life. Mable memories are coarse, sticky, cold, and scary. Mable’s house was a long way from the 331 Roadhouse and a long way from my sister who married the love of her young life at 15. Mable’s house felt cold like an icy wind that penetrates you to the bone. I had no choice but to be at Mable’s house and it took me several weeks before I fully realized that my mom had indeed left me behind with a stranger. I missed my mom. I missed my sister and all her frustration with me. I missed my friends at the 331 and I even missed my father and my two brothers. I had not seen my father or brothers since my parents divorce.

In the morning Mable would wake me up for school or for chores on weekends, with a razor blade attitude like I had done something wrong in my sleep. She would bark out orders and I would dutifully follow her instructions for I was afraid of her. I had to get up and make the bed I slept in then get dressed and within a certain amount of time I had to be in the kitchen for breakfast. If I missed getting to the table by 1 minute I missed breakfast. I missed breakfast a lot. As I would be walking toward the table a minute late Mable would be clearing the breakfast away scraping the food into a bucket as she verbally admonished my willful laziness. I would watch eggs and grits and toast fall into the bucket. The sound of the silver fork slamming against the plate pierced my ears making my small-framed body tight. I can still hear her ugly demeaning words to this day. I don’t believe Mable liked children and I do believe she was being paid to keep me. Fortunate for me, I was not that big of an eater so getting used to not having breakfast was easy but I did not dare show that I did not care.  I was taught by Mable and her hand to show disappointment and to demonstrate that I was sorry and vocally express that I was learning a valuable lesson. Life went from magical to nightmarish and my yearlong days became days of deep sadness when I had to be in Mable’s presence. With my magical child freedom gone I became a wounded child serving what felt like a life sentence with wicked witch Mable as the matronly jail attendant.

One day while playing outside where I have always preferred to be, a young boy close to my age, 6 or 7, walked up to me and asked if I wanted to play. I was in aw! Someone my age! I was not aware that any people lived anywhere remotely near Mable’s prison. Play?

You can guess what my response was.  “Oh yes!” was my reply which was a bit over the top with loudness that made Peanut smile. Peanut saved my world! Yes, my new friend’s name was Peanut. Peanut had blond hair with squinty blue eyes and Peanut was skinny like me.  Peanut and I became best friends in less than a minute.

Mable did not care about where I was or what I was doing so long as I was not in her house during the day. So, after school, as soon as I put my red plaid satchel away I was outside calling Peanut to come play.

Peanut and I had a secret call that meant “meet me at the water’s edge”. That secret call would get us in trouble almost daily and trouble sounded like the monster Mable screeching obscenities from her smoked filled living room. I did not care because I learned that Mable would not come out and hit me. I discovered that Mable preferred cigarettes and whiskey over tormenting me after school. Mable knew that after my call to Peanut I would be disappearing soon and that was what she wanted.  Once the screeching was done, off I would go and soon Peanut and I were building our own little world in the Alabama swamps. I was happy to have my magic back again.  Although I could not see Peanut’s house from Mable’s I knew he was close by. I could not see his house because his house sat behind a grove of thickly wooded Sycamore, Oaks, and Elms and other brush. I know the names of the trees because Peanut taught me. The trees kept Peanut and I apart for only a small while. I was so thankful he got up the nerve to come ask me to be his friend. I was also happy that his house was close enough, hidden behind those trees, so that we could communicate via our fire engine siren calls that truly were symbolic as a calls for help and we did help one another.

In the swampy soggy, green smelling woods, Peanut and I hunted for signs of squirrel and skunk and dug up grubby worms. We tested our tracking skills by naming what animal made the most recent tracks in the muddy banks along the moving water’s edge. I don’t know how but we had a boat that we often used to float out to the middle of the waterway where there was a sandbar. Once we had beached the boat on the sands we would get out and look for special sticks and rocks and moss that we could use for decorating our imaginatively constructed forts. We crafted forts from fallen, waterlogged branches. Big branches would fall from trees and float along with the current until coming up against the sandbar’s traps. Peanut and I would pile up the branches much like a beaver’s dam and crawling under or inside we would tell one another secrets. Secrets about our lives and I learned Peanut’s life was a lot like mine. We kept one another safe by staying away from that treacherous dirt road that led to pain and sadness. 

Peanut and I would get home from school and do our business like chores and homework and then scream like sirens so we could meet up in the woods. We did this almost everyday for what felt like months. Although it was winter in Alabama I did not care about cold winds or wet drizzles and Mable did not care if I blew away. Because Mable did not care, I was able to go play and pretend I lived in a different world. One day while Peanut and I were out floating along in the rotting wooden flat-bottomed boat, he told me a story about monster armadillos. He described armadillos as being pink and hairy with red beady eyes and claws that could rip your heart out! I was petrified! All I could see in my mind’s eye was the armadillo purse my mom bought while we lived in Panama. My mom’s purse was dark brown, not pink, but the eyes on the armadillo that was rolled into a purse were red! I knew Peanut was telling the truth. You can always dye pink armadillos brown.  We were floating along,in the boat heading toward a sandbar, when Peanut upped his story a notch. Peanut described how monster armadillos loved to gather on sandbars and wait for food floating by. In my mind Peanut and I suddenly became monster armadillo food. I began to cry and Peanut began to cry because he had convinced himself his story was true!  Just imagine, two crying 6-year-old kids bawling their eyes out, in a boat that was barely water worthy, gently floating along heading toward a sandbar must have been a sight to see! When the boat landed we refused to get out and sat on the boat's bench cuddled in each other's arms for protection, knowing a big pink armadillo would soon be coming out of our fort to eat us up! Then, as if someone had waved a magic wand, he and I began to giggle and the giggling turned into loud snot producing laughter and we knew that out laughter chased away all the pink smelly armadillos! Safe! We were safe! We laughed the whole time while beached on the sand bar making sure no monster armadillos would approach us. When the sun began to sink behind the trees we pushed off from the sandbar to head toward what we called our prisons. Night was always long and always lonely. And unknown to us, this was our last day together.

Report card day was my last day living with Mable. Report card day was the last day I saw my best friend who saved my life for a while and who saved me from pink armadillos with laughter. I arrived at Mable’s after walking up the dirt road eager to do my duties and screech for Peanut. I was not in the house 5 minutes when Mable approached me about my report card. Mable wanted to see my grades and unfortunate for me I could not find them. Mable went to the bathroom and wet a towel and then yanked me up by one of my arms. She literally picked me up off the floor and carried me outside almost pulling my shoulder out of its socket. When Mable put me down she began to pop me with the twisted wet towel as she screamed about how incompetent I was.  Mable demanded that I run back down the dirt road to where the bus dropped Peanut and I off and as I ran Mable ran behind me popping my back and legs with the wet towel.  I was not crying I was screaming with tears flying from my eyes like the rain of a winter storm. Mable did not care. Back at the bus stop, there in the dirt, was my report card that must have dropped from my grip when I got off the bus. I picked my school grades up from the dirty road and sobbing my heart out I apologized as I handed the card to the Monster Mable. Mable took the report card and ripped it up saying it did not matter since I did not care enough to hang onto it. Then, she began popping me with the wet torture towel as she drove me like an animal back to her house. The towel, as it snapped against my young skin that left bleeding welts on my skinny little girl’s body. Mable justified her actions, yelling it was my entire fault and made me clean up quickly. Mable informed me, as I sobbed and washed myself, that my father was coming to get me and she could not wait for him to arrive. That news was the best news I had heard in a long while.

My father was coming to get me. Life was about to change, again.  I whispered little prayers of gratitude knowing my father would save me and I asked God to forgive me. I asked for forgiveness because one of my prayers was for my father to punch Mable in the face.

My father arrived. He rescued me from Mable. He did not punch her.

Life did not get better.

to be continued ...


(All stories blogged by me are my property and protected under copyright laws. No part may be used or reproduced in anyway without my permission ~ Maryanne Mesplé)