I’ll never forget it. The day is etched into my brain like fire on wood. The exact day is something I keep to myself but it was a few days after Christmas. This is going to be a hard one to write.
It was a Christmas like any other. I was a kid-around 10 years old. This was when we still lived in the trailer in White City. What a terrible name for a town. White City. Anyway.
As a kid, I was a little weird. I’m still a little weird but that is besides the point. I loved to read the newspaper. Like, I LOVED it. It was my favorite thing to do when I got home from school. Back then, the paper was delivered at around 3 or 4pm. Is it any big surprise that I now work in the business?
For some reason, my parents wouldn’t let me read the newspaper for a few days. There was always some sort of excuse. The memories are a little fuzzy but something like “Oh, daddy threw it away” or “It didn’t come today” were common ones. No biggie. Life moves on and there were Barbies to play with.
Christmas comes and goes. Santa brings me all the presents my little kid heart could have ever wanted. I don’t even remember what they were anymore because soon they would be the last thing on my mind. My heart is now starting to hurt as these memories come back.
A few days after Christmas ends, my parents come into the room I shared with my little brother and sat me down on the bed to chat. My first thought? What did I do now? (Side note: Maybe this is where it all comes from, P?)
It’s important to remember here that I was raised by two loving parents; my biological father and my stepmother. Due to a million reasons, my birth mother was not equipped to raise me. In my 30’s, she has now graduated to not being equipped to be a part of my life at all but that’s a story for another day. My main connection to my birth mother was her mother, my maternal grandmother, Grandma Betsy.
Betsy was a firecracker. She was my everything as a kid. An accomplished musician, she fueled my love of singing and playing the piano. She taught me to play the piano before I could even read. A weekend at Grandma Betsy’s house meant practical jokes (like replacing the mini cereal boxes with band-aid boxes), eating crocheted pancakes (our name for waffles), having fashion shows, apple picking in the orchard out back, feeding the raccoons that came to visit on the back porch and “putting our face on” with fun makeup and nail polish. They were the best weekends of my life and I looked forward to them constantly. I was the only granddaughter she had at the time and she doted on me so. I still feel her love, even now. Especially now.
Well, back to that day. Mom and Dad sit me down and tell me we need to talk. I barely remember the words they said. Everything quickly became a blur. Nothing made sense. Grandma Betsy was gone? An accident? What? No. They just didn’t want me to see her anymore. They were jealous. That was it. My little kid brain couldn’t understand this all. I was a smart kid. More mature than most my age. But this was too much.
Not long before this, my grandmother had married a man who shall not be dignified with a name in this story. We all loved him. He made her happy. I was there at their wedding. There was baby’s breath pinned in my hair. I think I wore a blue dress. We went to that fancy restaurant in town after the ceremony for dinner. It was the only time I would ever go there again. I never thought anything would go wrong.
As I grew older, I learned a little more of what really happened. As with most tragedies, it involves alcohol. Alcoholism runs in my family. It’s no secret now. My grandmother enjoyed to drink (as does my mother). The new husband also liked to drink. One night, they had a bit too much. They had a fight. He had a gun. Neither of them survived.
You can put the pieces together. Boy hurts girl. Boy realizes what he’s done. Boy hurts himself. End of story.
I hate him. I will never forgive him. I hate guns. And I knew that there was no God in that moment. I’m sure all of the god-loving folks are thinking of a million comments to make right now about how I’m wrong and God works in mysterious ways and other imaginary friend nonsense to make me feel better. The gun-toting folks will continue to say that guns are meant for protection and this isn’t a common occurrence and other hogwash.
This is not for you to comment on. I don’t want your two cents. I didn’t ask for it and I certainly will not listen to it. My beliefs were carved into stone that day. Throughout the years, ridiculous amounts of research has backed them up. I believe in science. I believe in things with knowledge and facts behind them. I don’t share your beliefs in a man in the sky with special powers and I’m not sorry.
I’m polite when people say “God bless you”. I’m polite when people say they will pray for me for whatever reason. I’m polite whenever someone has deep faith in God and brings it up. I don’t try and reason with them or tell them they are wrong. Unlike what they do to me when they find out I don’t share their belief. My loved ones that have that faith, will never see me try to change them. They have their beliefs, and I have science.
People have told me that I didn’t really know Betsy. She wasn’t such a great person. She had her problems. Blah Blah Noise Noise. I was just a kid. Really? She was my grandmother. She was my hero. Why would you try and take that away from me? Just let me have it. Let me remember her how I remember her. Let me enjoy reliving the moments we spent together.
I miss Grandma Betsy every day. I miss her infectious laugh. Her never ending smile. The sound of her playing piano throughout the house. I continue to play music for her. I don’t apologize for who I am, for her. She gave me high hopes and big dreams.
Every Christmas is hard, but every year gets a little bit easier. The details get fuzzy but the story doesn’t change.
Give your loved ones a kiss and a squeeze tonight. Make sure they always know how much you love them.
xo
Mixtape Musings 