Friday, May 20, 2011

In the Garden

"And he walks with me,
and he talks with me,
and he tells me I am his own;
and the joy we share,
as we tarry there,
none other has ever known."

Josh Long is a big, friendly bear of a man with the beard of a lumberjack and big, rough hands. He laughs like an echo from the top of a mountain, booming down into a canyon and bouncing around. Everything about him is larger than life -- except, of course, for his ukelele. Yes. This big, burly man plays the ukelele. He carries it with him everywhere, loves to sit around and strum it and sing, "Dream a Little Dream," or a number of little half-melodies that remind me of a hula girl bobbing her head on the dashboard of a car. Wherever Josh is his ukelele is also, and wherever his ukelele is, it sounds like a tropical vacation.

Every once in awhile, Josh will play a hymn on his ukelele on Sunday mornings. He sits up on stage looking like a grown man stuffed into a chair made for a toddler, holding that tiny instrument and somehow making his big fingers pluck the little strings. It's a real treat to hear.

Last time he graced us with a tune, it was "In the Garden" -- and that morning I was reminded that reclamation is slow.

My parents started going to church when I was 15. I wish I could say his changed my life for the better, but it didn't. I'd been before: South Liberty, the church where my grandparents went, where I'd spent so many Sunday mornings when I was a little girl dropping shiny quarters into the offering plate and resting my head in my grandmother's lap. Church was an escape for me; it was a few hours every Sunday without dodging slaps or listening to my mother scream at my father for coming home drunk and passing out in the living room again. When my parents decided to go too, it was an intrusion, a desecration: a safe place no longer safe. A scary thing, and I shook with nerves that first morning.

My father stopped drinking: that was the one good thing to come of church. And even it came with a price tag -- the less Dale drank, the meaner he was. He quit cold turkey: no AA, no counseling, no one to help him detox. He'd rub his arms and shiver like he was crawling all over with bugs. He sweated through delirium tremens  like a mountain with an active volcano ready to blow. And after them, he was a different man: colder, harder, like a piece of flint. He yelled all the time, became a lot less tolerant of every little thing, and became much more fond of corporal punishment. He wasn't my Daddy anymore.

Religion didn't help. The little backwoods church became the center of his life, and everything that came out of the preacher's mouth was absolutely right. He learned to read a lot better so he could study the Bible for himself, but every conclusion he came to was inevitably the conclusion Brother Apple had already reached. He became narrow-minded and judgmental.  I chafed against him -- but I did like to hear him sing.

Now, don't be mistaken: unlike my mother, who crooned like Patsy Cline, my father couldn't carry a tune in a bucket. He couldn't even push it around in a wheelbarrow. He always had to ask me to help him -- we'd practice over and over again, and every time he got up to be the song leader, he *still* had to look at me the whole time. I wasn't allowed to lead any songs myself -- at South Liberty, women were suffocated, stuffed in a sack, and left back in the 16h century. We couldn't lead hymns or speak without permission, and teaching by women was only allowed as long as they taught children ages 13 and under. I once got in trouble for helping Dale by singing a little too loudly. Seriously. But watching him sing -- although not pretty by any means -- gave me the only glimpse of sincerity I ever really saw in my father. He was like a little boy following the movements of my mouth, the occasional flutter of my hand to say, "Up. Half a note up." He tried so hard to get it right; his effort was so earnest and sincere that sometimes he'd sweat.

His favorite song was "In the Garden." (It did take me that long to tie this together, didn't it? Sheesh.) After awhile he actually got pretty good at it, by which I mean he consistently sang the same series of notes, regardless of whether or not they were the right ones.

"I come to the garden alone, while the dew is still on the roses ..." 

I always got a picture in my head: big pink roses glistening with dew under a vast, cool sky streaked with thin clouds. I could smell the fresh air. I could see Jesus walking along in bare feet. I still can, when I close my eyes and think about it. But for some reason, when I recognized the melody to "In the Garden" and realized that the very same words I remembered my father singing were about to come out of Josh Long's mouth, all I felt was panic at the familiarity of it.

It's often that way with the little things: the songs, the sounds, the smells. It's like I step into a time warp right back to my old life: I fly through the good memory and have a fifth of a second to smile before all the bad things crowd in like they've just been standing around waiting for me to appear in the back of my own mind. Woodsmoke and motor oil make my pulse jump into my fingertips, and I still can't bring myself to purchase anything scented with vanilla. Wind chimes give me the urge to cover my ears and cry, and apparently "In the Garden" makes me want to hyperventilate and run, run away.

I am proud to say that I didn't do either of those things the Sunday Josh sang. There was a definite spike in my heart rate and I eyed the door longingly, but I stayed in my seat and kept my breathing steady. A year ago, two years ago, I'd have bolted out of there like a rabbit flushed from hiding, so I'm definitely getting better. By the end of the service, I was recovered. I'm troubled, though, by how the little things can sneak up on a person and deliver a blow to the head faster than I can snap my fingers. Makes me wonder what else is out there waiting to ambush me. Will I wake up tomorrow and be afraid of the doorbell or something? (Oh, wait. I'm already afraid of the doorbell. Scares the piss out of me every time it rings. Hey readers: if ever you come to visit, please oh please knock on the door.)

I find it kind of incongruous that I have conquered a former inability to sleep in the bed instead of on the couch, and yet I still can't pass Marconi's Garage without a hitch in my breathing. Maybe the little things only seem little when it comes to something like this. Reclamation is indeed slow, my friends. Mysterious and slow. Like watching a rose, waiting for it to bloom. Like waiting on a whole garden, sometimes. But these days, I don't wait alone -- and that makes all the difference. 

Saturday, May 7, 2011

King of the Road

"Because a song can take you back instantly to a moment, or a place, or even a person. No matter what else has changed in you or the world, that one song stays the same, just like that moment." -- Owen, from Sarah Dessen's "Just Listen."

"Trailers for sale or rent,
Rooms to let, 50 cents.
No phone, no pool no pets,
I ain't got no cigarettes ..."

Every Spring, Lock Haven has what is known as Bar Crawl -- a great excuse to get rip-roaring drunk and be given a t-shirt to commemorate the experience, so when you wake up with "I gave it a shot! Lock Haven Bar Crawl" emblazoned across your chest, you can piece together whatever the hell you did the night before. Last year, Biz and I actually took part in Bar Crawl by going to the Fallon and hitting their dance floor, 2-for-1 shots of Superman, and $4 Red Deaths -- which taste an awful lot like fruit punch and are therefore extremely easy to get wasted on, because you forget you're drinking booze. Because of this and my body's tendency not to properly process or digest things -- which I conveniently forgot in the spirit of acting stupid -- I was hung over for approximately 3 days after my one night of wanton partying, and thereafter swore that I would never, ever, ever get that drunk ever again.

So when Bar Crawl rolled around this past Thursday, I gave brief thought to all my classmates sitting at the Hangar getting pre-wasted to prepare for a night of getting evermore wasted and rationalized my non-attendance with: 1. You, Tiffany, are broke. Too broke to drink. 2. You have a final at 8 a.m. tomorrow. 3. How much do you really want to spend the next few days feeling like you've been run over by a pack of wild hogs? I went down to the coffee shop instead, ordered up hot roast beef on an everything bagel with provolone and honey mustard and a cold orange cream soda, cracked open a book, and listened to the band play.

"Ah, but 2 hours of pushin' broom
buys an 8-by-12, four-bit room,
I'm a man of means by no means,
king of the road."

Roger Miller. I sang along, and for a few minutes I wasn't in the big green chair by the picture window in a coffee shop in Pennsylvania anymore. My memory re-wound itself and dropped me in my Aunt Jo's house in French Lick, listening to the clink of poker chips and smelling the rich, heady spice of cigar smoke while stuffing myself with homemade macaroni and cheese. I was there, clear as anything, just up in my own head. The guys were playing poker, the ladies were playing spoons, the boys were running around underfoot -- I had a new Little House book from Aunt Sandy and Uncle Larry, and later I'd shut myself up in the living room with a plate of cheese and crackers and read till I fell asleep on the couch with my cheek against the pages. If I got really, really lucky, Daddy would carry me to the car, and the sky would be clear and cold, and the moon would be out, and I'd pretend to be asleep so he wouldn't put me down, because I liked it when he held me.

And then the song ended.

It started me thinking on other songs that reminded me of things that strongly, though -- I didn't just go right back to my current book without a hitch in my memory. I spent a few moments in the car with my mother's mother, eating fries out of a greasy Druther's bag and listening to the Kentucky Headhunters sing "Dumas Walker."

"We'll get a slaw, burger, fries, and a bottle of skeet,
bring it on out to my baby and me."

I spent some time in the basement with my father, listening to the crack of the air hockey sticks against the plastic puck and CCR belting out,

"Good golly Miss Molly, sure like to ball,
The way you're rockin' and a rollin', can't hear your Momma call." I walked with him down a path at Tucker Lake campground, too, watching a lantern flicker in his hand while the two of us sang his favorite song
together:

"Jeremiah was a bullfrog,
was a good friend of mine.
I never understood a single word he said, but I helped him a-drink his wine,
'Coz he always had some mighty fine wine."

I went back to junior high, to a rainy day and three girls under an umbrella -- me, Becky and Danielle, slogging through town to Danielle's church to meet up with her mother. I stood in the sanctuary with my jeans soaked past the knee from a misstep involving a particularly huge puddle and sang "I'll Fly Away." I went back to the first time I ever heard "Bohemian Rhapsody," sitting in Becky's car like, "Whoah! What is this AWESOME SONG?!""

I had a few flashing images of my mother singing  Garth Brooks and Patsy Cline and Reba McEntire (with my refusal to get stuck right there and go no further being a symbol of the way things have changed for me lately), then careened forward in time to sitting next to Larry Crouchley in the front seat of the Blazer with brown-sugar ham sticking my fingers together, listening to John Denver:

"Oh Montana, give this child a home,
give him the love of a good family, and a woman of his own;
Give him a fire in his heart; give him a light in his eyes,
give the wild wind for a brother, and the wild Montana skies."

I went back to BCM meetings at USI, too, and I had to smile a bittersweet smile at how world-weary and wise I thought I was back then, trying so hard to find something that mattered, trying to fit in with something bigger than myself and pretending I knew up from down and what was best for me when I was really just a lost little kid looking for a place to belong. Now I'm old enough to know that I don't know shit, if you'll pardon the expression, but I thought I had eternity mapped out at 18.

I have always known that I do best with a song on my lips. Any song. Ever since I was a little girl I've sang out loud to comfort myself, or when I am happy: there don't even have to be any words, just happy, aimless hums and la's, or the same three notes over and over when I'm upset. I don't know why I do it. I've done it for so long it actually escapes my notice sometimes -- I'll catch myself in mid-trill on some nonsense syllable and wonder how long I've been singing. When I'm at the Common Place and it's a confusing morning, when I'm struggling so hard to put my walls down and really listen, I'll pour my voice into the music and give it everything I have. Music connects me with my own longing, my own need, better than anything else. Music calms and soothes me, helps me let down my guard. It's visceral. It's the most human part of me.

Lately, I've set out on a journey of letting things go. It's terrifying. I have no idea what I am doing, trusting someone other than myself to help take care of me. I've always been in charge, always been the one to control every little aspect of everything I possibly can. I do not know what strange beast has possessed me these last few months, this creature helping me pry my claws off the past and lay it down. I kind of want it to go away, because now I find myself being pulled, somehow, to do things that make me extremely uncomfortable -- like put my damn foot down and go to French Lick so I don't spend the rest of my life letting that part of my fear get bigger and bigger until it swallows me whole. I don't want to do some of these things, but a part of me knows that I have to, so I don't get stuck. So I can keep moving forward. Sometimes, you just know it's time to bite the bullet and put yourself out there. This is one of those times for me, and music seems to be telling me that these days: Hey, you. You're strong enough now. You can do it. So I think I'm going to do it -- but I might have to sing the whole time.