One of the things my mother hated the most was plastic Easter grass. You know, the static-filled, pastel-colored plastic wonder found in bags at the local dollar store to bulk out a meager haul of jellybeans and Palmer’s brand chocolates. Easter grass. Despite her hatred, every year my mother went out and bought it, cursing all the while. It was her manifestation of sentimentality—shittin’ baskets were supposed to have the grass in them, they were by damn going to have the grass in them even if it meant she spent the next 6 months getting it wrapped around the roller in the vacuum cleaner.
My son is a teenager now, and we haven’t bought Easter grass in years. In fact, we’ve moved at least once since our last expedition into Easter grass. So when the occasional strand of it shows up, I just assume it’s my mother saying “hey there”, or “why haven’t you called” or “pay attention, dummy.” When I was kicking around the idea of tackling our stories, that shit started showing up everywhere. Literally, every damn where. In the corners by the closet. In the dryer. In the pantry. And one notable time, in the bathtub. Whether its meant as encouragement or a sign that she’s mad as hell, I don’t know and won’t bother guessing. I’m choosing to assume it’s encouraging, or will do just as soon as I get my vacuum roller cleaned out.
I was 6 when my parents divorced. All I know for sure is that my father was there, and then he wasn’t. Probably my fondest memory of my father is of this “magic” trick he used to do. He’d come into our rooms and chat for a minute, then tell us to close our eyes and count to 10. When we opened our eyes, he’d be gone but there’d be a candy bar on the desk. After he left, I would sometimes close my eyes and count to 10, hoping that there’d be a candy bar on my desk. Not because I wanted the candy, but because it would mean that he had been there. Thing is, when he left the man I knew as my father was truly was gone; who he had been was lost to cheap Scotch and bad decisions that ultimately punished all of us for the rest of his life.
I need to acknowledge something: I’m a completely clueless dork about most things. I was as a child, and adulthood hasn’t changed me that much. I mean, when Uncle Mike and his friend Bob came for Thanksgiving, I never gave it a second’s thought. They were Uncle Mike and Bob. I never wondered why they hung out together, or why people referred to them in stage whispers. What I did know was that for Christmas the year I was 10, they got me a leather purse and a make-up kit. They had good taste in gifts; that’s all I knew and all that really mattered. A lot of years later—and I mean a lot as in I was an adult who paid her own rent and car insurance—they came up in discussion and it was only then that it hit me. They did more than just hang out together at the family holiday celebrations. I mean, it also explained that time when my brother smacked Uncle Mike on the butt and he laughed, but when I did it I got yelled at. I suppose that should have been a clue. But as I say, I was clueless.
Really, what I’m trying to tell you is that I am notoriously unreliable as an observer of my own life. Of course, the accuracy of a six-year-old’s memories is dubious at best even without my inherent unreliability, and trying to sort through those memories 40-some years later means that I could just be making all this up. But I’m not, not really. The stories are true even if the facts are distorted. During my remarkably brief tenure as a writing teacher, one of the things I always tried to emphasize was the idea of truth v fact. “Truth,” I would tell my students, “is subjective. Every story has at least three sides—yours, mine, and the facts.” When we send fact through our own lenses—experience and belief and a whole host of other bits and bobs that shape our worldview—we end up with a version of the truth. Fact, on the other hand, is provable and largely immutable despite our current predilection for “alternative” ones. It is a fact that the earth is round, that water is wet, that my parents divorced when I was six. Based in fact, but not necessarily factual, is my experiences of these events. You may find the ocean terrifying because a wave swamped you when you were three years old and have never really recovered from it. This fact becomes your truth, but it is a truth, not the truth because I love the ocean and will throw myself into it any chance I get. And so it is with my experience of my parents’ divorce and my life with my mother. There are facts—they divorced. I was six. We lived in Texas. My father was gone. And there is truth: life was hard, my mother was unhappy, I was sad, and none of us ever quite got over it.