Old Blue

A story about responsibility

We were shivering, jostling around like pinballs, breathing the frozen stench of exhaust fumes, as we rode in the cap-covered bed of my Dad’s pickup truck, “Old Blue.” We were heading to the magical place we referred to as “up north”, where my dad’s parents lived.

We didn’t spend much time with Dad after the divorce, not fitting into his new life with his new wife who actively campaigned against us. I’m not sure we ever really were much of a priority for him, though my older sisters might disagree. We had two completely separate growing-up experiences with dad as my two older sisters are five and seven years older than me – me and my younger brother with just about two years between us.

My sisters have more and better memories of the times before the giant crack in my parents marriage became all there was to it, where alcohol began to take center stage and dad stopped showing up when promised.

But those five-hour bumpy truck rides up north, before seat belts were a thing, were scary and somehow exhilarating. Dad drove too fast with a full Budweiser riding stealthily between his long, lean legs. It may have been less shocking in the late sixties than today. It became normal for me even though I anguished with worry for our safety, between the buzzed driver and the gas fumes which made my stomach turn.

The prize was getting there, where we were met with aunts, uncles, cousins and other strays that coveted the weekend invitations. This side of my family is large in numbers and personalities. Grandma Sweazy, my dad’s mom, was hilarious, flamboyant, independent – opposite Grandma Sharkey, mom’s mom. Everyone was drawn to her, but not for her nurturing so much as for her way of entertaining with one-liners and stark sarcasm.

We laughed a lot, especially when it came time to sleep in what was fondly referred to as the “Cubby Hole”, which I now know is nothing but an unfinished attic where they caged all the kids and where the mice thrived. There was Mountain Football (cousins having a farting contest), scary stories complete with a dark human shadow in the corner formed by an adult sized snowmobile suit, and uncontrollable pee-your-pants giggling from the bad jokes and impersonations. 

We were always outside during the day, as the small cottage was located on Arbutus Lake near Traverse City, Michigan. In the summer, we whiled away the hours swimming and diving off the raft or fishing off the dock. An old logging lake, there were slimy submerged trees lying every ten or fifteen feet which I attempted to avoid touching as I made friends with the crayfish and perch sharing their home with me. 

There was a candy store down the mile-long, hilly dirt road, which we walked to and from several times each trip, looking down for coveted Petoskey stones which my Grandma collected and polished. 

In winter, we rode snowmobiles, fast and dangerous, of course unsupervised. At least we were not driving them while drunk, as the adults were. We played in the deep snow, and the nearby woods, and used an old, broken down outhouse for pooping. I don’t remember why now, because there was plumbing inside. Perhaps it was just too much poop.

One summer night, I remember standing next to dad outside at the top of the hill the cottage was built on, looking up at the night sky lit with the miracle of a billion stars sparkling and the moonshine reflecting in the lake water. The night was so dark there, and the stars were such a bright contrast. We said nothing – and I felt closer to dad than at any other time I can remember, connected through the beauty of nature that night.  

In the mornings, we were met with the pungent smell of Grandpa Sweazy’s pipe mixed with the aroma of coffee and sweet rolls, Grandma’s pleasure. The scent of smoke was embedded into the curtains, the carpets, the paneling on the walls of that precious lake cottage.

Grandpa would be sitting at the blue speckled formica table stacked with packaged junk food, looking bleary eyed, holding his coffee mug. He, like Grandpa Sharkey, was quiet but unlike him was a drinker. He would stand outside and take in the majestic views during the day, bending his knees and then standing upright again, a signature dance he saved for old age and damaged knees.

Underneath these fond memories runs the uncomfortable current of my judgment for adults not tending to kids or being responsible enough, or life lived in disarray, which was a recurring theme for me growing up. This feeling is part of me, a deep and constant thread of unease that has existed from my earliest memories. I wanted to have fun and let go like the others, I just wasn’t built that way, or my young self being plopped into the life I was given didn’t afford me that option. 

I chose to be responsible, to watch everything, strategically noticing what the others were doing in hopes I could save them from the obvious dangers all around them. One time while walking to the candy store I saw my sisters pick up a cigarette butt and light it. I couldn’t help myself. I told on them. I was from that day forward known as “Christian”, a derogatory name given me due to my constant monitoring of right and wrong-doing. I felt ashamed I couldn’t be more like them.

I want to wrap my arms of experience around that little girl my family called Reesie. I want to tell her that she need not carry such a heavy burden, that she would be okay – more than okay, actually – and that everyone else would be okay too. I want to show her that her life will not be predictable or safe, and that it’s not meant to be. Life is meant to teach us and grow us, and to be loved, not feared.

I want her to know that the adults were doing the best they could, mostly, and that she didn’t need to feel so god-damned responsible for everyone’s well-being. I want her to see the bright light that she was born with, and that someday it will light up the world in spite of her unease. 

I want her to know that she was always loved, and that she would forever be.