Supermoon 1983 - 1984

 

     It's 1983, and my dad, and us kids are with Mom Mom Marge and Pop Pop Bill at their senior shantytown in Wildwood.  They have tons of friends and we get lots of attention from the ladies and men who drink cocktails and do not even make it to the beach.  We spend the day making sand castles and at night we eat, shower, and head to the boardwalk down the street.  We love it with its spinning lights and loud pop music.  Our favorite ride is the Gravitron.  When we enter the low flat cylinder, we get strapped to cushioned planks that slide up and down while the cylinder rotates and the centrifugal force makes us cling to the sides, like the laundry in the spin cycle.  We are dizzy and can barely walk afterwards.  My dad is dizzy and can barely walk even though he never goes on the Gravitron.  We walk on the beach which is dark, accept for the moon and the ambient light from the boardwalk. It's weird because we can hear the waves crashing, but can't them in the blackness of the ocean.

    It's 1983. We are latchkey kids. That's what John McNulty told us. When we ask him what that means, he says it's “a kid that lets themselves into the house, because their parents are not home”.  After the bus drops us off on the corner, we let ourselves into the house, change out of our uniforms, and run next door to see if John is standing by his front door, where he likes to smoke. He is a big man with a paunch that hangs over his waistband, which he insists is all muscle.  When he is there, he brings out his frisbee or we play monkey-in-the-middle with whatever projectile is lying around.  This is my favorite because I am exceptionally good at throwing and catching, even though I am very bad at keeping scores.  John tells us jokes and challenges us with riddles until his wife calls him in for dinner.  It never crosses our minds to ask him what he does for work, and it seems like his whole purpose is to play with us after school. 

            It’s 1983, and my stickers are all on the wall in the upstairs bathroom.  My brother had grown jealous of my sticker collection and destroyed them by peeling off the protective backs and putting them here on the wall next to the toilet.  They tear as I try to rescue them.  When I shriek with rage, my mom tells me to “stop being so dramatic”, but she concedes that my brother has a “nasty streak”.

    It’s 1983, and we have knocked over a porcelain tea set in the living room.  My mom cries over the broken pieces about how she can “never have nice things”.  Our house is full of Mom’s nice things.  There is crystal. Lennox, and porcelain galore. A collection of Royal Dalton dolls resides in a curio cabinet in the dining room.  These are ceramic ladies dressed in period costume who hold roses and wait for their great loves to return, or show up or whatever.  We are normally full of energy and Mom’s treasures often get reduced to shards as a result of our “roughhousing”.

    It's 1983 and as I get out of the shower and reach for a towel, I hear my mom screaming. I run out of the bathroom and look down the stairwell to see my dad pummeling her while she jerks away in pain. I run downstairs and the bath towel falls away and I am standing between the two of them naked, but my dad is so drunk that he does not know he is hitting me and not her, but I stand there and withstand the blows until the police show up and take my dad away.

    It’s 1983 and I have taught myself how to draw a perfect rose, which I draw incessantly during the breaks in class. It begins with a central swirl followed by overlapping crescents.  Missy Wilson has begun to draw a rose that looks just like mine, down to the last petal, on all of her textbooks.  When other people tell her how good it is, she just says thank you, and never gives me any credit.  This inflames me and when I confront her about it, I tell her that I want her to stop drawing my rose.  She laughs at me and tells me that it is not my rose, and continues using it to embellish her textbooks.

    It's 1983, and my Mom sits me down for a “talk”. She has just gotten her hair done and she looks just like princess Diana. She tells me that she and my dad are getting separated, and that dad is moving in with Mom Mom Marge, which is no real surprise, since he spends a great deal of his time there anyway.

    It's 1983 and we order pizza every Friday night from Johnny's Pizzeria. We squeeze around our tiny Panasonic TV set on the Formica and chrome table and watch Happy Days and Laverne and Shirley. We all fight over who sits next to Mom, but we all know that it is really about the better view of the TV, where Fonzi goes, “Ayyyye” and Laverne and Shirley dance to “Schlemiel! Schlimazel!”

    It’s 1983, and we look out the window when we hear the sound of a sputtering motor.  Mr. Bolinsky is mowing our lawn, which he does completely of his own volition.  My mom watches him and is overcome with some cocktail of emotions that renders her speechless.  When she goes out to thank him, he waves a hand and says, “Don’t worry about it.”

     It’s 1983.  Across the lot from the school building is Saint Peter Celestine Church, we arrange ourselves in pews across from the pulpit, like we do every first Tuesday of the month.  I am unable to pay attention to the homily, which is delivered by Monsignor Sharkey, who is as old as dirt, and drones on endlessly about Jesus and the Holy Spirit. The other kids listen observantly, but no matter how hard I try to focus, my mind wanders and I draw pictures in the leather-bound hymnal, which does not escape the notice of the nuns and causes them tremendous grief resulting in unholy and damning phone calls to my mother. 

    It's 1983, and my brother's best friend, Patrick Pryer is over for dinner. Their friendship has deepened due to their both being alter boys, so we see a fair amount of Patrick.  We are having ground steak and onions, with mashed potatoes and lima beans. It is still our least favorite meal, but it's always fun when Patrick is there. We open the door after the electronic doorbell chimes (ding dong ding dong, dong dong ding dong), and instead of saying “hello”, he jumps back and exclaims, “I’m sorry.  I’m sorry.”  We find this to be strange and hilarious because he has absolutely nothing to be sorry about.  His inborn proclivity toward self-flagellation and shame causes us to name him “Friar Pryer”.  While sitting at the table trying to withstand the troublesome onions and lima beans, He does an impersonation of a chipmunk that makes us all laugh until tears come from our eyes and our stomachs hurt.  Even my mom cannot stop herself from laughing. 

     It's 1983, and it's Saturday.  We are at my riding lesson, and today, I am hoping to work on my cantering, so that I can eventually gallop.  But when we get into the ring, I see that Happy has set up “cavalettes”.   These are so I can learn to jump, but when I trot Cochise over the short wooden x’s, it does not feel like a jump at all and I feel disappointed when I think about the Alec Ramsey jumping the Black Stallion over big piles of driftwood on the deserted island.  Happy says, “Great job!!” in a way that makes me really believe her.  

    It's 1983 and my sister's glasses are lost again. Mom notices them missing from her face when we come in from playing with John McNulty and my brother’s friends. When no one has any answers, she tells us, through clenched teeth, to get out, and DO NOT come back without them.  We search the front and the back of the house. They are nowhere in any of the usual yards.  Chris Bolinsky asks us what we were looking for and we said Sharon's glasses. “Again?” He joins the search and eventually finds them in a pile of leaves under the Willow tree in the backyard.

It's 1983, and my brother is white as a sheet.  “Lonnie’s son shot me,” he says.  I examine him for wounds.  “He missed,” he says. “He shot at me, and hit a tree instead.”  We go across the street where he shows me the bullet hole in the tree.  While we are standing there the son comes out the front door and yells at us to get lost.  Before we run off, he lifts his shirt a little and we see the gleaming gun in his pocket.  “And you may want to keep your mouths shut.” he adds.  We back away slowly and never breath a word of it to anyone until years later, when Lonnie and her son are distant memories.

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    It's 1984, and I am at Summer camp. I meet a girl named The Boof who also loves to draw, and we spend every bit of free time drawing under the trees while the others play volleyball or buy snacks from the little concession stand. We create a character that is a bull dressed as a matador and work to perfect the contours of its horns and the embroidered ruffles of the cape.  She calls herself The Boof because she is a quarter black, and has a pom-pom of light brown hair where her bangs would be, and she does n't care for her real name, which is Diane. The Boof has long strong nails extending from thin fingers and exudes an elegance that I find beguiling and alien in someone our age. Drawing is the only thing we have in common, but that is quite enough to keep us glued to each other whenever possible.

    It’s 1984, and my Mom’s 38th birthday is coming up.  We wander around the strip mall next to the Wawa and eventually go into a shoe store where we find a remarkable pair of feather plumed shoes that glitter spectacularly because of the rhinestone details.  When the Russian lady behind the counter sees us eying them, she says, "It's Egret" with a knowing look that totally sells us.  They are size 10, but Mom wears an 8.  We buy them anyway, because they are so beautiful and the lady behind the counter tells us we can return them if need be.  When Mom opens them up, she oohs and ahhhs and pretends they fit fine even though her feet are sliding all over the place and the feathers somehow got squashed.

    It's 1984 and my brother, sister, and I are with dad in a graveyard. He gives us paper and pencil and explains the entertainment value of grave-rubbings, which is when you pick up the texture of the crumbling gravestones by rubbing the pencil over the paper pressed against the stone.  but we were too young for it to hold our interest, so we pretend to have funerals for the unfortunate dead.

     It's 1984, and my mom has decided to “redo” all the bedrooms.  I am confused by this because there is nothing wrong with the curtains, furniture and bedspread that we already have, but my mom says they are old and need to be replaced.  We all pile into the car and follow her around the furniture showroom and bounce on the couches while mom pics out all new furniture.  She asks us if we like what she picks out, but these are more statements than questions, and she picks out the frilly curtains and flower-embroidered bedspread that she likes the best.

    It's 1984 and Little Dotty is babysitting us. She likes to stay on the phone with her friends and is forever filing her nails, but she plays with us if we hem and haw enough. I demand that we play a game where she is a villain who catches me and holds me hostage while my brother and sister try to rescue me with swords that are really sticks. When she asks how she is going to hold me captive, I produce a length of rope from the garage, and instruct her to tie me up. It is easy for my brother and sister to rescue me because Little Dotty is not good at tying knots and disappears to talk on the phone and file her nails.

     It's 1984 and I am extra forlorn at school.  I am sulking in the lavoratory where one of the Jennifers runs into me and asks what’s wrong.  I tell her my parents are separated, but that means nothing to her, so I explain it's the thing that happens before a divorce.  None of the kids I go to school with have divorced parents, so they do not know what to say when I am forlorn, which is most of the time.  

    It's 1984 and it’s Saturday.  My dad brings us to Dorney Park. I see caricature artists at work, with their arabesque brushstrokes that somehow come together into a likeness of the gleefully smiling customer.  It is like magic to me.  My dad tells me we cannot afford one, and I tell him I just want to watch, which I do, until I am dragged away. 

    It’s 1984, and Heather Gallagher and me pretend to build our own castle, which is made out of “real pretend bricks” which we stack into an invisible fortress next to the tire playground.  The partnership devolves into a foreman and laborer arrangement as I dictate the layout of the kingdom, and Heather willingly submits to my commands. 

    It's 1984 and I come home from school and climb the evergreen tree to the right of our house, which is on the John McNulty side.  If I climb up about 12 feet, there are three branches which hold me like a cradle. I love climbing trees as much as I love drawing and spend long hours in the tree cradle, until the middle branch digs into my tailbone, and I have to come down.

     It’s 1984, and we accidentally knock over a Lennox vase while running around the house.  We stare in terror at the cream-colored fragments.  We find some household glue in the garage and spend hours praying to Saint Jude, the patron saint of lost causes.  When my mom comes home, she notices nothing, so we know the prayer works.

      It's 1984 and we are having dinner at the kitchen table.  My brother tells my mom that we are latchkey kids, and she wants to know where we heard that.  My brother says everyone knows latchkey kids whose parents are not home.  My mom is incensed by this and says that we are kids whose parent is at work, which is different from being not-at-home, and that we shouldn’t use that word to describe  ourselves.  

     It's 1984 and I am wearing a hot pink angora sweater instead of the prescribed dark blue vest, because I think it will slip under the radar of the nuns.  When Sister Valerie sees my sweater, she tells me that I have had too many warnings, and now I have to go home for the day and do not come in tomorrow without the correct uniform. I feel gleeful exaltation as I leave the school grounds. When my mom finds out, she is more angry at Sister Valerie than she is at me.

    It's 1984 and I come home from school to see that the evergreen tree is gone. When I confront my mom about the tree's disappearance, she tells me the trees roots were upheaving the house.  I search around the foundation, finding no sign of upheaval, just the stump with its rings and rings of age.

     It's 1984 and we are visiting my dad like we always do on Saturdays.  He has brought us to Penny Packer Park, which we love because there are hiking trails and lots of challenging trees to climb.  There is a swing set that goes really high and shiny silver slide.  A massive green field stretches out in front of acres of hilly brambles where the hiking trail begins and we always spin around and pretend that we are Julie Andrews in the Sound of Music.  We sing, “The hills are alive with the sound of music…”

     It’s 1984 and my dad is collecting TV Guides for some reason.  I am entertaining myself by thumbing through the pages, to see what people in 1982 were watching during prime time.  At the back of the TV guide, I find three appealing cartoon characters with instructions for entering a contest.  There is turtle, a pig, and a bear.  If you draw the three heads and send it in, if yours is the best, you win $2000. Soon, every piece of paper in our house is covered in turtle, pig, and bear heads.  I enter the contest 2 or 3 times, but never hear back about the $2000.

     It's 1984.  It is snowing heavily outside, so we are home from school.  We are home alone, and my sister and I build a snowman while my brother sleeps late.  We roll the three balls like John McNulty showed us, and give it rocks for eyes and find a withered carrot in the fridge for a nose, which gives it lots of character.  We are incredibly proud of the snowman which looks almost perfect and go back to sleep in our bedroom buzzing for the joy of it.  When we wake up again, there is an axe through the snowman’s head, and the carrot is on the ground.  My sister and I are terrified and angry and we suspect my brother who refuses to admit that he destroyed our snowman, but we know it must have been him and his nasty streak.  

    It's 1984 and my mom has flown into a rage because the house is a mess. To motivate ourselves into cleaning mode, my brother, sister, and I form a close circle with our hands in the center, and chant “Puppy...Power...CHARGE!!”  We got this from Scoopy-Doo’s nephew, Scrappy-Doo.  We throw our hands into the air in unison and explode into action picking up clothing and vacuuming the rug. We clean for hours until mom simmers down and the tables smell like lemon pledge.

    It's 1984 and there is a new girl in school named Megan McCloskey. She is deathly thin and pale with saucer-like blue eyes and wispy hair. She joins me and Heather, but it is soon clear that Megan and I have our own chemistry, and Heather is lost.  Megan tells us the reason she is so skinny is because she is anemic. She begins her time at Saint Peter Celestine in special education, even though she is whip smart. So we figure it’s because of the anemia.

     It's 1984, and we have just come home from school.  We come in the back door and walk through the dining room, but we are stomping heavily and the top floor bounces with our footfalls.  We are shouting and flinging around our book bags when we hear a heart-stopping crash and shattering of glass.  My mom’s curio cabinet with her treasured collection of Royal Dalton dolls has tipped over and there is an impossible pile of mirrored shards and porcelain body parts where it had just stood.  We all turn white and and try to steady our hearts as we sift through the rubble, and woefully speculate about the levels of hell in our future. It is me who picks the phone up off the cradle and stalwartly dial Mom’s work number. She can tell I am terrified, so she sips her breaths quietly and says that she’ll be home soon.  When she arrives, she looks at the mess, is silent for a moment while we hold our breath, and tells us that it's ok.  She’s very sad, but it's ok.  Remarkably, the most delicate of the dolls remained intact with its porcelain lace petticoat and kerchief.