Creative Writing: Bisquick Tears

The first installment of when my father taught me, or failed to teach me, how to make pancakes.

I grew up in a household that lived off of Bisquick. Primarily, it was used for pancakes and still is to this day. Every Saturday and Sunday, I am awakened by my father shuffling with the pots and pans because the skillet that he needs is the one in the very back of the cabinet. While we have multiple skillets and at least eight different sizes of pots and pans, we only ever use two of them: the pancake skillet and the medium sauce pan. The only function of the other pans is to make loud, useless noises to signal my mother and me to wake up.

One Sunday morning when I was 11 years old, my father decided it was time for me to learn to make pancakes. He came into my room around 9am to wake me. While most people are woken up with a gentle shake, I was flipped violently from my mattress. The motion echoed those seen in action movies when a bomb is about to go off and the hero flips over a table for cover. I tumbled off the side of the bed, tangled in my blankets, with my cheek resting right next to my father’s shoe. Had this happened to a normal person, they would think “Earthquake” but my instant thought was, “Crap, what does dad want me to do now?” If I ever find myself in the middle of an earthquake, I will surely roll over while mumbling, “Five more minutes, dad.”

I flopped down the stairs without even lifting my feet while my father lunged and kicked up his heels. Morning was his prime time. I expected to sit down to start eating pancakes and just assumed that I had missed the opening number of the skillet shuffle wake up call. But there were no pancakes, just an empty stainless steel bowl, a wooden spoon, a spatula, and that bright yellow box of Bisquick. I immediately panicked; my father was planning to teach me how to do something. My father loves to teach me things and says that I will be more prepared than other people because of his lessons. I think he does it because he likes to see me cry. My father has gaps in his lessons where he assumes that I can read his mind and know what to do next. When I do not use my unknown gift of telepathy, he yells until I cry. When I decide to act before he tells me to do so, he yells until I cry. I always make it a point to stay well hydrated in preparation for these lessons.

I looked at the yellow box. Yellow is such a happy color that gives your eyes a vibrant handshake. And there is no sorrow in pancakes. No one eats pancakes angrily; they are eaten with a secret smile that savors the half melted butter swirling with the maple syrup. Every crumb is devoured and the leftover syrup is scooped up with a fork, even though most of it runs through the tines and dribbles on your chin. As a last ditch effort, you lick the plate not caring about what social implications will follow. These are pancakes! Everything about them oozes happiness.

And my father was going to beat the joy out of that innocent, fluffy breakfast choice.

To be resumed…

Creative Writing: Weed the Weeds

Weed the Weeds

“There you are, with your thumb in your ass and your mind in neutral!”

That was my father’s favorite phrase when he saw me sitting around doing nothing. He would see watching TV as chewing gum for the mind and would urge me to sit down and read book instead. When I began devour books day after day, he would then point out the window.

“It’s a beautiful day! Get your thumb outta your ass and go outside! Grab a rake for god’s sake, the lawn is a disaster.”

Yard work had always been my most hated chore. My father would watch my every move, pointing out to lift with my legs, not my back. I held the rake incorrectly, I raked too soft so that nothing was accomplished, then I raked too hard to the point where I pulled out the grass. Nothing was ever right and he was positive I was doing it on purpose. In the back of my mind I wondered why he made me do it if I did it wrong.

“Kathleen, this is character building, stop whining,” he said.

Whenever he turned his back I would drop the rake and run in the house. I would disappear until I heard his loud voice screaming “Kathleen Anne Casey,” from the backyard. Something about the way he stretched the syllables in my name made my stomach churn. My mother once told me that they picked out my name by screaming it down the stairs and out into the backyard to see what combination of names would sound the most severe. The harsher the pronunciation and tone, the more likely a child will learn its place and become obedient. I was born to be yelled at, cursed by a name that sounded foreboding when bellowed.

I would return to my small pathetic pile, rake in hand, hoping for a helpful gust of wind to blow the leaves into the wheelbarrow. I would lean against a tree, watching the lawn people cleaning up all the neighborhood yards. Our house was the only house in the neighborhood that took care of our own lawn.

On hot summer days, I would push the old rusted lawnmower up and down the steep slopes of grass. The sun burned through my skin and heated my bones until my body boiled over and sweat poured from my skin. Every few minutes I would have to empty the bag of the heavy grass clippings and clean off the blade. Next door, the hired lawn guys would be on lawnmower tractors, riding around with cold bottles of water and sandwiches. I would drool and pray that when I tried to start the lawn mower again, it would stutter then cough its way into death just for the chance to hide inside. But it always roared to life, held together with spit, duct tape, and fear of my father.

I learned to enjoy yard work and gardening. Suddenly, without being told, I would head out back to mow the lawn or weed the garden. I would rake in the fall then rake in the early spring to clean up the area before planting. I carved out a piece of my own and planted my own vegetable and flower garden. Still, my father would walk by and inspect what I did, pointing out that my rock wall wasn’t straight or that I didn’t plant the tomatoes deep enough. Neighbors would smile and wave while saying, “I wish my son would help out like you do.”

“See dad, the neighbors appreciate me and what I do,” I said while digging a deeper hole for the tomato plant.

“Well maybe if you got that thumb outta your ass and got your mind outta neutral, I would too,” he scoffed. “That plant aint gonna grow if you don’t pay attention, Kathleen. It needs space, it needs to have room for its roots to spread. When are you gonna pull out all these weeds, it can’t grow with all this shit in the way!”

I roll my eyes, my sunburned face squinting in pain.

“Go put on some sunscreen. Your face is as red as cherry tomato!”

Creative Writing: Orange Oranges

A submission for my non-fiction creative writing class

Orange Oranges

My mother, my sister, and I often made fun of my father before any family celebration as he probed the kitchen. He packed bags of shrimp, homemade sauces, and various picky dishes in large boxes. He always worried that there would not be enough food for everyone even though all of the family drives home with a trunk full of leftovers every Christmas, Thanksgiving and Easter. Year after year, we are stuck with two weeks’ worth of kugeli, a Lithuanian potato dish, because my Uncle Joe bakes six pans worth for every gathering. As a kid, I was force fed kugeli with promises that, over the years, I would acquire a taste for it. Only when the fridge is bare with food do I venture to eat the potato mess. It hits my stomach like a ton of soft bricks, soft and fluffy but strangely weighty.

His over packing is a result of his over buying. Once he discovered Costco, we were faced with four pounds of american cheese, vats of mayonnaise, and trash bags full of oranges. Every other day, he would peruse the aisles for saving on things we never needed. When he came home and unpacked everything he would yell at me for not eating the oranges while holding a newly bought bag.

“Have an orange,” he would say.

“I don’t want an orange,” I always answered.

“They’re like candy,” he says as he bites into a slice.

Over time the oranges would disappear one by one but they were quickly restocked as if our fridge was a grocery store. There were oranges everywhere; in the fruit tray, the vegetable tray, and stacked neatly on the bottom shelf. Every time I opened the fridge, I imagined the hard round fruit flooding the kitchen and drowning me like a child in a ball pit. My refusal to eat the oranges were no longer from lack of hunger but out of habit and spite.

Late in the spring, my friends called me to play Ultimate Frisbee at our old high school. Should I bring anything, I wondered. I jogged down to the basement to grab a few waters out of the spare fridge. Cases upon cases of Poland Springs water bottles were stacked next to fridge almost four feet high, damn those Costco sales. My eyes wandered to the cooler, maybe other people will need some water. I poured ice into the cooler and dumped about two dozen bottles of water in it.

I dragged the cooler upstairs and then thought; maybe I should bring some food too. I opened the fridge and the oranges color hit me first. I emptied the bottom shelf of its twenty or so oranges and sliced them then stuck them in a few plastic bags. What could be more perfect than oranges on a warm sunny day, do I have enough? I grabbed one of the slices and bit into it. The taste was sharp at first and triggered my mouth to water. The juice was cool and the pulp nestled between my teeth.

I was suddenly eight years old again, sitting on a bench during the half time of my youth soccer game. The juice was so sweet compared to the sweat pouring from my brow, over my lips. My knees were skinned and stained green but my cheeks were sunburn red. The air was humid with the scent of steamed grass and salty earth. My flashback was suddenly interrupted by my mother. Her eyes darted to the cooler overflowing with waters and bags of orange slices and then sighed heavily.

“Jesus, what is your father packing for now?”

Creative Writing: The In-Between Waltz

Being born in Massachusetts meant that I was raised to see the pavement spread before me as a battlefield. Driving wasn’t simply just a way to get from point A to point B but also to get there before anyone else. I was used to being in the backseat, observing the scenery, while my father sped and swerved. “Damn blueheads,” he would mutter and I would twist quickly, trying to see the blue skinned alien in the slow moving car beside us. I was always disappointed to be faced with an old woman with graying hair that peeked over the steering wheel. He often mumbled that no one knew how to drive as he challenged the limitations of the lines painted on the road. The yellow and white lines were not painted to direct my father but to assist the uneducated masses.

Most teenagers in drivers ed are taught that a yellow light means slow down, the speed limit is as fast as you should go, and to never pass over doubled solid yellow lines. I was taught those same rules but my father showed me exceptions while he said “Don’t do as I do” in a harsh quick tone. When my father approached a yellow light, I could hear the engine roar before the car pulled forward causing my head to unexpectedly hit the head rest. He kept up the pace even after we escaped the red light, passing a sign that stated the speed limit was 50 miles an hour. I glanced at the speedometer, 65. “Shit, I forgot my phone,” he cursed and hastily made a U-turn, passing over the two solid yellow lanes. I don’t remember where we were going but I recalled that he was in a hurry and maybe if he slowed down once and awhile, he wouldn’t have forgotten his phone at home and we wouldn’t have wasted time to get it.

While I drove the speed limit going south on the highway, I spotted a blue sedan dancing between lanes and cars to a beat that no one else could hear. It didn’t take me much time to catch up and in the next few moments I was behind the impatient car. The first thing I noticed were her two bumper stickers that read “Well Behaved Women Rarely Make History” and “I hated Sarah Palin before it was cool” which made be chuckle. For some reason, I felt the need to see who was driving. All I could spy was a small bump of dirty blonde hair. I changed lanes, using my blinker, and drove beside her. She was plain looking, not fat but not skinny and not beautiful but not ugly. She had an inbetweenness about her that fascinated me. I knew I should have been watching the road but my eyes yearned to look through her passenger door window.

Her hands clenched the steering wheel and the whiteness of her knuckles was a sharp contrast to the rest of her lightly tanned skin. How hard was she holding on to that wheel? Her posture was stiff yet ready to pounce into the next lane. Except for a few rigid glimpses into her mirrors, her eyes hardly left the road in front of her. I hoped that the interior of her car would reveal something more about her than her feminist ideals and hatred of Sarah Palin. Strangely enough, her car was void of any personal touches. There were no beanie baby mascots on the seats or mardi gras beads hanging from the rearview window. Her car was so empty, so incomplete, so lifeless. Without any interior accents, I couldn’t even begin to draw a picture of who she was.

After my fifth glance, she saw stomped on the gas and swerved from the middle lane to the left then up the narrow breakdown lane. Within seconds she was ten cars ahead of me. Still, she wasn’t satisfied and returned to the middle lane. Cars honked at her and drivers scowled but she remained unaffected and defiant. Usually I would be annoyed by the impatient car, generally replacing the driver with the image of my father, but I didn’t mind her. She weaved and danced between us all, not with a sense of hurry, but with an impartial grace. There was no emotion, just fluid movement that always seemed to settle in the middle lane like a ballerina returning to center stage. She rejected the other drivers that moved with a synchronized speed. She lunged, she pivoted, she flew past us all.

My mind played Tchaikovsky's “Sleeping Beauty Waltz,” her movements quickening and pausing upon the whimsical and bold notes. The squeal of tires mirrored the crisp vibrations of a violin’s strings. The beeping of car horns rose to match the heralding brass horns reaching the crescendo. Middle fingers waved in her direction, composing the orchestra of sounds that she left in her wake. The sky darkened, the curtain fell, and the audience applauded at her disappearance. I was the only one who cried for an encore.

The Sleeping Beauty Waltz

Creative Writing: Fat and Lazy Water

I reach in the freezer to get some ice for my glass of water. I can’t stand drinking water that has merely been refrigerated. I need it to be ice cold, so cold that the minute it touches my back teeth they chime and ring upon my nerves. I want to be able to feel the icy water rush down my throat like rushing rapids and hit my calm stomach, coating it with a thin frost. Then of course, I want the brief shiver that starts at the back of my neck as my body reacts to rapid temperature change. That is how drinking water should feel.

I pull out the ice tray and find it empty, except for the small slivers left behind from banging the ice out of its mould. These puny pieces are useless to me. No one had filled the ice tray, again. My mother, who uses the ice most, refused years ago to never make ice. When my parents went shopping for a refrigerator, my mother wanted one with an ice maker but my father resisted; playfully saying that he would be the ice maker. The refrigerator without the ice maker was within their budget so that is the one my father bought.

Every night, I would hear my mother’s hand grab in the tray, causing the other ice cubes to jaunt and jingle. She would plop them in her drink, one by one, until the glass overflowed. The cubes would crack and cackle once they hit the vodka mixture and then quietly bump against each other. When she walked, the cubes would wobble lightheartedly as they pushed some of the liquid from the glass. I always knew my mother had made a drink when I either heard the ice cubes shriek or when my bare foot would step upon a small vodka puddle. When my father went to fill his occasional drink, the tray would be barren except for those small splinters. He would then quietly refill the tray and make more ice. His silence lasted until he noticed that I was using the ice too.

“Kathleen Anne! Fill the ice tray,” he would then yell.

One day, without me knowing, the position of ice maker had fallen to me. I wanted no part of it; I was not there when the decision was made to get a refrigerator without an ice machine. If I were there, I would have voted for the ice machine because even at a young age I would have known that it would be me, the youngest, which would suffer. If I were to fill the ice tray, it would be me forever. I see the past me, young with red cheeks and long blonde hair with homemade popsicles from the ice tray. My mother would pour orange juice and lemonade in the trays and stick popsicle sticks in. One of my teachers told me the water freezes because the molecules would slow down and then they would expand. I would wait for what seemed like years, starring up at the freezer, waiting for those water molecules to become lazy and fat. Would I have wanted an ice machine to steal that memory from me? Then again I see the future me, living in a built in freezer in my parents’ basement, shivering next an empty ice tray. I resisted, I would not get in between the ice cube battle.

I sighed heavily. I really want ice but I don’t want them to know that I filled the ice tray. If I fill it, I give in and my future of a walk in freezer life becomes a reality. I cursed my father for not buying that stupid fridge with an ice machine. I cursed my mother for putting that last ice cube in her drink, causing it to overflow when she could have left it in the tray. I cursed myself for not being able to drink water without ice. I reached to the ice mould tray and pried a few cubes from their square nest and plopped them in my glass. I grabbed another glass, filled it with water, and then poured it into the empty holes of the mould tray. I stood in the kitchen for what seemed like years, starring down at the freezer, waiting for those water molecules to become lazy and fat.

No one would ever know.