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  Riding Standing Up

  A Memoir

  Sparrow Spaulding

  Cage Free Publishing, Houston

  Copyright © 2018 Sparrow Spaulding

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Some names and other identifying characteristics of the people included in this memoir have been changed.

  For Raven

  If you find the mirror of the heart dull, the rust has not been cleared from its face.

  —Rumi

  Acknowledgements

  I’d like to deeply thank everyone who has played a role in the drama called “my life.” You have played your roles perfectly.

  Author's Note

  This book is also dedicated to anyone who grew up with parents who smoked in the car with the windows rolled up.

  Chapter 1

  Life was perfect. And when I say perfect I mean it in every sense of the word. A fairy tale. I’d even go as far as to say life was like that proverbial bowl of cherries—without the pits, even.

  When I was little I lived in a beautiful house with a loving mom, all the toys a girl could want, and a dad who was there when he wasn’t working or out with the guys. My maternal grandparents worshiped me. I was a pleasant child, healthy and smart for my age. My biggest problems in life were wondering why people were singing to me on my birthday—it freaked me out—and not liking how Mom put my potty chair in the middle of the living room in front of the TV. I felt a bit exposed.

  My mother was the most beautiful being I had ever laid eyes on. She had these amazing dark brown doe eyes and long, black hair. Stick straight. I later found out she ironed it with the same iron she used to iron Dad’s shirts though I never saw her do it. She was petite, almost waifish, and seemed to glide instead of walk when coming toward me.

  Mom was always smiling and giving me hugs and kisses. Every day she told me how much she loved me and every night she read me my favorite books. Are You My Mother was about a bird that leaves the nest in search of its mama. He goes around town asking everyone he meets, “Are you my mother?” They all answer no. Just when the bird is about to give up a big crane comes along, scoops it up, and puts it right back in its nest. Moments later its mother returns with food for her baby bird and all ends well.

  Hooray for Henry was about a young boy who is at his school’s field day. He puts off eating any of the wonderful food because he is so intent on winning a prize, but he doesn’t win anything and when he finally decides to eat all of the food is gone. Disappointed, he is about to leave when he hears there is one last contest—the pie-eating contest. He decides to enter, wins the contest and gets a prize. I loved hearing the happy endings of these books and I always went to sleep with a smile on my face.

  Mom never once got mad at me. Even when I sneaked off to poop in my big-girl panties, too intimidated to sit on a potty out in the open, she understood. She called out, “Spar-row, where are you?” as she wandered through the bedrooms. She always found me in the same hiding spot; underneath the Raggedy Ann table and chairs set in my room. I thought I was invisible under there. I could never figure out how she found me.

  When Mom went to work at a local beauty salon Grandma would come over to watch my younger brother Mikey and me. I loved being with my grandmother. She used to sing to me, though most times it was in Italian and I didn’t understand it. I followed her like a baby duckling. I remember loving her scent—a blend of oregano and sweat, with a touch of something sweet. My aunt said it was her diabetes that gave her that sweet smell but I loved it just the same.

  As I told you, life was perfect. I was an enchanted princess, as all two-year-olds are supposed to be.

  Chapter 2

  Life was still cherries the day it happened. It didn’t matter that Dad was no longer living with us and that I didn’t know where Mikey was—for the first time in almost a year I had Mom all to myself. She doted on me and never let me out of her sight. I reveled in every minute of the extra love and attention she lavished on me. Being a curious kid I must have asked at some point where the “boys” were and Mom probably gave some vague response like, “You’ll see them soon, Sparrow.”

  I was feeling extra happy that morning because we were on our way to get donuts. Mom and I were holding hands in the parking lot when it happened. Dad ambushed us from behind. In one fell swoop he shoved my mother to the ground hard with his right arm and scooped me up forcefully with his left. I didn’t realize it was my own father stealing me until he tossed me into the backseat of the car and I saw his manic face.

  My eyes were on Mom as she lay twisted on the pavement, hurt and screaming. “Mommy!” I cried as I beat my palms against the glass, wailing from the depths of my little soul. Dad hurried into the driver’s seat and sped away. As Mom got smaller and smaller my terror grew because I feared I wouldn’t see her again for a very long time.

  I don’t remember the entire car ride to Nana’s house. Well, trailer. She lived in a tiny town in upstate New York so it took a few hours to get there. I heaved and sobbed for a very long time and must have cried myself to sleep.

  Nana was Dad’s mom and truth be told I never liked her. She was an uptight woman with silver hair and flaming red lips. And the lady liked her booze. She was the local Avon rep so she always smelled like a toxic combination of cheap perfume and even cheaper gin.

  Nana had a stiff face. Botox wasn’t on the market yet, but when she smiled she looked like someone was sticking a gun to her head and ordering her to smile. She never smiled with her eyes, at least not in my presence. She must have had her reasons, but try telling that to a three-year-old.

  To make matters worse she also played the organ. Badly. Perhaps she was good at it and I just hated the sound. The music was eerie and became downright ear-piercing when her gray poodle Montague howled along.

  Nana wasn’t playing the organ when we arrived, but she was drinking and has that stiff look on her face. Mikey was sleeping in a playpen in the living room.

  “What are you gonna do now?” she asked.

  “I’m taking the kids down South.”

  “You’re outta your goddamned mind.”

  She didn’t seem happy with him even though Mom swore Nana couldn’t stand her. Mom had grown up in the city and my dad was from the sticks. His family couldn’t handle my mom’s big hair, overdone makeup, and brightly painted talons she called fingernails. And I’m sure Mom didn’t have an outdoorsy bone in her body. Even so I don’t think Nana approved of Dad’s decision to kidnap his own children.

  Chapter 3

  Mom won’t talk about her past these days. Even if I ask delicately it usually ends up with her crying and saying she has to go. I’ve asked questions over the years and have gotten some answers but to be honest there are still details that will forever remain fuzzy.

  My mom was born in 1950 and grew up in a rundown neighborhood near Harlem that was mostly Italian and Hispanic. She was the third of four children, beautiful and full of life. She was a devout Catholic girl and spent much of her time with the nuns at church. Her dream was to join the convent but her mother told her, in no uncertain terms, she was to get married and have babies like all good Italian girls.

  When she was twelve her parents decided to leave the city and move to Long Island. It wasn’t the booming place it is today. From what I gather it was much like moving to the country. They purchased a modest three-bedroom house and she lived there unti
l she married my father.

  When Mom hit her teenage years she became rebellious. Her parents were overbearing and she wouldn’t stand for it. They say middle children either become peacemakers or problem children. Mom definitely became the latter, especially when compared with her two older siblings who never disobeyed. Mom’s older sister, Maria, was overweight and hirsute, and according to Mom a total bookworm with zero friends. She never gave her parents any grief. They didn’t get along at all, which makes me wonder why Mom chose her as my godmother. I guess she didn’t have much choice. Mom’s older brother, Antonio was a good Italian mama’s boy who never did anything wrong in his parents’ eyes either, unless you count forcing himself on Mom and taking her virginity, but she never told a soul about that.

  Mom admits she got married in order to get out of the house. She was introduced to Dad by a relative and the sparks flew—at least for Dad. Mom was, in fact, taken with my father, who could be quite charming in his way, but her true love and high school sweetheart had gone to Vietnam and she was left with tough choices. She chose Dad.

  Dad was born in upstate New York in 1946. His dad was French Canadian and his mother was English. I know almost nothing of my father’s youth except for one story of how his mother tied him to a tree when he was out of control. I don’t recall who told me that story, though if true, it would explain a lot. I also heard that my dad never actually graduated high school but instead joined the Navy. Word was he had gotten into some trouble.

  He was the third of four children also, just like Mom. He was whip smart but not very disciplined. Dad could build anything, fix anything, and solve the world’s problems. He was handsome and a smooth talker—a real charmer. He just couldn’t control his drinking or philandering. Or his vengeful, scheming mind.

  Dad also grew up Catholic and was an altar boy. It wasn’t a great experience for him. He renounced all religion in his adulthood and when he would have one too many drinks he would talk shit about this one priest who used to make Dad wash his feet. I’ve often wondered what else he had to wash.

  On the surface it must have seemed like my parents were the perfect couple. They were both attractive, up-and-coming and easily the best-dressed pair in any room. They had a nice home, two dogs, and a boy and a girl. We were a seventies bell bottom version of a Norman Rockwell painting.

  Even though Dad had a temper and liked his drink Mom said they would have stayed together had it not been for the cheating. Mom told me how she found little hints here and there, but of course this was before cell phones and the internet so all she had to go on were clues—a number in his wallet, a matchbook from an out-of-the-way bar. After several years of wondering, she finally decided to set my father up and see if he’d take the bait. She convinced an attractive girlfriend to approach my father at one of his local hangouts and try to take him home. Her brilliant plan worked and my mother was waiting in the parking lot as Dad walked out of the bar with his arm around Mom’s friend. He was caught red-handed. She described how he tried to make excuses and talk his way out of it but she was done.

  Dad was devastated and did everything he could to get her back. He was one of those men who really loved the idea of a wife and family and thought there was nothing wrong with an occasional piece on the side. He was a successful salesman and believed his duties as husband ended with providing an upper-middle-class lifestyle. He couldn’t sell that philosophy to Mom.

  It wasn’t long after that Mom reconnected with Frank, her high school sweetheart. Mom dated quite a bit in school but Frank was her one true love. He was back from Vietnam. Shot in the chest, in shell-shock, addicted to heroin and alcohol. And still in love with Mom.

  Dad moved out and quite soon after Frank moved in. The house was rather empty because Dad took a lot of the furniture. It was drafty and cold, but that could have been because someone left a window open. Or maybe Mom didn’t pay the electric bill. Frank’s brother Artie stayed over from time to time but I don’t know where he slept—most likely on the sofa.

  Mom said Dad was overcome with jealousy and rage when he was replaced so quickly, especially with someone from her past. Dad said Mom was partying and not taking care of my brother and me properly. I’m sure both are a little true. I do know Mom was awarded custody of us in the divorce. But the law didn’t matter to my dad. He was a rule-breaker from day one. Dad did what (and who) he wanted to do. A few years back I found out from Dad’s second wife that he confessed to cheating on my mother on their honeymoon. Mom was in the hotel salon getting her hair styled and Dad had his way with the chamber maid.

  I’ve heard from more than one family member that kidnapping my brother and me was not my dad’s idea. It was my grandmother’s plan. No, not Nana—she was too busy with her Beefeater and Skin So Soft. I’m referring to Mom’s mom, who was so small and cute that everyone called her Bunny. Why would a mother help her son-in-law steal her own daughter’s children? It seems so outrageous and cruel, like something that would take place on an episode of Dynasty or in a Lifetime movie of the week— not in real life.

  I don’t know why she did it. Or how she convinced my grandfather to go along with her scheme. All I have are bits and pieces. Over the years I have put some key elements together and a few things make sense, sort-of.

  For many reasons my grandparents grew to resent my mother. She became the family scapegoat. She was the middle child, sweet and quiet at first, excited to one day join the convent. But it wasn’t long before puberty came and she blossomed into a stunning young woman. By the time she was fifteen everyone was taking notice of her, including her brother.

  I don’t know how old she was when the abuse started but she insisted it went on a long time. I can’t imagine that no one else knew about it considering the tiny house her family lived in, but I wasn’t there and can only guess at these things. There were three girls and one boy and if you know anything about Italian mothers and their sons they are right up there with the Pope. I asked Mom several times over the years why she didn’t tell someone what was going on and she always accused me of “blaming the victim.” I wasn’t trying to blame her; I just wanted to know what stopped her from standing up for herself. She never gave me an answer.

  It’s possible her brother was putting the moves on their older sister too. Mom told me a rhyme he taunted Maria with when their parents weren’t around:

  Maria, Maria, don’t say no

  Down the cellar we will go

  Put your ass against the wall

  Here I come balls and all

  Won’t your mother be surprised

  When she sees your belly rise

  Won’t your father be disgusted

  When he sees your cherry’s busted.

  Lord only knows how many cherries my uncle busted, especially within his own family. It might explain why Maria went on to eventually develop Paranoid Schizophrenia. The story is that she drove her husband so crazy with her delusional ways he killed himself with a shot gun in their minivan at the nearby landfill.

  I always loved Uncle Duke. He was kind and even-tempered. I was starting college at the time and Maria had called to tell me she wanted to help pay my tuition with the insurance money. I said “No, thank you” and never spoke to her again. Even at that age there was no way I wanted anything to do with blood money.

  By the time Mom was sixteen she had discovered boys, or they discovered her. She dated a lot and used to tell me stories of how her parents would embarrass her when boys came over. One story that sticks out is how my grandmother refused to take down the garlic she hung over the front door to ward off evil spirits. Mom says it reeked and she often dated Jewish boys, like Jimmy Cline, who didn’t understand her family’s superstitions. Mom said she refused to date Italians because she had grown up with enough “greasy Guineas” around and couldn’t stand the “hairy bastards,” which infuriated her parents.

  Mom went from rebellious to defiant in her teen years and would sneak out, stay out past curfew, and hang out with
friends—boys and girls—her parents didn’t approve of—which was pretty much everyone. Mom said unless they were fat and Italian her parents wouldn’t accept them. She also had a lot of black friends which caused her father to become unglued. They weren’t allowed at the house, not that she would ever invite them. Mom was too ashamed of the yelling and fighting that went on in her home so she kept everyone away as much as possible.

  Mom smoked cigarettes, wore miniskirts, and mouthed off when she felt attacked. She had big hair, heavy eyeliner, and tall shoes. Her parents thought the best way to handle her was to raise their voices and fists. Mom told me a story of how she had come home late one night and her father was waiting up for her. He hid behind the door and as she was sneaking in he grabbed her, threw her down and kicked the shit out of her. Repeatedly.

  Mom graduated high school in 1968 and enrolled in beauty school. She became quite a successful cosmetologist and had her career launched when she met Dad. He charmed my grandparents effortlessly. They saw him as the man who would tame Mom and force her to settle down. Though he wasn’t Italian they overlooked it because he was Catholic. And he had that winning smile.

  It seemed like things were going fairly well for a while. Mom and Dad settled into their house after the wedding. Mom says she tried real hard to have me. Sadly, she had a miscarriage almost a year before I came along. It was horrible for her because her baby fell into the toilet while she was peeing. Dad was away on a ski trip and Mom freaked out, fished out the baby (I don’t know with what) and took herself to the hospital—but not before she packed a bag and put on a full face of makeup. She said she wasn’t going to the hospital looking like some wombat. When she got there she put on her best nightgown and smoked cigarettes in her hospital bed. She said the doctor told her it was fine. I often wonder what life would have been like with an older sister. Evidently it was a girl.