2nd memoir piece

The Last Laugh
Cheryl Tiegs and I huddled on the green Formica counter in the upstairs bathroom. The more I stared at her straight blonde hair, perfect nose and flawless skin immortalized on the June 1963 Seventeen cover, the more desperate I felt. I took an inventory of my face in the three-way mirror. Broad nose, curly hair, big pores and a mole sprouting hair on my chin. This was no magazine cover.
“Where the heck do I start?” I demanded.
“Why don’t you try the hair coloring we bought yesterday at Rexall?” my younger sister Becky suggested from her perch on the closed toilet seat.
After spending an hour studying the labels of various hair coloring, we had settled on Summer Blonde that Clairol promised would produce a “sun-kissed” natural look.
“It’s got to be better than the lemon juice,” Becky laughed.
I glared at Beck, remembering the plump lemon head lice I'd had for two days after I'd tried to lighten my hair with unstrained lemon juice.
Maybe you should ask Mom to help,” Becky suggested.
“No way,” I hissed, “She’ll just tell me that I’m too young to mess with my hair. Besides I used to have blonde hair as a kid, so I’m sure it will work.”
“Okay,” Becky replied, “But she’ll be really mad if you mess up your hair.”
“How can I mess up this curly crap on my head?” I groaned.
Easily. I was so busy trying to transform myself into Cheryl Tiegs that I didn’t read the directions. “Brunettes get sun-bronzed. This natural color has red/gold tones that may show up when you lighten.”
“Beck, do you think Mom will notice?” I wailed.
“Well, your hair is pretty orange,” she admitted.
“What were you thinking?” Mom demanded all the way to the beauty parlor to have my hair dyed. “You have beautiful curly hair that other girls would love to have.”
“Yeah right,” I muttered, “maybe dorks like Mary Sue Bembe, but I want straight blonde hair. I hate this Squirrelly Temple look.”
“Oh Ter,” Mom chuckled, “You are my funny sunshine girl.”
The next week I was back on the counter and Becky on the toilet seat as I tackled my face. I had a movie date with Dickie Rausch to see Sean Connery in From Russia With Love, and I wanted to look great. I rolled my hair on giant orange juice cans to straighten it and set to work.
“Blend the concealer on either side of the bridge of your nose to minimize the width,” Becky read from the Cover Girl directions.
This time it had taken several hours at Rexall to plough through all the makeup possibilities. I slathered on the concealer and then began on the foundation.
“A light touch is best,” Becky directed. “Geez, Ter, that doesn’t look like a light touch. You look like you just finger painted your face."
hut up,” I snapped. “I have these huge pores to cover up.”
“Okay, it’s your face, but I think it looks stupid,” Beck giggled.
So did Dickie Rausch. When he picked me up, he started snickering because he thought I had done my makeup as a joke.
“Great,” I thought. “Funny girl again!”

By the time I was born, my older sister Lexi was the beautiful family ingénue just because she looked like a “separated at birth” twin of young Natalie Wood. I looked like a moon-faced hydrocephalic baby. That knocked out adorable younger sister, so I became the funny sidekick. Not exactly sidekick, more like second banana—a zany Jerry Lewis to Lexi’s sophisticated Dean Martin. Mom says that Lexi hid under the dining room table and begged her to send me back when I came home from the hospital. A few years later, Lexi convinced the neighbor girls to hang curtains on the basement clubhouse windows, so I couldn’t even watch their secret rituals.
“Mom,” I whined, “Lexi won’t let me in the club with the Moore girls.”
“Tattletale,” Lexi muttered as Mom jerked her out of that soon to be defunct club whose sole purpose was excluding me.
Lexi was undeterred. She cast herself in the starring roles in our backyard productions, and I’d find myself on top of the rotating clothesline sprinkling her from a watering can as she strolled underneath twirling an umbrella and warbling, “Singing in the Rain.”
“Mom,” she screamed, “ Terry isn’t sprinkling right. She’s trying to drown me.” “Ha,” I thought, “serves her right for sticking me on top of this creaky clothesline. Again!”

When Becky arrived as the adorable youngest sister, the typecasting was complete—pretty Lex, funny Ter and easygoing Beck. Dad’s 8 mm home movies are a silent testament to my early talent. I flash by in my favorite orange and gray-striped varsity sweater wrestling my younger sister Becky to the ground as I help her feed stupefied pigeons in a Washington park. Or I grin toothily into the lens as the camera pans from the waving hand of my baby brother Mike to me firmly attached to his elbow. Minutes later, I burst from our creme and green two-toned Chevy laughingly modeling my scratchy crinoline Easter dress.
The sound track was even better. I would introduce my visiting grandfather as “Peter Darago—he’s Hungarian and his teeth come out at night.” My early role model was Eve Arden as “Our Miss Brooks” who always knew just the right zinger to unleash on her principal Mr. Conklin. I laughed at Lucy’s silliness and Gracie’s daffiness, but I loved the wise-crackingly witty Miss Brooks who always bested the competition with a bon mot. Who cared if Libby Kimball with her button nose played Scarlett O’Hara in our seventh grade production of Gone with the Wind? I was the eye-rolling Prissy who got all the laughs by exclaiming,” Lawzy… I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout birthin’ babies.”
Getting the laughs felt like approval then, and maybe it still does. Despite those hours locked in the upstairs bathroom with my beauty acolyte Becky trying to transform myself into the “pretty one,” I’m still the family Funny Girl. Now, however, I don’t feel desperate about my role but relish it. I’m the one who could make my Dad laugh despite his crippling Parkinson’s. I’m the one who can cheer Mom up when she’s feeling her 80 years. I’m the one who calls my brother Mike with a silly, “What’s happening, Maxie Man?” and gets a laughing reply. My family counts on my sense of humor and quick wit, and I like making them smile. Health experts say that laughing keeps you young. Maybe that’s true because now people often tell me how pretty my skin is or how much they like my curly hair. Funny isn’t it?

1st memoir piece umpteenth revision

Resurrection

“Dad’s atomic clock is dying,” I cried as I ran out into the living room.
Sighing, my husband Drew put aside the newspaper, glanced at the clock and went out to the freezer for AA batteries. Slowly, the clock pulsated back to life, but the date blinked 1/1, and the time wavered between :58 and 12:30.
*********************************************************
Dad was always a difficult person to buy for—so self-effacing that he never seemed to want or need anything.
“You kids just keep your money to buy yourselves something,” he replied when we asked what he wanted for Christmas or his birthday.
So, we kids plied him with Old Spice products; soap on a rope, talcum powder, cologne and deodorant; or button-down shirts, white when he was still working, soft blue checks once he retired; or sometimes more adventurous choices like blue jeans or Pittsburgh Steelers slippers.
No matter what the box contained, Dad grinned crookedly and exclaimed, “This is what I always wanted!”
But I think he meant it when he opened the atomic clock.
I bought the clock at Tuesday Morning when I was searching for something for Dad’s birthday. My once indomitable Dad was struggling more and more to bathe, dress and walk by himself, so Old Spice soap, a button-down shirt or slippers seemed like cruel reminders of what he was losing.
“It’s that Parkinson’s,” he explained as if the illness was just a thoughtless guest that had long overstayed his welcome. “I’m just fine,” he declared, “but that Parkinson’s is the problem.”
The atomic clock seemed just perfect—for Dad and his Parkinson’s with its oversized display of the time, date, day, moon phase and temperature.
“Oh, this is great,” Dad exclaimed when he unwrapped the present.
“But, it can’t be a true atomic clock. Must be a cheaper commercial one that uses radio frequency to get high-quality atomic-derived time. So if we put it in a place where it has a pretty unobstructed atmospheric path to the transmitter, I bet it will keep really accurate time and temperature.”

Dad was pretty measured himself--someone who tenaciously clung to calculable standards in an often-random world—a world he reinvented for us in our bedtime stories.
”Al, you’re going to get those girls are worked up,” Mom called up the stairs every night.
Dad hunkered in even closer for “the good part.”
“And then Punky Polovitch pooped green for a week after we found the dead man hanging in the woods behind our house on Midland Ave,” he chuckled.
“Dead man,” I screamed! This was even better than Punky and Dewey helping Dad rescue his younger brother Henry from the swollen creek when he fell off the bridge into a washtub floating by, and HE COULDN”T EVEN SWIM.”
“What did your Mom say when you told her?” I demanded.
“Oh, I didn’t tell her,” he shrugged. “After my Dad died in the mill accident when I was nine, Mom was busy with the ironing she took in and worrying about paying the rent, so I was in charge of my younger brothers.”
I gaped at my sisters—we were in charge of our younger brothers but we didn’t drag them into the woods, find dead men and jump into creeks to save people. Mom would find out, and she would kill us.
“That’s why I want you girls to really try in Mr. Ross’s swim lesson tomorrow,” Dad wound up, punctuating his personal Grimm fairy tale with a moral. “Swimming can come in handy.” And that was that—another life lesson fashioned from his hardscrabble childhood.
Then he would stretch out on floor between our beds to wait until we fell asleep. Dad would soon be snoring so loudly that the bedroom floor would be reverberating, and Mom would have to come up to wake him.
Dad could fall asleep anywhere, anytime. He said it drove his B-24 crew members crazy that the night before a mission, he could just lie down and “start sawing logs” while they lay awake waiting for the 3AM wake-up call.
“Doesn’t do any good worrying about something you can’t change,” Dad said whenever I told him that I was afraid of an upcoming test or recital.
“Just do your best; just do your best,” he added.
And Dad always did his best—for all of us.
He was the constant meridian in our chaotic household of six children, two grandparents, one wife and numerous pets.
.
When Dad moved into an assisted living residence, his atomic clock moved with him and sat on his bedside table near the window. I would arrive for a visit and find Dad with the Weather Channel blaring and an oversized WWII airplane book splayed in his lap while he nodded in his recliner dreaming of his bombing missions.
“Hi Dad,” I said as I bent to kiss his cheek.
“Oh hi, Teri dear,” he whispered as he woke up.
On a good day, he glanced at the Atomic Clock and said, “It’s only 4PM, and it looks like it’s a nice sunny day and about 70 degrees, so why don’t we go out on the porch until supper.”
“Sure Dad, “ I’d replied as I steadied his arm while he slowly pushed his walker out to the porch.
The night Dad died, my family and I crowded into his small bedroom at the Household of Angels as he struggled to breathe. For the previous week, we had kept a vigil in round-the-clock shifts by his bedside as he lay unconscious and we talked, laughed, cried, ate, drank and slept with Dad, for the last time.
“Let go, Dad. Let go,” we whispered but he clung on for eight days.
The essence of Dad was all that was left—a distilled spirit captive in a shrunken, emaciated and almost unrecognizable body. Despite the indignity of sharing the last twenty years of his life with “that Parkinson’s,” Dad left on his own terms and at his own time. As I watched him stop struggling and his spirit sprung free, I glanced over at the Atomic Clock: 10:40 PM 5/19/06 FRI 72 degrees. “Perfect timing, Dad,” I whispered. “It looks like there’s an unobstructed path to the Transmitter.”

************************************************************
I grabbed the newly revived clock from Drew and raced outside to put it in the sun. Miraculously the display began to re-emerge: 10:23 9/7/07 FRI 87.8 degrees. I cradled the clock as I walked back inside and propped it in the window above my desk where it has safeguarded me for the last fifteen months. I think a GPS would position my desk window as southeast but I know that my atomic clock is facing north—true north on a barely visible prime meridian.

1st memoir piece revised

Resurrection

“Dad’s atomic clock is dying,” I cried as I ran out into the living room.
Sighing patiently, my husband Drew put down the paper, glanced at the clock and went out to the freezer to look for AA batteries. Slowly, the clock began to pulsate back to life, but the date read 1/1, and the time blinked erratically between :58 and 12:30.

*********************************************************
Dad was always a difficult person to buy for--so maddeningly self-effacing that he never seemed to want or need anything.
“You kids just keep your money to buy yourselves something,” he’d reply when we would ask what he wanted for Christmas or his birthday.
So, we kids would ply him with Old Spice products; soap on a rope, talcum powder, cologne and deodorant; or button-down shirts, white when he was still working, soft blue checks once he retired; or sometimes really adventurous choices like blue jeans or Pittsburgh Steelers slippers.
No matter what the box contained, Dad would grin crookedly and exclaim, “This is just what I wanted!”
But I think he meant it when he opened the atomic clock.

I bought the clock at a Tuesday Morning several years ago when I was searching for something for Dad’s birthday. My once indomitable Dad was struggling more and more to bathe, dress and walk by himself, so Old Spice soap, a button-down shirt or slippers seemed like cruel reminders of what he was losing.
“It’s that Parkinson’s,” he’d explain as if the illness was just a thoughtless guest that had long overstayed his welcome. “I’m just fine,” he’d declare, “but that Parkinson’s is the problem.”
The atomic clock seemed just perfect—for Dad and his Parkinson’s. It displays the time, date, day, moon phase and temperature in large easy-to-read numerals.
“Oh, this is just great,” Dad exclaimed when he unwrapped the present. “But, it can’t be a true atomic clock. Must be a cheaper commercial one that uses radio frequency to get high-quality atomic-derived time. So if we just put it in a place where it will have a pretty unobstructed atmospheric path to the transmitter, it should keep very accurate time and temperature.”

Dad himself was pretty measured --someone who tenaciously clung to calculable standards in an often-random world. Dad’s childhood ended when he was only nine after his father died because of a steel mill accident. He started working every day after school and caddying on the weekends to help support his Mom and two younger brothers. This rock solid dependency defined Dad. When we were kids, he could always be counted on to be there when you needed him.
“Let go, Dad. Let go,” we’d scream over our shoulders as he ran behind our two wheelers newly released from the restraint of training wheels.
Dad though would trot behind us for what seemed like miles, refusing to let go and risk letting us fall. You’d look back and see him just grinning and hanging on.
He was the constant meridian in our chaotic household of six children, two grandparents, two parents and multiplying pets.

When Dad had to move into an assisted living residence, his atomic clock moved with him and sat on his bedside table near the window. I would often arrive for a visit and find Dad with the Weather Channel blaring and an oversized WWII airplane book splayed in his lap while he nodded in his recliner dreaming of his B-24 bombing missions.
“Hi Dad,” I’d say as I bent to kiss his cheek.
“Oh hi, Teri dear,” he’d whisper as he woke up.
On a good day, he might glance at the Atomic Clock and say, “It’s only 4PM, and it looks like it’s a nice sunny day and about 70 degrees, so why don’t we go out on the porch until supper.”
“Sure Dad, “ I’d reply as I steadied his arm while he slowly pushed his walker out to the porch.

The night Dad died, my family and I crowded into his small bedroom at the Household of Angels as he struggled to breathe. For the previous week, we had kept a vigil in round-the-clock shifts by his bedside as he lay unconscious and we talked, laughed, cried, ate, drank and slept with Dad, for the last time.
“Let go, Dad. Let go,” we whispered but he clung on for eight days.
The essence of Dad was all that was left with us that evening—he was shrunken, emaciated and almost unrecognizable as his winsome self. However, despite the indignity of sharing the last twenty years of his life with “that Parkinson’s,” Dad was leaving on his own terms and at his own time. As I watched him stop struggling and his spirit sprung free, I glanced over at the Atomic Clock: 10:40 PM 5/19/06 FRI 72 degrees. “Perfect timing, Dad,” I whispered. “It looks like you have an unobstructed path to the Transmitter.”

*****************************************************

I grabbed the newly revived clock from Drew and raced outside to put it in the sun. Miraculously the display began to re-emerge: 10:23 9/7/07 FRI 87.8 degrees. I carried the clock lovingly back inside and propped it in the window above my desk where it has watched over me for the last fifteen months. I think a GPS would position my desk window as southeast but I know that my atomic clock is facing north—true north on a barely visible prime meridian.

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Heh, this isn't too painful--a lot better than getting my ears pierced but definitely more confusing.