Brings Me Back

Memory is an imperfect thing. We are reminded of this all the time. On news reports, in movies and books, even when we wonder why our earrings don’t match after we most certainly put a matching pair on in the morning. I have worn rose colored glasses for many important events in my life. Sometimes I prefer it this way. There are times when you have to dig a little deeper, even if it is a scary thing to do. I have a core belief that people are essentially good, and that each of us can rely upon this inner goodness as a guide, one which will not lead us astray. We can trust the paths life offers us and we can trust ourselves to chart new courses, away from what we know.

My family has been so important to my life. To my understanding of who I am. The roles of daughter, granddaughter, sister, niece, cousin, and friend have shaped me into the woman I am and will somehow always send ripples out from the core of my sense of self to influence whomever I may come to be in this life, and maybe even the next. It’s been in this season of adulthood when I have come to understand that these roles are truly only one dimension of me. An essential, beloved dimension, and one which, I believe if properly explored, opens the door for me to become more of who I am, how I am, and know where I am to go, what I am to do, and who I am to become along the way.

The stories I share here are the most precious recollections of my most loved ones from these early decades of my life, cast in a light where I can bring their importance to me, and you, in a tale that represents the deep truth of my memories, if not the factual evidence of them. I have no regrets. There are moments when I could have moved more slowly, acted with greater kindness, but this wisdom came only from learning of its opposite through experience. The greatest gift I have to give is to want to be nowhere else other than where I am right now.

The gift of this life is precious, and brings memories to you like blossom petals on the wind – unexpected, beautiful, unpredictable, a joy. Just like blossoms, there’s no sure way of knowing when something lovely arrives, and when it will disappear. Years have brought me here, have offered me this wisdom. A better visual for my upbringing would be my collection of rhinestones and sequins I was endlessly procuring backstage at our numerous childhood dance recitals. And I am compelled to tell this story - my story, that it might last a little longer, on paper, on screen, and in the minds of those who read it. You’re only 16 once. C’est la vie. Carpe diem. These tropes people share only matter with perspective. The perspective that life brings when you’re paying attention. Believe me, it’s worth it.

Adulthood has many gifts; life has given me many strengths. And yet, there’s nothing like being a teenager in a small town, in the midst of family life before too many harsh realities arrive - the deaths of loved ones, the constant, discouraging flow of global news, and heartbreak. That small town life was mine as a teen. As I’m about my adult day, a stray song lyric in the grocery store aisle brings me back, to the summer sun of 1996. Strange how you always feel like you on the inside, no matter how old you are on the outside. Sixteen-year-old me is alive and well.

The summer of 1996 burns for me, and feels as present as yesterday. 1996 seems ages before the fears of Y2K, social media dangers, or the truth of so many wars. In my memory, it feels like a different world. No Wi-Fi. No social media. No work-related anxiety. Road trips with maps, creased and faded. Constant availability not yet a reality, having to await someone’s call on a landline or knock at the door. Permission, or maybe illusion, that not knowing for sure and getting lost along the way were part of life’s journey, a path of discovery. These are days dearly missed for me, their absence felt in my bones. In my memory, it seems a less-complicated time. Days filled with poolside gatherings, backyard barbecues, nights with lightening bugs and bonfires. No smart phones, no email, no worries. All my memories start and end here.

Perhaps that was simply the perspective of my youth, or the absence of access to it that just makes it seem so. In the midst of an ordinary day, I’m in the grocery store, adulting, and that stray song lyric overhead causes a rush of memories of that summer so many years ago. The trust imbued by a small town and closely-knit family emphasized this even more. Everything and everyone I hoped to know was close by. Even the challenges my teenaged self faced were brighter for the boy band music, glitter eye shadow and the iridescent, pastel butterfly hair clips of the late 90’s. The most surprising things in my adult life can bring me back to the late 90’s in a rush of memories. One of my favorite places to visit in my memory is the sun-drenched VA poolside in my own hometown, part of the park owned by the Veterans Affairs hospital.

Even through my tortoise-shell ray-bans, the midday sun stings my eyes in the peak of the June summer heat around me. I’m poolside at the best spot in my hometown – the VA pool. I play my fingers along the stacked, plastic wristbands on my arm, each a different color from different days spent on the VA Pool slide – my daily, all-access pass. Our small West Virginia town, riverside, nestled in the Appalachian Mountains, the skyline waveform along the peaks and valleys of the hills, and the cluster of evergreen and leafy green trees centers me and also gives me pause. The natural beauty both whispers and shouts. There is a steadiness here that anchors and spins. Mysteries abound in and around these old hills. But beyond these ages-old mysteries, the essential summer living is done here, at the VA park, specifically the pool, and nothing beats the bite of the twists of the cerulean blue plastic slide into the cool, chlorinated water. The green, blue, orange, pink, and white bands on my wrist corresponding to days of the week to grant me unlimited access testify to my love for it. Many of my friends have bands that match. Plastic stacks of bright colors buying me social summer clout. Even as teenagers, my friends and I still love The Slide.

Stretched out, face turned upward, the summer sun shines brightly overhead, and puffy clouds show me the spinning passage of time. I imagine the sun’s rays etching the band’s outlines into my skin. Given my Italian heritage, and deep olive skin tone, summer tans were a specialty of mine and I enjoyed wearing it well, even after hours and days doused in sunscreen. With a deep breath, I stretch the length of my Myrtle Beach boardwalk towel, depicting our family’s favorite vacation town, and think of my day, and take in my surroundings. I’m surrounded by the bright neon colors of bikinis and board shorts, jelly sandals and beach towels. An iridescent blue dragonfly made purposeful circles above my head. Laying on my beach towel, spread out on the sizzling concrete along the pool’s edge, I feel the burn of the cement beneath me (arriving earlier in the day would’ve bought prime chaise lounge real estate by the snack shack – purveyor of gooey nachos, melted candy bars, and soda pop),

Taking a deep breath, I smell summer all around me – The heady combination of sunscreen and chlorine rising up from the families crowded poolside, scattered reunion-goers barbecuing on the rusty outdoor grills near a dozen or so park shelters, named after local heroes, teenaged kids getting high behind the park’s band shell, less unnoticed than they knew, tired parents and motivated teenagers stirring up the fresh scent of cut grass by mowing the lawns of homes surrounding the cherished VA park and pool. The pool is encircled by a chain link fence, keeping the rest of the park at bay. Just beyond the tree line, the hospital stood. A major employer for our town. “Hook” by Blues Traveler plays over the pool speakers, a little tinny, but still clear. I imagine John Popper, the band, the harmonica. True to the song’s name, I’m hooked by the inflection in Popper’s voice. Just the fact that he’s singing beautifully makes the song beautiful. The hook brings me back - I ain’t telling you no lies.

To my right lies my mother’s little sister, my aunt, Beth Ann - but by her youth, being the youngest of our grandparents’ six children, she’s earned the moniker, Sissy, with her nieces and nephews - ten of us, including me. As a longtime daycare worker, she’s a notorious disciplinarian, often threatening to snatch us bald-headed, once grabbing me by my deep brunette curls to prove her promise true. Choosing early on to have no children herself, she highlights her career at the local daycare by indulging her nieces and nephews in some monthly adventures, like today’s trip to the pool, complete with pepperoni rolls, a delicacy in these parts, and Pepsi for an indulgent snack. Pepperoni rolls were created for the West Virginia coal mines, by the wives of the immigrant miners that descended into the deadly earth, as compact and filling food easily available every day. These doughy rolls red with pepperoni spice are like heaven when you’re hungry – even when you’re not hungry.

Sissy, like many women in our family, was for sure a dog mom before that was a bumper sticker term or hashtag to claim. She was tall, slender, and meticulous as a housekeeper, and her car was always in perfect condition – except for the strong smell of cigarette smoke. Even now, I’m struck by the depth of her heart to care for her nieces and nephews as she did, with a great sense of boldness and selflessness. I hear her shift next to me, and turn my face toward her as she carefully props herself up on a bronze elbow upon the towel-covered concrete, and lowers her sunglasses, her always-permed, frosted curls catching the glint of the summer sun.

“When is Duke picking you up, Chickadee?” She asks over the squeals and laughter rising up among splashes in the pool’s shallow water beside us. The deep-green, grassy hillside behind her is bursting with bushels of bright orange day lilies, heavy with blooms, pushing their petals through the chain link fence, and I notice now how they make the sharp interlocking shapes, a clear and defining sign of the 90’s, on her bright neon orange bathing suit pop. On purpose, I’m sure – Sissy does nothing unintentionally. Chickadee is Sissy’s nickname for me, which will resonate in my mind for years to follow. I watch her expertly balance both a can of Pepsi and a cigarette in one hand, while reaching for more tanning oil with the other. Mom often worked long shifts when I was younger, first as a cashier at a local convenience store, then as a nursing student, and finally as a nurse, and Sissy was my long-time babysitter and preschool teacher growing up. Because Mom was single then and worked the night shift as a nurse, I got extra time with Sissy.

In my mind I see Duke, my first serious boyfriend, and even now, my imagination runs away. There’s nothing like first love, especially at 16. He stands 6 feet tall, all tanned muscles, Curve cologne, and cherry red Mustang. A black, sharp-edged tribal tattoo, swirls and points, encircles his left bicep, peeking out from under his rolled flannel sleeve, a sure-fire way to earn his mother’s ire and his friends’ respect. He tells me it means family, and represents his love for his large Italian famiglia, but I think it has more to do with his image as a tough guy, and I love the glint in his gold-flecked chocolate-brown eyes when he thinks he’s getting away with it. He is forever singing when we’re together, sometimes knocking the waves of his dark black hair back and forth as he displays his faux mosh pit skills to Nirvana or Red Hot Chili Peppers. But more often, it’s a lilting rock ballad – Aerosmith as of late – that he’s belting out when we’re together. Duke’s grin- the one where he shows no teeth - is always a sure sign of his shyness, a charming trait that mostly falls away in my presence.

We started dating exclusively – gaining boyfriend/girlfriend status - over Miketmas break, and it still feels amazing and surprising that he chose me, that we found each other. I think you always feel surprised when someone you adore adores you back, no matter how old you are. I can vividly remember, even now, the feeling of calling my friends Lynn and Sarah from the kitchen landline phone, squealing, celebrating together about this new love in my young life, as I twirled the tightly-coiled phone cord around my fingers. I had only one other boyfriend before, which didn’t last long. I realized I was never much interested in spending time with him, and we broke up in the hall outside of my history classroom. He took it pretty well, and started dating someone new not long after. Sarah and Lynn had commiserated with me thoroughly with rom-coms and chocolate. I give silent thanks for being a heartbroken teenager before social media took self-esteem and well-being hostage on a regular basis. Quietly mourning and joyously celebrating my high school landAndrews with Lynn and Sarah was the way to go.

Duke was a year ahead of me in school. We weren’t in the same social circles in our high school, so it seems even more unlikely that we would ever start dating. Seeing Duke in all his James-Dean-esqueness, his chocolate eyes and shy grin, regularly in class and in passing after school led to short bursts of conversation in the cavernous hallways of our high school, and then he started asking me to lunch at what would become our favorite spot, The Pizza Place across the street. Our first ‘real date’ has been to a football game. Nothing like Friday night lights. I had been part of the marching band, twirling flags. After the half time show, Duke had parked himself along the fence line to talk with me through the second half. We won, and Duke took me for a slice at The Pizza Place. We kept seeing each other through the fall, and then Miketmas break arrived, when we made it high school official.

That was then, and now having a summer boyfriend for movies and dinners and road trips and backroad excursions was unbelievable and exhilarating. My imagination had not allowed for something so wonderful for myself – it was the rightful property of my friends, cousins, and characters I saw on screen. Even as an adult, expanding my imagination is one of the best things I can do. In the moment, as a teenager, imagining Duke’s warm, clear, olive skin, shining brown eyes, with glints of gold, and waves of rich chocolate hair, and I get the familiar slide of emotions through my center.

He's a mountain boy, for sure. Raised in the hollers and done his fair share of running ridges with his brothers and friends. Inwardly, he is solid, sufficient, kind, generous. Outwardly, he appears rebellious, easily cast as the tough guy in any film. His dark hair and olive skin told of the broad and deep Italian heritage of our small mountain town, built up around the local glass factory. We’re a town rich in bread, pasta, red wine, and European immigrant culture. Every year, people flood the valley for the Italian Heritage Festival. Vendors line Main Street with sausages, wine, pasta, fried bread, and cannoli. The hirsute and stylish brigade of Italian men dress in red, white, and green and sing and dance through the streets and upon the annually-constructed stage. The women drape themselves in flowing gowns, with myriad pageants for every age from newborn to matron – the big show, though, was the Regina Maria pageant. Occasionally, a mildly-aged-out celebrity would appear in the Saturday morning parade, perched upon the back of a polished green convertible from the local dealership.

My dad is part of the Tally-Rally planning committee. Dad stood tall, taller than made sense for our Italian family. He was in perpetual good shape due to his work in construction as a plumber. He wore huge garish belt buckles and trucker hats balanced on his bald head, belying his inner redneck nature. He and my stepmom loved to hitch their camper to the back of his truck and head to the beach. The Beach, in our town, always meant Myrtle. Dad’s work as a union plumber meant his handprints were on many of the buildings in town, including my elementary school and the local hospital. From the days when I was a girl, when we spent in the early morning hours at the mall, me running full-stop through the empty, echoing halls, he has been forever bugging me to try for Regina Maria, the beautiful town queen crowned every single Labor Day weekend. This was before we wandered into matinee shows in empty theaters, where Dad always made me laugh by pretending to bump his head when he opened the door, and that we had to search for seats, when he had our pick. I shared dad’s olive complexion, but my own dark curls and round face came from Mom’s Irish heritage. I had Dad’s coloring, but lacked Dad’s swagger, though, so I had shied away from the competition.

Sissy is still eyeing me, and I am ejected from my reverie. With a flick of her cigarette, she demands, “Are you listening to me, Chickadee?” She tapped her cigarette ash into an empty paper plate, grease-stained and very nearly transparent from our pepperoni roll lunch. An angel sticker peeled back at Sissy’s left hip, meant to give her a pale outline at her bikini-clad waistline, her hand absent-mindedly pressed it back into place as it continued to peel with the twist of her hip. I knew she was planning her day, when she would need to start dinner for Uncle Danny, who was fishing out on Lake Riley today, and take her sweet but sassy miniature pinschers Taz and Bubba for a walk. Being our youngest aunt, and choosing to love other’s children rather than have her own, Sissy was a kind-of all-purpose, big-sister sort-of ally in my summer adventures and willingly helping me with all kinds of questions, about life, about our family, and about her recipe for fettucine – or, as she called it, ‘cheenie’. Most recently, the questions I’ve had for her have been about my relationship with Duke, what she called my transition from girlhood to womanhood as I started dating.

“He’s picking me up at Nanny’s house after he gets off work. He’s on ‘til six,” I replied, finally able to disentangle myself from my warm reverie. Duke worked full time this summer at the corner store up route 98, The Mountaineer Mart. The roads wound tightly through the ancient Appalachian Mountains that surround our small community, and the mart settled in a curve above town, and served many in our community. My mother had worked there herself when she was younger. Once, a man robbed her, and rather than the cash, she handed over the entire drawer. Part grocery store, part gas station, part city gates for sharing news, gossip, and everything in-between, the mart was a local favorite, and Duke took great pride in being the town gatekeeper. Noticing my gaze, Sissy giggled and lowered herself back to her towel, tapping ash into yet another makeshift ashtray made of an upturned plastic soda cup lid.

“Best messes make the best memories, Chickadee.”

¬¬¬¬¬¬¬

Sissy and I departed the VA pool at the same time. Sissy was headed home to Uncle Danny for a fish fry, surely to be shared with the dogs. She gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek, and headed for her white Subaru station wagon. I sat and watched, grateful for my aunt, as she rolled down the window, turned up the country music, and lit another cigarette. For me, it would be a trip to the Meadowbrook Mall with my two best friends, Sarah and Lynn, then dinner at home with Mom, Doc, and the girls. The Meadowbrook Mall sits on a hilltop overlooking town. It was an 80’s monument, filled with the sound of buzzing neon and arcade machines, the smell of fried food and movie theater popcorn, and the odd comfort of overhead pop music and beige tile. I have many happy memories at the mall, like most 80’s babies do. This massive boom of consumerism has a reputation for ruining something good in our communities, putting small town mom and pops out of business, but for me this place is where I watched movies in the front row, munching on pretzels dunked in nacho cheese and Twizzlers, serving as straws for my pop, shared Chinese, Italian, and diner food with friends and family in the small dietary United Nations that is our food court, went back to school shopping with my mom, grandmothers, aunts, and cousins, saw the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus, posing for iconic family photos. The mall has become central to my town and my memories of it. It was and is a place of comfort, joy, and loads of fun.

Standing at the food court entrance, I see Sarah and Lynn approaching. Sarah spun as they entered the large mall doors, wearing a purple, sequined porkpie hat, with matching bowtie and tee shirt, and a shimmery, silver ankle-length skirt and ballet flats. Lynn still sported her basketball jersey shorts and top from practice, with her letterman jacket loosely draped over her shoulders and strikingly-clean high-tops. I can’t help but smile at the sight of my two lifelong friends. Sarah was lithesome, loyal, and wonderfully weird, writing poetry on her brown paper book covers she carried to class and streaking sparkles through her hair in preparation for band practice – she played the French horn. She had a penchant for science fiction and lusty romance novels, swiped from her mother’s bedside stand. At her last birthday, we had an orient express themed murder mystery dinner, complete with accents, costumes, and themed meal. She was unbothered by others’ opinions of her, one of the things that made me like her best. Even when she was standing still, she seemed to be dancing, her long limbs flowing, unsurprising as she was often a dancer in the Italian Heritage Festival parade. She was always guiding me in developing my womanly skills, hip thrusts and lip pouts, come-hither looks and flirty winks, nicknames and head tilts, and Lynn was quick to remind me of our Sunday School lessons, absorbed weekly since our earliest memories. Lynn was short and fit, the fastest runner on our school’s cross-country team. Her father was an award-winning distance runner, often traveling to races across the country. Her dark brown, board straight hair was pulled back from her face in boxer braids. Lynn was short, strong, reliable, and unfailingly kind. She stopped as she and Sarah entered the mall, holding the door to be sure a group of children caught up with their harried mother exiting the mall.

Having grown up with unmarried parents made me a bit of an outcast in our small town – Mom was not much concerned with what people thought of her choices, but she made the right ones for her, and for me. The thing that Lynn and Sarah had in common was that they were both the product of second marriages, with much older half siblings that sometimes came out for their plays and games. It was a fact that would become a helpful lesson for me for years to come, with two much younger half siblings myself, when I considered what kind of sister I wanted to be. The three of us not fitting the common nuclear family mold of many of our peers had unified us into a bouncy, bizarre little trio. We had our differences, which were complimentary in our high school endeavors. The convergence of their skills was sure to help me find a new dress for my date with Duke. We parted ways in the food court and came back to a shared table – me with cheese pizza, glistening with grease, the kind that folded in half for optimal eating, Sarah with sugar-covered soft pretzels, a sure sign of her sweet tooth, and Lynn with chicken souvlaki, a good fit for her upcoming cross-country run. We stabbed our straws into our plastic-topped paper cups, and dug into the food and to our conversation.

Sounds of the nearby arcade machines echoed over the conversational hum around us. I was so glad to see them. “Woman!” Sarah shouted across the table and over the din, “Look at those tan lines!” She let out a wolf whistle. Lynn giggled at the heads that turned for Sarah’s outburst, which of course Sarah did not mind. I gave a deeply serious model look and spun my arms for a better glance at my bronzed skin, and laughed with my friends. It didn’t take us long to finish our meals, and we set our trays atop the food court trash bins and set out for Maurice’s, my favorite clothing store at the far side of the mall. I looped arms with my girls on either side of me, and we giggled as we tumbled down the wide mall corridor. Sarah eyed several passing boys - clad in flannel and baggy cargo pants, bleached hair forcibly slicked back with superhuman strength hair gel - along our path, giving winks and flirty waves. Lynn pulled us aside for a quick glance at new running shoes, and didn’t seem to notice the boy behind the checkout counter noticing her. Sarah and I shared a knowing look, and I smiled. My friends would become lifelong sisters of sorts. Life would take us in different directions, years would pass, but these moments would still glue us together.

We entered Maurice’s and Sarah and Lynn became instant stylists. My skin freshly tanned from my pool time with Sissy, I stretched to glance at my every angle in the store’s dressing room mirrors. Sarah had handed me a silky, baby blue sundress to try on – a dress I never would have picked on my own. It was shimmery in the store’s fluorescent light. “Woman, it was on the sale rack,” she declared, thrilled with her find. Lynn also gave an approving smile. I was so excited that my friends thought I could pull this dress off – I headed off to the dressing room. I had always thought myself too big and awkward for shimmery sundresses, and even for dating. Yet the summer sun and laps in the pool gave me a pleasing sensation when I slipped on the dress and looked in the mirror, and a boost to my confidence for dresses, and for Duke.

I excitedly changed back into my shorts and tee shirt and headed for the register, my hard-earned babysitting dollars going to good use. Sarah and Lynn insisted on a stop by the photo booth before we headed out the door to the parking lot. We couldn’t stop giggling as we rushed the booth and fed our money to the machine. We parted ways, strips of black and white snapshots in hand, with embraces and laughs, both of them needling me about my dress and Duke’s appreciation of it on our date that night. I climbed into my bright pink Ford escort and headed down the mountain side and onto the freeway that would take me home.

As I buzzed down the road, singing along to the boy band songs pumping through the car speakers, I thought of how life had changed over the last few years. The freeway gave way to our small town, and town gave way to suburban neighborhoods. I drove through the gates of our neighborhood and waved at some passing walkers. Our two-story, red brick Tudor sitting north of the Clarksburg Country Club, overlooking the ninth green soon emerged into view. As I pull my sweet Princess car into the driveway, I sigh deeply. The reality of this home still surprises me, especially the me whose mother fought to afford clothes that would fit and counted McDonald’s as an expensive treat. Truly, it probably surprised my parents too. The five bedrooms, three bathrooms, and expansive yard seem almost too much. It’s true what they say, that sometimes your mind has to catch up to your circumstances.

Before Mom and Doc married, the country club was another world – and a great distance from the home Mom and I shared with her mother, Nanny. The Clarksburg Country Club, called the triple C around town, was the height of cultural sophistication in Clarksburg and the surrounding counties, with rich Cabernet-colored carpet and thick bands of mahogany wood wrapping the rooms. With the ivy-covered wallpaper, it always felt a little bit like Miketmas. The emerald-colored golf course greens were where business deals were made, the downstairs pro shop was where birthday gifts were bought, and the elaborate banquet hall where legendary birthday parties were held. As our summers transitioned to accommodate our new family in recent years as my baby sisters, Jamie and Olivia, were born. We now spent endless hours poolside at the triple C swimming, snacking, and sunning. Our pets filled the house with added entertainment, especially Ellie Mae, our senior boxer girl. I loved helping with my sisters, as they learned to walk, talk, and also finding nooks and crannies in my room to display their artwork. It was lovely. But as much as I appreciate the beauty of the Triple C, I still loved the crowd of the VA pool and the burn of the big sloping plastic slide on hot summer afternoons. Walking in the house, I headed up the stairs to my bedroom and unloaded my purchases from the mall onto my pink checkered bedspread. I reflected on the events that led our family here.

Mom and my stepfather, Doc met on a blind date six years ago. Mom worked as a float pool nurse, took me regularly to church, and looked out for me in the day-to-day of our extended family’s busy and bustling lives. She has our loud family laugh, long strawberry blonde hair, and freckles. Her faith and her nursing degree had separated her from the rest of our family for many years. She had been baptized in the muddy West Fork River by my aunt’s Pentecostal preacher grandad, and she regularly recounted miracles at home and at work. Doc was tall, slim, stoic, and intelligent. He was finishing medical school when they met. He was the rationalist to Mom’s idealistic believer. He taught me how to use a microscope, find the stars through a telescope, and play chess. They both grew up in the same town, worked at the same hospital, bowled at the same lanes, and hadn’t met until a friend set them up when both were in training.

In my mind’s eye, I still see Doc entering the front door of Nanny’s house for the first time. He was dressed to the nines in his tweed blazer and leather loafers, picking Mom up for what would become their signature dinner at Eat-N-Park, a local all-night diner. Months later, and one night Nanny shook me awake in my pastel-toned canopy bed to tell me Mom and Doc were engaged. All these memories, and some of the simplest ones came back to me, any given moment and I can remember our first game of chess, Doc teaching me the purpose of each plastic piece on the board.

Having grown up and worked in the same small town, it seems miraculous that they did not meet until that night. And that night changed their world, and mine as well. Mom was just finishing nursing school and Doc was completing medical school. Coming from a medical family in a small town is common, the hospital being a major employer, but having both parents employed there was unique. Together, their jobs did that thing my sociology teacher at school insisted was impossible, and rocketed us into a different social stratum.

Walking into the spacious red kitchen, detailed in farm animals and black and white checkerboard patterns, meticulously planned by Mom over the past four years, I found my family preparing for their evening. And I found myself sorting chores and helping Mom prepare for dinner - a rich, deep dish of ricotta filled manicotti and spinach salad tossed with strawberry dressing, cheesy garlic bread knots and chocolate cupcakes, hand-dunked in sprinkles by my sisters, to follow. Doc would declare it delicious but snuffy - meaning not Italian-made. I didn’t dare say a word about having already eaten at the mall with Lynn and Sarah. As for Doc’s snuffy claim, Mom would contend that I was in the kitchen, so that counted. I would smile, sigh, and set the table. My mother’s deeply entrenched faith meant she would be heading for church following our meal together, and I could see her mind working its way through her list of to-dos. A forever unchanging fact of my mother’s life, no matter the ladder rung she was standing on, is her love of Miket and her comfort of leading the women volunteers of the church, not unlike how she leads our family.

Before meeting Doc, Mom regularly took me to an evangelical church on the edge of town. It looms large in my memory, with an auditorium-style worship center, rows of chairs serving as pews, inside an expansive building sunk into the holler at the end of a long dirt road. I remember well the vacation bible school one summer when I was about eight where our tiny toddler legs marched around the very imposing walls of Jericho until the adults knocked down the cardboard blocks from inside the circle. Nothing quite like knowing your words and actions can knock walls down to help form your sense of self. Faith is a significant part of my sense of self. My mother imbued me with the truth of God’s great, unending love and knowing of me.

Jamie and Olivia, my darling baby sisters, all sticky smiles and blonde ringlets, are sitting at the table with my stepdad. Mom grabs her purse and calls my name, and she and I make a last-minute run on the backroads to Aunt Gay’s, to pick up some fresh rhubarb for a pie. No doubt for some time with my cousins also. We climbed into Mom’s black Volvo station wagon and buzzed the twisty gravel roads that cut between our neighborhoods. Mom pumped the volume on a twangy country song and I sang along as we took the sharp left turn that led to Aunt Gay’s well-manicured red brick ranch, surrounded in glorious detail by her abundant gardens. The stunning colors of her flowers, fruits, and vegetable burst forth from nearly every stretch of green – with the exception of the fabulous side-yard hill where we took the seasonal sports of sledding and slip-n-sliding seriously. I leaned forward and unbuckled my seat belt, and Mom gave me a quiet urge not to take long with my cousins, so that we could make it back home for supper.

Aunt Gay is mom’s older sister, with Sissy the youngest, and two brothers above them, my farmer uncles, Scott and Andrew. Aunt Gay was a master chef, expert baker, and green-thumbed gardener. Her big laugh and bigger red curls were her hallAndrew, in addition to her homemaker skills. The sprawl of Aunt Gay’s garden extending along the house’s porch-side landscaping caught my eye with its pink and yellow blossoms and ripening tomatoes. I bounced down the aging concrete stairs that cut around the side of the house, and bound past my cousins’ tangled trio of bikes, toward the basement that housed my cousin Amber’s room. My cousin, tall and blonde, was and is the perpetual leader of our cousin troupe. She was just finishing redecorating her room in leopard print. Not my taste, but here, for her, I loved it.

My cousin, and Amber’s sister, Michelle was stretched across the bed. Michelle’s petite figure was swallowed up in a fluffy white robe. They were, or course, draped in towels, faces covered in mud masque. They always were great beauties. Michelle scootched in millimeters so as not to disrupt her spa treatment, or the family cocker spaniel, Duke, and made space for me on the spacious, fluffy, leopard-toned bed. Amber rapturously massaged a rich-smelling pink and glitter cream – in the 90’s we loved to shimmer – into her skin, regaling me with the benefits of the rose water and thyme ingredients. In the midst of her stories about life in their house, all three of us laughed uproariously, the big, unencumbered laugh shared by everyone in our family.

Like everyone in our family, this was a household filled with pets. One of the family cats, a black and a caramel-colored feline named Alice, perched in the small basement window above Amber’s vanity mirror. In the midst of our beauty review, Mom calls me from upstairs, where she was catching up with Aunt Gay, as well as our uncle’s wife, Aunt Jane, and tiny cousin Betsy, chin-height at the table with her burning red curls and toothless grin. I double-time up the ancient stone steps and give a quick hello to the circle of women at the table, as I headed out the side door and slide into the passenger seat of Mom’s waiting car, where she is already stashing a basket of rhubarb on the back seat.

On the drive home, Mom regaled me with the stories she caught at my aunt’s kitchen table. She tapped out the beat to a Tanya Tucker song on the steering wheel, and told me that we would have a weekend of riding at Uncle Andrew’s. My uncles, Scott and Andrew, both tended dozens of horses. A weekend on the family farm would be bliss – swimming in the pond, jumping off the tire swing into the water, a slew of homemade dishes, and clear sky for stargazing.

Back in our beautiful, cluttered kitchen, Mom served us the delicious meal of manicotti, green salad with strawberries and poppy seed dressing, and garlic knots, followed by cupcakes, but she didn’t keep us long at the dinner table, as she was clearly rehearsing her upcoming bible study on the book of John as we cleared the dishes and put away leftovers. I was glad to help clean up, gently mopping red sauce from my sisters’ hands and faces, and gladly receive a quick ‘depression’ hug - Mom’s requisite squeeze to abate any of my potential teenage sadness, learned from her great batch of parenting books - before she dropped me off at Nanny’s house on her way to church.

Then, Duke.

Nanny’s house was a compact three-bedroom home with clean white siding, a porch built with the collaborative efforts of my uncles and cousins, and a gorgeous yard my aunts and my mother diligently filled with fresh flowers every Mother’s Day weekend. The sloping backyard hill was framed with dense woods, perfect for sledding, the creek that ran out front, an adventurous hike for my Barbie dolls growing up, and the dead-end street that kept life here quiet. Goodness, I love this house.

Nanny is a nurse who spent years caring for patients at the state mental hospital. She was prone to swearing, singing, dating, and dancing. Her auburn hair set in a permanent not unlike Sissy’s. Mom and I had lived here for a decade, before she married Doc. Nanny bought this house when Mom was pregnant with me, and all my memories start within these walls. Nanny’s house was one that had been sealed down the middle after being delivered on two large trucks. She purchased this home when Mom was expecting me, and it’s this story that I grew up loving to hear – it seemed like the house itself existed to welcome me – then, now, and always.

Outside in her spacious yard were cherry trees, ripe with fruit every spring, rose bushes with blooms in every color, carefully selected, curated, and cared for by my grandfather, and my childhood playhouse, cut and built by Nanny’s current boyfriend, George. The swing set my cousins and I had tumbled on as children was still standing, now put to good use by my sisters during their visits. The siding had been changed from white to green, but it was still my first home.

Duke would be picking me up at Nanny’s that evening. Nanny’s was a sort of family safety net, with the wide back yard and full and gorgeous blooms in the front, it was an obvious beacon to me as we pulled in the drive. I have so many memories here. Saturday morning cartoons and sugary cereal after sleepovers, Miketmas mornings with sizzling bacon and mounds of gift wrap, hours of backyard adventures devised by my cousins, friends, and me.

Although my grandparents had divorced when my mother was in high school, they continued on with shared meals and conversations, and a unique kind of friendship that allowed for significant others. I had just had lunch with Nanny and her boyfriend, George, the weekend before. We met at Dave’s Pub in town. Nanny had been taking me here since I was small. It sat at the edge of town, headed toward our family church, and was dimly lit, with a bar in the back. In retrospect, it was an unusual choice for lunch with a little girl, although I remember having fun, and I always loved the Popeye comic strips painted along the wall. Pap had many paramours himself, and he lived on a massive farm in one of the hollers at the edge of the county, and my childhood memories spun around following him in the tall grass, catching grasshoppers in my eager hands while he taught me about the plants he was tending in the wide field. Pap, solid, calm, a shock of salt and pepper hair, was sitting at Nanny’s kitchen table when I arrived, cackling at her stories. My grandparents were both known for their engagement in palaver and prose, sharing memories and jabs all at once.

An amalgamation of my many cousins moved about the house, as did Nanny’s many pets: dogs lapped the yard in boisterous circles, cats lazed in sun-drenched spots on the tile floor, an aquarium bubbled in the corner, birds chirped from a window-perched cage. Although no one was currently residing at Nanny’s (at least, I didn’t know of anyone) it was a common stop for any aunt, uncle or cousin who was having a spat with another family member, was in between jobs and/or residences, or just needed a few days of TLC from Nanny. From a quick walk through the house, it seemed like my cousin Lee was currently in residence, evidenced by folded flannels on the dining room table and various boy-toned tinctures on the bathroom counter. Lee was close as a big brother as I have come by in my life. Somehow, as the youngest of three brothers, he gained the necessary gentleness and presence to successfully brother myself, Amber, and Michelle. He was a star football player and all-around farm boy. Like so many of my family members, he bore solid Irish features, red hair and freckles. I found him in the back bedroom playing Super Nintendo with his brothers Mike and Tony, and my cousin, Aaron. Mike shares Lee’s red hair and shocking blue eyes, but he is quieter and more reserved, despite being the oldest of all of us. Tony has dark hair and ready smile. Aaron, Amber and Michelle’s younger brother, tow-headed and excited to be in the mix of the boys. All of them heaped on Nanny’s massive California king, eyes trained on the 80’s-pixels on the screen.

Though deeply entrenched in helping Mario and Luigi in their ongoing journeys of defeating Bowser, the boys looked up when I passed the doorframe. I got a familiar, “Hey, J!” and they collectively turned their attention back to the screen. I stepped into the room to give them a playful block of the TV, then moved in tune to their elevated groans, and headed into Nanny’s bathroom to freshen up before Duke arrived. I heard a celebratory cheer as another level of the game was defeated, and I had to smile. A cacophonous roar of clicks resounded behind me in the hall, and I turned to find a few of the many family pets at my feet, as I headed back toward the kitchen where Nanny and Pap sat together at the broad wooden table, stacked high with sun tea, snacks, and a fresh bouquet of flowers. Talking with Nanny always made me happy. And Pap loved to watch his family happy. Nanny was regaling us with her latest nursing story from passing meds at group homes, when a knock came to the door. I looked up and melted at seeing Duke’s face through the glass, feeling the burn of my flushed cheeks.

“Oh, Susie Q,” Pap whispered, careful not to embarrass me, “Our girl has got it bad.”

__________________________________________________________________

Duke’s cherry red mustang sat in Nanny’s gravel driveway glinting in the summer sun. I felt like a queen descending the stairs – still in disbelief that this prince charming would be waiting for me, with his convertible chariot. The mustang shone with clear indication that Duke had just returned from the car wash, and the leather interior, the dark black color of the inky night sky, smelled of clean. I was not surprised to find myself blushing when I saw him. Nanny and Pap emerged onto the porch to ensure a proper send off, and of course my cavalcade of boy cousins had pressed their freckled faces against the bedroom window, having abandoned their video game and Mario’s adventures to tease me more than just a bit with exaggerated smooches against the window. I wasn’t even mad at the kissing noises and blown, slobbery lips they pressed against the glass. To be fair, it was a good sign that Duke earned their respect, not there ire or suspicion. Dating a family member was no small feet for this crew.

I did a small spin in my blue dress, so carefully selected earlier in the day during my mall trip with Sarah and Lynn. Nanny had somehow suddenly procured her neon teal blue Nikon camera and the shutter whirred as she turned it on and the flash popped up above the camera’s small frame. This was no formal dance, but Nanny was known for Andrewing every moment with this kind of flare and care. Pap positioned himself with a jaunty lean on the chain link fence that encircled Nanny’s front yard and offered some sincere questions and sound advice to Duke on the care of his car. Duke came from a family of roughnecks, and likely needed no such guidance, but to his credit he nodded respectfully with every word of Pap’s, and even popped the hood for him to take a look.

After a fair amount of Nanny’s picture taking, with Duke by my side, she and Pap bid us farewell, and I couldn’t help but notice a sneaky arm linked around Nanny’s waist from Pap. A glance at the bedroom window told me the cousins seemed to have returned to the television and their videogames. Duke was, as always, a true gentleman and held open my car door, and I climbed in with all the pomp and circumstance of royalty climbing into the lead car of a motorcade. Duke gave a well-considered and dutiful salute to my veteran grandfather as he circled the car and climbed into the driver’s seat. He gave me a sweet sigh, squeezed my knee, and started the beauty of a beast of a car.

We rolled backwards out of the driveway and, once out of site of the house, Duke gunned the engine and sped down the dirt road leading away from Nanny’s and into town. As we rode, Duke slid his hand into the backseat and procured my favorite candy bar – peanut butter cups – and being as I was still a mess of butterflies in my stomach, I thanked him, but just had to tuck them in the door pocket for later. It was a kind of way of extending the sweetness of the date itself.

Duke grinned and asked me what I wanted for dinner before the movie. I shied away from telling him I had eaten with Mom, Doc, and the girls, wanting every special moment I could have with him, and we ended up in the takeout lane of my favorite fast-food place. It was a seafood and chicken restaurant, with a delicious menu of deep-fried goodness. I loved the hushpuppies, sweet tea, and crunchy bits of fried bread that found their way to the bottom of every tray. The building housing the restaurant was one that had been converted from a bank, so the action of getting the food was tantamount to some 80’s level special effects as it emerged from a giant air shoot and arrived at your car window. The food was good but the fun made the experience. As we loaded the steamy Styrofoam containers and plastic cups into the car, Duke powered his Mustang to nearby Nutter Fort park for us to have dinner under the massive oak trees. We loyed our fast-food feast out on a shaded picnic table, and the fresh air freed up some room in my stomach for another tasty meal.

Duke drums his fingers on the wood of the aging picnic table. He sighs with great flare, and then gives me a dramatic pause, “Baby girl, what makes you happiest?” he asks. A leading question, of course, but one I’ll gladly follow. I reach across the table and take his hand.

“You, darlin’!” I laugh, he laughs. The fried food and the breeze are just about perfect, for us, here. The aroma of his cologne gave me a heady feeling, and I found I was full quickly, though I continued to pick around at my plate. We talked about our days. He shared about his morning at home helping his mom, and his shift at the mart. He loved to tell me stories about who came in the store and what kinds of conversations he was able to have with folks. Sometimes I spied a future politician in him. I told him about my trip to the pool with Sissy, dinner with Mom, Doc, and the girls, and my time at the mall with Sarah and Lynn. He listened with heart, and I was grateful.

As the sun started to touch the mountain edges, we tossed our containers into the trash and climbed back into the mustang. It wasn’t long before the moon appeared - full, blue, and cool as a gemstone, shining overhead as Duke’s secondhand cherry red mustang convertible charges the corners of his Glen Elk neighborhood, the valley town that has honed his family for generations. After finishing our gourmet deep-fried goodness in the park, Duke had decided to take us on a ride through the backroads to show how his refurbished transmission would handle the long, intense mountain curves and sharp drop-offs that West Virginia is famous for - in the Appalachian hills, driving is an adventurous sport no matter what time of day or year you travel. These days, I loved taking the adventures in the passenger seat with Duke.

The views are breathtaking, the air is fresh and crisp, staying cool long into the summer mornings and chilling quickly again once the sun set. Feeling the familiar chill, I swaddled myself in Duke’s pilfered jacket, which was rich with the aroma of his cologne, and the scent of motor oil from the garage where he and his family kept endless automotive dreams in process. Contentedly breathing in, I settled into the soft black fabric of the passenger seat as the wind whipped my hair, thinking of our little homey town. The curves of the hollers are as familiar to Duke as me. Filled with glass factory workers, and small businesses built up to support them. The five and dime, diner, dry cleaners all speed past our open cab with burning neon glow. The marble works built up when our immigrant grandfathers returned home from serving in World War II, and metal had become a scarce resource. Upon their return, it became a thing of beauty that put hard work and well-earned dollars within reach of our community. Duke’s father and grandfather both had stories about the adventures of the immigrant experience in the valley, working in the factory, and returning home to their families at night. Duke’s father and grandfather both served as foremen at the local glass factory. Strong, stubborn Italian men, they spent long hours making marbles, walking distance from their home. The idea of these big, gruff men making small, beautiful toys makes me smile.

The hillside oak trees stood guard, lining our path in quiet darkness, centuries-old sentries, holding stories of the hills. Their chittering, upturned leaves seemed to applaud us, while also promising of a coming storm, as my great-grandmother would instruct. Old wives tales were reliable women’s intuition here. The cool mountain air rushed in around us, full of summer smell. There was a crispness to things that made life feel endlessly promising in this moment Crickets chirping and owls hooting punctuated the rushing wind of our ride. I was glad for Duke’s decision to leave the car’s top propped against his parents’ garage wall. Duke’s dad was an expert handyman in Glen Elk, with a love for refurbishing old cars others had long given up on. I liked this about him. Duke’s mom did too. She often sat in her kitchen haloed by cigarette smoke, a Virginia slim dangling from her lips, fussing over a new recipe from Women’s Day.

Duke was in true form this evening. His shoulder-length hair was blowing in the wind, his earring, shimmering, seeming to keep the beat of the music. His Ramones T-shirt was overwhelmed by his oversized blue flannel. His jeans swam in his Doc Martin’s. One hand held the wheel lightly while the other caressed and squeezed my knee through the hemline of my new dress, a multi-tasking skill unique to West Virginia boys. The convertible headlights punctured the deep darkness as we sped along the backroads leading to the Meadowbrook theatre, sitting prettily on a flattened Appalachian hilltop cut for mountaintop miners to empty years ago. A kind of hyper-consumerism, with a shopping mall sitting atop a mountain emptied of coal, but the very thought of heading to the theater makes me feel hopeful, happy, and safe.

There is some kind of possibility that exists in a West Virginia summer sky, with day burning off in pastel hues of pinks, oranges, purples, and blues. The dusky colors of the sun’s fading rays escape the Appalachian Mountain peaks that surround us, creating a warm feeling of being held. The beauty as well as the challenge of living in West Virginia is whether the hills help you feel held up or held back. The opportunity found by our ancestors in rich soil, then factory work, has begun to change. But the beauty remains. Above us, the stars burn quick and bright in our state’s great rurality, the sky all the clearer for fewer lights. The day cools into a night which holds all kinds of promise; Duke’s cologne and the fresh air make me fall into the romance of it all the more. Ahead, I can see the glow of our mountain top mall. The lights of the theatre marquee buzzed as Duke changed gears and took another turn, scooping the car up the hillside and toward the parking lot.

“Baby girl, what movie d’ya wanna see?” He asks sincerely, but his mischievous brown-black eyes dart quickly in my direction. A knowing squeeze on my knee, though I didn’t need it to understand him.

“I was hoping we could see ‘Armageddon’ again, if you’re up to it,” I answer, smiling, a lilt in my voice. I grin and give him a wink when he flashes me a quick side grinning glance. His favorite movie of the summer.

“I s’pose, if that’s what my baby wants,” he says with an exaggerated sigh. There’s a kind of high in the film itself – all heroism, quick wit, sex and tears. Duke always slid his hand into mine when Liv Tyler leaned into Ben Affleck. I always heard his breath catch when Bruce Willis says his final goodbyes.

Duke articulates the gear shift into park as we shuffle to our feet. Although I know the film’s ending, I willingly walk into the darkness of the theatre, arm in arm with Duke. I toss my hair, laugh, and walk with dramatic exaggeration to make him laugh. “Dahling! Dahling!” I cry out in my best Madeleine Kahn, “Taffeta, dahling!” This line from one of our favorite films - Young Frankenstein- sends us into fits. Being with Duke has such an ease and comfort, it’s hard to remember what time was before we met. I suppose this is true with all young loves. Every love story feels like the first. And I suppose it is, every time two people fall in love, something new is created.

The line for concessions is short. Settling into our theater seats, popcorn in hand, I smile. I raise the arm rest and lean into Duke, who pulls me close with a contented sigh. The scenes are the same, but the thrill is new every time.

As Duke and I walk out of the theater, I breathe in the cool mountain air. The neon store lights dimmed, a milky celestial band hung overhead, seemingly close enough to touch. The stars truly twinkle. It’s a perfect night. The kind of nights they write stories about. I remember the grown voices. There will be an end to things, I’m told, and in ways my 16-year-old mind can’t conceptualize, while being held in the crook of my beloved’s arm. Smelling popcorn and country air, with no commitments to keep or places to be, believing endings are real is impossible. Goodbye seems as romantic and distant as the movie played on the screen before us.

The reality that this moment is so impermanent comes upon me like a rogue wave – stunning and impressing me all at once. I am breathless in Duke’s embrace. I believe it’s why the memory flames with such intensity for me. In my memory now, I find it to be my only an opportunity to lean more deeply into Duke, revel in his warmth and good smell, the gentle presence of my hometown movie theater, where time seems unchangeable. Here is where I am, where the night doesn’t end, where my youth lasts forever. Here is when and where I know I want to be.

Finding a way to live in the present moment only seemed to become a task as an adult. When challenges arise related to loved ones, health, finances, work, and the balance of modern living. I realize these exist for many children who are forced to grow up far too soon, and in some ways, I was as well. However, in my mind, I choose this treasure trove of memories to embrace the best parts of my story. The part of me that grew up quickly, took on more responsibility, it intertwined with the part of me that loved riding in the car with the top down, holding my baby sisters, and being part of my big, messy family tree.

What kind of legacy do I want to leave? What kind of story do I want to tell? I want to be thought of someone who was kind, who showed up in the face of hard times, the best version of me. And this sixteen-year-old girl – she is part of that. The part of me that felt awkward, the part of me that swooned over my boyfriend, the part of me that loved giggling with my friends. I would tell her – go for it, have more fun, make more memories, trust your heart and your gut, but make sure your brain is in the conversation. I would tell her, you’re doing so well, I’m so proud of you, I see that it isn’t always easy. Love every person, pet, and place around you, because they are all on loan – but don’t be loving out of fear, because that kind of love is brittle. Love big. Love brilliantly. Love as if this is the only moment in your life. Because it is.