Day: April 1, 2023

by

Family

(I found writing I wrote in 1993-1994). There is a lot. It fills an inches thick notebook. I would like to transcribe it here, but suspect I won’t get much of it. This is one of the pieces from that collection.)

When I was 10 my parents finally introduced me to Justin. I had heard the name behind cupped hands for as long as I could remember, but whenever I said, “Who is Justin?” they just said, “Oh, no one you’ll ever meet.”

So when one sunny afternoon my father sat me down on our flowered, early-American couch, the last thing I expected him to ask was, “How would you like to meet Justin, honey?”

My eyes glazed over and I nodded. Okay.

“Who is he?”

My dad took my had carefully and held it in his lap. “Justin is your older brother.”

Well, that floored me. I’d been an overindulged only child for 10 years. And now out of the blue came this long heard of, never told about Justin.

My dad explained that he lived in an institution in the country. He was coming to visit us for a week while his room was remodeled. And that was where Mom and Dad went every Sunday afternoon while I was forced to play with the six-year-old runt next door.

“Okay,” I said. “When will he be here?”

Dad looked at his watch. “Any time.”

“And where will he sleep?”

“In the guest room.”

Oh, okay.

Ten minutes later I heard the rubble rubble of the diesel Mercedes engine outside. I peeped out the flimsy curtain to see Mom opening the passenger door and gently taking the hand of a guy. He looked old to me, at least high school age. Ancient. He had on brown trousers and a white, short-sleeved, button-down shirt. His hair was dark blonde like mine and he had green eyes. He shuffled when he walked and smiled broadly at Mom. I opened the front door as they came up the walk.

“Hello, honey. This is Justin.”

I stared hard at him.

“Helwo dare. Mine name is Justin.”

He stuck out his hand. I took it. He walked past me and into the foyer. He picked up the receiver of the old telephone in the hall and listened to it before letting it plop on the table. He walked into the dining room with Mom. Dad and I followed discreetly. He went to the china cabinet and opened the door. He took out a plate and put it on the table and closed the door.

“Do you think he remembers?” Mom asked Dad.

“I do,” he told her matter of factly.

Justin then walked the hall and into the lower bathroom. He opened all the cabinets and left them open. He peered below the sink and reached in. He took out two pads, the kind my Mom did something with. He took the stickers off and put the pads on his face.

I laughed. Dad turned red and Mom gently removed them from Justin’s face.

“No toys?” he asked.

“No,” Mom and Dad said in unison.

He then moved to leave. We all backed out of his way. He smiled and moved out into the living room. He squatted in front of the t.v.

“On?” he inquired.

“Oh no, not now. Later, okay?” Mom told him.

He stood and shuffled toward the bookcase. He took down a book, looked at it, and then threw it on the floor. He took another, looked at it, and threw it on the floor. He did this to about ten books before Dad asked him what he was doing.

“Reading,” he said.

What was this? I couldn’t even touch those books. They were rare.

“Justin,” I said. “Want to see my room?”

He dropped the book he held and said, “Okay!”

I took his hand and led him toward the stairs. I looked at Dad for okay. He smiled, so we headed up.

What a mistake. I realized my bed was filled with water after he smeared my own tube of lipstick on my mirror, put my underwear on his head after examining my bureau drawers, and putting my teddy bear under his shirt like he was pregnant.

3-10-1993

by

Ancestral Story

(I found writing I wrote in 1993-1994). There is a lot. It fills an inches thick notebook. I would like to transcribe it here, but suspect I won’t get much of it. This is one of the pieces from that collection.)

I had an uncle who lived so many years ago and so many generations back that I don’t even know what year he was born in. His name was Cavell and he was a Danish Viking. He lived in a small castle along a fjord that drained into the sea. All of the people that lived along that bank were terrified because he reigned on fear.

Along he would come in his 30 foot long boat with skulls on the prow of the dead princes he had murdered. All the peasants ran in fear when the nose of it showed on the horizon. They’d grab their pots and pans and children and the one cow and sheep and hide in the thickets that sprung up out of the rocks.

Cavell would land wherever he saw chimney smoke and march ashore swinging the femur of a giraffe he’d hunted on a trip down to Africa. People never could quite believe tales of people with skin so black you could only see their teeth at night, but they dared not speak their doubts while Cavell was about. He’d take a couple of them and clonk their heads together and steal the shoes off their feet, if they wore shoes.

When he raided the houses he always took any metal he could find. That’s why the peasants would take their pots with them into the hills. Cavell had steered his boat across the great ocean and told of brown people that lived there who melted rock in giant fires and made pots. Well Cavell had decided he was going to do the same thing, only he was going to use it for a jail to put all the people he hated into.

On his raids he would also steal the women and take them back to his castle. He would force them to stay there and at first they would hate him, but after a while grew fond and never wanted to leave. They all fought jealously for his attention and scrubbed his castle till it shone to please him.

He also had a passel of children that grew up to be his deckmates on his boat and help him go into the surrounding countryside and steal land from other Vikings. His reputation was known far and wide and travelers steered clear of the area where he lived.

He had a friend that followed him around — an old man named Ellsworth. He had one eye and limped from being stabbed in the toe by a yellow man from the far east where they’d traveled. No one really quite believed that either, but they did have lots of jewels and rugs and as I said before, no one argued with Cavell, or Ellsworth either, for that matter.

Cavell also had a stable with many giant horses. He brought them from the kingdoms in the far south near the Mediterranean and east into the desserts. Some of these weren’t as large, but were so fleet of foot no other horses in the land could catch them.

Cavell died at about the age of 46. That was old back then. He got an infection in his pinky finger from an insect bite in a far away land below the far away land. It spread all over his body and he died.

3-10-1993