I don't know what triggered it but I had the strangest flashback dream about me and my family. It was a time when my brother was a tow head baby boy. The only one to a family of three sisters. But, surprisingly, this is not about him. It only seemed to establish a time in my life. We piled into a beater truck (which is a fallacy since we never owned one growing up. What is interesting is that it was my husband's 1979 rusty yellow Ford F250 but it had a crew cab to accomodate a family of six.)We were leaving McDonalds, the one restaurant we could afford on occasion on a sailor's salary. Up, we climbed into the litter-strewn back seat and down the road we went in a loud, conspicuous belch of exhaust.
(Eye roll)
Next scene: I'm elbow deep in nasty, lukewarm, suds-free (thank you bargain brand dishwashing detergent), ash-floating dishwater. At my right, should be my sister, Dawn, but she's in the midst of one of her famous disappearing acts, for which she's known. Mom and Dad are in the living room watching a movie with their beloved baby boy. We girls are tasked with gathering and doing the dishes. There are stacks covering every surface of our tiny Navy-issued, enlisted man's kitchen. I organize the piles into dish piles, bowl stacks, pan piles, glass area, silverware piles, sharp objects piles, and the stacks and stacks of Tupperware piles! I remember my Dad's notorious trick of presenting us with more dishes just when we see the end in sight and I take a run through our garage sale-furnished house picking up dishes off bedroom floors and out of the truck. (It made sense in the dream.) I distribute dish drainers on every inch of table surface to help with dish drying. (another fallacy, we had one.)
I'm washing dishes in earnest and I see every speck of potato and green onion that used to get me butt whoopin's back in the day. I don't miss a single morsel. The old resentments come sailing back. My sister, Dawn, resents my sister, Renee', for being lame at dish drying. I resent all of them for being shirkers instead of workers. I end up with the bulk of the work, all of the worry and no pride. I mean who cares about stained melmac dishes, jelly jar and cartoon character glasses, and scorched pans. Clean didn't even look clean. Back in the day, my life was getting through the next task without attracting negative attention, namely butt whoopin's or being cursed out.
Analyze that.
(Eye roll)
Next scene: I'm elbow deep in nasty, lukewarm, suds-free (thank you bargain brand dishwashing detergent), ash-floating dishwater. At my right, should be my sister, Dawn, but she's in the midst of one of her famous disappearing acts, for which she's known. Mom and Dad are in the living room watching a movie with their beloved baby boy. We girls are tasked with gathering and doing the dishes. There are stacks covering every surface of our tiny Navy-issued, enlisted man's kitchen. I organize the piles into dish piles, bowl stacks, pan piles, glass area, silverware piles, sharp objects piles, and the stacks and stacks of Tupperware piles! I remember my Dad's notorious trick of presenting us with more dishes just when we see the end in sight and I take a run through our garage sale-furnished house picking up dishes off bedroom floors and out of the truck. (It made sense in the dream.) I distribute dish drainers on every inch of table surface to help with dish drying. (another fallacy, we had one.)
I'm washing dishes in earnest and I see every speck of potato and green onion that used to get me butt whoopin's back in the day. I don't miss a single morsel. The old resentments come sailing back. My sister, Dawn, resents my sister, Renee', for being lame at dish drying. I resent all of them for being shirkers instead of workers. I end up with the bulk of the work, all of the worry and no pride. I mean who cares about stained melmac dishes, jelly jar and cartoon character glasses, and scorched pans. Clean didn't even look clean. Back in the day, my life was getting through the next task without attracting negative attention, namely butt whoopin's or being cursed out.
Analyze that.
Hi, Tina,
ReplyDeleteYour writing has rich and vivid details. I can see everything you describe. As a writer, I'm trying to be not so much "in my head" all the time, but bring my readers into the scene with me. I'm going to print out this post and put it up on the wall here next to my desk to remind me that the visual details don't just matter - they're vital. Thanks1