Spaulding - 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

Id like to deeply thank everyone who has played a role in the drama called my life. You have played your roles perfectly.

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

Life was perfect. And when I say perfect I mean it in every sense of the word. A fairy tale. Id even go as far as to say life was like that proverbial bowl of cherrieswithout 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 wasnt 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 birthdayit freaked me outand 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 Dads 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 schools field day. He puts off eating any of the wonderful food because he is so intent on winning a prize, but he doesnt 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 contestthe 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 didnt understand it. I followed her like a baby duckling. I remember loving her scenta 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.

Life was still cherries the day it happened. It didnt matter that Dad was no longer living with us and that I didnt know where Mikey wasfor 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, Youll 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 didnt 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 drivers seat and sped away. As Mom got smaller and smaller my terror grew because I feared I wouldnt see her again for a very long time.

I dont remember the entire car ride to Nanas 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 Dads 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 wasnt 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 wasnt 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.

Im taking the kids down South.

Youre outta your goddamned mind.

She didnt seem happy with him even though Mom swore Nana couldnt stand her. Mom had grown up in the city and my dad was from the sticks. His family couldnt handle my moms big hair, overdone makeup, and brightly painted talons she called fingernails. And Im sure Mom didnt have an outdoorsy bone in her body. Even so I dont think Nana approved of Dads decision to kidnap his own children.

Mom wont talk about her past these days. Even if I ask delicately it usually ends up with her crying and saying she has to go. Ive 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 wasnt 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 until she married my father.