Megan Vered
Falling Off the Cliff
I stand close to my mother, press my toes against the gravel. Looking
down at the gigantic blur of green, I imagine I am flying. If I were
a bird I could lift off and glide over those trees. My wings would
open big and shimmer in the sun. I am only five years old but I
recognize with great clarity that falling off the cliff would be a
death drop.
This brush with mortality came later in the day, after my three-year
old sister Evie and I played pinecone dolls on the floor of our army
green tent--our all time favorite camping game. We'd been to the
beach and filled a paper bag with pinecone scales that--with a
little imagination--morphed into chairs, tables, people, animals.
My little pinecone mother was making special food for Evie's little
pinecone dog when Daddy pressed his face through the fabric doors and
cried, Let's go mining for gold! His enthusiasm was
contagious. We packed up supplies, climbed into the station wagon,
waved goodbye to our campsite at Sand Pond. Mommy at the wheel, Daddy
in the passenger seat. My four siblings and me sardined in the back
with Angus the family dog and our 16-year-old cousin Lennie, who was
visiting from Boston.
I track the highway signs from my seat in the way back where Evie and
I are nestled together. The car windows are open. I feel the warm
dusty breeze against my cheeks. I see a sign that says Sierra City.
Now that I am five I can make out the words. Daddy told us that the
gold mines are up in the hills. My mind conjures up mountains made of
shimmering rocks. We drive for what feels like forever. Finally I see
another sign and yell out, Five miles to Sierra City! By the
time we arrive we are stuck together like taffy in the back of the
car.
We camp at Sand Pond in the Sierras every summer. While Daddy's
main camping supplies are a Coleman thermos and high power
binoculars, Mommy's are a broom, rubber gloves, a bottle of Pine
Sol and a hard bristle brush, which she uses relentlessly in the
outhouses near the campsite. While Mommy oversees our domestic
day-to-day needs, we run free on the beach, cool off in the pond and
hike the granite hills. In the mornings we emerge from the warmth of
our flannel-lined sleeping bags to the aroma of fresh coffee, bacon
and fluffy pancakes that Mommy makes on the Coleman stove.
We get off the highway and drive down the main street. Mommy peers
over the edge of the steering wheel and carefully turns right onto a
narrow paved road as per Daddy's instructions. I can see the
hesitation in her hands. It's not long before the road turns to
gravel. We're tossed up and down in the back seat as the car bumps
over the uneven surface. The uphill thrill fades when we realize that
we are on a fire road as narrow as a pipe cleaner. Mommy's hands
tighten on the wheel while Daddy, the adventurer, urges her forward.
Our heads bob backwards as the car struggles up the steep incline.
Evie and I throw our heads back and feel the delicate whoosh of our
long hair against bare shoulders.
The road flattens and suddenly the car stops. We are at the end of
the fire trail where a gigantic basin looms directly to the side of
the car. There is no way Mommy can turn the car around. The car is
too long, the fall too steep. I feel her fear and it tingles down my
body like a shock wave, all the way to my toes.
Daddy takes over and orders, Everyone out of the car. One by
one we unpack ourselves from the station wagon. Mommy claims a spot
and stands far enough away to protect us, but close enough to keep
her eye on the car. She has one hand on Evie and the other on me.
Looking down at the vast expanse of green pines, I imagine I am
flying. If I were a bird I could lift off and glide over those
trees.
Daddy, who is legally blind and we all know cannot see well enough to
drive, is now in the driver's seat, with cousin Lennie guiding. The
wheels spin against the gravel as Daddy puts the car in reverse. He
backs up slowly. Lennie yells at him, Cut the wheel! Mommy
grabs my hand and holds Evie in her other arm. The front tires make a
crunching sound on the gravel. The car hovers at the edge. For a
minute the car is my sister bird and we are both flying over the
expanse, free of care. A balloon of dust collects behind the back
tires as they press into the dirt, making me cough. Something squeaks
as the front tires spin. The car is teetering. I look up at Mommy.
Her face has blanched white. I squeeze her hand and realize that I
have to stay with her and the car and the gravel and my blind father.
I have to keep my eyes on my father who is using every muscle in both
arms to keep our family car from dropping off the cliff. I have to
watch my baby sister who is too young to understand what is
happening. We are all silent, holding our breath as Daddy continues
to nose the car forward and back. The car lurches, and again the
wheels spit dust.
I break my promise. Covering my eyes, I get lost in the exhilaration.
Flying free above the trees. Soaring. Gliding. I know I should be
watching. Mommy always says that I am better eyes for Daddy than she
is because I notice every detail. But I don't want to see the car
flying. I want to fly alone.
My flying is disturbed by the sound of my brothers whooping and
carrying on. Slowly, carefully I uncover one eye, then the other. I
see that Daddy has swept Mommy up into his arms. The sound of his
laughter echoes into my trees, my birds, my soaring sky. Cousin
Lennie is bouncing up and down on his heels, grinning with
admiration. Evie grabs my hand, her other thumb in her mouth. My
older sister is now behind us, hands on our shoulders, a stand-in
mother hen. Above the tire marks and displaced gravel sits the
station wagon. It is now facing the other way.
My older brothers are pounding their chests like Tarzan and jumping
around like crazy monkeys. You did a 12-point turn! Lennie
exclaims. Daddy places Mommy back on the ground and adjusts his thick
glasses. Who says I can't see? Evie and I, standing close to
Mommy kick gravel around into small mounds. My brothers pick up rocks
and throw them out over my trees.
Mommy calls, Little girls in the back! Evie and I climb over
the beige vinyl seat into the stifling heat of the car. Mommy turns
the key and the engine rumbles. I look out my window at thick green
clumps slowly disappearing from view. I grab Evie's hand. Let's
see how many trees we can count before they go away! I start.
One, two, three. She joins me. Four, five, six. By the
time the car is heading back down the hill we have made it to 50.
Mommy, 50 trees! Evie calls out. Mommy, 50 trees!
When the bumpy feeling stops I know that we are on the paved road.
The gentle bob of Evie's head on my shoulder lets me know she has
fallen asleep. I stare out the window. The trees are gone. When I see
the sign, I open my mouth to call out, Sand Pond, 10 miles!
The words are forming and about to spill out when I realize that
Daddy's eyes are back and he must be reading it himself. How else
could he have turned the car around? I flew off the cliff like a big
strong bird and while I was soaring the car stayed on the ground.
This is the moment I realize we both have magical powers. I am a bird
and Daddy is Superman.
Hold a Good Thought
When I was five, the girl who
lived around the corner told me that because I did not believe in
Jesus, I would go to hell. I marched home--ponytail swinging in
furious circles--and asked my mother, Am
I going to go to hell? And what is hell anyway?
My mother tightened her apron around her waist, sat me in her lap,
and patiently explained that we were Jewish. That was the day I
learned that we did not believe in Jesus as a god. Mom did not tell
me about what we did believe in--and I didn't ask--but she
assured me that I need not worry about heaven or hell.
I knew little to nothing about
God or religious dogma, as I had never seen either of my parents
pray. We never set a place for God at the table. Prayer did not pass
our lips upon retiring for the night. My father's irritated
outbursts of Goddamnit!
and Goddamnitall
seemed to be the closest he got to God. My mother believed religion
was a crutch, though she often said, when referring to a devout
person, I wish I could
believe in something greater than me the way
she does. It would make
life so much easier.
The closest my mother ever got
to prayer was to say,
We'll hold a good thought.
About a year after this
neighborhood incident, my parents went away for the weekend. They
left my younger sister Eve and me in the capable hands of our
housekeeper, James. I loved James even though I resented her firm
discipline. I was taken with her skin, the color of rich coffee, and
her gleaming white teeth. She was much taller than my tiny mother and
very beautiful. A devout Baptist, she often gave thanks to God and to
Jesus. To this day, she laughs every time she tells the story that,
after she had been working with our family for several months, Daddy
said to her, You know,
James, we are very happy with you, but we really weren't counting
on so much Jesus.
James brought two books with her
that weekend: a black hardback called The
Bible and a dog-eared
paperback called The
Readers' Digest. The
Bible was thick and
James moved her lips and rocked back and forth when she read it,
which led me to believe it was very important.
I gave James my bedroom and
bunked with my sister. After dinner, James bathed us, and we happily
climbed into our new PJs Mom had left for us as a special weekend
gift. We plucked our two favorite books, Mr.
Bear Squash 'Em All Flat
and McElligot's Pool
from the bookshelf and eagerly awaited our bedtime reading ritual.
Unexpectedly, James gently urged us to kneel by the side of our beds
and repeat after her:
Now I lay me down to sleep
I pray the Lord my soul to
keep
If I should die before I wake
I pray the Lord my soul to
take.
My sister and I, ages six and
four, were on our knees. In a house where belief in God was outranked
by rational thought, we were doing something unimaginable. We were
praying. What James did not anticipate is how this prayer--one that
provided her with magnificent solace--would spawn a serious fear in
me. I lay awake every night for months after that night convinced
that I would die in my sleep. James failed to consider the potential
outcome of teaching heathens to pray without offering a solid
explanation of the afterlife. I don't think that we told Mom about
the praying episode until we were much older. And at some point I
outgrew the-middle-of-the-night fear of death.
As I matured, I came to learn
what prompted my mother's lack of faith. Mom was the oldest child
in her family, followed by her brother Saul, and then Sumner and
Beatrice--the inseparable twins. Beatrice had blond curls and blue
eyes, giving her unique status in this family of brown haired,
dark-eyed children. My mother doted on her. But when Mom was six,
Beatrice, then eighteen months, became ill and suddenly died. All
photographs and possessions were destroyed, and my mother's parents
never spoke about her again. Mom said that after Beatrice died, she
lost all faith, unable to reconcile how God could take away such a
beautiful baby who had never hurt anyone.
I am not sure how fanciful my
mother was before age six, but any sense of whimsy or belief in the
unknowable vanished. Not only did she refuse to read fairy tales, but
she pretty much turned her back on God. I began to understand that
this was one of the reasons we never prayed in our family. This is
why, for my mother, the words that took shape were, Let's
hold a good thought.
But then a point came, when Mom
was approaching ninety, when she began to say, Let's
pray AND hold a good thought.
Just for good measure. Just in case one approach failed, she had a
backup. Maybe she was beginning to think there was a possibility,
after all she had lived through, that something bigger was calling
the shots. Just maybe.
During Mom's memorial, the
rabbi held the five of us in a circle--my brothers, sisters, and
me--and pinned a torn black ribbon on each of our chests to
represent the tearing open of our hearts. She told us that according
to Jewish belief, losing a parent is the hardest loss because you
only have one mother and one father. We recited the mourner's
Kaddish together. I yearned for that sure-footed faith that Mom
always wished for, because it would make life so much easier. But I
couldn't find it. I felt untethered, like a marionette whose
strings had gone slack.
Soon after Mom's death, I went
to James' house for a Kwanzaa celebration. I was invited to light a
candle in honor of Mom and say something in her memory. As I held the
flame above the bright white candle, I was also aware of being the
only white person in the room. After the ceremony a woman approached
me. Your mother is now
an angel who is looking over you.
I so wanted to believe that my mother was eternal, but what little
faith I did have was falling short. I yearned to believe in something
greater than me, but I couldn't see that far. I toggled helplessly
between the prayer that James had tried to instill in me and my
mother's dismissal of any suggestion of the divine.
Later that month I had an
experience that gave me the words I'd been struggling to find.
James invited my sisters and me to attend an awards brunch in
downtown Berkeley. She was among a vibrant group of women adorned in
colorful fabrics and elaborate hats, all being honored for volunteer
work in the African-American community. The microphone passed from
one proud hand to the next. A reverend draped in African fabric gave
the closing sermon about the role of creativity in our daily lives,
giving rise to a chorus of Amens.
As the reverend returned to her seat, the moderator acknowledged how
hard that must have been, given that she had just lost her mother. In
an instant my sisters and I were encircling her. We recognized the
tears clouding her eyes. As we stood huddled in a group embrace, a
woman approached, took a firm hold of her elbow. Your
mother is with you now, you know. She is with you all the time.
The reverend paused, gained control of her emotions. In
faith I know that to be true, but I'm not feeling it yet.
I repeated that phrase to myself
for days. In faith I
know that to be true, but I'm not feeling it yet. It
made so much sense to me. Like sitting down at the piano, knowing
there is a song in you and waiting for it to come. Or holding a pen
in hand, knowing there are words and hanging on until they show up.
Like opening your heart to prayer and believing that someone will
hear you. Like holding
a good thought. Right,
Mom?
I Am a Marionette
"Mom, I'm bored."
"Go play with your sister."
"She's boring."
"Go read a book."
"I already did."
"Then draw a picture."
"My crayons are broken."
Geh shlog zich kop en vant.
(Literal translation:
"Go bang your head against the wall.")
This is only one example of the
Yiddish disciplinary tactics employed by my mother when we were kids.
Yiddish was Mom's first language. She was not even exposed to
English until she went to kindergarten. Yiddish was also the secret
language that my grandparents reverted to when they did not want us
to understand them. We caught on fast and learned to crack the code.
We knew that gib a cook
meant "take a look"; that gay
gezunte hate meant "go
in good health"; that tsorris
was "suffering." And, of course, my grandmother bathed us in
Yiddish endearments that were well understood: shayna
meydela,
shayna velt, shayna
mamela (literal
translations: beautiful maiden, beautiful world, beautiful little
mother).
I am bruised, not just by my
mother's death, but also by the passing of the Yiddish language and
the first generation American-Jewish experience. Ancient voices spoke
to me through my mother's flesh. Her presence kept me linked to her
history and the heartbeat of my ancestors. Encircled by the
reverberation of past life experiences, I gained comfort and
strength. Now that she is gone, precious ties have been severed.
I am a marionette whose strings
have been dropped. Not that Mom controlled my every move like some
manic puppeteer, but her presence was a lifeline that kept me linked
to those who came before. Without her I feel rootless, lifeless. When
I move my arm to gesture to a stranger or lift my leg to walk, there
is nothing holding me in place. I am in free fall with no point of
reference. No one to slip an arm through mine and keep me linked to
tradition, ritual, custom.
Mom's Yiddish
expressions--vibrant word salads--both entertained and annoyed. She
held high expectations that I would rise to the occasion and be a
good sport. When I complained about life being unfair, her stock
response was, "I never promised you a rose garden." When my
grousing persisted, she said, "I'll thank you to keep a civil
tongue in your mouth, young lady." When I persevered with no end in
sight, she switched to Yiddish.
Gay hack mir nisht kan chinik.
(Literal translation:
"Don't bang me a teakettle," as in "stop nudging me!")
I can also hear her voice of
derision when she would see something in a store that was too
kitschy: Ach,
so ongepatshket!
(Literal translation: "Too fussy.")
The word ferblunjit
was used when she was
feeling "at sixes and sevens" or out of sorts.
(Literal translation: "Mixed up
and lost.")
When we sneezed, a
Zay gezunt was
bestowed for the first three sneezes. (Literal translation: "To
your health.")
Sneeze number four, however,
invoked, Gay
en drered du krigst shein a kalt.
(Literal translation:
"Into the earth with you already; you're getting a cold.")
When we did good, Mom would
kvell;
when we did her proud,
she would shep naches;
when we were bad, she'd cry, gay
avek.
Without the melody of my mother's
song, my strength falters. No wall of wisdom to push against so that
I can rebound. I have lost all ricochet power. And without the
strings that have kept me tethered to Mom's story, my life appears
flat, one-dimensional. And on top of this, I am guilty of dropping
the ancestral ball, having never used Yiddish expressions with my own
children with the exception of the occasional oy
vey.
As we grew older and our children
matured, Mom's Yiddishisms shifted to expressions of grandmotherly
endearment.
Ahz m'lebt der lebt mir.
(Literal translation: "If you live long enough, you will live to
see it happen.")
Mishugeneh ganz, mashugeneh
griben. (Literal
translation: "Crazy geese, crazy goslings.")
I am a marionette whose strings
have gone slack. I forget birthdays and punch lines and how our
family first met certain friends. Lose track of bloodlines and which
cousins are on which side of the family. I look at photographs and
cannot decipher whether the girl next to me in the photo is an
elementary school friend or my next door neighbor's sister. What
will bring me back to life now that Mom is gone? Who will repeat the
stories to me with such care and precision? An entire civilization is
heaving its final, inconsolable breath.
I search through boxes of
mementos for reassurance that I will not lose sight of my ancestral
footprint. In among the greeting cards and photographs I find lined
paper, folded in thirds. A four-page summary of her lineage, her
first generation American-Jewish experience in her perfectly
appointed handwriting. I take a deep breath and say thank
you.
I dream one night after Mom's
death that she is crying. She tells me that she is feeling undone.
"You mean ferblunjit,
Mom?" I tell her
that I am a marionette who has lost her strings.
"We make a fine
pair," I say.
For weeks, I sob myself into a
stupor before falling asleep. Each wave of tears evokes another level
of loss. Who would ever love me the way my mother did? Who would hold
my strings with such tenacity? Who would kvell
over my every triumph no matter how small? She knew every soppy
detail of my life story. The name of every boy I ever loved, every
girl who turned against me. She was the one who soothed me through
the endless falling outs and rapprochements with my younger sister.
Who else would ever be so enchanted by the tiny particles of my life?
And who else but my mother would tell me to bang my head against the
wall?
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