The Chronicles of Tigua

Family

Tree of Family and Relatives

M

y story begins in this sleepy little railroad town. It sits off the interstate in the foothills. With no through traffic, the town hasn’t had much influx of new people or new thoughts in decades. This is a town of secrets. From the outside, a cute little town that hasn’t been touched much by change. The landscape is filled with rolling hills and streams. There’s a creek, big enough to swim in, running right through town. Don’t look too closely at the chipping paint and sagging porches. Everyone is related to everyone, a place no one ever leaves. A place where nothing is as it seems.

I live on a tiny little farm outside of town in a ram shackled house. I’ve lived there most of my life, except for a short stint in the city in the very beginning. The house is a constant work in progress. The family consists of me, two younger brothers and my parents...or so they say. I’m not sure. Can I really be related to these people? Is it really their blood running through my veins? The younger of my two brothers, Sam, seems to be on the outside, too. He doesn’t seem like the rest. I keep him very close at all times, for safety. I don’t want them to be able to get to him, his mind. The middle boy, Kenny, is meaner than a snake. They’ve gotten to him already.

Our small piece of property is surrounded by a larger farm owned by Mr. Stanford. He has about a hundred acres. The old man has taken a shine to me and my love for animals. He has a beautiful Irish setter named Joe. I love the way his shiny red coat feels sliding through my fingers. Seeing the old man out in the pasture, tall, lean, walking stick in one hand, his faithful companion on the other, makes me smile from the inside. I’m off and running. I cover the distance between us as fast as my legs will carry me. If I’m lucky, we get to spend the day in the garden. He loves to teach me as we go along, telling me about each plant and what it needs to be healthy and strong. This is my favorite time, maybe because he feels I’m worth teaching. Whatever the day turns into, chores are always more fun when they’re someone else’s. Mr. Stanford lets me graze my horse, Ginger, in his pasture and I get to roam the grounds whenever I want. My playground. The beautiful hills and cliffs are my refuge. By the time I reach the creek, the grime from home is washed away and forgotten. For the moment, freedom and laughter replace reality.

Mother Love

Mother in her nurturing state, maiden in her innocence, crone in her wise experience...

G

randma, my angel. When I’m at Grandma’s, all of Dad’s stupid rules go right out the window. At home, I’m not allowed to be held or rocked.

Don’t want some spoiled brat

When I’m with Grandma, I get all the love and touching I want. She holds me and rocks me, singing me her funny little songs. How much is that doggie in the window? She loves me and she loves me right. When I’m at Grandma’s, I’m the favorite. She can barely turn around without stepping on me. I always want to be on her lap; women sitting around the table gabbing, and there I am looking up longingly.

Go play and leave Grandma alone for a while, now, Mom tells me.

No, no she’s all right, Grandma says. Come here, sweet Junebug.

I climb up and cuddle in her arms.

The connection most people have with their mother, that’s the connection I have with Grandma. Grandma and Mom all rolled into one. The problem is, I don’t live here. I only get her sometimes. She isn’t my Mom. My support and safety is once removed.

I have a memory of when I was quite small. I’m left in the driveway in an old Rambler station wagon, while Mom goes in to talk to Grandma. I’m told to wait. I have on a little yellow dress and white hat; my feet don’t reach the edge of the seat. I’m in the front and I can’t see out. I’m afraid to move. After a few minutes, I hear the squeak of the old screen door and the swing of the gate. Mom opens the back door of the old car and takes a little round suitcase from the back seat. She then crosses around the front, opens the passenger door, scoops me up and carts me inside. I wasn’t sad being dropped off there. I got a little vacation. Only, after a few days of being there, the anxiety would start, as if they were calling me.

Why would you want to go back there? My brain yells. It’s safe here people don’t hurt you, and you’re the favorite.

In my gut, there is the feeling that I have to get back home to make sure things are okay. The battle inside increases until I’m asking to go home. Maybe it’s the feeling of being dropped off there to get me out of the house? That became Mom’s way of fighting for me after a while: Dropping me off at Grandma’s. The separation gives us all a rest for a second. Even though I love being here, it is a weird feeling to know why.

Father

Chinese Symbol for Father

M

y first memory of mxj Dad is far from a pleasant one. The three of us lived in the city for a short while at the beginning of my life. Times were hard on my Mom; she was moved away from her family. She hadn’t ever really been anywhere, much less lived anywhere other than her sleepy little town. She was far away with no car. Her pride got in the way of admitting what life was really like with her new husband and baby. The baby cried all the time, especially if her Daddy was around.

Yes, I was already scared to death of him. They think kids don't remember things from this young of an age. I'm here to tell you they do.

One particular day, Mom had gone out to run errands. She was allowed this luxury within an allotted amount of time, whatever he deemed appropriate for the task, a curfew of sorts. I was left alone with my Dad. On cue, I begin to cry and when he enters my room, I begin to howl. He checks my diaper and with his touch, my cries grow louder and even more intense.

There’s nothing to do but lift her and give her a little shake; see if that shuts her up. No, that didn't work. How about a good smack? What do you know? That didn't work either. What now! He lays me down and leaves the room. My howls are deafening at this point.

He shuts the door, pops a beer, and paces in circles around the tiny apartment, the cries wearing on his every nerve. How long can she possibly last? He’s not able to bear it another moment—oh wait, first another beer, that always helps; he then decides he’s going to have to teach me a lesson. He lifts me from the crib saying, You better shut up if you know what's good for you.

I didn't.

Another good shake... More crying. A few more smacks. Finally, exhausted and in shock, I gasp for air. Then, the quiet. Only the heavy breathing from crying so hard, for so long, remains. He leaves the room, proud of himself.

Mom returns right on time. I taught that screaming kid a lesson, he tells her, gloating. Finally got her to shut up. You just have her spoiled rotten.

Every hair on her body stands at attention. She quickly takes the few steps to the baby’s room. She’s horrified. The bruises are already beginning to appear on her little baby’s body, and she’s quiet, eerily quiet. Tears stream down Mom’s face. Holding me in close to her body, she makes a beeline for the door. If she can just get to the door, maybe she can get to the neighbors.

She never made it.

Screaming, hitting, crying. She was still fighting for me then.

They settled on moving back home, back to the safety and comfort of her family. Of course, there were promises of no more hitting. I watched this from my safe spot, in the corner from above. I watched it all. It was before I was called to the other place. I was about six months old at the time. We remember. Eventually we always remember.

Younger Brother

Chinese Symbol for younger Brother

T

he boys and I are all three years and some months apart. I’m the oldest, then Kenny... Sam’s the baby and my pride and joy. I feel as if I have birthed him myself. He is so weak and so tiny. My goal is for him to be a kid, to believe in fairy tales, Santa Claus and the Easter bunny. I want him to have the part of life I’m missing, the magic.

Sam had a hard time in the beginning and had to stay in the hospital for a really long time after he was born. The waiting, it was bad enough to wait that whole time he was in her belly, but now this. She’s back home, and he has to stay there all by himself. Here we are living life in the same old way, like nothing’s happening. It feels like it’s never going to end.

Mom sets up the crib right outside of their room, in a little alcove. My bedroom is right next to theirs. I can see the crib from my bed. I can’t take my eyes off of it. I keep imagining him there... Sleeping.

It won’t be long now, Mom says.

Then finally the day comes when they get to bring him home. There is no sleeping the night before. I have been waiting for so long. I’m not allowed to go with them into the city to the hospital... They won’t let me. They say Kenny and me will have more fun here with Grandma.

It’s a long ride for Kenny, Mom says.

Let him stay with Grandma, I sob. I want to go.

NO... you’re not going. Now shut up about it and go play, is what I get back. So I wait, and wait, and wait. Grandma does her best to keep me distracted, but I can’t pay attention to any of her stories today.

Hours later, I hear the tires on the gravel drive and bolt from the house. I’m about to pee my pants I’m so excited. Mom has him pulled in close to her chest.

Wait, I can’t see.

Let them get out of the car, June. Grandma takes hold of my shoulder and gently pulls me back so that Mom can open the door. Be patient until they get him inside.

More waiting. It’s like Christmas, the anticipation and all... of... the... waiting.

After getting settled inside, the blankets are pulled away, and I finally get a look at him. I’m stunned. There are no words. He’s the scrawniest, ugliest little thing I have ever seen. He kind of looks like an alien: Boney head, big eyes and really skinny body. Not at all what I was expecting. I feel the tears of disappointment about to spill over.

But my attention is drawn to my mother’s voice as she explains to Grandma, They won’t know about his brain function until he’s older. It could go one way or the other, either a genius IQ or learning disabilities. They just don’t know.

My heart begins to grow with compassion for the pitiful looking little thing. I giggle to myself. I usually do fall for the runt of the litter—most times. I decide then and there that he’s going to be just fine. I kneel by his crib through the night praying. I make promises to God that I will keep him safe if He’ll let this funny little creature be okay. Mom finds me there in the morning, still perched on the stool, my knees swollen. I’m stuck between the rails of the crib.

Mom closes the door to their room and quietly works to set me free.

There is no need for your dad to know, she says. We are just going to get you out of here and you need to run on and get breakfast.

It takes a pretty good size jar of Vaseline to get me free.

Before long, I began to see the results of my prayers. The little thing begins to grow stronger. I hold true to my word. I try to, anyway. The little dude is rarely out of my sight. He is a ball of light. Once he finally gets going, he never stops moving and he never stops talking. By age three or four, he has bleeding ulcers. He’s never touched. He’s a sensitive boy. I can’t protect him from the feelings. With my prayers answered, I have a job to do.

Kenny and I have it the toughest. Kenny is huge compared to me. He passed me up by about the age of five. Dad worked hard to make a mini-me out of Kenny. They even have the same name. I can remember Dad giving him sips of beer when he was just learning to walk to watch him stumble around, just for laughs. He thought it was hilarious. It didn’t seem too funny to me. Everyone would chuckle and watch. It seemed that there was always someone watching the craziness... Not speaking, just watching... I mean he was just a little boy. I guess it was one of the many battles Mom decided not to fight. I think you get tired of fighting after a while.

He tells Kenny, If somebody hurts you, you hurt them back and you hurt them worse. The accident part was left out. If Kenny got hurt, someone paid.

He was a very handsome little boy, with a smile that sparkled, at least in the beginning. When he was free. When he wasn’t worried about not being a sissy. He laughed. He has the most amazing laugh. When Kenny laughs, everybody laughs.

But he rarely spoke. He didn’t say a word until he was three years old. Everyone thought something was the matter with him. He just didn’t have anything to say. He watched. When he finally spoke, it came out in complete sentences.

He was taught that women were stupid, and that included Mom. He challenged her at every turn, in his silence. He appeared to listen while doing whatever he wanted. I remember one time—Mom’s after him about something. She’s chasing him with a fly swatter.

Do you want a spanking? Mom yells after him.

Kenny stops, turns around and says, Will that make you feel better'

When it came to school, they had little, if any, expectation for Kenny. He could have F’s and D’s without a word, while I’m in trouble over a B. The look of hopelessness, coupled with a deep burning anger, took up camp in his eyes. It wasn’t that he couldn’t do it or that he wasn’t smart enough, he just wanted to see if anyone cared. They didn’t. More fuel for his fire.

Dad got him sweet on the liquid gold with all those sips. They would head out to cut firewood with a twelve pack, well before Kenny was old enough to drive.

By junior high and high school, Dad is pushing him into activities like boxing or football or wrestling. Dad wanted Kenny to be tough. Dad wanted people to be afraid of him. Kenny wasn’t mean on the inside. He just had to act like it. He didn’t really like hitting people; he was made to. I guess it became a way of life. By high school he was smoking, drinking and fighting. The boy everyone was afraid of, following right in Daddy’s