A New One, to Replace the Sad One, to Replace the Broken One…

…and so on, and so on, and shoo-bee-doo-bee-doo-beee….

Many thanks and credits go to Sly and the Family Stone, for their song lyrics.

I don’t know the name for the song, but one of the stanzas said,

“We got to live together!”

My folks would have the rockin’est porch parties when we were teenagers. I guess my folks were cool, in their way. Mom with her groovy, huge-framed rose tinted glasses and wide legged pants,” elephant leg pants” or :bell bottoms”. She would wear bright orange and brown peasant tops, hot pink earrings and red-red, drop -dead lipstick.

A real “hottie”!!

And Dad? Oh boy, what a lady killer! Handlebar moustache waxed into up-curled tips, neatie-babe silk shirts open to show his chest and his gold  “Italian horn” necklace. He wore perfect fitting pants to show off his form when he danced with my Mom, or the “chicks” who seemed to reproduce like tribbles in his aura. It was as if he had his own gravitational field that sucked wide-eyed blondes into his unpatrolled waters.

In my teenaged eyes I both adored and loathed him at the same moment. I was so proud to be his daughter, while being ashamed for my Mom. I was a fly on the wall to their lives.

I can remember Mom’s laughter, cigarette in one hand, “Harvey- wallbanger” in the other. She was usually hanging out with her chums, her “girls”, showing them center-folds of Arnold Schwartzenegger in her Playgirl magazines.(I found that issue rather interesting myself…). Her friends from work would come, big-chested Polish women from Cannonsburg and Heidelburg, who worked at the “old folks home” with her on night shift.

Smoke curling from their lips, and from the tips of their perfectly painted nails, the women would tell bawdy jokes, and pinch the young guys as they walked by their picnic tables.

Mom would always look strangely out of place, like a rose mixed into a bouquet of day-old daisies. I would see her excuse herself momentarily, glancing around the party till her eyes would light on her husband. Then she would pause, leaning against a bannister or in a quiet corner, and get a faraway look in her blue eyes while she watched him. A sigh would escape her lips, unbeknownst to herself. But I noticed her whimsy, like a cloud passing over the sun, quickly.

Back to the party, fill a bowl of chips, offer someone a refill on their drink. Dad suddenly looking up (from peeking down a twenty- two year old’s blouse, who just happened to be perched on his knee) as if he felt Mom’s eyes on him. He would quickly come back to his senses, pulling the girl a little closer onto his lap, the group sitting around him hanging on every word, like hungry dingoes.

Soon I would have my fill of the drama, and down to my “jam” room I would sneak, for a shot of Jack Daniels and a few tokes of green weed. All of this affirming in my mind the futility of love, the terrible pain that came from marriage. Off into my own world I would drift, where no one could hurt, or abandon me…

Author: ST Martin

I am an Artist, Poet and Author. A Survivor of Violent Sexual Abuse and Rape, I have lived thru Severe Domestic Violence, Twenty Three years of Addiction and Alcoholism, Family Dysfunction, Chronic Pain, Dependence on Opioids, and 2 Venomous Snake Bites...I have Been Stabbed, Shot at, Tied to a Tree and Choked Unconscious. A Quarter Horse Rolled on Me, as did a Lawn Tractor. I also Wrecked a Harley into a Tree! I also have PTSD and Rapid Cycling Bipolar Disorder, and spent my 18th birthday in a Locked Psychiatric Ward. I am so much more than this: I feel like a tiny seed that sprouted in a desert, and now has grown into a Passion Vine. My Art is my Voice, Screaming, Crying, Praying, Loving, Laughing, Healing- all in Riotous Color...

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