The Life and Writings of a Blind Women
Fiction Published in Freshwater Literary Journal
I am proud one of my stories has appeared in the literary journal published by my hometown community college. When I discovered Asnuntuck Community College, located in Enfield, Connecticut, published such a journal, I wrote this story hoping it would be accepted. Though fiction, the genesis of the story arc comes from my memories growing up there
Where Dreams Come Alive
At the age of twelve, I imagined a life different from the one I knew in northern Connecticut. Whether it was hiking in Yosemite Valley, or paddling on a river in Idaho, my instinct was to want more than cul-de-sacs, a job at a chain restaurant, and traffic going nowhere. Like many kids growing up in the 1970’s, my imagination was fueled by books. At night, I sprawled across my bed with my face stuffed in a palm-sized paperback, and my Saturday’s were spent at the library. I read about Amelia Earhart and Ann Davison, who flew or sailed across the Atlantic Ocean at a time when women didn’t do such things. I fingered the words on the pages, let hope fill me, and remained silent. After all, my dreams weren’t the kind my parents could understand. To them a trip to Dairy Queen was an exciting activity. I watched as my parents lived their lives, and wondered if it was a sin to dream.
When I wasn’t reading, I liked to hang out in the tool shed. The self-appointed caretaker of the yard, it wasn’t unusual for my parents to see me headed to the back yard. Based on looks alone, the shed was far from an appealing place to be. Erected just beyond the corner of the house, it kept a small section of the neighbor’s ratty, old wooden fence from falling onto our property. The sides and roof of the structure were made of prefabricated metal, sprayed white at the factory. Inside, the floor was composed of a patchwork of warped and sagging sheets of plywood. When it rained, water seeped in and mosquitoes flourished. Every time I entered the shed, I was keenly aware it was not a place meant for me. It was my mother who expressed a singular vision for what a daughter should be. And, in my mind, it resembled the life of a doll in a doll house.
The idea that the shed was my place did not come without apprehension. Every year, in late May, a bees’ nest appeared out of nowhere. It was cleverly constructed under the three-inch deep eave, just above the rusty sliding doors. The ominous buzzing tempered my enthusiasm for the outdoors. Over time I learned the bees were mostly harmless, and if I didn’t agitate them, they left me alone. Our ability to share space meant I could come and go without worry. Still, whenever I poked around the tool shed for more than a couple of minutes, I anticipated my mother’s disapproval, and was ready to offer the requisite penance for being me.
One of the pleasures the shed offered was exposure to the New England weather. If I was in the house and saw steely, black clouds approaching from the west, I ran outside and took shelter in the shed. Doors wide open, I grinned as the thunder clapped, lightning flashed, and wind whipped the branches of the weeping willow until they flew horizontal to the ground, nowhere to go. Sometimes, the thunder was so loud the walls of the shed shimmered and shook. During the winter, snow and ice clogged the tracks for the doors, making them difficult to slide and separate. Once I coaxed the doors open, I stood inside, shook my hands to warm my fingers, and watched my breath hang in the air. Regardless of the season, the shed was the place where my spirit came alive.
Like any other tool shed, its primary purpose was for storage of home and outdoor equipment, including the lawn mower. When I assumed responsibility for cutting the grass, we had a push mower with a broken self-propelling mechanism. While it took some effort to push it, I didn’t care. I embraced the physical activity. Week after week, I pushed the mower over the third of an acre of grass. The task satisfied my need for symmetry, and a sense of relief filled me as I carved perfect, parallel lines across the lawn. Each time the task was finished, I stood in the driveway, celebrated my elevated heart rate, and took one last whiff of the freshly cut grass. No one ever knew how much comfort I took from feeling my T-shirt stick to my sweaty back. Standing in the kitchen with a glass of water, I sensed the disappointment in my mother’s sideways glance. Hoping to pre-empt an angry flurry of words, I quickly offered a sign of peace, “The ironing is next on my list. I just need to clean up.”
Without a word, my mother retreated to the living room, and I returned the mower to the shed. Then I took a seat on the front stoop, licked my thumb and forefinger, and tried to rub away the lime green stains on the toes of my white sneakers. Looking up and down the street, I wondered why none of the other girls used a mower. My sneakers as clean as I could get them, I went to the basement and ironed my father’s work shirts.
Besides the lawn mower, there was a flimsy wire rack in the shed. It was the home of a random set of tools: a hammer, screwdrivers, wrenches, and a broken set of pliers. I liked to take one in my hand and feel how it was weighted. In a pinch, I had confidence I could use these small instruments. On the floor, next to the rack, sat a box containing a drill, some drill bits, a sander, and a glue gun. I had no use for those items. Only my brother was given the guidance needed to handle those things. When I lurked in the background as my father showed him how to sand a board, I was told to stop being a pest. I learned it wasn’t my place to spend time with my father, his only responsibility to teach a boy how to become a man. I wished it were different, but I didn’t feel singled out.
The shed also housed the pool supplies. There was a five-gallon bucket of chlorine, and hoses used to vacuum the pool, a cheap, above-the-ground model. Mostly, my mother took care of the pool. That was her slice of heaven, floating for hours when the temperatures climbed above eighty degrees. Though I liked to swim, the pool wasn’t a place where mother and daughter bonded. She wanted her space, and I knew enough not to make waves.
The crown jewel in the tool shed was my brother’s Rupp mini bike. In his stern voice, he expressed a deep conviction that the mini bike was off limits. Under no circumstances was I allowed to ride it. I knew any appeal to my parents was useless. Instead, jealousy festered as my brother got to have all the fun. He’d rev up the engine and ride the bike down the street to the single-track trails in the woods. My brother and his friends rode those trails for hours on a Sunday afternoon. Meanwhile, I was forced to sit, clean and pristine, on the sideline and listen to the screaming engines from afar. In those moments, I understood the link between sins and hell.
There were plenty of times when the bike sat in the shed, unused. The way I saw things, that was my time to live. When I sat on the machine, I felt whole. Desperate to feel the engine generate heat and vibrate enough to make my forearms tingle, I improvised and settled for the dream. With my right hand, I griped the throttle, rotated my wrist backwards, and pretended to give the engine gas. Arms slightly bent at the elbows, I imagined the engine’s high-pitched whine and what it was like to move forward. With my left hand holding the handlebar, my fingers stretched out and grabbed the clutch lever. I squeezed hard. The toes on my right foot pressed the brake until it engaged. I pictured the back tire fishtail, smiled, and chuckled to myself. The hours passed. I wanted more.
Unbeknownst to anyone, I spent more time on the mini bike than my brother. I caressed every inch of the gas tank, the fenders, and the torn vinyl seat cover. In time, I garnered enough nerve to drop the bike off its kick-stand and leaned it this way and that way into the imaginary corners of life. I closed my eyes as tight as I could, and watched as the force of the engine tore up the demon that tried to define what a girl should be. Just as dirt spun up from the rear tire and splattered anyone who tried to stifle me, my mother called out, “Mary, what are you doing back there?”
“Nothing.” I yelled out, and frantically pushed the bike back on its stand. “I was just about to vacuum the pool for you.