Scar Tissue

Highway 17 is the four lane scar that runs the length of Gloucester County VA, puckering the landscape with strip malls, car dealerships, and corrugated steel mega-churches. I marveled at how altered it had become over the years. Old landmarks were gone, and the Super Wal-Marts of the world had arrived to swallow up wide expanses of wild country bramble with hellish, heat rippling asphalt. A typical but none the less heartbreaking scene these days.

Gone was the old mill house turned rollerskating rink my friends and I haunted all through Jr. High. Gone was the dirt road to nowhere we had,in high school, affectionately christened "The Zanoni Screw Stop". It was there, in breathless curiosity, I touched "it" for the first time. Oh yeah, I was a bad girl.

Yet as I turned off the highway, down the back roads of my youth, the rural landscape seemed for the most part intact. It was still that strange mixture of farm country,and wide brackish rivers that have supported "watermen" and their families for centuries.

I sat in the parking lot of the marina situated on the edge of the York River lost in thought. It was here I had spent every summer from age 10 to 20 in the community pool. This was the place of my first summer job, and and a few years prior, my first summer crush. The job was as pool life guard, and it was the first I truly "wanted", so I took the certification class at the nearby coastguard station. I spent 6 weeks the previous January dragging grown men ,"coasties", twice my size out of the pool in mock drowning scenarios. Not as bad as it sounds, actually. The crush was a boy, not much older than my 14 year old self, who was staying with his family at the marina. On their house boat. The thing had a piano in the living room, I kid you not. We spent a week of summer afternoons on that boat, listening to "The Best of Bread" and necking on the couch. His kisses tasted like salt water and Chapstick.

From the marina, I drove down to the beach where I played out my childhood. Time folded in on itself, and I was four years old again. Sitting on the dock on a warm summer night, wrapped in my beach towel, and munching fruit loops out of a plastic baggie. Watching enthralled, as my father and his friends caught blue crab with bits of string, bait, and a net; I believed he was magic. To my four year old eyes, my dad could do anything.

I was not prepared for the tsunami wave of nostalgia that rushed over me as I revisited my old stomping grounds. I did not expect to feel anything but ambivalence. I had run away to an out of state college, eighteen and angry at family and friends who I imagined had never understood me. I had left heartbroken over a boy I loved with blind teenage passion, but he was selfish and cruel, and left me unsure of myself. I was more than ready to leave this small hick town where I felt invisible, and blamed everyone for making me feel that way. It was easier that way, easier to look outward rather than in.

I drove for hours, from place to familiar place, and the overwhelming sense folding around me like that beach towel was of home. For the first time I felt free to enjoy the memories of growing up here, even the painful ones, without them being blurred by the bitter film of regret. This place, for whatever it's worth, helped shape the person I am today, and I am grateful.

True Story

When I was just about 4 years old, my parents and I were living in student housing while my father completed his doctoral degree here. During that time my mother substitute taught while finishing her teaching degree.

At times, my care fell to Lucy, a wizened southern black woman whom my parents met while commissioning her husband to build a trestle table for our kitchen. (I still have a warm fuzzy for that long, darkly stained hunk of a table that was still in our house long after I left for college).

Evidently Lucy and her husband took a shine to the very young,student poor hippie couple and their precocious child who liked to sing at the top of her lungs to anyone who'd listen, and Lucy would offer babysitting services on afternoons my mother had to be at school. On those days, she would also clean while she watched her "stories". Id sit at that table and color, listening to Lucy talk back to the TV as she shuffled around the kitchen.

One afternoon Lucy was cleaning the kitchen floor, the smell of Ajax permeating the whole house (that smell, 36 years later, forcibly reminds me of that day),when she opened the screened door and just stood there leaning heavily on her dust mop. Being the helpful child I was, thought she was tired, and needed help shaking out the mop, so I walked over to help her.

"I don't need help child, Lucy just needs to catch her breath"

Those were the last words she spoke. She stumbled back into the kitchen and promptly passed out, falling into my little red rocking chair. I remember being very concerned for my little red rocking chair, as it was not meant for grownups to take naps in.

"Lucy, Lucy, ummm.. I'm going to go take a walk now" I think on some level I knew something was wrong, but as a 4 year old did not quite understand what that "wrong" could be. In my head, she had simply fallen asleep. And In MY red rocking chair.

I wanted my dad to come and wake Lucy up, but he was at the Lab working. The Lab was down the path, across the main highway, and in one of those big red brick buildings.But which one? So, I toddled myself up to the big road and stopped. I had been told in no uncertain terms that I was NEVER EVER to cross that road without an adult. NEVER NEVER NEVER!!!! SO, I did the next best thing. Yelled.

"DAAAAAADDDYYYY!!!!"
"DAAAAAAAADDDDDDD!!!
"DAD!"

I'm not sure how long I stood there yelling across the street at the facades of those buildings. I remember being kind of amused at the way my voice echoed off of them. Luckily our next door neighbor and class mate of my father's was home for lunch and heard me yelling.

"What's wrong Chanda?"
"Lucy fell asleep in my rocking chair and won't wake up" (again with the rocking chair).

He stood there for a moment, probably trying to process what this kid just said then sprinted back toward the house.

Lucy had died of a massive stroke - instantly.

My mother sat on the edge of my bed that night to talk to me about what had happened. She was convinced I would be traumatized, permanently scarred by what I had seen.

"Is Lucy coming over again tomorrow?"
"No, Honey, she died today"
"Where did she go?"
"Heaven" (as all good Irish Catholic moms would say).
"Is she coming back?"
"No, but she's happy where she is"
"Oh... Okay"


Early childhood memories before the age of 4 are spotty at best, but that one stands out in extreme clarity, and one would think it would be a traumatic one. But it wasn't. Not once do I remember being scared or anxious, even after I had learned of her death. I don't know what that says about me, or it may just be that's how little kids process the abstract concept of death.

I Got the Music in Me

Music has always been present in my life. My first memories are of the student housing where I spent my first 5 years as my father completed his PhD filled with music by The Beatles, Janis Joplin, Jimmy Hendrix, The Grateful Dead and Bob Dylan. There were always people around with guitars or small hand held drums (it was the 60's after all).

Once,my parents went to a production of Jesus Christ Superstar in Boston, and brought back the soundtrack. Much to the bemusement of my mother, I appropriated that album and played it. To death. I knew every word. And would sing it,loudly,in various public places. Little did my 5 year old self realize "The King of the Juice" was not who they were singing about. Go figure, the son of God was not the Hey Kool-aid guy.

High school in the early 80's in a rural Virginia county was a dark time for the musically adventurous(it wasn't even a town,just a county with a lot of 4 wheel drive trucks). If I had to hear Hungry Like the Wolf one more time, and watch my friends dye their bangs blond and don headbands for one more minute I was going to scream. So I held my breath until college. Thank god for college radio! The promised land, and not a head band for miles. There I was introduced to music I had never heard before- Kate Bush, The Talking Heads, REM, Siouxie and the Banshees, and The Cure.

Where is this digression leading? Where else, to my iPod. I was setting up some play lists to get my ass moving when I visit my own personal level of hell I like to call The Gym. And Satan's implement of torture du jour? The elliptical cross trainer. Sounds kind of poetic doesn't it? Well it's not - it's 30 minutes of butt burning, calf cramping, oh my god is that my lung collapsing fun. I need my tunes to distract me from the encroaching coronary and the Access Hollywood crap they show on giant screened TVs. Seriously, do you really need to see a life size David Hasselhoff barfing a cheeseburger 27 times in 15 minutes? In slow motion? I think not,but again, I digress.

Where was I? Oh yes,music. Music is inspiration, whether it be to move, laugh, cry,create or love(ahem Marvin Gaye), it inspires. So,if you're still reading, Id love to hear what you listen to for inspiration. What music moves you?