Living Into the Answers

1983 was magical and scary in the way that some things can be both at once. Mom and I had moved from the small house in Garland to the big, three-story, five bedroom in Colleyville, and I’d gone from only child to the youngest of four in the matter of a weekend. My new step-dad was a big teddy bear of a man named Jim with eyes that smiled when he smiled; he drove a Jaguar and drank cognac and loved TCU football. I’d soon call him Dad, but for now he was Jim. I was starry eyed about being an actual little sister to my two new older sisters and brother. The stars dimmed a bit after a family vacation to the beach found me locked in the hotel closet by the 12 year old twins who laughed maniacally while mom was in the shower oblivious to my cries. Becoming the youngest would be an education in itself.

The six of us settled in and began the long experiment that is blending a family. The years that lay ahead would not be easy, but for this one shining season, it was magic to this six year old. Dad owned a successful property management company and we enjoyed the fruits of his labor. My oldest sister, college age, had her own social life, but the twins and I spent our summer swimming at the Riverbend country club while mom played tennis. Some weekends Dad would take the 42 foot Chris-craft Commander out on Lake Texoma where we would do cannon balls from the top level while mom and dad listened to music and sipped on bourbon. Sun beaten and spent from the water, we’d chug down a glass bottle Coke then fall asleep on the deck to the rhythmic rocking of the boat while Dolly and Kenny sang “Islands In the Stream” punctuated by radio static.

When mom was single she had largely kept me separate from her social life, now a steady stream of beautiful and successful couples spent a Friday or Saturday night at our house. First, the before-dinner drinks, poured from the crystal decanters; the men would stand around the grill with their glasses and talk football or politics. Then, a steak dinner, with a properly set table, assigned salad fork, dessert fork, and so on, followed by a fierce game of Trivial Pursuit or dancing in the entertainment room with the bar. I was mesmerized by these women in all their nineteen-eighties glory, the coifed hair, sprayed in place so that it didn’t move, big earrings, multi-colors of eye-shadow, designer clothes, expensive perfume. These were Texas women, 1983, need I say more? But they were classy, cultured, intelligent women who knew how to carry themselves just so and how to match their debonair husbands. Most of all I loved all the activity, the laughter, the friendly competition at the game table, and then the music. Oh the music.

The music of the early eighties is deeply imprinted on me. Music is time travel, instant transport. The first few notes of Christopher Cross’s “Sailing” and I’m in the plush brown passenger seat of Mom’s Pontiac LeMans, window down, sunbeams in my hair, Slurpee in hand driving through Dallas. Ronnie Milsap’s “Any Day Now” puts me cross -legged on the floor in my step-Mom’s hair salon in Houston, thumbing through glossy hair magazines, the smell of perm chemicals stinging my nose. Bonnie Tyler’s “Total Eclipse of the Heart,” I’m in leg warmers and roller skates performing a choreographed dance on the driveway with my new sister. But the Friday nights in 1983 at 4006 Butler Ct., the nights that smelled like cognac and perfume, with the beautiful people and the laughter, those nights were for J. Blackfoot, Lionel Richie and Dad’s own country music album he’d recorded earlier that year. That music possesses me with a nostalgia so powerful that I am covered with an overwhelming longing for that magic only felt in childhood. When I close my eyes I am six again.

Dad is telling jokes as he makes a drink, that’s what he does. The ice tinks in the glass as he swirls it around and his deep laugh bounds as he talks with his friends. Everyone is in the big room, with the bar and the high ceiling. The ladies sit, legs crossed at the tall bar stools and everyone talks over the music. I stand nearby, elbows on the counter, one bare foot perched on the inside of my opposing knee, like a flamingo.  I am soaking up the adult conversation, studying the dynamics, trying to laugh at all the right places as if I know what they’re discussing. The beautiful women sometimes ask me questions or I show them a cartwheel in the way that a child is always looking to impress. Then “TAXI” comes on. J. Blackfoot’s “oooh” dances through the air and I see Mom search for Dad’s eyes as she comes back into the room. They love dancing to this song. Mom’s eyes sparkle as Dad meets her in the middle of the room. I bite my bottom lip with a smile to suppress a giggle. They’re in love. Another couple takes the floor, but my eyes stay glued to my parents. They talk close to each other’s faces and smile, in step with each other. And for a moment everything is right with the world. I am a part of something here. This magic. This love.  I believe in them.

They have dared something. They have thrown in their lot, bet on each other. I don’t understand it yet, I can’t possibly, but I will. The years will offer up struggle; this family will be earned, not given. There will be years of feast and famine, bounty and scarcity. They will give up, they will return to each other. There will be seasons of brokenness, and seasons of repair. And we will witness it all. 

It will all be magical and scary in the way that some things can be both at once.