I could even be Irish...

Such is life...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I could even be Irish...

 

 

Mono; that’s what my father always called me. In Spanish the word means monkey, but my father was not Hispanic. I always assumed he mocked me by the name because my hair and features were dark like cinnamon and my mother and he both had light colored hair and fair skin. Nonetheless, whether for real or imagined reasons I was never fully accepted in his life. I just knew I didn't look at all Irish like him.

            Complicating this aspect of my existence was the fact that the baker was Hispanic, the milkman was Italian, and the butcher was Croatian, and all of them were exceptionally nice to my mother. She thrived on all of their attentions, for she certainly received none at home from my father. When sent away on errands, more regularly than most of my friends, I could see my eyes in the baker, my cheekbones in the milkman, and my stocky build in the butcher and they would all offer me free food at various times. None of this gave me a dime’s peace.

Without a doubt my father wanted my mother around, for if she was out of his sight for a moment something might be amiss, so all day long he yelled for his coffee, or his paper, or his blankets. For ten years he had been bedridden, though I still wonder if it wasn’t simply to keep her close by, to make her wear her guilt like some rich women wear pearls.

            Mother was certainly no angel, unless angels are actually restless and perverse. On more than one occasion I saw her spit in my father’s soup then later cry in her own. She would often wash his clothes with lavender oil, knowing full well it made him itch. Never once did she touch him, in love or anger; it was as if he were a leper. For his pain he took a prescription, and for her pain she gave him twice the dose.

Often when he would fall into a medicated sleep she would leave me alone with him for hours so she could “get some fresh air,” she would say. During these times I would look at his face and wonder at his dreams, knowing that when he was awake my eyes could stare only at my feet in his presence. His dreams came through his mumbling lips in groans and sobs. In the depths of his mind lay some horrid indescribable monster that fed on his sleep.

            As he lay restless on his bed I would stare at a faint wedding picture of my parents in the drawer beside his bed, the only photo of them together that I ever saw. My mother appeared in a beautiful wedding gown and for once they seemed happy in each other’s company. My birthday came just one year after their wedding, though neither date was ever celebrated in our home. From the day of my birth I became the obstacle that kept them apart, so for each I was like a curse.  

            Shortly after I turned nine my parents began to send me to church each Sunday. It wasn’t to find God I later realized; it was more like taking a dry log off your fire to let the flames cool just slightly in its absence. While I was away for those few hours their upturned life was at least quiet, even if the storm was approaching just outside and wiping the mud off his feet. Unknowingly, my presence became like smoke filling a room, and the longer I stayed the darker things grew.

September 15^th still rattles my body and mind. It was never a date celebrated in our family, but I will never forget the significance. Papers came on that date to my father. All he did all day between his sobs and ranting was scream my mother’s name. It had been their anniversary, but now it would be the final resting place of their marriage. 

Not surprisingly there was no battle for my custody, as if I hadn’t been in custody all my life. At eighteen I was now on my own. I knew most likely why my father would not want me around, but my mother’s reason was less obvious. Either she was ashamed of what she had done nearly nineteen years ago or regretful of what she had not.

Within a year my father, or so I had come to call him slipped into a trance and died mumbling my mother’s name. Not once did I hear him call my name or whisper for me to stand at his side, yet there I was wishing somehow that his arm would accidentally slip and touch mine. Somehow I wished he would call me Mono one more time. At least his clothing did not make him itch in those last few months; I made certain of that.

For a time my mother dated several men trying to find one who would provide for her, so she had plenty of free meat, bread, and milk from the butcher, the baker, and the milkman. Last I heard she was with a farmer who could supply her with all three, but it doesn’t really matter much to me anymore. The simple act of divorce gave my mother the freedom she craved, even from me, and my father the nightmare he feared. Loneliness can be a most ravenous monster when you sleep.

I have neither mother nor father to embrace me now or strike my cheek, though I still dream of such things. A pastor in a sermon on a Sunday years ago had said that “hell’s not so hot as a marriage grown cold.” It had been so cold in my home for so many years that a simple touch can feel like a fire to me even now.

To my childhood I say adios, arrivederci, and doveejehñah, for I may never know just who’s I am but I will keep searching for who I am the rest of my days. Maybe it’s best that way; I don’t have to be held back by the chains of heritage or custom anymore. It is up to me to write my story from here on and cover my past like one kicks sand on a dying fire. Hell, I could even be Irish!

Author's Note

A young man must make peace with his life and his father... either the Hispanic baker, the Italian milkman, or the Croatian butcher... Ah, life...

Reviews

[Eagle Cruagh]

Perhaps the best story of the Irish that has ever been
written. It is horribly sad, tugs at the heartstrings in every
paragraph. Sick, dissalusioned, melancholy, all of the things
that keep the Irish telling jokes, kidding and singing songs of
love and daring-do.
Perhaps the history of the Irish explains it all. The 'Scandinavian
people invaded and taught them how to fish, giving the Irish their
blonde, good looks, the English over-ran them, but left a language.
The French came over and built the only cathedrals and fancy churches.
The Italians gave them a religion and the Spanish gave them color.
To the credit of the Irish, though they have no idea who they are, they
have fought and will always fight to preserve their identity, they will fight
and love and die because they are Irish.
You have written a composite of the Irish story in your poor, sad story.
It is genius, it is brilliant, I love it---- Thank you!
=---- Eagle Cruagh

[‘Thoughts In Time..]

Well wonderful you are no matter the past...I’ve got Scottish British and Norwegian in me ...mixtures are unique and divorce..I shall not speak ..of my parents ..my alcoholic mother..my abusive ex husband that the past can keep ..search I’ll keep doing for the meaning of this journey called life and the true love I believe is out there for me...we just must wait and see what time brings within the nursery rhymes it sings..loved reading this ...🌹

[An owl on the moon]

Thank you so much for finding this story. I appreciate you reading it so much... and appreciate you sharing your own depth of story... and sacred dreams that are awakening for you.

[Dr. YumnaKay]

I recently finished reading this novel which was based on mother-daughter relationship, and how it affected that woman throughout her life and in treating her own daughter, so this piece adds on to my thinking. Things like these shape an individual on how they'll become and I do feel kids have a sharp observation regarding these matters than they're given credit for. But you're right, one must make peace with what they get, though it does take a lifetime...
Very effective piece of writing. You have a way of story telling that no one has, Craig.

[An owl on the moon]

First, Yumna, let me say thank you for reading my story. Second, let me say thank you for reading my story. Your time and thoughts are deeply valued by me, and your insights always make me ponder more of life. No matter what you have faced and what you face now, may you find that perfect place of peace for you. Always.

[Kathy Van Kurin]

'I could even be irish..'
an owl on the moon,
Hmm. This writing brought the reality of life not being a picture postcard for most of us. I also felt like your young man was very brave and held up under circumstances which did not give him a center of identity, so important. From nuances of hidden things from his mom to pain in his dad and he not knowing where to turn it read with great detail and clarity. It was a very enjoyable story. Thanks for sharing this one.
Blessings,
Kathy

[An owl on the moon]

Dear Kathy, thank you for finding this story from so many years ago. I really enjoyed writing this one. Am hopeful that your life is filled with much more joy every day. :)

[Kathy Van Kurin]

Thank you owlonthemoon,
I suppose that life is what we make of it. A lot of light and shadows and challenges for sure. I am blessed in may ways and try to focus on good. I try. Sometimes though it is important to focus outside of oneself as we people are in this life together and need one another whether we know it or not.

[An owl on the moon]

It's so true. We thrive more when we thrive together. That's another reason the Cafe is so important for writers. :)

[Kathy Van Kurin]

Bless you today as you go through your moments of life.

[Ardra]

:) enjoyed reading it ..... loved the way you have expressed it....about the guy looking for resemblance in each person he meets ....I love the time spent reading your creations :)

[Claire in VA]

This is simply heart-wrenching. I am proud of you for coming to terms with all of this and for overcoming it. You are a brave, strong man. Your biographical short-story is simply perfect.
Enjoyed much by Claire. =)

[Leslie Philibert]

I don`t usually review prose, as I have too little time, but I looked at this and am pleased that I did.
A perfect autobiographical short story, finely written and paced, and with an impressive honesty.
And if you really Irish, you are in good company, think of Joyce and Beckett and Heaney and all the others, they have words in their blood..

[An owl on the moon]

Leslie, thank you so much for stopping to read my short story. Truly appreciate your encouragement, and listing such inspiring names on the same page! Take care, and may words ever flow for you...

[Marie Anzalone]

This was an excellent story and convincingly written. Almost too convincing. Maybe you had to grow up in a marriage grown cold as Hell to fully appreciate the isolating distance of human bitterness and resentment. I can relate to the young man in the story in soooo many ways. If you carry him into adulthood, I suggest you remember that such delicate creatures often have a tendency to flee when they encounter situations that smell like the lonely enclosures of their upbringing. They smell traps in corners, everywhere. Even more sadly, they can find falling into a similar routine slowly brings a perverse comfort. We are all monos, after all. Creatures of least resistance when we can be. September 15th. Central America's Independence Day.

[An owl on the moon]

I always deeply appreciate your insights shared that ever add beautiful nuances to everything you touch! Thank you! Yes... there is much to be gained from our sufferings... life itself can be cherished more when we rise above as a Phoenix from our own ashes... May any pain you have to suffer only bring you more courage to break free of Earth and soar... it's what you were meant for.

[Renée]

Brilliant Short Story ! ..I can relate to Mono as I am sure others can ...and I am glad you ended the story with a positive ending...Well Done Mr Froman !

[Pebbles]

Hell craig this is brilliant ...loneliness really can be the worst monster ever and we dont even have to be alone to feel it.... seeing as my itchy fingers had to move away from the owl and the moon im so glad i found this here it quenched my thirst just a little .... :) its funny how the restrictions our parents place upon us effect us for the rest of our lives ... thanks for sharing (is this true life just wondering you wrote it so well )

[Mark]

Craig!
How is it possible, having known you for over two years, that I have NEVER read a story by you?? I mean the poetry is SO awesome, I guess I never had the desire to seek more! But, what a first story to experience you by!
I am in a public forum, and thus could not offer this delightfully, tragically nostalgic tale the tears it deserved. My father was estranged from me, not by his fears of her infidelity, but by other stereotypically Irish excesses: alcohol, and self-doubt. I rarely read others' reviews, but it seems that "None", "creatorx2" and especially "IMOJEAN" have hit the nail quite on the head with their comments. Particularly whoever said that, because of the weaknesses and failings of his parents, the central character was made stronger. This is an observation with which I can strongly identify, though it was not realized until I was nearly forty. Thank you for a wonderfully evocative and cleansing tale.