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

[IMOGEAN]

Here you have whit, nostalgia, perseverance, pain and hope. This simple man searching for who he is, is a very common pilgrimage through the past. Little of who most people are, comes from their bloodlines but from their experiences. I read this story a while back and declined to review it because I didn't have enough time to give it a proper review.

You have given adequate back ground without the waste in using too many words. It is simple to read, yet is written with poise and an uncommon gracefulness that we all as writers, try to achieve. I was not lost in the story for the slightest moment, which is hard to do Mr Froman. You kept my interest the first time I read it, and even more now that I have read it again.

The irony of this piece is that, the babe who grew into the man--became stronger because of the weaknesses of his parents. I do not know if this story is true, but what I do know, is that you are talented.

The only fault I could find was that I wished it would continue. I wanted more!

Thank you....

Imogean~

[Wildfleour]

I really, truly enjoyed this story. I always thought I was adopted....smile....

[DaniElle LaPointe]

I don not wish to give the boy a cookie... I observe, with interest, the mother. Since grade school I have been versed in the ways of women...

"And for her pain, she gave him twice the dose."

What woman can say she has never done this when she has been scorned. Not really with medication, but in the little ways of the vindicative sort.

I am guilty of it.

Thank you for sharing.

[emmajoy]

This is simply BRILLIANT.

I read it with baited breath, taking in the words and phrases, turning and twisting with each paragraph, in a way, not wanting to reach the end.

It's a sad, melancholic tale but written with great finesse and a subtlety. The writer is sad - what a life, but somehow accepting and positive. Not explaining myself well, but your ending does - he's able to look and go forward without self pity

Certain words, phrases stand or shine out ...

'In the depths of his mind lay some horrid indescribable monster that fed on his sleep.'
' ... a dry log off your fire to let the flames cool just slightly in its absence.'
' 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!'

Thank you for sharing an absolutely wonderful piece of work.

Certain words, phrases shine out ...

[Melissa Kellum]

There is nothing more perversely entertaining than a story that forces you to look through the key hole into some one else's life. You see them through the shadows and lies of everyday, but in this one moment you catch them at their worst and therefore always seem them in the best light. These spills are my favorite for that very reason. The intensity of the emotion in here makes you wants to hug that little boy to your heart and give him a cookie, and then look up to the man he became and give him the biggest proud smile you can muster.

[None]

Dearest Craig,
For one who had little love early on you sure are able to display feelings and express things that have left me in tears here. I don't cry easily from stories. My exhusband has redish hair and blue eyes and I had brown hair and still have blue eyes. lol. My father is redish hair/blue eyes. My son has dark, dark hair and is very hairy with bluish-gray dark eyes. My mother is dark Irish with brown hair/brown eyes and her family, being from Dublin has Spaniard looks.
Since Dublin was a resting place for Conquistodors (sp) way back when, my mother has some Spanish blood in her. I'm telling you all this because...
...I believe you are Irish and that your father didn't trust your mother. I went through some similarities since I look like I can't be trusted. lol. Although, I kept myself at home throught it all.
My exhusband and his family would constantly make remarks since our son was born with dark hair and darker skin. I took a good licking for several years and because of many reasons, left him. My exhusband is 6'7" tall and the proof came later on when my son grew up and is now over 6'5" and wears a size 14 shoe. My son was robbed of his father's affections as his father lives in chains as well, but not suffering from the same afflictions as your father.
I've been divorced for 17 years and have never remarried. I never did find anyone who was willing to step up and be a good friend to my son and father figure.
I do believe you are IRISH...ask my son Morgan!! Thank you so very much for this labor of love. An exceptional story to say the least. God bless!

[Melanie Jane Boicourt S..]

Wow that totally sucked.
Just kidding. I always wanted to say that.
It actually did suck in a way because I know you have got me beat.
I loved this. So sad, yet it pulls you right into the story with a pleasant curiosity and leaves you still wondering, (which is axactly how the character was left).
Brilliant, I say.
Thank you for sharing.
Love All, Mejasha

[April Child]

Well I have to admit this brought a smile to my face in the beginning paragraphs where you describe the likeness to the baker, milkman and the butcher. I remember those jokes too, so well, being dark myself and of Irish descent. As the story progresses though this becomes a much deeper piece of writing, rich with descriptions..

In the depths of his mind lay some horrid indescribable monster that fed on his sleep.

to make her wear her guilt like some rich women wear pearls.

"hell's not so hot as a marriage grown cold."

A sad and sorry tale but depicted fluidly and somehow there is still beauty in this sad tale or maybe its just the writing that is beautiful. You truly are a gifted writer Craig.

[Cold Coffee Magazine]

CRazy good stuff here. Superbly penned. I would expect something of this quality to be in a magazine.

Dave

[Siddartha Beth Pierce]

What a wonderful story. Your description is vivid and the scenes unfold perfectly. A sad write indeed to be treated in such a way - I can't imagine a child being treated with such sterility. Though your words portray this righteously. Well done. I was glued to it. Thank you. A great job even though it is such a melancholic tale - it certainly pulls at the heartstrings.
Light,
Siddartha