Eight Feet Small: Stone Walls

Apparently today, April 10th, is Sibling Day. Who knew? Growing up with three siblings from the moment I was born, I used to tell people I wanted to be an only child. Now, looking back, I know that my brothers and sister have made me the person that I am today. We’ve been through it all, together. I love them very much.

**********

It’s late December.

It’s early morning.

These chilly, uncomfortable mornings are followed by sun-drenched, uncomfortable afternoons.

That’s how winter is in Fresno.

That’s how winter is where I live.

We’re getting ready for school. My brothers are battling for “shotgun” before we even step foot out the door. Mom is in a hurry, as usual. Scrambling to find our shoes and coats. Scrambling to find her keys. Scrambling to rip a brush through my sister and my tangled hair.

“Here they are,” she grumbles under breath. “Marshall! Go warm up the car!” she hollers from the top of the stairs as she tosses the keys down to him. These stairs overlook Papa Lew’s backyard mechanic area. These stairs overlook the vast, dry field (which now has an interstate running through it) where we run and play in the intense heat of the Fresno sun. We live here -- Papa Lew, Mom, Marshall, Marco, Michele, and me -- this is our home.

Where was Papa Lew this morning?

Mom is still getting ready. Maybe she has to finish putting on her fluorescent fuchsia lipstick. Maybe she can’t find her signature sky-blue down coat. Maybe something else.

We’re now waiting in the car half-asleep. Out of breath, she finally rips open the driver’s-side door to the boxy, mid-eighties, light-brown Buick. She plops so hard into the driver’s seat my head rocks back and forth like a bobble-head doll.

She slams on the accelerator and cranks up the radio as we rush to school. It always amazes me how music can transform her mood. Her animated hands fly up in the air as if composing an orchestra in the sky; she wails along...

If I could turn the page, in time then I’d rearrange just a day or two (MMM HMMM) close my, close my, close my eyes...

Always in a hurry.

We say school because it’s all we know it as. It’s a daycare really. We’ve been coming here since the end of summer. I remember seeing the sign that read “Jack and Jill’s Daycare” and thinking it would be really cool to meet them.

I remember the scorching August afternoon when mom signed us up:

Marshall stabbed his hand on the top of a wire fence.

Michele ran straight for the monkey bars, easily making friends within moments.

Marco observed the surroundings, playing with Marshall but paying attention to mom too.

I clung to mom like a spider to it’s web; overwhelmingly reticent to this type of change.

On this December day, while mom is whizzing down the road I notice the scar on Marshall’s hand. Since Michele and I are five we’ll be getting our boosters soon. I wonder if the needle will feel like the fence wire that pierced through my brother’s hand?

The car rests at a stop light.

It will be hot later. But at this moment, just looking out the window makes me shiver. I stare in wonder; the grape vines in this agricultural town are in perfectly organized, categorized rows. Mini icicles have formed overnight on the tips of the curly, deep green leaves. In a few short hours these leaves will be pulsing from the heat of the sun. The icicles melting into droplets that will eventually evaporate; they will never be the same again.

I notice some overgrown weeds have made their way up a stone, open-air shed. The weeds making these four walls their territory. These four stone walls, the unshakable foundation.

Mom guns it through the green light.

We finally make it to school. Late as usual. Mom kisses and hugs us goodbye and, although the morning made me anxious, I’m not wanting to leave her hurried embrace.

The daycare is essentially one big, open room. The dingy, brown carpet matches perfectly with the dingy, brown walls. Right now the walls are covered in cut-outs of paper Christmas stockings with glitter names (for the girls) and paper Christmas trees with crayon scribbles to simulate ornaments (for the boys).

I look at Marco as we enter the classroom. His nose scrunches and eyes squint simultaneiousy, “Ewww, this place smells like bologna and rotten mayonnaise!” We all laugh. It’s true. He is so picky. It’s a classic Marco reaction. I guess it’s just funny that he says it nearly every time we walk into the doors of the daycare.

I walk squeamishly out to the playground, turning to see Michele close behind, “Melis! Come ‘ere! I want to show you a trick on the monkey bars!”

The morning bell rings. The cold air has begun seeping it’s way into my hot pink, tattered cotton jacket. It is good timing.

“Line up in order!,” one of the workers calls out, “Schottlings! You get next to each other!” I wince at the sound. We probably all do. Just because we’re twins doesn’t mean we’re one entity. The nicknames are barely tolerable at times; we frequently got “M&M twins,” but “Schottlings” had to be the worst.

We march inside from the playground, same expression flooding Marco’s face. The all-too-familiar cheese, crackers and fruit punch are laid before each child-sized seat on the cafeteria style table. I can smell the tangy, super-sweet lip staining goodness of the fruit punch before it even touches my lips.

We finish snack. I begin chasing Michele around for stealing my favorite Wild Strawberry colored crayola. She taunts me as I run in circle around her.

Then it happens.

A loud knock echoes through the room from the front door.

The door swings open and there he is. It’s Papa Lew dressed up in a Santa outfit. Everyone laughs and cheers. But, I feel overwhelmingly embarrassed. I knew that because this was my grandfather, my siblings and I would for sure have to go in front of the class to talk to “Santa.” I am crippled by anxiety from the moment he steps foot inside the daycare.

I should have known. With his natural full head of chalky white hair spilling into a well-groomed chalky white beard, he was optimal impersonation material.

“Ho, ho, ho!” he belted in perfect holly-jolly tone, “I hear you have all been very good boys and girls this year. Now, who wants to tell me what they want for Christmas this year?”

Marshall gleams while asking “Santa” for a My Buddy doll for Christmas.

Marco is bashful, yet enthusiastic, as he requests the new G.I. Joe action figure (he’d been singing the theme song around the house for months now).

Michele is the most energetic. I know it’s because it’s Papa Lew; but, she tells “Santa” she wants a My Little Pony doll figurine regardless.

I’m up next. I’m trying, with all my might, to hold back the tears welling up behind my eyes. I don’t understand what is producing this overwhelming anxiety. But, I know I have to trudge along.

I sit.

“Why, hello little girl, what’s your name?” With every ounce of my being I can sense that he is trying to make me smile, trying to make me less anxious. The moment I utter my name the pathetic tears start to flow. “Santa” gently hugs me and chuckles a bit. I’m left defenseless.

Then it hits me.

I look down into the crowd of carefree, excited peers. I scour the faces for familiar eyes. My eyes.

My glance catches that of my siblings and unspoken encouragement is transferred through their smirks, laughs and gazes. In that moment, that is what gets me through. And, it will continue to get me through. My unshakable foundation.

“We are so very rich if we know just a few people in a way in which we know no other.” -Catherine Bromwell-Booth