The Music Truck

The Story of the Music Truck
For My Beautiful Daughter Meghanne

Retaining some level of naivety in life isn’t necessarily a bad thing

Although I escaped the teenage mother moniker by less than 24 hours, becoming a mom midway through my sophomore year of college certainly had its challenges. For starters, I had no intention of going to work until Meghanne was in Kindergarten. Instead, I planned to finish my pricey private John Carroll University college education and then attend either law or graduate school. As such, living off my husband’s paltry  starting-out salary meant making a lot sacrifices. We lived with my mother and had cost-free family support when it came to childcare. We drove used, paid for cars, Meg wore hand-me-downs or gifts, and overall we cut corners at every turn to live within our means. And, while we certainly were not living the carefree party lifestyle of most of our 20 year-old friends, we didn’t really care. Meghanne was our whole life and we knew the sacrifices we were making would lead her to a better life and future.*

Meghanne’s dad, Gordon, and I, grew up in Cleveland proper with our backyards abutting the MetroParks—Me from OLA and Gordon from St. Pat’s parishes. If you are Catholic and from West Park you know what that means. If you are not, let’s just say we shared very similar upbringings and consequently, experiences. One of those commonalities was the sweet sound of the Ice Cream Truck trolling the neighborhoods on hot summer nights and the delicious refreshing, amazing, treats of bomb pops, nutty buddy or other tasty morsels.

I bought this ornament for Meggie for our Christmas Tree.
It lights up and plays music

When the Ice Cream Truck came through the neighborhood, The kids who got something were Rock Stars and the envy of everyone! The ice cream itself was really trivial. They achieved something we all wanted. They were finally able to convince their parents to spare a few coins on their tight budget to be THE KID, the center of attention, the envy of all those who watched, who ran out of their house, made the truck stop and said “yes, I will take…” whatever tasty treat they enjoyed in front of everyone else who just watched; hoping, that some day they would be standing in their shoes. See that was the great part of growing up in our neighborhoods.  We were all in the same boat.

So the first time I heard the Ice Cream truck come down our street when Meg was old enough to question its existence, (18 months) I panicked. Unlike our mean, tough, I walked 10 miles to school, uphill both ways parents….I knew that I could never say no to her. But, I also knew if I allowed her to get something from the truck, she would want it every day! Like most latch-key, gen-x kids, I wanted her to have everything that I could never have growing up. Even something as trivial as the Ice Cream Truck. And, I knew on our thin budget we couldn’t afford that. So when she heard the music and she asked, “Mommy what is that?” I did what any NOT-teenage mother would do. I told a little white lie. I simply said: “Honey, that’s the Music Truck. It drives around all summer throughout the city to play music for all the children in the neighborhood to make them happy.” Meggie, of course, bought it hook, line and sinker and believed every word I said!

This went on for the next few summers.  Fortunately, on most days we were in the backyard, on the deck sunning and swimming, surrounded by a 6 ft. wooden privacy fence. So she was shielded from the kids surrounding and chasing the “music truck.” Instead, Meggie would stop, listen and dance. I loved watching her happiness and innocence as she swayed back and forth to the music. 

In the summer of 1993, when Meggie was 4 years-old, my Uncle Ray would come live with us briefly. He was going through a divorce and needed not only a place to stay but also a place to bring his 6 and 8 year-old sons—Russell and Billy, respectively. I was in graduate school at the time and welcomed the addition to our household because Ray possessed the means and a plan to take us to the golden city of Rocky River—which call me a snob, but in my OLA mind, making it across the bridge to Rocky River—meant MAKING IT! (Hey don’t judge, I was young).

So, one day during that summer of Ray, after morning summer classes, my BFF, Tina, from college came home with me. We donned our bathing suits, slathered on sun tan lotion and took up residency next to Meggie’s baby pool, with Faulkner, to have a lively literary discussion. In the background, the music truck was playing and I barely noticed Meggie going into the house as Tina, debated some literary theme in The Sound and the Fury.  However, we were quickly interrupted by a wild-eye child careening through the deck’s screen door---“Mommy, MOMMY, MOMMY! You are NOT going to believe this!!” Meghanne declared at the top of her lungs with excitement I’d never witnessed before!

And there she was. My baby. Her face COVERED with green. Wide-eyed. Smiling ear to ear.  An, ERNEST in her face, a twinkle in her eye. She was bursting! She was on the verge of telling me the world’s GREATEST secret—Bigger than when the caveman discovered FIRE…..And she then spoke.

 “MomMY, you ARE NOT going to believe. BUT GUESS what is in the music truck!!! ICE CREAM!!!! it doesn’t just play music. it has ice cream!!!!!!” She said covered in the Nickelodeon green slime of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle pop she was devouring.

My reaction?  With a cold stoned faced I asked Meggie: “Who got you that.” “Uncle Ray Mommy—Isn’t it great, Mommy? Look what is in the Music Truck!!!”

And, I walked inside and looked at Ray and said—“In a few weeks we move to Rocky River (where they don’t have Music Trucks). Until that time, you will buy MY DAUGHTER ice cream from the ice cream truck EVERYDAY!!!!”

Meggie & Russ Waiting for the Music Truck

_____________________________________________________

FAST FORWARD

I love this story and have told it time and time again—much to Meggie’s chagrin. I love it because I know all it’s listeners and now readers, think about their experience with the “music truck” and smile. I also love it because it shows my sheer brilliance in thinking up this story (one which other have copied) but at the same time demonstrates the sheer trust, love and loyalty a child shows to their parent and the lengths that parent will go to make sure that their babies have the BEST.

Fast forward 18 years…I use to joke with Meggie that the minute she graduated from High School I was putting a for sale sign on the house and moving.  I wanted to move to the beaches of Florida but soon realized how much I would miss my kids (in addition to Meggie, my husband Marc has three boys + grandkids), we settled for a house on the shores of Lake Erie.  Ironically between the time Meg left for school and the first time she came home from college we had in fact moved to Avon Lake on the shores of Lake Erie. That first summer when Meg came come, we were out sun tanning in the yard and we heard the “music truck” come down our street. And, I ran inside, got some cash, came outside and said “let’s go.” We flagged down the truck. I got a bomb pop (my favorite) and Meg got a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle pop. And arm and arm, sitting on the breakwall…we watched the sunset.

*Meghanne’s father and I divorced when she was 8 years old. However, we remained the best of friends and raised Meghanne as “a couple” despite that I had became involved with someone else who I eventually married. In fact, at Meghanne’s high school graduation, when I introduced Meggie’s step-father to a fellow classmates parents who have known Meg since Kindergarten, they remarked, “Oh, I had no idea you and Meg’s dad were no longer together?” And, yes, 24 years later, we are still friends. 

We've Got a Thing That's Called Radar Love

Long before guitar hero, kids got together in their bedrooms, blasted the music and rocked out on their air instruments and sang at the top of their lungs. Marty and I were no exception.

Throughout the course of our lives Marty and I shared many musical moments. Seeing Paul McCartney and Pink Floyd at the old Browns Stadium. Seeing The Who on their “farewell” tour in 1982 and David Bowie on his “Let’s Dance” tour a year later. Listening to Genesis’ The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway and Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Free Bird” and “Tuesday’s Gone” around a Tidioute campfire. Even dancing on the bar at the Public House to Guns ‘n Roses’ “Paradise City” on my 25^th birthday (and yes there is a video tape!).

But there is one song that every time I hear it—it stops me dead in my tracks and transforms me into a child—Golden Earring’s “Radar Love.”

The image is so clear like it was just yesterday. And it is in fact, one of my earliest childhood memories and indeed one of the most vivid. Marty’s bedroom circa 1973. So, I was no more was like 4-5 years-old and Marty, a mere 10-11. He had the back bedroom at our home on Allien. There were three twin beds in the room at the time—most likely occupied also by Timmy and Ray. Posters all over the wall and clothes all over the floor.

But these posters were circa 1970s and they were black light posters! And, that Christmas, Marty (or one of the boys) got not only a black light, but a strobe light as well! And, the 45 record (many of you don’t probably remember them) of Golden Earring’s: Radar Love.

Marty and I would go up to his room. Turn out all the lights. Turn on the black light and the strobe light. Turn the volume all the way up on our portable turn-table. Drop the needle. And then we’d take our positions, start jumping on the bed, play our air guitars and sing at the top of our lungs….

I’ve been drivin’ all night my hand’s wet on the wheel

There is a voice in my head that drives my heel

And my baby calls that she needs me here

It’s a half past four and I’m shifting gear…

We got a thing and it’s called Radar Love

We got a wave in the air

Radar Love…Radar Love

We did this over and over and over again until finally “mom” would come upstairs and say…“turn that down and stop jumping on the beds! One of you are going to crack your head open!” (she was right…eventually, one day while we were jumping on the beds, I did crack my head open! And I’ve got the scar to prove it! The one above my right eyebrow that drives my esthetician crazy every time I go in to get my brows done.)

Needless to say. Everyone time I hear “Radar Love” I turn it up as loud as possible and sometimes, I even jump on the bed.

Faith, Hope, Pixie Dust

All you need is faith, hope and pixie dust! ~ Peter Pan

On my first official date with Marc, we met at a tattoo parlor. I was 28 years old and ink free. And, Marc… well he was 39 and not exactly ink-free. He had about 14 or so at the time but on that day…he was about to get his “last” (if you know Marc—it was certainly not!). But for me it was my first. And since then, I only have one more. 10 years later in honor of my beloved Marty.

But there we met. I walked into Finest Lines in Euclid with a Disney VHS of Peter Pan in my hand. Marc and our artist looked at me…like WTF…a Disney movie? What did we get ourselves into!

I had wanted to get a tattoo for years but needles, blood, pain…not my thing. And, Marc had finally given me the courage, but I had seen so many stupid tattoos in my life so, I wanted to be sure.

Being inked and living with a man and family who is very inked-up.—I’ve learned every tattoo has a story . And certainly, so do both of mine. But this first would always mark a first date, with someone who I was sure, at that time, would NEVER work out. Therefore, I wanted to make sure that it was something that meant something very special to me.

So I thought. What is important to me? What would always be important to me?

I ultimately decided on something Disney.

My love affair with Walt Disney and animation probably started with a choice not made by me. My mother decided to do my nursery in Winnie the Pooh.

Yet, most kids have rooms in childish fantasy…so I really don’t think that is it.

For me…it was a dream (or more like a nightmare.)

It was shortly after both my grandparents had died. (If you’ve read my blog, you know my grandparents were very special to me and like my parents). I had the dream when I was 9 years old.

At that time, I had never been to Walt Disney World but from pictures, I knew exactly what it looked like.

In that dream, I was at Disney World and ran into my grandparents. I was lost, crying, running down Main Street and frantically looking for my mother. And, then, I met up with my grandparents. I was RELIEVED to finally encounter someone I knew. People who made me feel safe and would always help me. I hugged them and said: “Thank God! I’m so happy to so you! Do you know where mom is?” And, my grandmother, replied “She is with us. You need to go now. You’re not meant to be here with us. We’re leaving and you can’t come with us.” And, then I saw them turn, walk away, toward Cinderella’s castle, holding hands with my mother.

I stood there in Main Street, alone and I knew what that meant. My mother was dead….but I wasn’t afraid. And, I didn’t try to run with them and be with them. I knew that I was where I was I needed to be. I was going in a different direction and like or not, without any of them.

The magic of Disney World surrounded me and I felt at peace.

Needless to , say I woke up in a cold sweat and immediately went to my mother’s room and crawled into her bed and her arms. It was a dream (thank God) and she was still with me.

But, it was at moment that I learned that the only person you could ever count on was yourself.

Sadly that memory stuck with me and to this day, I consider myself one of the most self-reliant people on the planet. But, as vivid as that memory is to me, so is that feeling, standing in Main Street….alone. That amazing magic surrounding me and that feeling—that everything would be okay. Faith, Hope, Pixie Dust.

Life has certainly taken me on a magical journey…as it has us all. It’s called life! And, I’m certainly not alone. I have an amazing family and support system. And, I’ve had a lot of people help me along the way.

So, when I thought about my first tattoo and what was really important to me. I thought about that dream, Disney and Tinkerbell.

I was raised uber-Catholic and was taught that Faith, Hope and Love were the most important things in life…Kinda…like Faith, Hope, Pixie Dust!

So, I showed up with my Disney VHS (no DVDs or BluRays in those days ) and despite the strange looks, said, “I want this picture of Tinkerbell, on the cover of the box…with her magic wand and pixie dust tattooed on my hip. As a reminder, of where I’ve been, where I’m going, and the hope of what might be.”

Two days later, Marty got in his fatal accident. As my tattoo wound was still healing—a new wound opened. And, I’ve spent the last 14 years trying to heal that wound and, vacillating between emotions---anger, regret, love, heart-ache! I’ve even sought professional help.

And, then recently, I had a break-though. It was my best friend who said to me—after the conversation inevitability turned to tears and my grief of Marty-- “You know what Sharon. You will NEVER get over it. Stop wasting your time. You just have to learn to live it.”

It was so simple. Like those fictitious words from my grandmother when I was standing in Main Street….that made me feel so safe, secure, and at that moment, I was ready to take flight.

And, I touched my tattoo thinking:

Faith: Complete trust or confidence in someone or something.

Hope: A feeling of expectation and desire for a certain thing to happen.

Pixie Dust: Magic dust from a fairy that allows humans to fly.

I’m ready to fly, move on and LIVE.

Any Given Sunday

I love the Cleveland Browns. As Terry Pluto points out in his recent book Things I’ve learned from watching the Browns, this love is “completely, utterly irrational! If you were born after 1960…being a Browns fan makes no sense. None. Zero.” But, despite that, as his book chronicles, anyone’s love affair with the Browns is far beyond what they do on the field. If you’re a Browns fan you know that. Despite the endless Sundays that you’ve waited, hoped, and believed, you know that alas...you will have your heartbroken. My 18^th birthday was 1/11/87—we’ll get to that in a moment.

According to my mother, my love affair with football started in the womb. My uncle, Ray Somerville, was a senior starter on Cleveland’s Notre Dame Cathedral Latin’s football team in the fall of 1968 and my mother attended and cheered on every game with me growing in her belly. She is right. There really can be no other explanation. I was raised by a single mom (who outside of cheering on these games, could care less about football) and beyond Ray, I had no older brothers who played the sport or anyone who took me to games as a child. Yet, somehow, I grew into this rabid football fan.

I really can’t pin-point the day, time or place that I decided that this was my sport. And, my friends from high school will testify to my love for college football (especially Doug Flutie and his amazing BU “Hail Mary” pass to defeat the Hurricanes quarterbacked by future Brown, Bernie Kosar). I followed every college team, watched all the bowl games and even the Heisman Trophy ceremonies—which I still do today.

Of course, my true love was the NFL but, I knew, even at a young age, that watching college games was important. These were the future stars of the NFL who were playing their hearts out for no other reason than to make it big someday. This was pure football in my eyes and I loved (and still do) every minute of it.

Nor can I really pin-point the day I became a Cleveland Browns fan. But considering I remember Red Right 88 (I was 11) and my devotion to the Kardiac Kids (junior high)--it was pretty early on.

My love was deep. Like college football on Saturday, every Sunday, I followed every NFL team in the league. The quarterback was always key to me. (chicks dig the long ball—I know baseball reference but it still applies! Really anyone who can throw a spiral down the field melts my heart) The quarterback, in my opinion, makes or breaks a team. Eventually, Joe Montana would become my absolute favorite player in the league. Ironic. How many quarterbacks have the Browns had? Especially since “The Move.”

Maybe it was just simply rooting for the home team that made me a Browns fan? Or it could be the fact that my mom was a barmaid and I spent a lot of my childhood in the bar owned by my Uncle Ray watching football. Or was it that he knew Tom Cousineau and other players in the league, including Browns players, who would sometimes visit the bar and eventually our house? Who knows? One thing I do know is that even when I picked “my team”—I knew the Browns were not very good; but nonetheless, I watched and cheered for them every week by my calculations for 30+ years.

Maybe it was just bad DNA? In that case, I have passed on this genetic defect of loving the Browns on to my daughter—taking her several Browns games, including a trip to the Browns-Steelers game (in the Dawg Pound) when she was 12! Her father was livid at first—but he, too, is a Browns fan so he understood. When my daughter selected colleges a few years ago, the quality of the football team was equally as important as the quality of the program. She chose OSU and she’s a pre-vet major, so I think she made a good choice on both fronts.

I enjoyed reading Pluto’s book on Christmas (which my daughter bought me and was my favorite gift) and identified with every chapter. But, I still wondered why? Why am I a Browns fan? And, why did I have plans to attend a December game, the day after Christmas no less? He was right...being a Browns fan made NO SENSE!

For starters, I hate any weather condition under 70 degrees (I actually wear a sweater when it is that cold out) and wouldn’t dream of going out of my house on a day like I was preparing. Cold as hell, 20+ degrees and snow!! And, the wind, wicked! I live on Lake Erie so when I went to pick up the newspaper in the morning and felt the piercing cold winds, which left me breathless, I knew what was in store and thought WTF am I thinking?

But I walked back in the house and still could NOT wait to head down to Cleveland Browns stadium with my daughter, in my new Browns Santa hat and our new matching Browns jackets to freeze my A** off and watch the Browns which I know would lose! Why?

Well a few reasons. For starters I was invited by the Cleveland Browns to be part of the gauntlet as the players entered the field. That’s right, on field at Cleveland Browns Stadium! Wild horses could have kept me from that opportunity—especially with my daughter! And, that might have been one of the coolest things I’ve ever been apart of—outside of being asked to participate in the coin toss earlier this year! Then something truly magical happened. And, I knew I was destined to be there that day.

Marty’s youngest son, Andy (aka A.J.) and his beautiful bride to be April were also at the game. I knew this because we had chatted about it earlier this week on Facebook. So we texted them and told them to come over to our seats which they did.

Marty and I attended so many Browns games together and shared a deep love of the Browns! Okay, maybe he didn’t love the Browns? But I know he knew I did. And, as we all complained about the cold, I recounted for AJ and April, the story of my 18^th birthday--1/11/87—coldest game I’ve ever been to! In Browns’ history, it’s known as “The Drive.” I was happy to realize that AJ and April needed no other explanation of”The Drive” and that I had some Browns fans on my hands.

I did explain, however, how his father waited for hours (perhaps overnight, I don’t recall) outside of Cleveland Browns Stadium in the freezing cold to get tickets for me because that is all I wanted for my birthday. (There was no online ordering then!).

And, how we planned the PERFECT day. Fates aligned, It was my 18^th birthday. We were going to go to the game and then come back to Allien to have a wonderful feast (prepared by those who couldn’t to brave the cold or weren’t lucky enough to get tickets) and celebrate the Browns victory and my birthday. And of course, plan our trip to the Super Bowl--we were all going!.

It didn’t go that way, of course. NO ONE came to celebrate. Everyone went home. We were all numb. And not from the cold. My birthday ruined. It was probably the biggest Cleveland Browns heartache I ever felt besides The Move!

I recounted to AJ that I never heard such COLD CRISP SILENCE walking out of the old Browns stadium. Really it was eerie...80,000+ people and DEAD SILENCE. We were all so stunned. One minute we were going to the Super Bowl...We were really going and then "The Drive". I told him it was like a funeral march—sadly something AJ knew firsthand about. I will never, ever forget it.

In fact, when I first met Brian Brennan many years ago, I walked up to him and said, “you were a great player and I enjoyed watching all those years, but you know, you and the Cleveland Browns ruined my 18^th birthday! But I’m still a die-hard fan” He said, “How did we do that?” I replied, “My 18^th birthday was 1/11/87.” His face went still and he replied, “I’m sorry. You’re right. That would have ruined your day.” True Story!

For years, like so many Browns fan, 1/11/87 IS my WORST Cleveland Browns memory. But, today, sharing that story with Marty’s son and knowing that he probably never got to share that story with his son, it was an awesome experience to re-live!

Today, I walked out Cleveland Browns stadium with AJ and April, after another Browns defeat. And, as I kissed AJ and April goodbye, I felt the warmth of an angel on my shoulder. The cold suddenly went away. I was there with Marty’s boy at a Browns game! It warmed my heart. And, suddenly being a Cleveland Browns fan did not seem irrational or utter nonsense. It all had meaning.

About me…

So, there seems to be some confusion about me and rightly so. To set the record straight, I am an only child. And, so when I wrote my recent blog about my “brother” Marty there were many who said WTF? I thought you were an only child? And, technically you are right.

However, a bit about me. I was born to Donna Somerville, the 4^th oldest of Ruth and Ray Somerville of the legendary family from Westpark, Ohio with 13 kids. My mom was 21 years old when she had me. Unwed and NO plans what so ever to marry or even involve my father in my life. To this day, he knows nothing about me; we’ve never spoken; we’ve never met; and, in fact, to my knowledge he has NO idea I even exist—let alone that I’m a girl or that I have a beautiful and amazing 21 year-old-daughter, Meghanne, which I consider truly the greatest accomplishment of my life. He knows nothing about me and I don’t even have his name.

Instead, I’m a Somerville—through and through. I’m so proud of that fact that personally and professionally my name has ALWAYS been and always will be Sharon Somerville with an added last name—first McGuire and now Boyes.

In 1969, when I was born, being a single parent was not the norm and coupled with the fact that my mother—well… had issues and still does. My grandparents, Ruth & Ray, took me in and raised me as their own. At the time of my birth 10 of their 13 kids still lived under their roof and Marty was in kindergarten, Peggy 10 years old, Annie 11 and the remainder of the kids up Ray (7^th oldest) were under the age of 18. So yes, I was just another baby in the house and treated as such. I was number 14. There was no distinction. I was just another Somerville under the roof of Allien Ave.

My grandparents cared for me like their own and honestly, although I knew I had a different “mother,” since my mother was hospitalize for much of my early years for her mental illness which she still battles today, I don’t think I realized she was my “mom” until I was five years old when she took me out of the house to live with her, my “aunt” Patty and her daughter, my “sister” Michelle. Michelle was also another “niece” raised in the Somerville household. In fact, I know I didn’t fully realize this fact, until my grandparents both died in 1977 and 1978 respectively, and Michelle moved to Florida with her “parents.”

For the record. I LOVE my real mom, Donna, and will until the day she dies—and sadly, I know for a FACT that I will be the one to bury her given her fragile mental state. I am so fortunate to have had a few really good years with her and right now she is in a good place and we have a good relationship. I cherish that every day. But, I’m a realist.

My point is this. There is an old African saying that “it takes a village to raise a child.” And, I was so blessed to be born into the village of the Somervilles….they really did rally around me to raise me as a family—and that family cannot be defined by traditional words like “sister,” “brother,” “niece,” etc.”. I will always consider, Peggy, Annie, Ruthie, Marian, Karen and especially my beloved sweet Michelle to be my sisters. Patty & Jim to be my second parents, who took me in when I had terrible postpartum depression with Meg; Ray, Jerry and Timmy who were those father figures I never had. JoAnne, who took me in to her home, the oldest, pillar of strength, an amazing guiding force in my life. And, I will always & forever, to the day I die, consider Marty to be my brother—in the truest sense of the word.—because he was and always will be. For those of you who have read my blog…he was my everything and made me the person I’ve become…I am so grateful for my life thanks to him....and you don’t even know the half of the story.

Thanks for reading.

Flashes Before Your Eyes

They say before you die—your life flashes before your eyes. Every year leading up to the anniversary of Marty’s death….I experience Flashes of our life together before my eyes. Weird, it’s not memories because I think about him every day…a song comes on the radio, things Meg has told me, seeing what amazing men his boys have become, stupid things that happen to me, and even my life with Marc who he never met… these are things that I would love to pick up the phone and share with him. I’m pretty sure with all my years of study of the English language, that the emptiness of him not being here that pierces my heart—is called grief.

But this is different. And it happens to me every October. Flashes. A moment in time of the 27 years of memories I had with him. (That’s how old I was when he died.). Like I said it’s not a memory, it’s a Flash … Hard to describe—even for someone who is never at a loss for words. Perhaps my LOST friends will understand….but let me try…

Okay so it’s not the big things—graduations, births, birthdays, weddings, or sitting in the ICU saying goodbye to him. It’s little, subtle, it’s a feeling. Like tonight. I came home from work in a foul mood all day. And finally I just sat down and cried. Marc asked what’s wrong? I said “nothing” and he said “seriously, you’re crying”, and I said tomorrow’s the anniversary of Marty’s death…and he said “oh.” Like he didn’t even want to go there. But, he did give me a hug and say "I'm sorry. I know how much you loved him."

It was a similar look and reaction I got earlier today with my co-worker when she asked me if something was wrong because I had been melancholy all day and starting crying when we were shopping for the office in Wal-Mart. I really think she thought I was crazy. I mean who cries in Wal-Mart with all these low prices?!

When she questioned me about my state, I said “oh tomorrow is just the anniversary of my brother’s death.” She’s new…and from the expression her face, I don’t think she was prepared for that response, and she said, “I’m sorry. How long has it been?” I said, “13 years…(sigh and pause).” She gave me a puzzled look. I think she expected me to say a much sorter time.

Okay trust me, I know it’s been 13 years. And, I’m over it…I’ve spent many hours on a therapist’s couch and am definitely at the “acceptance stage.”

But, what she didn’t know was I had a “Flash” in Wal-Mart. Walking past the Halloween decorations and costumes. I saw a princess costume, had “Flash” which prompted my crying… What happened was I suddenly was Flashed to the two of us sitting in the living room of our house on Allien Ave. with our haul from Halloween candy and we were trading ..like we use to do when we were kids…me in my princess outfit…Marty in his superhero outfit (mom made him the cape!). But here is the FLASH part…

We weren’t kids…I was 41 (like I am now) and Marty was 48 (like he would be) and we were just normal…Having a conversation that adults have: “I will trade you a snickers bar for a reeses peanut butter cup”—our childhood favorite trade. (Okay laugh now at the two of us in those outfits at our age or even at 6 years old+!). Mundane. Like he was still a part of my life. A feeling …that he never has left me. It was real. We were there together today; trading candy!

The same thing happened tonight when I got home. Flashes! Marc was copying music on our I-Tunes because our computer recently crashed and we lost all our music…All of a sudden Tiny Dancer by Elton John played, I LOVED Elton John when I was a kid and so did Marty. I remember the one Christmas we both got Elton John Albums….I’m pretty sure it was Madman Across the Water…and we went wild!!! And I remember that Marty was mad because I got a poster too! And, while this is a strong memory in my life with Marty, at that moment, hearing that song….I was just sitting there, painting my nails….mundane…And, instead of Marc looking at me, it was Marty, saying "I love this song" as "Tiny Dancer”played in the background.

Make sense??

Next song Jamaica Jerk Off….

When she gets up in the morning

It's enough to wake the dead
Oh she turning on the radio
And dancing on my head

It's no good living in the sun
Playing guitar all day
Boogalooing with my friends
In that erotic way

Come on Jamaica
In Jamaica all day
Dancing with your darling
Do Jamaica jerk-off that way

Come on Jamaica
Everybody say
We're all happy in Jamaica
Do Jamaica Jerk-off that way

I was married in Jamaica. A "Flash" of Marty was there with me that day, too. Conscience?

I love you Marty. Always and Forever!

RIP Marty A. Somerville. January 27, 1962-October 27, 1997.

Happy Father's Day

So father’s day, like mother’s day, is an awesome holiday. Celebrating your parents! The people who bore you, loved you and nurtured you. They rock! Or so I’ve been told. I’ve never had the joy of celebrating father’s day and sometimes mother’s day…I hate father’s day. Of course, I’m a mom, so I appreciate the day to be celebrated as a mom, but my mother…well issues. Don’t get me wrong. I love my mother. But, we have many, many issues. And, some years have been good and some not so good.

But, father’s day. It has ALWAYS sucked for me. It’s the day I’m reminded that I don’t have one. My father took off before I was born…didn’t even stick around to find out if I was a girl or a boy…We’ve never met. He knows nothing about me. He doesn’t even know my name. But I know his.

I’ve often thought about looking him up and with the internet, I know EXACTLY who he is and where he lives. But, I’ve never taken that step to contact him. Why? Because quite honestly I don’t think I could handle the rejection AGAIN. Clearly, he wants nothing to do with me…or he would have found me. I still go by the use the name Somerville. (initially hyphenated with my married name, and now it’s officially my middle name). I’m proud to be a Somerville and always will. And, I’ve never strayed from the Westpark area of Cleveland. Sure, I moved to River and then Avon Lake, but I’ve never left the area. His loss and worse, he lost out on the GREATEST thing I ever accomplished, his granddaughter, Meghanne.

But despite the fact that my father is a total asshole—no I’m not bitter. I’ve been lucky to have several wonderful “fathers” in my life. First my grandfather, (read my blog “I Named Him Marley Anyways” about my grandfather—more to come about him), my uncle Ray—who is AWESOME, my “brother” Marty, whose boys have grown into to amazing men, despite the fact that he left them way too early, my ex-husband Gordon, who is an great father to Meg, and of course, my husband, Marc, who adores his boys more than anything. One of the things I fell in love with Marc was what a great father he was. I love this quality in men, since my father was a total turd.

So happy Father’s Day to all those who have chosen to be a “FATHER” and a big F-U to the too many deadbeat dads that are out there.