Guest post by Loretta Gavin
“I’M SICK OF ALWAYS BEING THE INDIAN!”
My brothers Johnny and David and I used to play Cowboys & Indians on the small farm in Michigan where we grew up. They seemed to always be the cowboys and I was always the Indian. I had a makeshift bow and some sticks for arrows. They had toy guns, sometimes even the kind that had rolled-up red paper with actual gunpowder on it that would pop when fired. My arrows didn’t really fly. I always felt a bit overwhelmed by the cowboys and their cap guns.
One warm, early August day we were playing on the hill that separated our small farmhouse from the main road. You could stand on that hill and look down and watch the occasional car go by, or you could turn back toward the house and see the comings and goings of our home. Not that there were any real “comings” or “goings” — my parents were old-school farmers who pretty much lived off the land. We raised chickens and cows and pigs, and my Dad would butcher them there on the farm for our food. I used to hate to see one of our little cows walking around one day, and the next day see it hanging from the tall bar my Dad had fashioned to cure the meat, no hair or insides, just raw meat waiting to be cut up and eaten.
We also had about 10 acres in vegetables that we planted each year. I liked the vegetables way more than the meat.
On that particular day, I was getting a bit fed up with hearing those guns pop and missing the intended goal of one of my “arrows” bouncing off one of my brothers. I yelled at them that I was tired of being the Indian and I was going to go in the house and get a gun for myself. But, I announced, I was still going to be an Indian, just that I would now have a gun as well as my arrows. At 11, I was already taller than both Johnny, 13, and David, 12, but they didn’t seem too threatened by me.
Our Mom and Dad had a knack for having a new baby each year. I don’t know if it was because they didn’t believe in birth control, or if they just wanted to have a bunch of children. I was one of something like 14 kids. The reason I can’t pin it down is because I have “half” brothers and sisters, and in my family, we didn’t use the term “half.” We were all just brothers and sisters. I fell into line at number 13. (I don’t think there are any books out there written to help the 13th child understand their place in the sibling lineup.)
Leaving my brothers laughing at me before turning to shoot each other, I ran to the house to find a suitable weapon. We had a front door on our little farmhouse, but I can’t recall ever seeing anyone use it. As I raced through the house to head up the stairs, I came upon a scene that is burned forever into my memory.
My mother used to sit in her chair and crochet for hours. She made all sorts of things, always keeping busy. She wasn’t a woman who would sit idly and just relax. She had this credo of sorts that we should always be working — and if we weren’t working, we had better be outside and out of her sight or she would be happy to find something for us to do. She was a formidable woman but as hard as she worked, she always — and I mean always — wore a dress. Isn’t that funny to imagine a farm woman wearing a dress? I mean this was 1970, for crying out loud, not 1870.
When I came into the living room I saw my mother sitting on the floor just in front of her chair, her crochet yarn and needle still in her lap. My father was kneeling beside her, holding her head as it rolled to one side; there was vomit coming from her mouth. My older sister, Janet, was there, as was my oldest (at home) brother, Steven. Janet was at the black wall phone in the dining room trying to dial a number on the rotary dial with shaking fingers, fear written all over her young face. (I can’t remember today where my only younger sibling was. I had been the baby of the family for four years until Brian showed up unexpectedly.) As I surveyed the scene, Steven took one look at me and ordered me outside.
I ran back up the hill and told the cowboys that our mom was in trouble. They quickly turned back into my brothers. We sat together on the hill, watching the road carefully and listening for the sirens of the ambulance that was coming to make our mom better. It seemed like hours passed, none of us saying a word for fear of speaking out loud the unthinkable. We just sat there, arms wrapped around our knees, watching and waiting.
When the ambulance finally came we raced back to the house. We managed to get inside just as the two medics were putting our mother onto a gurney. We watched and felt helpless. When they placed her on the rolling bed, I saw that her dress was up, showing her underwear. My mom didn’t have pretty underwear, just reliable practical ones, the kind a hard-working farm woman would wear. I knew she would be mortified if anyone saw her with her dress up and her underwear showing. I wanted to go pull her dress down, but the medic closest to me showed me without saying a word that he was worried and in a hurry, a big hurry. They raced outside and pushed her into the back of the ambulance, both climbing in beside her. Dad jumped in with them and shouted to Steven to follow in the family car. I’m pretty sure Steven was 15 at the time and I have no idea if he had a license or not, but he did as Dad told him and jumped behind the wheel in the car.
We stood there, in the driveway, and watched them speed away. I’m not sure how much time went by before we all walked back in the house and tried to act like it was just another typical Sunday afternoon. When you have as many siblings as I do, you understand from a very early age that there is a pecking order to things. Janet clearly knew that she had the responsibility as the oldest to take care of the rest of us as well as her 14 years allowed. She made us dinner, though I can’t remember eating. We were all so worried for our mother.
We had a tradition on Sunday night to sit as a family and watch “The Wonderful World of Disney,” so when seven o’clock came Janet got us together in the living room (I think we all tried to sit in Mom’s chair together) to watch TV. Disney really is the Wonderful World, because for me, on that day, Disney took my fears away for one hour as I watched whatever show happened to be airing that night. I remember feeling like everything was going to be OK.
Five minutes later that all changed.
Our father came into the house with Steven holding his arm. He didn’t look at all like our dad. He was shorter somehow, and older. He came into the living room and looked at each of us and then said “Your Mother is dead.” And I watched my strong, capable, amazing Dad, all 6 feet, 2 inches of him, crumble — literally fall to the floor. I had no idea what to do, what to say, what to feel. I don’t think I even cried at that moment. How do you cry when you are in shock? Tears don’t form when you are a robot, or a statue. That’s how you feel when you can’t feel anything at all.
Eventually I walked up the stairs and climbed into bed, where I dreamed of my mother being on an exotic vacation somewhere.
I think that was the last day I ever played Cowboys & Indians.
Loretta Gavin is a writer and mother of two. She’s married to the author of “Online Dating Sucks … but it’s How I Fell in Love.” She’s also the subject of that book.
petrbray says
Well written story, sorry it had to be about your mom’s passing…do more stories…pb
lorettasgavin says
Thank you PB. I do appreciate it.
-Loretta
Danny DeMars says
Nobody lives forever.
RKJ says
Good story Loretta, up until the passing of your mother, indeed a life changing period. It must have been a lot of fun growing up with a large family.
lorettasgavin says
Thanks so much RK. It was great fun growing up in my crazy large family. Always something to do, someone to play with, someone to fight with. I loved it.
-Loretta
lorettasgavin says
Thanks for reading. John will be back next week (he was very busy this week!) It was fun to share a little bit of me with his readers.
-Loretta
Hank Harrison says
It amazes me how many good writers live in Benicia. Please write again!
lorettasgavin says
Thanks Hank. Benicia is full of talented people, and I love how when you are walking down First Street everyone is happy and friendly.
Thanks for reading.
-Loretta
jeanius says
Thank you for sharing your beautifully written story, Loretta. I’m sorry your mother passed away when you were so young.
lorettasgavin says
Thank you Jean, This was a story that has been a long time coming – it was time to get it out.
-Loretta
Barb Stoefen says
Loretta, I didn’t know you lost your mom so young, or that you’re a writer. It’s such a sad story, but so very beautifully told. I want to see more of your writing!
John P. Gavin - Author says
Great Job Loretta – as usual!
John
lorettasgavin says
Hi Barb, thank you for commenting. I’m glad you saw it, and liked it.
If I post a column again, I will make sure it’s not such a sad story!
-Loretta
barbcs says
You write beautifully. If we tell our stories authentically, there is always sadness…so by all means, write about it. I am truly sorry for your loss so young, Loretta. Such things certainly help shape who we are.