The atmosphere at our new home in Lynnport was devoid of oxygen. In its place was the grey haze of cigarette smoke and the foggy gloom of scarcity. For this reason I spent as much time as possible outdoors.

I don’t recall feeling poor. I had the vast and beautiful expanse of rural Pennsylvania and my young imagination to sustain me. But ‘poor’ is the word my mother used. Although we had a sturdy roof over our heads and ample food on our plates my mother was always waiting for the rug to be pulled out from under her. All I knew was that I could play outside the entire day and that my sister Margaret and I no longer shared a bedroom. Still, I’m certain it was obvious to friends and neighbors that my family had less than theirs.

Each week my mother stood in line wearing the brown mink coat handed down to her from her aunt to collect our ration of government surplus food. This arrived in the form of powdered milk, powdered eggs and cans of peanut butter with thick slicks of oil floating on top that my mother stirred into the pale sludge with a house painter’s mixing stick. There was cheese, too. Long rectangular bricks of orange cheese packaged in a cardboard box. I hated that cheese.

My mother worked part-time as a waitress at Shankweiler’s Hotel in Fogelsville. Every truck driver on the Pennsylvania turnpike knew Bobbi. She was the waitress who could pour her well stacked body in a form fitting uniform and then arrange her Playtex suspended breasts just so. She was the waitress who knew how to flirt. And it was those two skills that guaranteed a nice roll of tips by the end of each shift.

My step-father John was a former movie extra and session musician. He drove an 18-wheeler on short hauls and occasionally parked the cab of his truck on the gravel scruff in front of the house.

John and Bobbi married one month after her divorce from my biological father was finalized.

Maybe it was their love for music that brought John and Bobbi together because as soon as we settled in Lynnport they formed a 5-piece country and western band. On weekends Johnny and the Texas Tophands played gigs throughout the tri-state area. My mother sang while John played lead guitar on his red Fender Stratocaster. They covered everyone from Tammy Wynette to Jeanne C. Riley with a little Buck Owens thrown in for John so that Bobbi could rest her voice.

Preparation for the weekend gigs would begin mid-afternoon with a nap and a strip of masking tape pulled across her forehead to smooth wrinkles and cucumbers on her eyes. Next would be hair and make-up. She did a full face: foundation, eyelashes, eyebrows, eyeshadow, blush and lipstick. My mother had an array of hairpieces to choose from: an assortment of wigs, switches, falls and clip-ins to add oomph to her teased poof. Her clothes followed fashion trends. Sometimes she made her own: long tunics that could double as a mini-dress worn with white go-go boots or bell bottoms layered in fringe and paired with silvery stilletos. The Tophands played in tiny bars in tiny hamlets but to Bobbi each gig was the Grand Ol’ Opry.

For the twelve years John and my mother were together that’s how they managed to pay the bills - with Bobbi’s tips, John’s trucking hauls and their split of the band’s gigs minus the bar tab.

The band and the marriage broke up not long after the Saturday afternoon that John had to beat some sense into his wife. My mother, never one to shun the spotlight, iced her face and covered the bruises with an extra layer of Pan Stik. The evening show at the Leather Corner Post Hotel went on as scheduled.

Forty-five years on and my friends are beginning to retire. A few of them moth-balled their business suits in exchange for a closet full of athleisure wear long before COVID-19 made soft flannel pajamas and sweatpants our go-to look.

For most of my adult life I’ve planned to spend my golden years in a cardboard box near the local Walmart selling yoga poses for a buck a pop. Step right up! See the octogenarian put both feet behind her head!

The problem with that plan is that the last time I was able to put both feet behind my head Reagan was President and even then my yoga teacher said, “Keep trying, you almost have it.” For what it’s worth at 62 I can still do a standing split that elicits the occasional gasp from students.

I didn’t believe I had a choice beyond that box. As a child fiscal responsibility was not on my radar. Learning to deflect was. And it wasn’t until friends had babies and left California for a less expensive state did I realize I could choose to not follow the wallowing path I’d been shown as a child. I began to consider my own financial future.

And so, here I am. Filled with gratitude that I chose not to wallow but still dreaming of a two story house with raised beds in the garden and a room of my own to write.

I know that I will work until I can work no longer. Sometimes it makes me angry. Angry at my mother for not teaching me as a child that I was smart and strong and capable and angry at myself for not trying harder when I still had the time.

By Mimm Patterson

From: United States

Website: http://www.practicallytwisted.me

Twitter: mimmp

Facebook URL: https://www.facebook.com/practicallytwisted