Are these Jugs Real? The Legacy of the Step Child Part IV

I am not sure if I will ever really know if I have the real Crazy Jugs or not.

There are a couple of pieces, trinkets that I recognize from the three bottles, but I think the three jugs that I have in my possession are not the original Crazy Jugs that my mom and her mother created. Ironic.

I do remember specifically asking for the Crazy Jugs during one of our phone calls. It was the time when my step dad asked me if I was interested in my mother's clothes. I said that I was not, but felt guilty about it. Like I was supposed to want my mom's size 3X older lady clothes that she probably bought on the clearance rack at KMart! Does that make me a bad, selfish daughter? She was always trying to get me to share her clothes with me. She would even buy two of the same outfits so she could keep an outfit for herself and give me the same outfit for my birthday. "No, I don't think I want any of her clothes, Tom," I answered. "I would like to have my Miami diploma and her Crazy Jugs though. They are probably in some of the boxes from the garage. I am going to try to come for a visit some time this summer for a few days and help you go through those boxes. I have to find someone to watch the girls though."

Not only did I have to find someone to watch my two children, ages one and four. But I also had recently learned during this time that my four year old daughter was diagnosed with Sensory Integration, ADHD and Autism. Finding someone to care for them would be challenging. I also had my own failed business I was trying to dissolve and we were in the midst of a move, buying and selling our house! Tom never seemed too concerned for all of my issues though. He did however keep some pseudo jugs for me. I found them in special boxes in the garage later that year that he so carefully set aside for me.

It was in one of those boxes I found the three Crazy Jugs that I have now. However, just as my step father hid my mother's real gold and diamond jewelry from me and tried to trick me with all of her costume jewelry, he didn't want me to have the original Crazy Jugs. My step father probably kept them or sold them for a quarter at his garage sale.

I am still so angry towards him. I know that he is elderly and that he loved my mom very much for 15 years. He was very special to my mother. He swept my mother's heels off the floor of single-hood and was a world traveling partner to my mother. I also recognize that he added value to my life in other ways along my journey. He made the opportunity for me to travel to Europe one summer in college. I made memories that summer that will last my entire life!

He was a good guy. He once was very accomplished engineer for the city of Cincinnati. But, with the stress of losing my mom and his years of life pushing upward to 80, the dementia has started to shrivel his character and his heart I once adored. I once admired him for his advice and would seek his guidance in the areas of my career and matters of the heart. He was the warm fatherly figure that my own dad could not be for me. He was supportive and stable for both my mom and me. He's pictured in my photos with me from my first college dorm room, graduation from Miami University, my first job overlooking Michigan Avenue in Chicago, my broken hearts from all the chaps before I met Fred, my courtship and wedding with Fred and the births of my two children. He has shared an important role in some of the most significant chapters of my life.

Yet, the role that he has played since my mom passed away has been far from fatherly towards me. More like a villain and a shrewd thief.

I haven't talked to my step father since we left last Christmas time. That was the time when I first learned about my mother's will. The will only allowed me to have her jewelry and day to day belongings. The day to day belongings that he had boxed up for a garage sale to sell shortly after she passed away.

There were a few boxes that were set aside in the garage and were labeled "For Andrea." When I saw the tattered boxes, I was hopeful and dare I say, even excited. Alone in the cold smelly garage, I smiled like a child who just caught her mommy's attention after months of absence and neglect. I had hoped that my mom had branded certain items that she wanted me to have someday. I was hoping to find special items from my childhood. And when I started to unravel the items in the boxes, I admit that there were a few items that indeed took me down memory lane.

The large green Mother Goose book that my mom and I read every night before bed was in one of the boxes. That was the same book that I had resting on my knee one wintery night as I hopped into the bed and the top corner of the spine poked my upper lip. I still have the small scar underneath my nose. I can still recall my mom holding me like a rag doll as she ran frantically up and down the hallway not knowing if she should take me to the hospital.

Setting in the same box, I recognized some old oafy stuffed monkeys from my grandmother. She would bring me big stuffed monkeys she'd buy from the corner drug store just before arriving for her visits with me while my mother took weekend trips with her boy friends.

There also were photo albums. I was looking forward to spending time on those only to find out of the 20 albums, several of them were full of photos of my mother with male friends whom I didn't even know. The other albums are priceless to me - at least I think that is the way I am supposed to feel about photo albums from my childhood, right?

And, then there were a lot of other things in the boxes that I couldn't decipher. What were they? Were they garbage? And, why were these items marked just for me? Broken picture frames, papers from my mother's college days, reams of paper and notebooks from my step father's surveying business. And, at the bottom of each of these shredded, mildew-infested boxes, were droppings, maybe from rats, most likely from the demons who lurked around me while I tried to grieve and cry out to God to heal my broken tattered and wounded heart.

Crazy Jugs of Broken Childhoods, Broken Motherhoods

I can't organize my thoughts to get a post prepared. I have attempted a few times and just come up with scattered, random sentences that end up in the draft file.

It seems like I have not gotten my life back together since my mother passed away over 18 months ago. I wonder if I will ever be happy again. Will I ever be able to manage my life the way I want? It isn't like my life was easy or happy when my mother was alive. My mother and I didn't even have a good relationship.

Sometimes when I get flustered and frustrated at Sienna, I am reminded of my own mother and how similar their behaviors are. And no matter how I want to ignore this truth, I am just like Sienna and my own mother too. When I feel so disconnected towards Sienna, I can also understand how my own mother felt. She used to try to hug me and I would cringe. I despised her kisses too. She used to say that loving me was like loving a porcupine with needles. Now, when I try to cuddle Sienna, she pulls away. When I try to kiss her on the cheek, she wipes it off harshly as if she's angry with me. There is a significant difference between my mother and me though. I seek to understand my daughter's troubles. I keep trying to be knowledgeable, strong seeking support when needed. At least, that is where I am now. Who knows how much longer I can keep my character strong.

I confess that I am saddened by my daughter's inequities to love me, just as I am saddened by my own mother's inability to love me the way a child needed loved years ago. We all go through our own lives just to cope and survive and both my mother was and my daughter is just trying to get through it as best possible. I somehow feel like I am above the standard of just reacting innately to my circumstances. I strive for more than just survival. I strive for strength. Sometimes however, I fail. I weep. I wail. I am as sad as a small child.

I also forgive. I can understand how Sienna is troubled with her sensory disorder and moods just as I was as a young little girl. How I still am. And, as a mother, I can see how empty my love tank is and I am tempted to walk away, withdraw, regress just as my own mother did throughout her prime years of her own motherhood.

My husband interrupts my daze towards the long empty hall way where my daughter just walked through, down troddened and angered, disappointed once again. He asks me. "What are you thinking about?"

I respond, "I am wondering if I was unlovable. Was I so difficult that my mom and dad just couldn't love me when I was a child? Did they divorce when I was two because the stress I put on both of them? Am I still unlovable?"

Weeping on, striving for survival. Trying to stay above the standard of failure. Taking life one day at a time, one tantrum at a time. God, please help me to keep the standard high and love me just where I am.

And the Crazy Jugs reflect the disappointment. They want to be more than they are. They want to be treasures, yet, there they stand, dusty and yellowed with plastic beads broken. How did they survive through all the years of turmoil? How did they not get lost, broken fully? They survived. They continue to reflect the memories and tell the story.

The Legacy of a Step Child: Part III

That evening, after our frail attempts to look at my mother's drawer of jewelry, I was realized how ready I was to move forward in the grieving process. I wanted the time alone with my mom's memories. I did not want my grouchy step father hovering me like a security guard hounding a shop lifter. Wasn't it my right as her only child to take my time and reminisce while I ran my fingers through her night stand drawer? It wasn't like I just wanted to take her valuables and run. I wanted to relish the flashbacks to the days when she wore the red garnet charm just above her cleavage during the days of her youth and single-hood. I needed this time, alone and private, innocent and intimate. Not only was it important to my grieving but, my mother's will stated that she wanted me to have all of her jewelry.

I decided that this was not the scene I wanted to take my next steps on my mother mourning journey. Taking a deep breath, I distracted Sienna with her bed time routine. As she hopped in the bath, I pulled out the bed from the couch in Tom's living room and turned on Mary Poppins in hopes that would entertain her to sleep. Tom didn't come out of his bedroom for the rest of the evening. Through the darkened hallway, I noticed the light on Mom's bed side had been turned on and I could see that Tom was still frozen in time, still hovering over my mother's jewelry. It was a difficult moment for him. I understand that. But he had been living in their home for ten months since her passing and now tonight, at that night stand, it was my turn to weep. He actually stole it from me during this particular night hour.

Sienna fell sound asleep with Just a Spoonful of Sugar, as did Fred. Fred handles stress with sound sleep. I usually follow suit but tonight, my heart was torn. I missed my mom and wanted to share some time alone with her and our memories so I frolicked and fumbled through the darkened condo onto the garage. Mom and Tom had moved into this condo a few years earlier. They were downsizing from a large home with several gorgeous victorian-styled guest rooms. They had originally lived in a house in the woods that Tom had designed in his young chap days. They had once discussed opening their house into a bed and breakfast. But, as my mom's health started to deteriorate several years ago, they made the decision to downsize. And, although they did downsize in living space, my mom had refused to get rid of anything. So, the new condo's 2-car garage had become storage for a messy mass of boxes and dollar store sacks. Most of it was junk of old and new. New junk from clearance sales that my mother compulsively attended. And the old junk was from her past, resembling piles and piles of pains from her divorces, her childhood and her self-acclaimed grief of motherhood. (I can remember calling my mother to wish her Happy Mother's Day on the telephone. When I asked her what she was planning to do that day she replied, 'I never leave the house on Mother's Day. It is the worst day of the year for me." I was her daughter. I also was a new mom at that time. I hope I never feel so much resentment towards my daughters that I actually say those words to them. But, that junk is for a different post, let's get back to the part about her junk in her garage.)

As I scavenged through the old Christmas decorations, I recalled making candy and fudge with Mom when I was Sienna's age. We had made hard candy and flavored some with green peppermint and some with red cinnamon. I actually had a drip of hot candy drip on my finger. I still have the scar today. It is in the shape of America, on my index finger. Ahhh, getting lost on memory lane. I wanted those decorations but I was feeling like taking them would be wrong. I then realized that they were in a box marked to sell at a garage sale. Tormented, I walked to the other side of the garage. My feet were numb from the cold cement floor. I should have stopped to go in and get slippers but I was stuck in time. Breathing in through my mouth, I could smell the moldy, musty odor that fumigated their storage area. So much stuff sitting there for so long. So many pretty vintage pieces that I don't remember in my childhood but I thought looked beautiful. No wonder she had a difficult time departing with some of the trinkets.

I started to wonder where the crazy jugs were stored. At that instant, something drew my eyes upward. I am not sure why though because there were at least one million of knick knacks to look at easily on eye level alone. Perhaps it was my mom's spirit that lifted my line of attention towards the top of the top of the top of a stack of boxes stacked on more boxes on a shelf. There I found a note book. One of her journals. Then, about five feet to the right, I saw a shiny green cardboard box. For some reason, I stretched to the tip of my toes to pull that box down. In it, I found my mom's nice jewelry. Her diamond and gold and other gem jewels. How did they get in here? Why were they here? What would I learn from reading her notes in her journal?

Read more in future posts...

Momma, did you know...?

As I read this morning's favorite blogs, my daughter Sienna stands beside me. Her blue eyes like saucers, inquisitive yet all-knowing. She asks, "Momma, did you know that the first African to walk on the moon was in 1998?"

I smile. Just last year, she wouldn't or couldn't tell me anything about what she was learning in Kindergarten. And, the year before that when I would inquire about her day, she would just throw a tantrum. There was so much disconnection between us in the last six years. But, today, the first week of first grade, she shares something that she is learning. I responded, "Really? Did you know that the first person to walk on the moon was Neil Armstrong, in 1969 - I think that was the date...?"

She responded with a smile, "I am not sure I have the right date either mom."

I googled Neil Armstrong, and clicked on Wiki's page on him. She saw the screen of his portrait. I told her that was Neil. She said,"Wow, look, he is holding his helmet while he is on the moon!"

"Hon, that is just a backdrop for the photo." And I went on telling her a little more fun facts about Neil. She then noticed that I had the Crazy Jugs setting in the china cabinet. I took them out of storage yesterday so that I could take a photo of them for this blog, then placed them on a shelf and closed the glass doors. Since then, I started remembering little things that I am looking forward to write about in future posts. I had no idea anyone would notice them. But, that girl doesn't miss a beat. She notices anything and everything that has changed from the last time she walks into a room. It is like she has special powers. She even sees every bug on the sidewalk as she walks to school. That must be exhausting yet exhilarating at times for her.

She then gets so excited when she sees the button with Neil Armstrong on one of the Crazy Jugs. It was from a museum in Wapakoneta, OH. I remember going there when I was young and eating "freeze dried ice cream" they supposedly ate in space. I can still remember the taste on my tongue! "One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind," she reads as her eyes glow from across the room. I can't wait until she tries some freeze dried ice cream too someday!

What are Crazy Jugs?

I was raised by a single mother. She was raised by an alcoholic mother. We moved around a lot throughout my childhood. When ever someone asks me, "Where you from?" I always stumble. I used to say, "I moved around a lot as a child."

To which people would then consistently respond, "Oh, was your father in the service?"

I would answer, "No, my mother married and divorced a lot."

As I matured, I realized this was not something to share. It was something to keep privately.

I did move around a lot. Born in Cleveland, Ohio, my parents then moved to Cincinnati when I was two years of age. This is when my father fell in love with a red head friend of his from med school and told my mother he wanted a divorce. My father then moved to live and plant roots with his new love in Saltville, a small town in central Ohio. I now tell people that I am from Saltville even though I only lived there from ages 14 to 17. From the day I was born, I didn't live in a town longer than two years.

Every time we would move, ever since I can remember, my mother has placed the crazy jugs prominently in our apartment. I can barely remember making my own crazy jug with my mom. I must have been about five years old. I do remember wanting to make another one and asking my mom over and over to make another crazy jug with me. To this day, I have a stash of small items that I collect hoping to make another crazy jug. Small mementos, like political campaign buttons, little favorite toys or anything that might resemble some sort of a pop icon or special memory. They are then stuck on a sort of caulking substance that is spread all over a wine bottle. To me, they mean a lot. I have examined them even meditating on them for decades.

To an innocent person, they may look like junk. Trash that was smeared on an empty wine bottle. As I continue to mature, I realize that these crazy jugs symbolize three generations of women struggling to find fulfillment and survival. Through the struggles of a variety of mental illnesses and both personal and interpersonal conflict, these crazy jugs prove to withstand time and change even though the actual bodies and minds of the women who created them do not.