SAA - significant childhood incident

Summer Lessons

Aaron Shaye Aubertin was born on the first day of
December in 1971. I walked downtown after school that day to see my mom at the jewelry store where she worked.  I was sitting on a stool at the soda fountain when Mom told me that I was an aunty. The day was magical for me. Christmas was not far off, and I had been admiring a music box that I was hoping to find under the tree. Snow was falling softly on the sidewalks, and I couldn’t wait to meet my new nephew.  I knew being an aunt for the first time was going to change my life – I just didn’t know how much.

 Even though he was born with the first snow, Aaron was summer to me.  He was 21 months old in the summer of ’73. I had just become a teenager; not too young to learn responsibility and not too old to play like a child. My brother, Brad was working for my dad, logging in the woods.  I was learning to babysit that summer, and I loved taking care of Aaron. Brad had just moved back to the area with his wife, Connie, and little Aaron. They lived across the river on the Colville Indian Reservation, but they were often at our house in Wilbur. It was a powerful feeling, being so loved by a child and loving him as much in return. 

 The last time I held him was that warm summer night, August 16, 1973.  He was giggling as I chased him, on all fours, weaving in and out of the dining room table legs. Aaron could walk, but we were crawling and rolling on the floor. There were hugs, kisses and tickles, as his mop of blond hair messily framed his tanned face, accentuating vivid blue eyes. Aaron was a beautiful little boy. That is how I will forever see him – all dimples and tiny, white teeth, shining like the sun. I loved him with my whole heart. It was late that evening when they decided to leave. My dad told them to spend the night, but they wanted to get home. 

The next morning I woke up and sensed an unusual amount of activity in the normally quiet, old house. I walked down the stairs to the sound of the vacuum cleaner and women’s voices.  Several of my mom’s friends were there cooking and cleaning and I heard Mom say,  “This is going to be really hard for Nancy.” A parade of casseroles and salads was coming through the front door. Mom put her arm around me, and we sat down on the piano bench where Aaron loved to roll his little matchbox cars. That is where I was when I heard the news that would forever alter our family.  Mom said, “I have some bad news. Brad and Aaron died last night. They were hit by a drunk driver on their way home. Connie is in critical condition. We don’t know if Connie will live, but they are doing all they can for her.”  I didn’t know at that moment what loss was – but I learned quickly.

People don’t always say the right things during moments of sadness, especially to a child. One of the women took me by the hand into my parents’ room. She sat me on the bed and said, “Don’t worry about Aaron not being baptized. God wouldn’t punish a baby for the sins of his parents.” I hadn’t asked - there was no doubt in my mind that Brad and Aaron were in heaven. Loss makes a young girl aware of how fragile life is and turns a happy summer into a time of tragedy. That morning I saw my father cry for the first time, and I saw strength in my mother that I could have never imagined.  

Journal #5

Journal #5

Dear Diagnostic Essay,

Please don’t stray, don’t leave my mind. I have written and edited you at least three times in my head. When you write in your head, while in your bed, there is great risk involved. I am not sure how you can lose something that is a part of you, something of your own creation. But somehow, the chaos of the morning can steal away your thoughts and you are left with crumbs of something that may have been delicious.

I agonized over you. When I first heard your title I was uninspired and worried. I felt defeated before I even started. I have enough self-awareness to know that this is a frequent problem of mine, this worrying over things way before I need to.

Still, I feel as if I have done a good job on you – in my head at least. I hope that when I sit down this morning to put pen to paper you will flow from my hand as you have from my mind, and also my heart.

I wouldn’t have thought writing about how a writing class might affect my future life or career could inspire me. There are days when I feel I will not have a future career. Oh, I know my life will go on a bit longer, hopefully quite a bit longer. A career however, could prove elusive. I had one already. It was taken from me in a way that still stings, when I let it. I try not to let it.

Writing has always mattered to me. Taking a writing class was an unfulfilled dream and now that I am doing it I am afraid. I am so afraid of finding out that I am not as good as I once thought. I’m afraid that what natural ability I may have had or may have now will be stolen away like the memories I’ve forgotten, like the everyday happenings of my childhood, like my father.

I am running out of words right now and not sure what else to say. I just implore you to stay with me for another couple hours so I can write you down and keep you forever. I promise to take care of you, to put you in the binder with your scores, whatever they may be. I also promise that I won’t be disappointed in you, even if the fog sets in and you are less than you were in my head, and even if the feedback is not as good as I hope. I will still love you – because you are a part of me that I will hold dear.

Maybe I care too much about you and about the future essays I will have to write.  I have a tendency to care too much about a lot of things, which usually causes their importance to be diminished. I am sure no one else will care as much as I do- not the instructor, not the other students, and surely not the cat. I lack an audience and that is difficult at times. I have always been my own best and worst critic.

Windy blues. oh, and wildflowers.

The wind is blowing today. I get tired of the wind, it has always been the only weather that I truly don't like at all. I try telling myself it is spreading seeds so more flowers can grow. I'm sure there are other things about the wind that are good, but I can't think of them. It has been bothering me that I hadn't posted a blog since May. I guess my spring quarter classes did keep me too busy for writing. Now I am taking a writing class. One of the things I have to do is write timed 10 minute journal entries, 7 per week. Since I am not feeling inspired to write in my blog I am going to start sharing my journal entries. Please keep in mind these are not edited.

Journal #4

I’ve often thought about the wildflowers that grew on the bluffs surrounding my little hometown. We used them to fill May baskets that we would leave on the doorsteps of the nice ladies in our neighborhood. There was an award for the child who could bring the first buttercup of the season in to the newspaper each year and you could even get your picture in the paper. I never did find that first buttercup, but I found many others.

We also found what we called picky pies (some people call them shooting stars), bluebells, yellow bells, grass widows and bachelor buttons. When I got married I wanted bachelor buttons in my bouquet and was so disappointed to find that they were actually called “corn flowers.”

We had a hill near our home that we called “the buttercup hill” and you could find hundreds of big, healthy wildflowers there. I loved it so much. When a farm family decided to move to town they built their house there on that hill and I was really mad. I just couldn’t understand how they could destroy my hill of flowers with their dumb house.

When I was a young adult and still visited home a few times a month you could still find lots of wildflowers – but now they seem to all be gone. There are still bachelor buttons but they are sparse and spindly, not at all the hearty blooms that we picked as kids.

I don’t know what happened but have speculated that it was the ash from Mt. St. Helens that killed them all. I have searched the Internet for images of my favorite flowers so I could find their real names. I would love to plant seeds all around my own yard and create my own field of wildflowers. They make me think of so many wonderful things.

We sometimes carried buckets of water and flowers all the way out cemetery road to put on the graves of our departed loved ones.

Last time I visited my mom I picked a sad little bouquet for her kitchen but it doesn’t compare to my bouquets of my memory. It makes me wonder if they weren’t really as big as I remember, but maybe I was just smaller? Why didn’t I take pictures or press them all so I could keep them forever?

That is why we call them memories; they are only in our minds, not tangible things to hold on to. I am a very sentimental person so I tend to get caught up in the “things” in life and the keeping of the “things.”

I’m running out of room, and now I am also out of time!