***

Every Thanksgiving, my family would come together at my grandparent’s mountain house in north Georgia just outside of Helen. We went there mainly so my grandparents would not have to travel. It also is the most central location between all of my family. We are all spread out to where some live in North Carolina, and the rest all over parts of Georgia.

Every Thanksgiving was the same routine. We would pack the night before, go to school, be picked up by Mom and/or Dad a little early and head straight up to the mountains. As that time neared for my parents to check me out of Elementary school, the excitement always grew.

The drive up there seemed like it would take days because of all the anticipation and excitement to see everyone. Once we got onto the highway, it was just trees and cars. There really was not anything to look at. To help pass time, my brother and sisters and I would interact with each other. We often played the classic license plate game, trying to see who could find the alphabet in order first. My younger sister would always “win” partly because she had not quite learned the alphabet.

Another fun past time on the trip was to fight with each other. This game would often get mom and dad involved too. One time, we got into a fight over cup holders. As we drove through a fast food restaurant, my parents started to pass back the drinks. The problem was that the 1990 Toyota Previa we had did not have but maybe 2 cup holders, which were both located in the front. To help compensate, my parents bought several cup holders to hang from the window. We could not find all of the holders so we battled with each other over who would get a cup holder.

If not fighting with each other, my brother and sisters would sleep while I sat and listen to my Sony Walkman. I only had one tape at the time, the Free Willy soundtrack. While listening to the music, I sat there looking out the window at the same repetitive stuff, trees, grass, mountains, nothing exciting. All I could think about was how much fun it would be to go and play tag or capture the flag in some of the fields we passed. This also led to thoughts about what types of stuff us kids would do when we finally could get out of the car. When would we get there?

As the drive continued, we became more and more antsy. Because of this, about an hour into the drive every other thing we said was:
“Are we there yet?”
“Are we there yet?”
“How much longer?”
“Are we there yet?”

When we finally arrived, I always rushed in to greet everyone unappreciative to the true value of those hugs. I was more focused on playing with my cousins. The house offered lots of games and activities for us to entertain ourselves with. The adults often sat around and talked…boring; my cousins, brother, sisters and I would gather down the wooded steps on the lower level where the temperature was always 5-10 degrees cooler than upstairs, and play. We would build forts, play board games, attempt to play pool, hide and seek, and almost any other type of game you can imagine. We really only stopped playing when lunch or dinner was ready. When we would finally come upstairs, the adult’s where still doing the exact same thing, only in a different location. How could people talk that much to each other? At that age, just sitting and talking seemed boring to me. It seemed like they enjoyed being bored.

As I started to get older, the house started to mature with me. Extensions to the house were built to help our growing family. The walls started to become covered with stories. The rugs became more worn in giving the house a true home feeling.
***

Thanksgiving came back around. This time much older, I had to make the travel solo. My brother and sisters were coming from different areas and all were on different schedules. We each had our own lives to live; our once fun filled car rides have now become solo adventures.

Driving solo was good because I could lose myself in my own music as loud as I wanted. I could have some alone time to do, say, think, and listen to whatever I wanted. The music helped thoughts about friends, lovers, jobs, and any other issues cross my mind in positive ways. The thoughts came in and out in non-stressful ways because I knew for one, I could control the music and change the song to more upbeat tunes for more positive thoughts, and two, as soon as I got to the mountain house, all of these thoughts would be gone.

Coming to the end of the highway, the noise and clutter quiets down to the peaceful openness of the mountains. The trees, which are in transition from one state to the next, suddenly have more meaning. They become real and relatable.

Arriving at the house, a much stronger feeling of comfort and warmth circulates through my body. This time the hugs have more meaning behind them. It becomes a type of hug that is for the moment and also for the ages. It gave me a sense of love and comfort, things that a teenager often seeks out. But at the same time, it almost comes routine. I can almost predict where everyone is sitting in the room before I open the door. I can also predict who is going to give me a hug first.

***

Two months before Thanksgiving, I am headed on my way up to the mountain house. Even though the mountain house has become a place that I always look forward to visiting, I did not look forward to going this time. Sure the family was going to be there but not the same type of circumstances as usual. Nowadays, the only time my family can come together is for the holidays. But this was the middle of September and Labor Day, the only holiday near, had already passed.

The drive up there was a much different drive. It was very short, yet long. It allowed for plenty of time to really think about past traditions and memories. There was no upbeat music this time but rather a nice slow melody to make the memories smoothly transition in my mind. The drive was filled with clouds and rain, making the trip even more miserable. The air was damp and cold with not the slightest sight of a sun ray. The grass was wet and the dirt turned into mud.

Not only was the drive different, but the house seemed to have a different vibe as well. The clouds blocked out the beautiful scenery that usually surrounds the house. The trees looked depressed. Drenched in rain, they looked as if they had been crying as well.

Entering the house was a feeling I had never really experienced before. It was a feeling mixed between sorrow, comfort and an overall feeling of something unreal. Instead of a happy welcoming, it was a more embracing welcome. The usual predicted first hug, the hug filled with the most love, was not given. Because of that, nothing felt real. The house was still full of love but by one less lover; my grandmother had passed away.

The stay was short and sweet. The world kept on spinning and we had to get back into it. As I walked away from the house, a tear came to my eye. The day, dark and gloomy with constant rain, represented the true feelings each one of us had, but we covered it up with smiles. As I closed my car door I knew that was it. The reality still has not sunk in and probably will not until Thanksgiving. The memories and experiences in the house and the love that once and still is there, has made the mountain house one special place.

My grandparents loved this home. My grandmother made sure, even
with 5 children, the home was immaculate. Every wood floor was
polished, window was sparkling and couch was covered with plastic. Even
though she worked part time as a domestic worker, was an active church
member as a choir member and usher and was the neighborhood’s on-call
babysitter, she did find time for one hobby, one joy- tending her garden.

My grandmother loved her garden, but nothing meant more to her than her fig
trees. She was always tending to them in every season watering in the
summer, fertilizing in the fall and pruning the limbs in winter. All that work
was a passionate love affair. But as her age progressed and strength
weakened, it became harder and harder to care for her beloved
trees. So it was not strange that when she became ill her main
concern was her fig trees.

“Honey, wheel me to the garden. I need to love on my trees.”

“Grandma, what is it about those trees?”

“Well, they are not meant to grow here. The weather is either too hot or too cold. Many
would consider them go out place, and maybe that was why I have an affinity for them. Because
I have always been out of place.”

I thought, “Out of place. This must be the rambling to older woman. She is the certain of our
family with 5 children, 13 grandchildren, and 27 great-grandchildren. She could never be
replaced.” But if I only knew the history, I know now. It would be too clear.

My Grandma Norma was an orphan among family. The product of incest, with a relative and her
fourteen year-old mother, she was branded as unwanted from birth, especially by her mother. As
a child, Norma always wondered why she did not live with her mother or her siblings, but she did want to live with her so called “family.” Because her mother, Clara, was emotionally
distance, unkind and cruel toward Norma for just existing. There was nothing Norma
could do to satisfy her biological mother. Instead Norma lived with her aunt and uncle,
who adored her.

It delighted her aunt’s heart to have a child after so many failed attempts to be a parent.
Aunt Helen and Uncle Norman loved Norma as if she were their own. With them Norma had
a childhood, love and encouragement. Aunt Helen taught Norma to sew, cook and tend to a
household, so she could be a good wife one day. But Uncle Norman had bigger plans for
Norma of being a teacher. See Uncle Norman was a self-educated Black man, who loved
classical literature and could moderately read Latin. He would have Norma recite Shakespeare
and annotate the daily paper’s editorial. He used every conversation or moment as an
opportunity to stretch her mind and build character. The character building came from his
nightly reading of Bible stories. This was Norma’s favorite part of the day. It was almost
like no one else was more adored than her. To Norma he was the smartest and kindest
man she in the world. Her life was perfect, until Aunt Helen suddenly died. This
devastated Uncle Norman because he had lost his soul mate, and soon he would loss
his daughter.

Two days after the funeral, Clara came to the house.

“I want my gal back.”

“Your gal?!,” shouted Uncle Norman.

“Yes, my gal! She ain’t gonna stay here. Not with you!

Norma could not believe it. Her thoughts raced, “My mother wants me. She really wants me.
But why? This woman hates me.”

Uncle Norman then forced Clara out into the front yard. He then
stood firm and spoke steadily as to not raise his voice. “I am not
giving her to you.”

“I am not asking! You know you own me. So have her ready
today.”

Norma waited for Uncle Norman to fight for her and tell that evil
woman to go away. In her mind, imagined him being a gallant
knight, slays the witch and saves the princess.

But there was silence, then the creak of an opening screen door.
Uncle Norman walked through the house to the back door. He
looked almost weak as if his steps were heavy. As he walked to the
garden, he called in a somber voice. “Girl, come here. I need to talk
to you.”
Norma slowly walked to her Uncle as he sat in the garden under a fig tree. She knew by the look
on his face that she was leaving. It was the same look of disbelief he had since her aunt’s funeral
–a look of confusion, anguish and a family loss.
In the same kind and endearing voice he used to tell Bible bedtime stories, he asked Norma to
come sit. “You see this tree. It is big and strong, but when it’s little it needs a lot care. Fig trees
are not meant to live in Georgia. But with the care of watering and protecting it from weeds, the
weather or bugs, it can survive. In fact, it will live longer than any of the plant you see here in
this garden. It can bear fruit for generations.”

Then with a hesitate voice Norma asked, “Please let me stay?”

“I’m sorry, but it is time to go with your mama. Child, I married your aunt, so I am not
blood family” with a sigh he began to stumble over his words. “I know your mama can be hard,
but there’s a lot of hurt there. And hurt people are folks who did get enough love. ”

“Hurt from what?”

“Things you are too young to understand. But don’t let her hurt change you. Promise
me.”

“I promise.” Norma wanted to argue, but she knew it was decided.

And the promise to remain unchanged was never broken. My grandmother’s story would not
end happily. Instead, she would spend her adolescences being a maid for her “new” family. But
she viewed her role as necessary to grow the family. Fulfilling her mother’s every request of
preparing all the meals and caring for her siblings was life.

My grandmother is the most loving and caring of person in my family. She
functions as the master gardener for the family tree. Her words and actions
water the spirits of her children and grandchildren. Now in her senior
years, she can look at the fruits of her garden. The question for my life is–
what I have grown. “ Am I nourishing my children’s’ spirits, watering
their souls or planting seeds of love in their hearts? Do I provide my sons
with what’s needed to grow confident men, loving husbands or joyful
fathers?” The decades hold the answers.

The kids’ childhoods are very different from my grandmother’s. There are no dark secrets or
mean relatives present in my children’s live. My husband and I try to protect our three boys’
childhoods–their innocence. This world is so full of bad news, mean words and depressed
people that it is not easy to shelter my babies’ eyes and hearts. So I like my grandmother, make
a conscious effort to teach my children moral behavior and act it out daily.
My grandmother would say, “Pour good things into your children, so only the
best can grow.” It has taken me 30 years to understand that “Pour good
things.” So it is my turn to pour love, understanding, kind words, and
patience onto my boys. I am so bless because I now have my own garden of little people who spirits, minds and bodies I must grow. Then, one day I will be my grandmother
and seat and “watch my fruit.”

But the one attraction that sticks out in my mind, the one things that holds my entire map together and unifies it, is what I like to call the Divorced ‘Rents Railroad. It’s the ride that kept me going back and forth between two different homes all my life.

Sure, a lot of kids these days have to deal with the crappiness that divorce in their family can bring. Even though I’m pretty sure it’s about the same as it is for thousands of other kids out there, sometimes I like to think my own perspective on it is just a little bit different.

My journey through the world of a divorced family started when I was five. That was a good fifteen years ago, and I was pretty young at the time, so I don’t exactly remember any of it. I have no idea how I felt or how long it even took me to fully grasp the concept of what was truly happening. My mom and dad were separating, and my dad would remain living in Atlanta while my mom, half-sister, and I moved back to Jacksonville, Florida.

It was kind of like when you’re a kid on your first real roller coaster, not sure what to expect and scared out of your mind. You just want to hold on to your mom or dad and have them reassure you that it’s all going to be okay.

For all my life, I never really knew why they divorced in the first place. At least, not until recently, when my dad and I were at dinner and I finally got the courage to ask the question I’d been wondering for fifteen years. “I’m not really too sure,” he told me. “For some reason or another, it just didn’t work out.” While it wasn’t an exciting tale, by any means, I was glad to know it wasn’t because I was born or because of some other extreme situation. It just didn’t work out.

So I lived in Jacksonville, just the three of us girls (with the exception of some boyfriends of my mom), for the next eight years. Thankfully, though, I was still able to see my dad often. He was the kind of dad who still wanted to be in his daughter’s life, so he would drive the 400 miles a few times a year, get a hotel room for a couple of nights, then visit with me. I was especially excited to see him during Christmas time and my birthday, because being the naïve little child I was, I knew I would get a few extra presents out of it.

Even when we weren’t together, we would write letters back and forth, some of which I just recently found. Rereading these brought tears to my eyes when I found them again.

“Allison – I just wanted to say HI! And tell you I LOVE YOU!! You’re my little cabbage rose, right? I’ll see you soon! Love, Daddy”

“Hi, sweetie! I sure am glad to hear that you like your new school so much! I think you would do really well no matter what school you are in. I sure am proud of you!! I love you always!”

The fact that some of these letters were dated as early as January, 1995, shortly after the divorce, still proves to me that he was determined to keep me happy despite everything else that was going on. He wanted to show me that he still loved me, no matter what the distance.

Growing up in Florida with a single parent was definitely interesting. On one hand, I remember thinking about how lucky I was that even though my parents were divorced, they both still loved me, cared for me, and overall just wanted me to be happy. But I also remember spending time with friends whose parents were still together, and being jealous about how both of their parents were there with them, all hours of the day, every day. I really wished I could see my dad that often, but I knew that that’s just how life was, and that it wasn’t the case.

As I got older, my parents thought I was mature enough to go up to Georgia with my dad and spend time with him there. Which I ended up loving, in part because of the pets that resided there as well, since the biggest pet I had in Jacksonville was a fish. There were two cats, Boo and Tabitha, and they became my best friends up there. There was also the fact that my dad let me sleep in his waterbed, which I thought was just the coolest thing. But I still got homesick some of the time. Those were the times I really missed Jacksonville, and especially my Mommy.

Once my dad moved to a new apartment, I finally had my own room for whenever I went to visit him. It was a Rugrats themed room, which I was obsessed with at the time. It was really comforting to have my own little space filled with cartoons that I loved that my dad provided for me, even if I wasn’t living in it all that often.

Throughout my childhood, I was raised by my dad’s side of the family as a Georgia Tech girl. My grandfather graduated from the school with honors, and both my dad and uncle attended. So of course, I wanted to go as well. Since probably sixth grade or so, I wanted to go to Georgia Tech for architecture. When it came time for high school, I reasoned that if I attended a high school in Georgia, I could get the HOPE scholarship to help pay for Georgia Tech. (This rationale makes me seem so much more money conscious than I actually am, though.) At the same time, however, I was invited to the International Baccalaureate program at Stanton, named one of the best high schools in the nation.

You know how when you’re in line for a big roller coaster, and you have to go back and forth and back and forth in the line while you’re waiting in anticipation for the ride? It sure does give you time to really think about if you’re sure you want to make that choice to ride the roller coaster, and that’s exactly how I felt when deciding upon where to live and go to school.

I had a tough choice ahead of me, and it was one that my parents left totally up to me. It was one decision I felt way too young to be making on my own.

Living with my dad was a lot different than living with my mom and sister. He had just gotten remarried and moved into a new house, so I had a lot to look forward to. I was suddenly transformed from the youngest child to the only child. Suddenly, I didn’t have an older sister around to hog the TV or to yell at me to get off the phone – I promise, now that we’re older, she and I get along a lot better, as most siblings do – and it was just a huge weight off my shoulders.

Instead of a sister, though, I now had a stepmom in the house. That part was a little bit strange for me. I had an older woman in the house for me to look up to and to get advice from during those awkward teenage years, but she just wasn’t my mom. I didn’t have that same connection with her that I had with my own mom or even my dad. But living with my dad, the one person in my life I think I’m the closest to, was such a rewarding experience for me.

To this day, my dad tells me that my choosing to take that metaphorical train ride once more to live in Atlanta for high school was one of the best presents I have ever given him. He even wrote me a senior letter when I graduated (Collins Hill High School, Class of 2007!) saying how much happier he’s been since we were living together, and how proud of me he was all through high school.

The funny part is, after moving up to Georgia with the intent of becoming a Yellow Jacket, I ended up not even going to Georgia Tech. And it’s not because I didn’t get accepted – I was so proud of myself when I got that acceptance letter. But, I ended up taking a campus tour of my back-up school, and just fell in love with it, which explains why I am at Southern Poly instead.

It’s amazing to think that such a non-physical idea such as divorce has even affected me even now that I’m in college. Being a writer, it’s easy to see how different things in my life have influenced my style. I do a lot of creative writing in my spare time, and divorce tends to pop up a lot in my fiction stories. In my current work, the teenage girl lives with her single father, and the reason for the mother not being is just never discussed in their household. Even in things that I wrote in elementary school, I would put the main character as having only one parent, and never really had a back story as to why the other parent wasn’t there. Since I’ve grown up living with single parents, I haven’t known any other way of living, so that’s how I always portray life in my stories.

It’d be nice to know if I could look into the future and make sure that whenever I get married, it won’t end in divorce. I would never want to have my kids deal with that like I did, but it’s just impossible to tell. No one ever can. It’s made me very wary of my relationships now, and I’m always thinking to myself, “Is this the right person?” “Would I really be able to stay with them forever?”

Changes in your life can really affect you, there’s no doubt about that. Whether it be your parents going through a divorce, or just a hobby you’re really passionate about, it will affect you in some way. You just have to push through it and plan for that positive that will come at the end of it all.

Kind of like a really long line for a roller coaster. Sure, it sucks when you actually have to go through it, but once you get past it, life is just so much more fun.