Heaveny Trumpet

At first I didn't know how to tell this story and decided that a Blog would be the best way. But once I decided to write the blog I realized the easy part was done. I still didn't know how to tell the story. I know how it ends and I know how it starts. I guess we will figure out the middle togther. As I said I know where the story starts. It starts before my brother was born. When there was just Mom and Dad and me. It starts when my Dad told me that he was God.
My father often said that he was God. Not that we should consider his words as those of God or that he was the head of our household or even something less grandiose such as that he was responsible for giving us life; my father believed that he was actually the Almighty Father, Creator of everything Heaven and Earth.

The first day that Dad let me in on this secret I could not have been much older than five. Mom and I were scurrying through the house, trying to get me ready for picture day at kindergarten.

I tried on about a thousand outfits before Mom settled on the light green dress. I can remember the day clearly for two reasons: the first being that I hated wearing dresses and the second being that I hated wearing the light green dress most of all. The dress had a winding stem and broad leaf pattern that grew along the bottom hem. The plant twisted back onto itself forming a barbed wire tangle giving the appearance that I was being attacked by wild shrubbery. If the pattern was not bad enough, the length was the killer. The dress hung below my shins making running nearly impossible.

“None of the girls wear dresses,” I protested as mom silently slipped it down over my head. My mother’s thoughts seemed elsewhere and she didn’t respond. I looked at her face and registered a blank. “It will slow me down at recess when we play tag,” I cried.

I could tell by the strain that lined her face that something upset her and my efforts would be futile. Still, even with a hopeless cause, I had to try one last time. “Nobody will pick me to be on their kickball team,” I said. It was the best thing I could think of to say.

Without flinching, Mom fixed the cuff of the dress. “I don’t have time for this today,” was all she said as she shoved a rice cake into her mouth and headed out my bedroom door.

There was never enough morning; at least that’s what Mom always said. Each day began in a sprint. Waking, cleansing, brushing, eating, dressing, grooming, gathering and packing: all before 7 AM. Mom said that God might have created the world in seven days but that was before he had any children.

In the midst of the quiet chaos that started our day Dad stumbled out from the hall and into the kitchen. The last touches of sleep still hung in his eyes. My father stayed up late most nights watching the television and writing on his computer. He was a teacher and a novelist. He wrote all his novels at night while watching the television. He said late night television and writing gave him a break. I gathered that it was during this break that he had his revelation because as far as I could remember, when I kissed him before going to bed last night he was still just Dad.

Dad smiled at Mom and moved over to the coffeepot. The dirty stain of a beard sprouted along his solid chin. Thick, black hair sprung out wildly from the top of his head like the crown of a pineapple. He wore a Fat Albert T-shirt and plaid pajama bottoms. I ran over to him and kissed his bristly cheek. I loved him.

Dad poured himself a cup of dark coffee. He said that he liked it as thick as tar. Dad said cream and sugar was for people who pretended to like coffee but really just wanted a grown-up milk shake.

Coffee in hand, Dad gathered himself around a bowl of Fruit Loops. In between shoveling large spoonfuls of multi-colored, fructose fortified rings into his mouth he looked over to Mom, who was busy retrieving a mayonnaise jar from the refrigerator, and proclaimed, “Honey, I realize now that I am the supreme creator of the universe made into flesh and blood.”

“That’s nice, dear.”

Mom answered him without looking up from the kitchen counter. Her eyes were slits and a ridged had formed along her brow as she concentrated. She counted ingredients. Something was missing.

After a moment, Mom reached back into the refrigerator and tossed out a packet of lunchmeat that landed within a foot of God’s bowl of Fruit Loops.

“Now that you’ve finished tinkering with the universe, dear, do you think you can create a ham and cheese sandwich for your daughter?” Without waiting for a reply, Mom was out the room and into her bedroom to finish touching up her makeup.

Dad (or God) looked at me.

I smiled.

“A sandwich, I think I can mustard that,” he said and then started laughing.

I stared at him in silence, wondering if he would actually make the sandwich and hoping that he wouldn’t put too much mayonnaise on it.

“Get it, Jellybean,” he said. “Mustard, like what you put on a sandwich. I can mustard it. Okay, I guess not.” He stopped laughing and set to work on the sandwich.

I stared at Dad, trying to give my eyes the most serious look possible. I wanted him to know that this sandwich was important. I did, after all, have to eat it with other people watching. I did not want a fiasco on the scale of the one that occurred when J.D. Salinger’s Dad made his sandwich. Gary’s Dad put pickles on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. When word of the pickles spread throughout the class, everyone gathered round J.D. chanting “pickles, pickles, pickles…” until he vomited the sandwich back up. To this day J.D.’s nickname is pickles. I did not want a nickname like pickles.

God finished packing the ham and cheese between the two pieces of bread. He carefully pulled off the crust the way I like it, and then inserted the sandwich into a plastic bag. He looked down at what he had created and was pleased. “It is good,” he said. He then handed the divine sandwich to me and I placed it unceremoniously into my backpack and headed out the door to catch the bus.

I, of course, thought my father was crazy.