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Serving Pikes Peak Community College students |
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By Lauren Carlson
My ex mother-in-law lived in a trailer. That in itself is not uncommon in Southern Louisiana. However, her daughter, my ex sister-in-law, also lived with her. Angel's four sons (all over 6'4" tall) resided there, and the sons' girlfriends, along with a baby or two. They also had a snarly, singularly confrontational dog that I nicknamed "Cujo." But really, I was never quite sure who belonged to whom all the way around.
The trailer was 12 feet by 60 feet. As the family grew, another trailer was added, and a walkway that resembled a plank ran from one side to the other. The plank was strategically placed from one cut out section of the trailer to the other. On any given afternoon you could walk across it, balanced just like one of the Flying Wallendas. This reminded me of one of the reasons I had left long ago.
As the clan grew, the plank was replaced by a covered hallway. Whenever the family had an argument, the boys and their alliances went to one half of the trailer, while my ex-mother-in- law and Cujo remained in the other. Bliss would return to The Trailer, and weekends were spent gazing at Grandma smoking cigarettes, drinking a 16-ounce Miller Genuine Draft, and ordering from the Shopping Channel. The boys would drift to the far corners and watch wrestling.
One year, my ex-sister-in law decided to take up collecting Christmas village houses, and so a joint decision was made to permanently leave last year's Santa and his reindeer on top of the trailer, never to remove them until their dream home was fully realized. They were certain to win the lottery. She added one annual Christmas piece, then another, and finally established a permanent corner, to remain intact, like the faded plastic Santa on the roof. It was through this strange and dismal journey I had to travel each time my daughter, Jen, said, "I'd really like to see my Grammy." On this familiar and particularly painful drive across the lake, Jen was a 19-year-old fresh faced kid out of boot camp. She had been on Parris Island on September 11, 2001. Our reunion was bittersweet. We were thankful for the present and concerned about the future. So many things were the same, and everything had changed. As we traveled the 24 miles across Lake Pontchartrain, I had my daughter call her grandmother to ensure that Cujo was locked up. No, I didn't care how many times they told me the dog was "just bluffing."
The environment was depressing. When I was forced to visit I witnessed lives devoid of aspiration, dreams fabricated out of fantasy and sustained with delusion. I hoped the visit would be a short one. Jen wanted to bring her Grandmother a picture: a picture of a beautiful young girl, wearing her Dress Blues. When we finally arrived, her grandmother appeared to have Parkinson's and the plastic Santa was no longer on the roof. I watched the sadness in my daughter's eyes. She realized how fragile the relationship had become. She could no longer look at her family as a wide-eyed adoring child. I felt great remorse in that moment as I silently watched the death of her innocence.
There comes a time when we all have to put Santa Claus away. We looked at one another as I paid the toll to cross the Causeway and headed south. My daughter turned away from me and stared quietly across the open water. I pulled onto the span, after the obligatory "Thank You" to the booth attendant. It was in that moment I watched my daughter become a woman. She had kissed her grandmother goodbye, knowing that some journeys, no matter how poignant, may never be traveled again.
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