Parents As People (Snowbirds - Part 2)
Chapters 15 & 16 of Snowbirds, a novella-in-flash by Margo Rife
You are reading Part 2 of Snowbirds, a serialized novella-in-flash by Margo Rife. Go here to start at the beginning. You’ll find the linked table of contents here.
Parents As People
At our rental house there’s no basement to store the treasures from my childhood. There are no basements at all in Florida homes due to the closeness of the ocean. Dig ten feet and start a flood. Do you see why Florida is so creepy?
So instead, I share my bedroom with sad cardboard boxes—dirty, damaged, and bulging with heavy loads. Mother wants them torn apart and tossed, but there’s so much good here. Like gold nuggets in a mine, you must dig through the worthless to get to the valuables.
So far, I dug up our dog Maddie’s plaid leather collar and a fortune-telling ball. I spent the morning asking the Magic 8 Ball questions. Not once did I ask if I’ll “find my true love.” It was tempting, but I don’t want to be your typical teen girl. And the boys I meet down here make Bobby Upton seem brilliant.
I’m about to ask the Magic 8 Ball about Bobby, when I discover an old letter from Bryn Mawr Elementary. That’s Mother’s school. The aged paper tears easily so I take my time opening the envelope. The official looking report is signed by the school psychologist Mrs. Beeber. I read every line. I reread it. Holy cow! According to the person who tested her, it states that this child can’t read. Struggles seeing letters and words. It’s called dyslexia.
That’s why she yells at me. She resents how I can devour books. The more I read, the more she feels diminished. I’ve spent so much time trying to understand my dad that I never gave Mother a thought. Parents as people.
Uncle Harold Has a Sweet Tooth
I’m sitting in the Florida room with my Uncle Harold watching television. “For the love of God, Dorie,” he pleaded, “just sit for a minute.”
My Aunt Doretta is in full-blown whirlwind mode. She has pledged to get the remaining members of my family situated (her term) as quickly as possible in a permanent Florida home. Mother wants to stay at the rental as she and our landlord, Mr. Zeller, have become companionable (her word). My sister is in a relationship (her word) and I’m in limbo (a place neither here nor there).
Earlier in the day, my uncle and I formed a bond during his lecture to the ladies of the house about microwave safety because my aunt was refusing to use the one dominating her countertop. I’d never seen him so impassioned as when seeking to clear the house of female superstition.
“Microwaves cause water molecules in food to vibrate,” explained my uncle. “This friction produces heat that cooks the food.”
“Up north, we created friction by rubbing our hands together to get them warm,” I added. “Is that the same idea?”
“Yes. Excellent example, Lyla.” His gray eyes had caught mine through his thick tortoise shell glasses. “Keep questioning. Curiosity is important to our survival as a species.”
A cautious man of science, Uncle Harold likes everything to be under his control—including my aunt. It’s been a successful campaign. His wife lives in constant fear of his schedule being disrupted. She drives over the speed limit to get home because Harold will be wanting his dinner (two ham slices, one sweet potato, and a King’s Hawaiian roll). She forces us to park out on the street because Harold likes a clear driveway. She breathes freely when he goes to the back of their long lot to burn browned palmetto fronds.
As the women gather to discuss what to do with the “death-ray” microwave sitting on the counter, I play checkers by myself and watch my uncle light the fire in the ash can in back. He looks happy and content—a rare mood for a man who seems so out of place in Florida. Pale legs sticking out from his long Bermuda shorts. Heavy soled shoes. I look down at my own feet with crew socks and penny loafers. My aunt is taking me to swanky Worth Avenue in Palm Beach tomorrow for proper Floridian fashion so I can fit in.
A dry, harsh barking sound disrupts my shoe inspection. My uncle is having one of his coughing fits. I better go investigate. I’ll bring his cough medicine and some marshmallows to roast. Uncle Harold has a sweet tooth.
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Margo Rife is a playwright and fiction writer. Go here to read a complete bio and interview with the author.
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