The Writing Machine

Stories by Christian Cloud Abraham

Four

As I wrap the gifts and sign the card and get everything ready to go to the zoo on Sunday for my little boy’s fourth birthday party, I think of all the hullabaloo and money that is going into the party for him and I wonder if he’ll even remember it, which doesn’t matter because it is really about how he feels right now, but as I ponder his memory of the event, I realize he is becoming old enough to begin storing memories that will follow him for the rest of his life. My wife can’t remember four, but I can, and even further back. But four I remember clearly and vividly.

1973. Lorain, Ohio. Lake Erie. Flaming smokestacks, ore ships, and the Ford plant. My mom dating the guy who would become my second dad. Asking him if I could call him dad while riding on his shoulders at The Way’s Headquarters in New Knoxville. Dozens of hippies watching 16mm film versions of the Power for Abundant Living class taught by Dr. Victor Paul Wierwille, Founder and President of The Way, and my mom, the most devout and charismatic disciple, facilitating the classes and myself sitting in some back room where the coffee brewed eating sugar cubes and finding ways to entertain myself during the sessions. Speaking in tongues. The night my mom shut the car door on my finger seeing the flesh hanging off my bone and the “miracle” that didn’t really happen, but I didn’t go to the hospital anyway because the Reverend prayed for my finger. Plemin Lip and Zoot my stuffed animals at the weird house with the Airstream trailer attached in the back that made my bedroom and the Christmas in that house where I found out Santa didn’t exist. Hanging out in the summer in a house near a small pond while my soon-to-be dad practiced with his band and I played with the girlfriends of the other band members listening to the heavy early 70’s guitar riffs and harmonies and flutes cranking out of the next room and the Leslie cabinet rumbling the house and making a painting of “The Way Tree” which is still somewhere in a box. Turning off the TV when the flying monkeys went after Dorothy and looking back for emotional support only to find my grandpa asleep on the couch. My dad’s new wife. My cousin and I playing at the park and in the Lake. Watching my friend’s mom give birth to his sister in his parent’s bedroom. Rotary phones. Color TVs for the people richer than us. My mom being very young and carrying a Bible with her everywhere we would go…

And this is only scratches the surface of what I can remember, so yes, I remember four and I can only hope my son remembers these days, playing Link at 6:30 on a Saturday morning and going to the zoo and the train park and movies and reading Dr. Seuss and the silliness of his parents when we are still younger and his buddies at the Montessori school and listening to The White Stripes and The Red Hot Chili Peppers and jamming out to Toxic and playing wrestle-tack and his room with the loft bed and stars on the ceiling and the countless Thomas the Tank Engine tracks we’ve created with him and going for bike rides and Camelback Mountain in the back yard and so many other fun and loving and stable things we have provided for him and that I have worked hard on to make sure he is happy and healthy and has a better chance at life than I did…

But if he doesn’t remember, that’s okay. I always will.

END
© 2006 Christian Cloud Abraham

Posted on April 9, 2006 in
Emotion: Wonder, Type: Creative Nonfiction