the knife in the door

My mother passed March 14th, 2016. What a lady. I hesitate to speak of her in the past tense. Not because she ‘is’ gone, but because she still very much is all around me and my family that I’m so blessed to have. Maybe more than ever.

Not in a whimsical, religious way.

Like a beautiful graffiti sprayed across all of us that won’t wash out way. A picture that only makes sense when we’re all standing together.

As I get older, and she stays the same age, I get to reflect and process more and more and boy is it fun.

As my children and wife get older, and become more like her in their unique ways, I get to tell more stories.

The good ones.

I’ve always been candid with my children about my family adventures. Probably a few parent do-overs as I’m sure I could have waited until they were a bit older but I’m very hyper aware that time is finite.

I don’t believe for a second there is a tomorrow so I best get these stories out.

That’s part of how I’ve stayed 99% happy my whole life despite the unthinkable trauma I’ve been through, adversities, loss and looming fears.

I’m able to remember, reflect, reminisce and tell the stories. They deserve it. We deserve it.

Because stories matter.

Or what’s the fucking point of it all?

So here’s one.

‘The Knife in the Door’

This is a true story. The following events took place in Bramalea, Ontario, September 1985. At the request of few, some names have been changed. Out of respect for my creative soul, the rest has been told exactly as it occurred.

Growing up we never had money. What was given was soaked in passive family guilt and what was earned was earned through blood and sweat and whatever was allowed in a workforce run by patriarchy and male dominance.

The Barbie Movie is real, kids. I watched my mother live it.

Marriage has always been a good option if you hated your family life. My mom and dad ran down that road willingly.

The problem is spouses generally co-sign for each other’s debt. And wow… did my father know how to accumulate debt.

Owing people money is one thing.

Owing people money and leaving, leaving your spouse with the debt is another.

Incredible debt.

So when that happened, our one of two phones in the house, the AT&T Western Electric, pale, muted yellow kitchen wall phone would ring more often, at the same time, and for years.

On the other end was a man named “Tony”.

Tony started calling once a week. If I answered the phone he’d always say the same thing in a very soft, polite tone.

“Hi. It’s Tony. Is your mom home?”

I of course would get her if she was home or tell her he called when she got home from work.

She got home every day at exactly the same time. 4:47pm.

She only worked 3 lights away, less than a 15 minute drive home. That’s something those insecure Ken’s running the big show couldn’t change.

I noticed she never ever called him back. And the later years, if the phone rang she simply didn’t answer it. If I answered it, and it was Tony, she simply told me to tell him she wasn’t home and more often I was already cued up and she was one foot and full smoke out the door.

When I got older, and she did answer, and Tony was on the other end it was never a good conversation. And it was never long.

It started with a hello. My mother was very calm and controlled and calculated in short bursts and then it started. Verbal shotgun blasts of raging decibels in best filibuster form. It was fast, uninterrupted and always ended with an axe chop of the phone.

One good thing about the 80’s, and there wasn’t many, the phones were tough. Durable. They weren’t meant for what my mom did to them almost daily but they kept working.

One evening in September, 1985, my mom and sister and I came home from Kmart. My sister was 6 and her birthday was just around corner and we were scouting potential Cabbage Patch Kid Dolls unbeknownst to her.

We could not afford the Cabbage Patch Kid Craze of 1983 but by 1985 my mom was a pro at LayAway. Except her version was the TAKEAway. She simply spoke with conviction, authenticity, candour and honesty. Mix that with her stunning beauty and intelligence and we never paid first. Sometimes ever. We never had any money AND we never went without.

My mother was also probably responsible for the downfalls of many department store chains and recessions to come.

That evening, entering back into the driveway fast and poorly, left side of our modest, semidetached back split home, no garage, I noticed the front door.

Our front door stood on a small porch which was covered by a weathered metal screen door and paired with a black mailbox hanging onto the brick for dear life.

The mailbox was always full. Never checked.

Why would it be? That’s where the bills lived.

I could see the front screen door wasn’t closed properly, it looked propped open.

I don’t think my mom even noticed. She was too busy planning her next covert cigarette. She was a secret, silent, solo smoker. We knew she smoked, her extended family wondered, she smoked with her friends but never ever around us or in the house.

Well maybe in her bed.

She got my sister out of the car and I headed to the front door to see why the door looked even more funky than usual?

I opened the screen door, and there it was.

The knife in the door.

A steak knife to be precise. It was thrusted at adult head height into the front door and under it was a note.

Don’t ask me what the note said because I don’t know.

But I do know it was from “Tony”

What happened next is how I’ve handled ever trauma, tragedy, heartache, adversity and looming fear since.

Life requires unwavering optimism, hope, audaciousness and laughter and that’s what I practice. That’s the key to a happy life.

I told my mom to come to the front door ( we usually entered the side by the sealed up bread and milk box ) and when she did she paused with my sister on her hip, read the note in absolute silence and fast. My mother could read an entire novel in an afternoon so this page was a laughable feat in many ways.

She reached forward, took the knife out of the door with one pull using her non dominant hand and let the note fall to the porch only to blow away and eventually end up in the creek that divided our sacred green belt I’m sure.

We walked through our small hallway and into the kitchen. She put my sister down, put the knife in the sink, washed it because who knows where it’s been and put it into our top kitchen drawer home to unmatched cutlery and other mechanical puzzles.

It was our first steak knife. We never really had one. And she was keeping it.

Whatever the note demanded, he wasn’t getting.

And whenever Tony called again, the tone was different.

It stayed calm. It stayed quiet. It even seemed playful… for her.

You see my mom made sure that despite what was happening around us we never felt threatened. We never felt unsafe. We never went without the most important things at every milestone of our lives.

Anyone who’s ever known my mother knows she wasn’t to be intimidated. She had no fear, especially from a thug on a phone.

She didn’t even need a knife for protection. A gun. A dog. Not even an alarm.

She was happy it happened. It’s simply another good story she could tell.

That I could tell.

That I would continue to tell.

And from that day on she could reward herself and us with fast-fry steak every other month or so.

Cut with precision and care and not with a butter knife.

I love you more everyday. Thanks for the stories.

xo

Jarrett