In May 1980, Mt.
St. Helens erupted and brought a premature end to my freshman year of high
school. Volcanic ash rained down all day like fine, grey snow. For days, our
family farm looked like a faded black and white photo. Down south, along the
Toutle River, Uncle Charlie’s cabin was hit by a giant wall of mud and debris
when the side of the mountain blew out. The cabin on the Toutle had been a
gathering place for generations of the Peterson, Hawley, and Forsyth families. It was hard
to believe we’d never see it again.
The air was toxic,
so our parents insisted we stay inside most of the day. Out of boredom, and
forced to roller skate in the basement, because the second floor was carpeted
and Mom would have killed us had we whipped through the kitchen, I started
calling my younger sister “George,” after a character in a Looney Toons
cartoon. For weeks, we couldn’t venture outdoors without a protective mask, and
only to do necessary chores, like gathering eggs, milking cows, feeding pigs,
or bringing in firewood. When it rained, the thicker layers of ash turned hard
like concrete. Cutting, bailing, and hauling hay that summer stirred up dust
clouds that lingered for hours.
It wasn’t our
first natural disaster on Michigan Hill. Growing up, it seemed we were isolated
and/or without power at least once a year. The Chehalis River encircles the
hill like a moat. When it floods, you’re stuck. Bad ice and snow make the steep,
narrow, country roads slick and dangerous. Windstorms can topple trees, knock
out power lines, and make passage impossible. And then, there’s always the
chance of an earthquake. Bet you thought life on a hill at the end of a
dead-end, dirt road was quiet and dull.
True, we had only
one television, and it had no cable, only ABC, NBC, CBS, PBS, and whatever that
static-filled UHF channel was, and ONLY if the antennae was turned just the
right direction…and Mom wasn’t watching soaps. We had no video games, no iPods,
no cell phones, no ATVs, and no computer. We DID, however, have books, board
games, and each other, plus a back yard stocked with cows, pigs, chickens,
turkeys, apple, plum, and cherry trees, a barn typically full of hay, hundreds
of acres of creeks, canyons, and forests, bicycles, backpacks, canteens, and a
handful of kids who were in the same boat. Our lives would have been
intolerably lonesome without Melinda, Gretchen, Cindy, Wendy, Curt, L.J., Lee,
Nick, and “Little Hugh,” the kid who lived across the hay field. We were particularly
grateful for the Hamiltons, Diane, “Little Ray,” and Kim, who were conveniently
the same ages as the four of us and lived only three, short, winding bicycle
miles away.
Maybe because our
mothers were friends, Kim and I were especially close, had been since 3rd
grade. She was my BFF, my confidant, conscience, and other half. My childhood
memories are full of things we did together. Storms and other powerful acts of
nature have been hitting Michigan Hill for years. St. Helens was likely the most
widespread and inconvenient. As a child, however, few things are more
devastating than losing your best friend. We were in 7th grade, struggling
through that awkward transitional period – no pun intended – between child and
adult. She didn’t die or move out of town, and we didn’t have a fight or a
falling out, she was essentially whisked away by hormones and the natural
disaster that occurs when peer pressure meets puberty. Of all the acts of
nature that peppered my formative years, that was probably the worst.
I was twelve and
enjoying recess on the grounds of Grand Mound Middle School when a group of
“older” girls (i.e., 8th graders) approached me. Among their ranks were a few
“popular” girls from our class and – surprisingly – my friend Kim. Their
“spokesperson,” a blonde whose name and face thankfully escape me, brandished a
can opener (yeah, you read that right) and instructed me to leave Kim alone or
they’d beat me up. They told me I wasn’t pretty enough to be her friend,
anymore. I remember waiting for Kim to stand up for me. When she didn’t, I
walked away and vowed to never speak to her again.
We don’t tend to
do a lot of self-reflection in our 20s and 30s, so I was well into my 40s
before I started attributing my arms-length approach to girls (maybe even my
hands-continuously-on approach to boys) to that day on the playground. At the
time, I was merely angry and hurt. As the years rolled on, I grew bitter. Until
recently, I viewed most women as self-righteous, two-faced, back-stabbing
bitches who’d rather gossip and wallow in Jerry Springer-like drama than take
responsibility for their own shit. My mother was a perfect example. When Mom
died in 2007, leaving Dad with a mountain of debt and a bench warrant, my
distrust of women hit an all-time high. The bitterness got heavy. For five years,
I felt weighed down by hatred – an ugly, senseless emotion I’ve long despised.
Then, earlier this year, on a full moon night, I pulled out my camera, and saw
a little, blue dot. I haven’t looked at life the same since.
I learned as a
child, in the aftermath of natural disaster and human tragedy, survivors band
together, lift one another up, re-build, and move on. As an adult rapidly
approaching 50, I’m ashamed to admit it took me this long to realize all that’s
a lot easier said than done. On the outside, we might look like we’re coping.
On the inside, something always sticks with us; I still call my sister “George,”
driving over the Toutle River still makes me cry, seeing the empty spot on the
bathroom wall where the mirror used to be will always remind me of the
unpredictability of nature, and I might never completely allow myself the
security and comfort of another, true BFF. Thankfully, we humans have the
ability to choose what we carry with us – via free will. The sooner we learn to
use it well, the better off we’ll be.
My mom did the
best she could, given the resources she had. I couldn’t see that clearly until
I forgave her, and I couldn’t forgive her until I accepted the action as a
choice. No one was holding a gun (or can opener) to my head, making me hold on
to all that negativity. The instant I saw that blue dot through my camera lens,
and let myself calmly feel Mom’s presence, I recognized my burden for what it
really was: my own stubbornness and refusal to let go. Rather than cry, I felt
relieved. I can’t change the past, but I know now to make better choices when
packing emotional baggage into the future. What’s that saying? Life is 10% what happens to us and 90% how
we react. Or something like that. Turns out, it’s not only true, embracing
it can change your life.
A few months ago,
I posted something on Facebook and noticed Kim “Liked” it. Though we hadn’t
spoken more than a handful of words to each other since 1977, social networking
brought us together as online “friends” several years ago. On a whim, I clicked
on her name, browsed through some of her posts and pictures, and forced myself
to think beyond the bad stuff and remember the good: piano recitals, horseback
riding, camping, hiking, sleepovers at Grandma’s, swimming in the Chehalis, biking
all over Michigan Hill. I left a short note on her timeline saying I missed
her, and I apologized for not “stopping by” more often. That led to longer
notes and, eventually, phone calls and confessions. She was shocked to hear how
much of the incident stuck with me. I was shocked to learn she had, in fact,
been duped into friendship by a pack of mean-spirited girls who, when they were
finished prettying-her-up and making her popular, dumped her at the end of the
school year … and went on to another victim the following year. Had I not been a self-centered,
hormonally-charged, pre-teen bitch who was too absorbed in her own, little
world to think of someone else’s pain, we might have resolved this decades ago.
Then again, maybe everything happened the way it was supposed to. Maybe we had
to grow up a little first, before we started over.
You can’t change
the past. You can’t control the weather or make sense of the actions of the
typical, American, teenage girl. You CAN, however, prepare yourself for reality
and learn to accept things as they are, as flawed and unfair as those things
might be. When you’re thrown a curve, you CAN choose to stand up, re-build, and
move on – on the inside as well as the outside. The alternative is a life
unnecessarily burdened by your own, failed expectations. Learn to recognize
them. Then, let them go. You’ll feel lighter. Better. And, who knows, you might
even get your best friend back.
~ Dawn
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