Read Online Falling Backwards: A Memoir by Jann Arden - Free Book Online
Authors: Jann Arden
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think our breathing in and out kept us warm at night. My mother is cold at the best of times, never mind in a paper-thin trailer in the middle of winter. It must have been hellish for her. I, on the other hand, loved every minute of being in our home on wheels. I didn’t mind seeing my breath hang in the air like a cloud. I thought it was completely fun. I felt like Jane West on a real country adventure. I started to think that perhaps I had found my true calling as an outdoor adventure guide. I would never have to brush my hair again—or my teeth, for that matter. The country life was definitely for me.
At a very early point in our adventure, my parents thought that it would be nice to get us a kitten. Actually, the kitten was part of the bribe we accepted when they moved us out of the city. They promised us a variety of pets, although my father denies that to this day. We were in the country now, after all, and country people had animals! We had room in the trailer for something furry and small, and a kitten would be perfect. We found free kittens advertised in the local newspaper and drove to pick our furry little buddy up. My mom named the tiny grey kitty Smokey or Spanky or Chunky; well, she called it something, I just can’t remember what. And there’s a reason for that.
We didn’t have Smokey very long, I am sorry to say. We had her just long enough to fall in love with her before disaster struck. Mom had let the kitten out onto the steps of the trailer for a little sun and some fresh air and a pee when out of the woods came the neighbour’s giant, white husky. My mother was standing right there beside thekitten on the metal steps, when the dog grabbed Smokey, or whatever her name was, by her tiny, fuzzy neck, and ran over the hill with her screeching wildly. We just stood there, watching it happen like a slow-motion car accident. It was so awful. The neighbours were upset, to say the least, when their husky dropped the dead, mangled kitten off at their front door like a trophy. We all sobbed for days.
I decided then and there that I hated that white husky. I threw something at it whenever I had the chance. I yelled and swore at it. That dog soon figured out never to come anywhere near me. The whole thing makes me sad to this day. My mother can hardly even talk about it—though we still somehow always manage to bring it up on the weirdest of occasions, like Christmas or Thanksgiving. You know, the happy holidays. She’ll say, “Remember the Sodmonts’ big white dog grabbing our little kitten off the steps of that trailer? Wasn’t that terrible?” And I always say, “Yes, it was terrible.” It’s one of those horrible things that sticks to the inside of your eyeballs.
After the kitten was tragically taken from us, I realized that we were not in the city anymore. This was a whole new level of horrible that was much more horrible than the death of my pocket turtle.
The house slowly started growing up out of the earth. Every time my folks got a little extra money, another phase of the construction would begin. We did have builders shuffling around doing things, but it was very apparent that my dad was doing a
lot
of the work himself. My mother was becoming a builder too. They were always busy constructing something. Dad was always swinging a hammer or sawing a floorboard or installing a cupboard hinge or putting in windows or nailing shingles on the roof. And this was after he’d spent an entire day at his real job. He left the trailer early and came home late. Whatever spare or not spare moments he had were spent working on the house.
My dad’s entire life had somehow revolved around construction and concrete. He knew every possible thing there was to know about concrete. He knew about quarter-inch and half-inch and two-inch gravel. He knew about crushed gravel and rebar and exposed aggregate and finishing and framing and forming and everything else in between. He knew how long the concrete needed to
At a very early point in our adventure, my parents thought that it would be nice to get us a kitten. Actually, the kitten was part of the bribe we accepted when they moved us out of the city. They promised us a variety of pets, although my father denies that to this day. We were in the country now, after all, and country people had animals! We had room in the trailer for something furry and small, and a kitten would be perfect. We found free kittens advertised in the local newspaper and drove to pick our furry little buddy up. My mom named the tiny grey kitty Smokey or Spanky or Chunky; well, she called it something, I just can’t remember what. And there’s a reason for that.
We didn’t have Smokey very long, I am sorry to say. We had her just long enough to fall in love with her before disaster struck. Mom had let the kitten out onto the steps of the trailer for a little sun and some fresh air and a pee when out of the woods came the neighbour’s giant, white husky. My mother was standing right there beside thekitten on the metal steps, when the dog grabbed Smokey, or whatever her name was, by her tiny, fuzzy neck, and ran over the hill with her screeching wildly. We just stood there, watching it happen like a slow-motion car accident. It was so awful. The neighbours were upset, to say the least, when their husky dropped the dead, mangled kitten off at their front door like a trophy. We all sobbed for days.
I decided then and there that I hated that white husky. I threw something at it whenever I had the chance. I yelled and swore at it. That dog soon figured out never to come anywhere near me. The whole thing makes me sad to this day. My mother can hardly even talk about it—though we still somehow always manage to bring it up on the weirdest of occasions, like Christmas or Thanksgiving. You know, the happy holidays. She’ll say, “Remember the Sodmonts’ big white dog grabbing our little kitten off the steps of that trailer? Wasn’t that terrible?” And I always say, “Yes, it was terrible.” It’s one of those horrible things that sticks to the inside of your eyeballs.
After the kitten was tragically taken from us, I realized that we were not in the city anymore. This was a whole new level of horrible that was much more horrible than the death of my pocket turtle.
The house slowly started growing up out of the earth. Every time my folks got a little extra money, another phase of the construction would begin. We did have builders shuffling around doing things, but it was very apparent that my dad was doing a
lot
of the work himself. My mother was becoming a builder too. They were always busy constructing something. Dad was always swinging a hammer or sawing a floorboard or installing a cupboard hinge or putting in windows or nailing shingles on the roof. And this was after he’d spent an entire day at his real job. He left the trailer early and came home late. Whatever spare or not spare moments he had were spent working on the house.
My dad’s entire life had somehow revolved around construction and concrete. He knew every possible thing there was to know about concrete. He knew about quarter-inch and half-inch and two-inch gravel. He knew about crushed gravel and rebar and exposed aggregate and finishing and framing and forming and everything else in between. He knew how long the concrete needed to
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