Read Online Purple Golf Cart: The Misadventures of a Lesbian Grandma by Ronni Sanlo - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ronni Sanlo
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Christmas Parade the following weekend. Our wedding night took place in his, now our, apartment in bumfuck Florida, just before the colitis attacked my body with full fury.
The small rural town in which we lived, population 2,000, was about 90 minutes north of Tampa, and not unlike the place where Jake grew up. The next town north from ours was smaller and even more redneck—if that were possible. At the north and south ends of that town on State Road 301—the only way in and out—were signs that read, “Nigger, don’t let the sun go down on you here.” Being Jewish (and now frightened), I suspected I was about as welcome there as the African American people, some of whom were now my friends. It was late 1971.
The colitis overtook my body with a vengeance immediately after the wedding and I was hospitalized in Orlando for several weeks, from just before Christmas to just after New Year’s, 1972. I was living a lie, 3,000 miles from my family and from Mitra, and profoundly miserable, though Jake and his parents were wonderfully attentive and kind. I was very ill and felt terribly alone in the middle of friggin’ nowhere. What saved me, I believe, was getting pregnant.
Jake didn’t want children, at least not right away. I was too ill to work and desperately needed a distraction. Pregnancy, to my surprise, provided that for me. In fact, it was as if my body said, “Okay, we have an important job to do here so let’s not screw this up.” The colitis subsided although I was left for a while with the remnants of the accompanying arthritis that attacked my joints. I was downright skinny from the colitis but my knees were the size of grapefruits. My elbows were so swollen that I could barely brush my hair or my teeth, and sitting down on a toilet was extraordinarily painful. Luckily, but slowly, it all subsided.
I remember when my mother was so ill with colitis and the subsequent arthritis that kept her so debilitated. I tried to suppress that memory but now my body was as wounded as hers had been. I remember my father making cocktails of cod liver oil and orange juice for my mother, something he’d read somewhere or heard. He was convinced it would work. It—or something magical—did work because Mom got better over time. Nonetheless, I remember its grip on her, and on us as children, and I feared for my own child-to-come. Finally, though, as promised by my doctor, it subsided and I felt well for the first time in nearly a year.
I loved being pregnant. It gave me a focus. I felt valuable and important. I spent all of my waking hours looking forward to having a child, something I truly never thought about in my entire life. Getting married and having babies just never occurred to me. It’s not that I thought they were bad ideas. I just never consciously envisioned myself in that way, as someone’s wife and someone’s mother.
Jake’s disinterest in children was fine with me. He worked with his high school band and flew small airplanes. Both kept him busy enough. He was a good man, treated me well and with great concern, and was not at all demanding about much of anything. We both disliked the town in which we lived and were thrilled when he was hired as the band director at a brand new school near his hometown just north of Orlando. In the summer of 1972 we were able to move away from Redneck Hell, USA, but really, we went from the frying pan to the fire.
Moving to Jake’s hometown meant living near Jake’s parents. Coming from a large and loving family, I thought this would be a good thing. Jake was an only child. His mother Cynda was born and raised in the same town as Jake, as were her mother and brothers. She was a slender, put-together, stylish kind of woman with beautiful expensive clothes that she wore well. She was welcoming and caring when I first joined the family, and had genuine deep concern for me when I was so ill.
Jake’s father, Big Jake, was a sweet,
The small rural town in which we lived, population 2,000, was about 90 minutes north of Tampa, and not unlike the place where Jake grew up. The next town north from ours was smaller and even more redneck—if that were possible. At the north and south ends of that town on State Road 301—the only way in and out—were signs that read, “Nigger, don’t let the sun go down on you here.” Being Jewish (and now frightened), I suspected I was about as welcome there as the African American people, some of whom were now my friends. It was late 1971.
The colitis overtook my body with a vengeance immediately after the wedding and I was hospitalized in Orlando for several weeks, from just before Christmas to just after New Year’s, 1972. I was living a lie, 3,000 miles from my family and from Mitra, and profoundly miserable, though Jake and his parents were wonderfully attentive and kind. I was very ill and felt terribly alone in the middle of friggin’ nowhere. What saved me, I believe, was getting pregnant.
Jake didn’t want children, at least not right away. I was too ill to work and desperately needed a distraction. Pregnancy, to my surprise, provided that for me. In fact, it was as if my body said, “Okay, we have an important job to do here so let’s not screw this up.” The colitis subsided although I was left for a while with the remnants of the accompanying arthritis that attacked my joints. I was downright skinny from the colitis but my knees were the size of grapefruits. My elbows were so swollen that I could barely brush my hair or my teeth, and sitting down on a toilet was extraordinarily painful. Luckily, but slowly, it all subsided.
I remember when my mother was so ill with colitis and the subsequent arthritis that kept her so debilitated. I tried to suppress that memory but now my body was as wounded as hers had been. I remember my father making cocktails of cod liver oil and orange juice for my mother, something he’d read somewhere or heard. He was convinced it would work. It—or something magical—did work because Mom got better over time. Nonetheless, I remember its grip on her, and on us as children, and I feared for my own child-to-come. Finally, though, as promised by my doctor, it subsided and I felt well for the first time in nearly a year.
I loved being pregnant. It gave me a focus. I felt valuable and important. I spent all of my waking hours looking forward to having a child, something I truly never thought about in my entire life. Getting married and having babies just never occurred to me. It’s not that I thought they were bad ideas. I just never consciously envisioned myself in that way, as someone’s wife and someone’s mother.
Jake’s disinterest in children was fine with me. He worked with his high school band and flew small airplanes. Both kept him busy enough. He was a good man, treated me well and with great concern, and was not at all demanding about much of anything. We both disliked the town in which we lived and were thrilled when he was hired as the band director at a brand new school near his hometown just north of Orlando. In the summer of 1972 we were able to move away from Redneck Hell, USA, but really, we went from the frying pan to the fire.
Moving to Jake’s hometown meant living near Jake’s parents. Coming from a large and loving family, I thought this would be a good thing. Jake was an only child. His mother Cynda was born and raised in the same town as Jake, as were her mother and brothers. She was a slender, put-together, stylish kind of woman with beautiful expensive clothes that she wore well. She was welcoming and caring when I first joined the family, and had genuine deep concern for me when I was so ill.
Jake’s father, Big Jake, was a sweet,
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