Where We're Going, We Don't Need Roads.

I didn't know what a side console in a car was called until I was in Driver's Ed.  In my world, that beautiful storage unit where people stash their cd's, spare change and sunglasses always had a second function.

A much nicer mobile home than ours

My parents had lake-front property outside of city limits.  Lake-front now applies to the house my father is still in the process of building (he started shortly after I was born).  He still lives in the yellow trailer my childhood friends called "The Twinkie."  The pseudo-house now mostly just blocks the trailer's view of the lake. He claims the reason he won't finish the house now is because his taxes will change drastically.

This prime real estate had its advantages, though.  I developed the skill of hearing a car coming when it was still miles away.  I also learned how to swim and fish at a very young age.  The advantage I never really considered during my childhood, however, was the fact that police were only present if/when someone called them.

I got driving lessons by everyone in my family before my age reached the double digits.  I ramped my ATV off a mound of dirt my dad kept after excavation for the big house, the mound I so lovingly referred to as Muddy Mountain.  A friend's little brother learned how to make bombs online the summer after my senior year in high school; I knew exactly where he could set them off.

Needless to say, traffic safety laws weren't at the forefront of my parents' minds.  I never remember being in a car seat, but to their credit, I've always been monstrously tall for my age.  Whenever I would get fussy and start squirming in the half seat belts that were outlawed from the front of vehicles in the 60's, my parents would bring me to the front of the car.

The Buddy Seat

My ridiculous size as a toddler made sitting on my parents' laps uncomfortable at best.  That's when I would get to sit on "The Buddy Seat."  With TicTacs and pennies jingling and mingling beneath me, I would sit as my father sped down sinuous country roads.  I would even ask to sit there when the front passenger seat was a viable option.  Hitting my head on the roof of a vehicle, after my vision returns, will give me a sense of nostalgia for the days when I was King of the Road with the best seat in the house.

One of my first boyfriends and I made a connection after just such a bump. 

He was a grade below me and I was home for a Halloween party.  It was at the local community college.  My best friend was working there and hosting the party, so we knew it would be a blast.  I went just for her, but then I saw other friends from high school. 

One group of former classmates included Zack.  We had one class together and the only thing I remember about him from that class was that he was tiny and full of frenetic energy.  I thought of him as a chihuahua.  However, Zack was certainly more interesting now because he was wearing a shirt announcing that he was gay.

I was intrigued, but still, not there for him.  His group, though, included some friends I had known since early childhood.  We caught up and when Ashley had to stay back to finish up some details after the party, I left with them.

We were in the back seat of a their Jeep with my friend, Travis, between us.  The driver decided she wanted to "Chase Bambi" which involves driving through harvested fields, literally driving toward the animals most known for killing people with their proclivity for jumping in front of moving vehicles.  The goal wasn't to hit them.  Looking back, it seems like it was a way of getting back at the deer for all of the times they almost killed us.

While in the field, I had one arm gripping the handle above the door and one gripping the seat behind Travis.  As we sped toward what was surely a terrified animal, we hit a huge dip and we were all lifted out of our seats.  Despite the seatbelt I'm pretty sure I was wearing, my head hit the roof.  When we came back down, my hand was in Zach's hand.  It stayed there until we got back to my house.  The relationship lasted a few months and we had some fun, but by the end I was willing to blame the whole thing on the brain damage sustained from that bump.  But perhaps the loving reminder of sitting on the Buddy Seat helped a bit.

Esty, Get Your Gun

My father’s house has always had a gun case in it.  I was never allowed to touch it, but it was prominently displayed in the master bedroom. The Freudian implications of this decorating choice are not lost on me.

I probably would’ve been allowed to use each and every one of his guns had I finished all of the training he had in mind for me.  I, unfortunately, never made it past the hunting bow. The initial phase of practice involved pulling the string back and then easing it to its natural position over and over again. I was more of a reader anyway.

My mom, however, gave herself an honorary degree (along with a license to kill) shortly before I was born. The target was my father which isn't very surprising considering the likelihood of gun-related homicides are 2.7 times more likely for people with guns in their homes.

My father was very attractive to barflies.  That isn’t to say that he’s a beast only fit for the dim lights of a dive bar, but he is very...average.  His rock hard beer belly gives the impression that he is in the cauldron smuggling business.  The inside of his pick-up truck smells like the oil derricks he has to drive by every day on his way to work.  For those of you unfamiliar with the smell, it’s very similar to beer farts.

Not my father

Nevertheless, my hometown’s standards aren’t those of Carrie Bradshaw.  My father owned his house (trailer), was in the process of building a much nicer one (made of wood!), had a steady job, and looked like someone you wouldn’t like to piss off.  He was a Centralia catch, at least in the eyes of his future live-in girlfriend.

During her pregnancy with me, my mother had multiple complications.  I literally almost killed my mother multiple times before I even made it into this world.  Because of this, she was on and off of bed rest for the majority of her third trimester.

Not my mom

Most Centralians will claim to believe in God, though few will regularly attend church.  They do borrow some of the premises, however.  Instead of prayer circles, they had that-deadbeat-husband-of-yours-is-getting-awful-friendly-with-so-and-so-at-such-and-such circles.  During one of the “off” periods of her third trimester, my mom received a call from just such a circle.  She did what any pregnant woman would do: she grabbed the first rifle she could find in the gun cabinet, set it in the passenger seat of her car, and drove into town to bring my father home from whichever seedy bar he had chosen that night.

This may seem like a kidnapping, but considering my mother’s height (5’4”) and the fact that she left the gun in the car, the altercation took a much more domestic route.  It must have been an embarrassing spectacle for all parties involved. As someone who has been in a yelling match with both of them, I can say that my mother can cause a much more effective scene than my father.  Eventually, he bowed to the inevitable and got into the car.

I’d like to think that if time travel were possible, I would go back and tell my dad to nod and apologize, but I know myself too well.  Remembering how the story ends, I’d grab whatever passed for popcorn back then and watch the magic unfold.  The car ride was silent until they reached their street.  Then the void was filled with baritone and alto screams.  They finally reached the trailer where my mom grabbed the gun and waved it as they made their cacophonous way into their home. Who won this specific argument is still dependent upon who you ask.  What is known is what happened next.

My father drunkenly told my mom that she didn’t even know how to load a gun.  And that’s how my mom, in a successful effort to prove him wrong, shot a hole in the roof.