WYG Day 14: Where I Would Take You

This is about one of my first griefs, the death of my father.

I grew up in Moline, Illinois, which, as of 2020 had almost 44,000 people in it. This is one of my favorite places in the neighborhood I grew up in, but it looked different when I was growing up.

This was a ravine that was catacorner from our house. 

There were two really nice sloping hills that went down to the middle dip, and a couple of smaller hills on the side.

Those bushes with the rake on them were there then (or at least they look like they were). The trees in the background of the picture were not there–I am starting to wonder if the ravine wasn’t filled in at some point and all these trees grew because from here you cannot see the slopes of the ravine.

This was where we would sled every winter, for hours and hours. 

This was where we would roll down the hills until we felt like we would vomit and then we would lay in the bottom scoop of the ravine and watch the clouds change shape. 

This was when we would get up in the morning, have some kind of quick breakfast, and then we would be out until we were called for lunch, and then we would be out until we were called for dinner and then we would be out until the street lights came on or mom called us home, whichever came first.

This was a place that existed in the middle of a fairly large town but it felt removed, so removed.

It wasn’t always a happy place.

My father was an alcoholic and I recall, with much embarrassment still even though this happened 4 decades ago. I was at the ravine on this side, and there were some bigger kids who were teasing me and pushing me down the hill. I don’t remember the circumstances, but I do recall my father rushing out to the ravine, screaming at the kids to leave me alone, and then picking up one of their bikes above his head and throwing it into the ravine. 

The kids scattered, the one with the bike now in the ravine ran home crying, and my father brought me home. I was impressed that my father, who might have weighed 100 pounds at any given time, was strong enough to raise a whole bike above his head and throw it into the ravine.

Of course, the kids that were involved were told they couldn’t play with me anymore and I think the mom of the kid whose bike ended up in the ravine came over huffing and puffing about it, but my father was like, well, tell your kid to not push my kid down the hill.

It was also embarrassing because my father was an alcoholic. 

I was not aware that other people’s parents weren't alcoholics. I wasn’t even sure what an alcoholic was. All I knew was that my father liked to go to Homer’s bar and he would stay there for hours, sometimes with me hanging out in the car and wandering the nearby parking lots. I knew that my father had a secret bottle of alcohol in his chair that he would nip from, and that I was yelled at once when I pulled it out of the chair.

So I would take you here, but not how it looks now.

I would take you to the side by our house and sled until we couldn’t feel our feet.

I would take you to the same side, but during the summer and roll down the hill and watch the clouds.

I would take you next to the slope by my house and show you my favorite tree. It was a perfect tree and last time I was there, it wasn’t any longer. But I remember it having a graceful bend in its trunk and two perfectly placed limbs that would cradle me as I laid back and watched the wind in the leaves and the sky peeking out.

This would be the before place that I would take you. Before my father drank himself to death over the death of his brother, Bill. Before. Before. Before.

And then I would take you here. 

This is how my world seems now. Underwater, way down deep, with the light from the sky coming down, and instead of the beautiful dark blues and greens, the water sky flashes red. When I first saw this picture, I thought the diver was a mermaid.

This is what I imagine I would see if I got down the deep dark. 

It looks fairly benign, doesn’t it? I feel like it’s not. It can’t be.

But if I could take you there, I would. I would take someone with me who would maybe not even have to talk to me, but just someone to be there. To understand and see me, and honor and respect my pain and grief.

Not just anyone can go, or should go. I don’t know who should go. I don’t even know if I want to go. But I am working my way there.