The Freak Show
Siobhan fondly refers to our family gatherings as "The Freak Show". It is true, some of the older branches of our family tree might contain circus performers--but the current bunch (ourselves included) are the True Freaks. We are a quirky assortment of oddballs and strange ducks, as well as being the poster people for Dysfunctional Families...so perhaps Siobhan isn't far off the mark. According to her, we are only two clowns short of a three-ring circus. That being said, we want to dedicate this post to our family, The Freak Show. So... On With The Show!
The first act--and the most memorable-- is my sister, Saphrona. Saphrona is 58 years old, and a colorful character in every way. She tans excessively at the local salon, so that her skin is a nice shade of saddle brown between the wrinkles. She wears her hair short and teased, bleached straw- yellow and highlighted with big black leopard spots. I kid you not. Saphrona always dresses in bright layers of sheer fluttery clothes--with loud patterns, fur, sequins, lace, fringe, or tassels. Or all of the above. She wears her dresses short and her shoes tall-- stillettos, Roman sandals that lace to the knee, beaded moccasins that lace to the knee, metallic sneakers that lace to the knee, or studded biker boots. You get the picture. Her favorite accessories are: tons of makeup, tons of jewelry, a lit cigarette dangling from her lips, and an over-sized purse hanging from her arm. Saphrona has a flamboyant style and a lot of attitude, and neither has mellowed with age. Last year she got hammered and crashed Siobhan's birthday party, where she spent several hours staggering around the dance floor. She wasn't dancing, she was grabbing people by the shirt front and saying "TWIRL, M---er F---er". Most of them twirled like ballerinas because they were afraid of her. But she's comical, and you gotta love her. From a distance.
Next comes my brother, Eamon. At first glance, he seems normal enough. Fifty-three years old, still fit, still handsome...but looks can be deceiving. Eamon is just plain crazy. Cracked. Bonkers. Around the bend. Maybe he doesn't dress crazy like Saphrona, but you NEVER see him without his grey tee shirt, jeans, and ragged camo hat; he wears it like a uniform. You will see him in his trademark outfit at work, Walmart, weddings, and funerals... He pairs this eye-catching ensemble with second-hand beat-up old army boots-- without shoe strings. According to family legend, a cat chewed his shoes strings off years ago, so he threw the strings out and continued to wear the boots anyway. Without strings. In public, his shuffling feet and flopping boots often draw stares from strangers--which might be why Eamon developed his biggest phobia--Extreme Paranoia. He is always nervous and jumpy ,furtively looking over his shoulder because he thinks people are watching him. (Usually they are.) He also thinks his phone is tapped and his house is bugged, and people follow him everywhere he goes. Like I said before--crackers. Eamon also has a phobia about doctors. I once saw him stitch up his own arm with a sewing needle and thread, rather than go to the ER. He thinks all doctors want to microchip him, and inject him with truth serum. Delusional. Poor old Eamon was married once, for almost 13 weeks-- to a woman even crazier than he is. Then he got locked up for choking his new wife, and the marriage ended before the honeymoon did. Can't say I really blame him, though. She tormented him night and day, calling him "little baby" and "Mama's boy", and taping plastic baby bottles all over the house; she threw his truck keys in the lake, ripped up all his old family photos, burned most of his clothes, slapped him a few times, and pointed a loaded gun at him. That's a lot of craziness to cram into 13 weeks. And in his defense, he only choked her once.
The third act is my younger cousin Brigid; she is a first cousin and therefore a legitimate part of the freak show-- but thankfully she is adopted, and we don't share any of her genes. AT ALL. When we were kids, we would take Brigid to the arcade just to watch her play skeeball. Every time she threw a ball, she would have a 5-second seizure. Shaking, quaking, quivering. Strange. Brigid lived with her adopted parents on the shore of a huge lake. When Brigid was four, her mother gave birth to her sister, Rachel. Brigid was very solemn about the situation. She matter-of-factly told me that one day she was going to put her baby sister in her carriage and push it in the lake. Even now, I'm pretty sure she meant it. Brigid once beat her first husband half to death with a baseball bat for snoring--while he was still asleep. As soon as the casts came off and his vision cleared, he left her. Two houses have burned to the ground while Brigid was living in them. Both times she was mad at the landlord shortly before the fire. Folks, we are talking major Scary Sherry here. Every time the family moves, we forget to give Brigid the address.
Following Brigid is my favorite cousin, Patrick. Patrick is in his 70's now, and has spent a lifetime training and showing horses. Much to the neighbors' amusement, he plows his garden each year with his finest show horse--usually a fiery young stallion. The rows are not very straight, but the horse IS earning his keep. Patrick likes the old ways; he cooks on a wood cook stove and makes lye soap over an open fire. Patrick is a lovable character. Back in the 70's, Patrick gave in to peer pressure and went to get his ear pierced. When he realized they were going to charge him the same price for one ear as they charged his sister for two, he cussed like a sailor until they gave him his money's worth and pierced his other ear...He has worn gold hoops in both ears ever since. Mama and her evil minions shun Patrick, and refer to him as "weird"-- but Siobhan and I adore him. We like his earrings, and we don't care if he DOES wear dresses and heels once in a while...especially since it took Patrick to teach Siobhan how to walk in stilettos without clomping like an elephant.
Now, in the center ring are my parents...First my father, Ambrose. He is a class act, and not the least bit crazy--except by proxy. Ambrose tells with obvious pride how his great-grandfather Silas was known far and wide for his ability to ride a goat and play a fiddle. At the same time. Why he would want to is mystery to me. The only thing that makes my father even remotely freak-worthy is the fact that he married Mama and lived with her for 62 years. That rates right up there with the guy that sleeps on a bed of nails.
Lastly, my mother, Gerda. Gerda is a drama queen, a hypochondriac, a seasoned manipulator, and a control freak--with a mean streak a mile wide. Her own sainted mother died at the age of 34, and Gerda was convinced she would do the same. So she spent her entire 34th year prostrate on our couch, swooning and playing dramatic death scenes for the family. At least once a week, she would call us children to gather 'round so she could say her final good-byes...We would yell at each other, "Come on! Hurry up! Mama's dying again!!" But of course she never did. When she turned 35, Gerda grudgingly got up off the couch and went back to screaming and nagging at us kids, and making my poor father jump through hoops. Which is why she is the Ring Master of The Freak Show.
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Siobhan and I hope you've enjoyed this peek at our Family Freak Show. Although most of it was written tongue-in-cheek, I assure you all of the strange parts are true. However, in fairness to the rest of The Family, the next post will be dedicated to our own strangeness...
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