Better Than Dead

This journey is actually split into two parts: the first, a short discussion of this book:

and maybe a little bit about this one, as well:

 

 

Kathleen Bartholomew, the sister of sff writer Kage Baker, has been carrying on Kage’s legacy since Ms. Baker’s untimely death. She has put together collections of Kage’s stories, done the finishing touches on manuscripts left behind, and has been completing books begun by Kage. Subterranean Press has been publishing them. Kathleen’s wonderful blog chronicles in touching and lively detail the life she and her sister lived together, but also talks about the writers’ life, life in general, the Faire circuit, and spooky travels on California’s I-5. It’s a great loving stew of many flavors and exotic ingredients. Kathleen is a talented writer, often lyrical and moving, and her blog really is a delicious treat. I cannot recommend it highly enough.

Now, as to the second part of this journey. Not quite as lyrical and moving, but I never promised these posts about journeying around my room would be. In fact, one might even call the next part of our story a sordid journey into family politics. If one was a Drama Queen. I’ll leave it to you as to how to label it.

When I first saw the cover of The Best of Kage Baker, a frisson of recognition wiggled up my spine. The ice blue Madonna on the cover is nearly identical to a statue I had myself when I was younger A whole crazy can of worms opened when I saw it, odd bits of memory that I hadn’t thought about in a long, long while.

I had this cousin, see, whom I shall call Ilene. That’s not her name and anyone who knows me will not be fooled for a moment by this disguise, but there you go. Ilene is ten years older than I and for a time lived with my family. I was nine, she was nineteen. Our relationship was very much like older and younger siblings. In fact, it was Ilene who explained the facts of life to me, as Mom wanted no part of that conversation, and I’d heard things, you know, from my friends. I mean, by age nine (living in the sheltered time I grew up in) I had a good notion where babies came from, but no one had explained the mechanics to me. Ilene shouldered the burden—and it was a lot less embarrassing hearing it from her than it would have been hearing it from Mom. I got the full lecture just in time, too. I went into puberty early, just before my tenth birthday. I was actually excited because Now I Am A Woman. Oy.

But that’s another post, for another day (or perhaps not).

Ilene was a lot of fun back then, but in later years we had a much rockier relationship. She could be quite domineering, and grew more so as the years went by. My mother was also something of a force of nature. Smashed between two strong women I learned early that the only way to survive with my own thoughts and personality intact was to be like water running between the adamantine pillars of their egos. It wasn’t the most courageous strategy, but what I needed to prevail, to hold on to the core of myself, to dream my dreams and do my art.

The ice blue Madonna may have been the perfect symbol of all that.

One day in my early twenties, Ilene had Mom and I over to her house in South Central. She was married by then, a homeowner, and we visited her place quite often. She had some neighbors, an elderly couple who were bugging out of South Central to move to Yermo, a tiny town in the Mojave Desert near the Calico Mountains. Ilene, her husband, and a buddy were helping them move and wondered if we wanted to drive along with her as company while the guys did the heavy lifting. So we did. It was a good excuse for a road trip.

This couple—I’ll call them Bert and Ida for the sake of convenience—had moved most of the smaller stuff. Only the final big pack up remained and they’d be gone for good from the neighborhood. When we got to their new little house in the desert, Bert showed us around. He liked to make small statues and geegaws out of cast resin and fiberglass from molds bought from a wholesaler. He hoped to sell some to supplement the Social Security. Much of his stuff was of a religious nature, Bert being a pious man. Most of it came in rather garish colors, but Ilene encouraged me to buy some of it as she wanted to be nice to Bert. I splashed around for a bit between my desire not to have any of it, of being nice to sweet and harmless Bert, and Ilene’s strong will. I made non-committal appreciation noises, and talked about being a broke college student, yadda yadda.

Finally, Ilene said, “I’m going to buy these Madonnas.” She pointed to two rather graceful foot tall statues, by far the nicest designs in Bert’s arsenal. One was ice blue and translucent, actually quite lovely; the other a solid neon orange that made me wish for a pair of shades. “I’ll keep one for myself, and you can have the other.”

“Which one?” I asked.

“I’ll let you choose.”

I grabbed up the ice blue Madonna without hesitation. Something passed across Ilene’s face. I knew I’d picked the wrong one, the one she wanted for herself. But Bert was quite pleased, and Ilene made a show of “My, isn’t this a fine thing!”

On the long—long, long—drive home, Ilene said, “I really wanted that blue Madonna. X (her husband) had his heart quite set on it.”

This was my signal to fork it over, but for some reason that day my watery survival tactic wasn’t playing. “I didn’t like the orange one. Not even a little bit.”

“You’re not religious,” Ilene said. “What do you want with a Madonna statue?”

“Why did you make me take one?”

“It seemed the decent thing to do to help Bert out,” she said from the pinnacle of her moral high ground.

Which only served to make me mad. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll give the blue one back and you can keep them both.”

That flustered her. I rarely called her bluff. “No, no, I said I’d buy one for you, it’s just that X really admired the blue one.”

“So do I. It’s quite graceful and lovely. That’s the one I want.”

She clammed up after that. It felt good to get the last word in and not feel (too) guilty about it. I never quite knuckled under to her again after that. I saw through the power games thoroughly on that day, and I’d finally gotten old enough and independent enough to defend myself.

I kept that statue for years. Not out of spite, but because I grew quite fond of it. It really was lovely. Then, in one of my household moves, the head got snapped off of the thin, graceful neck. I superglued it back on and kept it around for awhile longer. It disappeared somewhere along the way. I have no clue where it went.

Perhaps the Blessed Virgin finally got sick of me using her image for a bit of petty family bickering and whisked the ice blue Madonna off to a better, more befitting place. This whole story certainly has Big Fat Irony written all over it. I feel more guilt about using the statue that way then I ever did about getting the best of Ilene.