a foggy olive oil coated memory

Mrs. Powers continued to enlightened us as to the wacky comings and goings of Paddington Bear. She continues to wear sweater vests with sequined pumpkins and removable Christmas trees, and my parents continued to fight.

Our first year in Spain we lived on the economy, which is just a strange way of saying that we did not live in base housing but in a Spanish apartment complex. We moved into an apartment complex and I remember the fights as humdrum, bickering really. Perhaps, my brain was too busy processing the exotic sights, sounds, and tastes of our new life.









Did they fight? Did they hate each other, yet? I suppose I'll never know. What I do remember is..... there were no closest, my parents bitched about how short the Spaniards were every time they hit their head on a kitchen cabinet, and everyone around us was pulling up to the dinner table as I was saying prayers and falling off to sleep. And, of course there was the damn olive oil.


"What is that smell" I would ask EVERY TIME we got on the elevator.

"That, darling is what these Spaniards call, olive oil. It's an oil that is made from olivies, I think its the red thing in the middle that gives it that unique smell"


In 1982 you would be hard pressed (truly, no pun intended) to find olive oil on your everyday kitchen shelf in America. The smell to this day is hard for me to take. Literally, the walls in the elevator would drip with the pale green ooze, my brothers and I would take old coke bottles to the lobby and run them up the walls so we could dress a salad.

Dreams were made and broken in the year we lived in that apartment. The day Mrs. Powers wore her most sparkling sweater, no vest today boys and girls, and told us to enjoy our Christmas break -well, maybe that was the official end of my innocence. In the 4th grade the seed of the Santa lie and subsequent Santa truth gets planted for a lot of kids.


In my class, the non- beleievers fell into 2 categories....

You have your self-confident out right deniers.

"I asked my mom, when I was 2 if Santa was real. She told me ...no. She said its not nice to tell lies to anyone and that I was old enough for the reality of Christmas."

This kid would ramble on about either:
A. the true meaning, blah, blah, blah ..................parents were- crazy religious zealot

B. commercialism and greed.... ............................parents were- stoned ex-hippy

or the slightly more likeable

"I saw my dad putting together my bicycle in his boxer shorts and no shirt, while my mom was drinking wine and stuffing stockings."

There was no self- confidence in this kids story. This kid told the story with regret and sorrow in is voice, you sort of felt his pain.

That year, my fourth grade year, in that olive oil soaked paradise- I became that second kid. For me though, it was beer for both and a desk for my room.

It was that night, in my red and white footie pajamas that my plan was hatched, because you see it was the fighting that woke me up. I wasn't so much sad as I was just like "Damn it!, they've done it, thats it. When will the parade of lies and disappointment end."

Santa was my lost hold on innocence and when he died it was like watching Beaver Cleaver shoot heroin...nothing was ever colorful again. I can't be sure but it seems like Paddington might have even moved out over that break. I seem to recall an end to the sweaters, the stories......

Santa wounded, dying, breathing his last breath strode passed Mrs. Powers house scooped up Paddington, who scooped up the sweaters, and flew out of sight..........

I blame the Spanish for Montezuma's revenge, the Inquisition, flan and killing Santa Claus.