During a single life how often is one reminded, “Like father like son or like Mother like daughter?”
Every mall in America, school campus or slow walk through the hood, showcased is the family members who physically look, act and react the same—from the nose all the way down to the core of their soul, nothings changed.
It’s as if Mother Nature whispered, “If it works…why break the mold?”
Guess I’m the freak…I’ve got more in common with Mom than Dad—endless amounts of brown hair, a drive to touch success that’s flat out sick, extremely compassionate about creatures in the woods and waters and each of us have horrible devices, she continues to smoke cigarettes and I can’t stop writing.
Step parents tend to miss out on that level of deepness…blood parents and their children are extremely close to each other...I call it the vampire connection—a person can be three thousand miles from their parental figure and know instantly when something isn’t right. Often set aside in the corner of a darkened environment is the voice of a “step” that puts value in true family love and the spirit of it continuing…but didn't see or feel something coming.
It’s not that they don’t want to participate, physically, mentally…there’s an emptiness a “step” has to deal with and in some cases they’re forced to use personal experiences to draw them closer to the unexpected change and or loving way of an event that’s quite possibly mind blowing.
“Steps” use a special language that connects them to generations they’ll one day meet.
Countless times I’ve credited my stepfather Joe for pouring the ingredients required into my life that has made my split family a single unit. When Jenny took a Sharpie pen and wrote all over her bedroom walls every name of every weird rock band, I didn’t force her to grab a bucket of paint and whitewash it back to a normal state. Nope, I did what Joe would do…we left it there. Sure it grew into an artistic display presented by friends who turned her bedroom walls into a canvas of nothingness to parents who investment their monthly paychecks in a piece of property that’s got to be sold one day…but like my bedroom back home in Montana, those reasons to express have become “Thee” reason why returning is memorable…I can still see the lettering I put on the wall during my moments of expression and love my stepfather for not hiding it from me.
Connectedness occurs daily, sadly the placement of a “step” into a family can often times go unnoticed. It doesn’t mean there’s less love. I don’t think Joe ever looked at my drug addicted brother and said, “I don’t love you.” I did see him countless times hold him while fighting back tears of fear.
That mean old man who spanked us when we were bad but guaranteed a Christmas every year ended up being the biggest reason why I had to leave home barely at eighteen. It’s not because he locked us up in a bedroom in long timeout sessions or failed to feed and cloth us…in his own way, he proved to me that no matter how hard I try to gain access to a successful career in radio—if there was to be failure, he’d be the one doing the catching as each foot let go of the path moving forward.
Like stepfather like step son…it happens everyday and neither of you are expected to carry the same blood. Like the vampire connection, a long distance presence is delivered by the wind and today I have my proof. Since Saturday, I’ve rested my right hand near my heart over and over complaining about chest pains and uncomfortable feelings. I’ve taken my blood pressure so many times a tiny bruise from the squeezer has started to grow. Physically watching everything I did and documenting any changes became my dedication and nothing screamed, “Go to the doctor now!”
Last night at 10:00 right on the dot…the cell phone rang—a calm sister Susan said, “Dad’s had a heart attack.”
I think the real reason why I love John Lennon so much has nothing to do with him being part of the Beatles or having a very successful songwriting and solo career. Mr. Lennon spoke the language of true love and stood up in places not for him to be recognized but for something so many of us easily toss to the side—his message wasn’t self serving but rather more giving. John became our musical stepfather.
I write about love daily: Love can be black then white. Love can be right then wrong. Love can be seen while being completely invisible on an extremely crowded city street. Love is a single strand of energy that reaches out, through and across not one but hundreds of paths that have nothing in common and yet there’s a single rose petal staring back when you arrive. Love can be forgotten then rediscovered. Love shelters but in the end we still get wet from the rain. What we feel might not look, smell and sound like love because love comes with no taste…
Joe and Arroe…two completely different human beings, “steps” and now we have something unforgettably in common—three days shy of four months to the hour, minute and date, both of us were hit by realities bite in the shape of clogged arteries in the same exact place in the heart and both were medically corrected by stints in the same exact place. How has my mother remained so strong?
I woke up this morning and no longer felt pain. I have no reason to assume the step-daddy isn't having a brilliant day.
arroecollins@clearchannel.com
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