Parish, New York ā a sleepy little town about 20 miles from Oswego, just about kissing Lake Ontario. The place I once called home.I was born in Parish and lived there until it became too small for me or maybe I just got too damn disillusioned.
I was the only child of Ron and Betty Cooper. Dad never said he was disappointed that I was a girl but I knew he really wanted a son. Mom named me Carly Grace. Dad never called me Carly; I was always āCarlā to him. I didnāt mind too much but mom always said it was a heartless thing for him to do ā a constant reminder that she couldnāt give him a son.
We lived in a tiny house in the middle of nowhere. Dad would sleep most of the day and go to work after dinner. He was a bartender at Floydās Place in the town of Mexico, about seven miles from Parish. College kids from Oswego would bring their dates to Floydās Place; it was a dive but dad did a good job keeping their tankards full all night.
I remember having to be very quiet during the day so dad could sleep. Mom kept me busy in the kitchen; she was a terrific baker and taught me how to make homemade bread.
Both my parents were heavy smokers. Even when mom was baking sheād have a Marlboro dangling from her lips. Well, mom got cancer and softly, peacefully passed away the night before I turned 13; to this day the smell of freshly baked bread reminds me of her.
It wasnāt long before dad hooked up with Paulette Garrison, a nurse whoād stop by the bar every night after her shift. Dad started staying at Pauletteās place in Mexico and by the time I was fifteen I was pretty much living on my own.
Memorial Day weekend rolled around and dad brought Paulette back to our house. I was looking forward to a cook-out and fireworks but dad and Paulette only came out of the bedroom for beer and cigarettes. That Saturday night I packed a few things in momās old suitcase, took her address book, whatever money I could find and softly left my home in Parish.
When I arrived at Grand Central Station, I called momās cousin Rita in The Bronx. She didnāt hesitate for a second, taking me into her home and caring for me like I was her own daughter. She also gave me a job in her bakery on Arthur Avenue. When Rita retired she put me in charge and I eventually became the owner.
Nine years went by when I got a call out of the blue. It was Paulette letting me know my dad had died ā three weeks ago! There was certainly no love lost between us but I felt I should drive up to say farewell.
I stood at my fatherās grave feeling nothing but the cold wind stinging my face. Softly I turned and left Parish behind me forever.
NAR Ā© 2021
Written for Linda G. HillāsĀ Stream of Consciousness SaturdayĀ prompt. Linda has asked us to use the word āhomeā as a noun, a verb, an adjective, or an adverb.
The Elephant's Trunk 