{"id":12369,"date":"2018-03-07t00:45:21","date_gmt":"2018-03-07t00:45:21","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/dpetrov.2create.studio\/planet\/wordpress\/out-of-free-soil-our-beanstalks-bend-toward-justice\/"},"modified":"2023-02-28t18:35:53","modified_gmt":"2023-02-28t18:35:53","slug":"out-of-free-soil-our-beanstalks-bend-towards-justice","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"\/\/www.getitdoneaz.com\/story\/out-of-free-soil-our-beanstalks-bend-towards-justice\/","title":{"rendered":"out of free soil our beanstalks bend toward justice"},"content":{"rendered":"
how could spring ever be silent while my mother sputters away into yet another coughing fit? <\/p>\n
\u201ccome on, mom! we\u2019re almost to the food court. you can rest there.\u201d i forget i\u2019m supposed to be patient and annoyed that we have to stop again.<\/p>\n
\u201cyou don\u2019t. understand. how good. you have it, bryan.\u201d<\/p>\n
but my byte-sized brain was hardwired like the tamagotchi in my palm. i couldn\u2019t fully grasp her humble wisdom until i learned over the years that the seeds of tragedy often take root, not by nature, but by the crooked hand of the farmer.<\/p>\n
***<\/p>\n
february 7, 1997. the day my mother knocked on heaven\u2019s door, but god was out to lunch.<\/p>\n
it was the day i learned about union carbide, the day 6-year-old sons all across america made craters out of dino-shaped nuggets and sipped hi-c through bright yellow straws.<\/p>\n
thank god, she didn\u2019t pass away in the accident. but i lost the memory of her healthy self before the accident. i can\u2019t remember if it seeped away slowly like the gases she inhaled or blew away at once like that factory in flixborough<\/a>.<\/p>\n well, that\u2019s not entirely true. i still cradle the one memory i have left\u2026<\/p>\n saturday cartoons and blueberry pop-tarts. <\/em><\/p>\n our fire scanner emits its usual screeches, clarion call signs that pierce the ether of the airwaves. it scares the hell out of me on a daily basis, a fear overshadowed by ire the older i get. our hometown, pine bush, known more for ets than emts, sits quietly amongst the bungalows of the borscht belt. disaster always hits close to home here. it\u2019s clear out, i think. <\/em><\/p>\n the siren song fills our house like the smoke billowing at the cavanaugh\u2019s across the street. over my screams, mom sprints down the wooden steps, the same ones i tumbled down the winter before, nightgown flying behind her.<\/em><\/p>\n i stand on the toilet, superman socks struggling to grab hold, and peek through the tiny sliding window and my tears. <\/em><\/p>\n she enters the darkness. all i see is white. <\/em><\/p>\n reds and blues eventually appear, but not mom. <\/em>you don\u2019t know how good you have it, bryan.<\/p>\n amongst the commotion, i can hear that one rerun where arnold returns safely home from the fiery underworld. are happy endings only confined to cartoons? will i be sent to a foster home? how\u2014<\/em><\/p>\n \u2014and there she is!<\/em><\/p>\n strapped to mom\u2019s back is the stout matriarch, mrs. cavanaugh, too frail and heavyset to wheel herself to safety. mom breathes in the crisp catskill air and sets her down on a stretcher. she is safe. i cry on her shoulder and tell her i never want to lose her. <\/em><\/p>\n to this day, mom\u2019s certificate from governor pataki still hangs on the wall of our family room.<\/p>\n ***<\/p>\n methyl isocyanate. the source of her suffering.<\/p>\n