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“The Monkey Tree”

One of the great things about memory, is that it takes only a scent, sound or image to send one back to another time. I experience things like this frequently, and I absolutely hate it. For example, take the innocent, yet rather ugly image of the monkey tree, or as Wikipedia defines it:Araucaria araucana (popularly called the monkey puzzle tree[1][2] or monkey tail tree) is an evergreen tree growing to 40 metres (130 ft) tall with a 2 metres (7 ft) trunk diameter. The tree is native to central and southern Chile and western Argentina. Araucaria araucana is the hardiest species in the conifer genus Araucaria. Because of the species’s great age it is sometimes described as a living fossil. Araucaria araucana is the national tree of Chile.

For some reason, my mother and step father were fascinated with them. There was one house that we always passed on the way into town that had a huge one in the yard. As we drove by, the two of them competed to see who would be the first to yell out “MONKEY TREE!” and tap the other person. Its kind of like the punch buggy phenomenon. Remember as a kid when you saw one and hit the person beside you? Ya, that game. Silly, but I guess playing it is a right of passage for young people.

Any occasion where we were in a confined space with the parentals had the high potential for disaster. Never could we have an enjoyable trip anywhere without one of us kids, usually me, catching all sorts of shit for something we did wrong.

My step father had a thing for the Volkswagen Beetle. I am not sure why, as to me they are the ugliest car I have ever seen. The sound of an old Volkswagen beetle is on the list of things that make me nauseated. (yes, it is a long list, but it is MY list).

The worst part of the Beetle was it’s size. Picture for a moment, three teenagers in the back of an old Volkswagen. The bench seat was hardly big enough for two children, let alone three teenagers. The roar of the engine was loud, the windows would fog up and it felt like I was riding in an egg. It was a sight to see our family pull up and watch three teens crawling out of the back. I am sure it was hilarious, and me, hating anything that brough attention to our already ridiculous motley, wanted to crawl under a rock every time we were in public in it.

So back to the monkey tree.

We were a few minutes into our 30 minute venture into town, and I was stuck looking at the beady eyes of my stepfather in the rear view mirror shooting darts at me. They busted me for spending the two dollars that I kept in my wallet for “emergencies”. Not only did I break the cardinal rule of spending money without authorization, I lied about it too. The smell of macaroni and cheese casserole with sausage was so much better than the peanut butter sandwiches I took to school everyday and I just could not resist.

It was amazing how they had this 6th sense of when I fucked up. We were raised to believe that if we even thought about doing something wrong, we might as well have done it, because the consequences were going to be the same. This had some advantages, but most of the time, I was doing my best to control my head so that I would not think things I wasn’t supposed to. Things like boys, going out with “non-christians” to movies, wearing make up, or having lots of pretty clothes. All of these things were of the devil, and the more I tried to not want them, or think of them, the more I thought about them. Which led to feeling guilty.

All. The. Time.

So on the day I was getting busted,  I am sure that I just acting my normal guilty and nervous self and it was just a matter of time before I came out with something to confess. I also thought my step father was getting some inside information from the man upstairs. How could I compete with that? He is glaring and yelling at me. I am terrified again. In my head I am calling myself stupid, selfish and a sinner. He is so angry at me for spending the two dollars, that anyone looking from the outside would think I had just robbed my great grandmother’s jewelry box and hocked it for crack. He says awful things when he is yelling. He swears at me, and calls me names. He justifies his potty mouth with hanging on to just one thing because he had to give up everything else. That, and in his mind he is an ex-druggie, bad ass. More on that another time..

I am crying as I sit in the back seat of a car that is too cramped to even breath. Crying out loud infuriates him even more, so I have mastered the art of soundless tears. I hate myself, I hate that I screw up everyday. I hate that I could not resist the macaroni and cheese casserole with sausage. He was right…stolen grapes tasted the best. And the dish was the best ever. I was going to hell over these noodles and I knew it.

As I sat there, thinking about my induction into Hell, I looked up at my mother, who to at this point had just sat in the passenger seat, looking out the window. She lightly tapped his knee and said, “Monkey Tree”.