You Rescued Me from Reaching for the Bottle

Every once in a while, I get a question that prompts a whole story, sometimes a whole flood of them. Standing outside after the show Saturday, with the wind cutting through my favorite old green canvas jacket, I was asked "What does Possum mean to you?" I've been so struck lately by the way different people ask questions and the thoughtful, caring, curious questions people ask. I'm uncertain if there is anything in me that has changed the nature of the questions or if for the first time, I'm just finally seeing the beauty in them.

I can't remember any of this first part, so forgive my second hand telling. My father was a tall man, 6'3" or 6'4", I think. He was rangy and kind of had this rolling gait occasionally punctuated by a near limp if the weather was wrong or he'd been standing on concrete too long. He had long legs, especially from hip to knee, a trait he passed to his youngest and tallest daughter. 

When I was born, I was automatically his favorite. My mother tells the story that he looked at me and said "This is my baby" in a way that left no question. I'd love to say that it was because I was a beautiful baby, but I can't be certain. My mother never could tell us which hospital newborn photo was which, and so crammed together in age were her four that there were few clues in the variety. Frankly, the photos all looked the same as the one of my own child.

I have my most prized photograph, one stuck in its frame so surely that I'll never get it out and not destroy it. I don't show it to many folks. It's my father, seated at the kitchen table that still sits in the exact place, dark mess of hair, dark burnished skin, long nose, looking down at the baby held to his shoulder, a blonde mess of curls and red pajamas. His face is long, thin, narrow, you can't see much at all of the baby. I wonder writing this if he was drunk. I wonder if my face looks more like him in that state.

And so it was. I was his and he was mine and there was never any question at all. It's a guilty feeling for me, knowing that I really did get the best of him. I always knew it, but it has come into stark relief lately. I would not change a thing about the way we loved each other, but love isn't finite. I wish it could have been spread around more and shared and multiplied. I've learned to never be stingy with my love. I'll give it to almost anyone who will hold still long enough. And I think I ask little enough in return. Universal adoration will get you into trouble if you let it though. Not everyone deserves that devotion.

We're approaching his birthday. It's the reason I hate Christmas. But that's another story. Without my continued rambling, the story of Possum.

From birth, he'd sit and lay me across his thighs, hip to knee. I was born at 9lbs, 13oz, so that was an accomplishment. I'm told he would just sit and talk to me and cuddle me. I was his from the first day. I never stood a chance. I think of those hard, hard hands holding a baby that gently. I understand that my first smile was right there just like that. And to no one's surprise, I never did anything by halves. I didn't just smile, I grinned and when I did, wrinkled up my nose in a way that I still do in moments of great delight. My father, never being given to sentiment, said that I looked like a possum. And so it was. And so it remains.

There are people walking this earth who do not know my given name. My cousins, my aunts and uncles, family friends. I never know even now when someone may call out a name as familiar to me as the one I was born into. Moreso, maybe. It certainly holds more meaning to me.

The night of my twenty-first birthday, I did what kids that age will do. I went out to our local haint, dressed in a tiny blue and purple plaid skirt (I sure do wish I still had that because it's back in style now) and strappy leather pumps. I was told that night by the bartender "Those are the longest legs I've ever seen in this bar." Being the person I am, I snapped right back "That is the worst line I've ever heard in any bar."

I'd had a Long Island or two, when from the front door, I hear a gleeful cry "POSSUM? IS THAT YOU?" Well, it was in fact Possum, but at at time when Possum took herself entirely too seriously, she wanted to crawl under the closest high top and die, or at least fake her death, like well...you know.

I know I share the nickname with someone probably more deserving. After all, he did make that song we know so well famous the first time. And what is commonly lauded as the saddest song ever sung. I guess that's a fitting mantle for me. 

I also shared the name with a farm dog, an Australian Cattle Dog, with no tail and all the cleverness in her eyes that any dog ever had. I loved that girl purely. And I'm still more than happy to share a name with her.

My nieces and nephews call me Aunt Possum. My mother still calls me Possum. My siblings. Sometimes shortened to  just "Poss" or even "The Poss." It's like Springsteen, with less power and more humiliation. In the time that you didn't get to choose what people called you and it wasn't a subject of discussion at all, I hated it. I loved it from my father. I hated it from anyone else. I eased back into it in my early 20's and now I'm all trendy, with possums covering just about anything you might wish. I am myself considering a tattoo, a baby possum over a watercolor background. One I was told absolutely not to with the same wrinkled nose that I offer in joy, offered in derision. Fortunately, no one can tell me what to do anymore.