The only balloon that would work was a clear one with silver curls and snowflakes decorating the outside. I kind of knew it, but I still thought it was a little too fancy. My 6-year-old Sebastian, however, insisted on it.
We walked to the top of a park overlooking Pismo Beach and I, holding the top of the balloon’s string, and Sebastian holding the bottom, counted to three.
One. And I looked out over the ocean as our arms swung upwards.
Two. As some strangers nearby took notice and turned to watch.
Three. And we swung our arms in the air, Sebastian letting go of his end, but I, at the last minute, was still holding on to mine.
“Mom?!” Sebastian yelled.
The stranger and his kids looked at us confused as to what we were even doing.
Ron, who was standing there, camera poised, asked what happened.
“I wasn’t ready,” I said, not realizing the gravity of what I had just said.
To most of my family I’ve been the girl who was a little bit flamboyant, a little bit sassy, a little bit “out there.” Nearly all of my aunts have compared me to this or the other ’80s quirky teen queen—Justine Bateman’s Mallory Keaton in Family Ties or Lisa Bonet’s Denise Huxtable in The Cosby Show. It’s probably because I embraced the decade in all its big-haired, electric-hued, pop rules decadence. However, at my core, I’ve always been someone who was a bit of a misplaced soul, a flighty, floaty, color-loving someone who should’ve been a hippy but missed the Summer of Love.
Somewhere, somehow I’m sure my Aunt Patsy had a sliver of influence on this. Maybe she wasn’t a hippy, but she was insanely creative and talented. When I was a child she’d make me and my sister chalk paintings of dinosaurs and other educational topics. Once she even painted Strawberry Shortcake characters on the wall of our bedroom. I got Strawberry above my bed, and my sister had Blueberry Muffin. Those things impress upon a child.
About three years ago, my husband was traveling a lot for work. It seemed like every month he’d be sent somewhere for a few weeks. As a somewhat restless person, with no one home to tell me to go to bed, I decided to work on a “project.”
I have always hated the shade of green my husband painted our master bedroom, but I had seen an incredible picture in a magazine, and I had to recreate it. It was nearly the exact green color as our room but on one wall was a gnarly cherry blossom tree with brilliant pink blossoms. Somewhere in the picture was a pretty dancer draped in flowing pale pink jumping on a piece of furniture.
I decided to recreate that cherry blossom tree. With a heavy dose of Jimi Hendrix on the stereo—and of course a six-pack of Stella Artois (I’m not that hippy), I began to paint the wall behind our bed. For hours I painted with Jimi’s encouragement and Stella’s support, until about 6:30 a.m. when I had an epiphany: “Oh wow. What will Ron say about this?”
I hadn’t told him I’d painted a mural on the wall. And it really doesn’t come down to permission but rather courtesy. I painted a mural on our wall—a wall that is attached to a house we knew we’d one day sell again in exchange for our dream house on the beach. The new buyers may not want a giant, gnarled cherry blossom tree highlighted by a lime-green background in their master bedroom.
Then the kids came into my room sleepy eyed and anxious to see someone other than themselves in trouble. They asked me what was going on. I silenced Jimi and, as casually as I could, said I was painting a mural and told them to get ready for school.
They turned to comply but then asked, “Does Dad know?”
It turns out “Dad” just chalked it up to my quirkiness. When he came home, he didn’t say anything about it. In fact the first six times he returned home from business trips he didn’t say anything about it. Then he asked, “When are you going to finish it?”
In hindsight, I wish I would’ve asked my Aunt Patsy for help. I didn’t admit it then, nor for a long time after, but I was stuck. What started out looking like a beautifully mature cherry blossom tree started to look like an aged octopus with a medical condition.
It’s cool enough to pass though, and sometimes, when Ron and I are sitting on our bed practicing guitar or even paying bills on our laptops, and the kids take our picture, the crazy backdrop makes us seem a little hippy-ish, Ron has said. Though he likes his analytical, well-organized sensibility, I think on occasion he really does like being seen as quirky and alternative.
My aunt taught me how to make pumpkin chocolate chip cookies, how to appreciate art, and the importance of not being judgmental. When she was at her sickest, I flew in to see her. That was not the Summer of Love but it felt like it. It was in March of 2014, and I was still in a bit of denial, only traveling to support my mom. On that trip, my aunt was her funny, slightly sarcastic roll-her-eyes-and-chuckle self. In a selfish way, I’m glad I get that trip as my final memory.
In December on what would be her first birthday after she passed—the day she would’ve been 60—family all over the country released a balloon in her honor. Sixty of them in all.
On the second try, I raised my arms above the ocean I love so much and let go. I watched as a single silvery balloon and the message I wrote on it in gold marker made the 23rd, 24th, 45th, or I don’t know, 56th trail toward the clouds that day.
Though I didn’t say it in the message, I hope now that she’s gone—and though, I know that she would’ve finished the mural—she’ll be OK with me blaming some of my creativeness on her. Like my cherry blossom mural.
Shelly Cone hopes to one day finish what she starts, but probably not today— there are other projects waiting to begin. Contact her through the Sun’s executive editor, rmiller@newtimesslo.com.
This article appears in Jan 22-29, 2015.