Marilyn

"Marilyn" is an older essay that I actually got to read on our local NPR affiliate. Not as short as your typical blog entry but something I thought some of you might enjoy...DRW

Marilyn lived on the inside of my father's closet door throughout my childhood years. She wasn't real of course but a stunning color photograph of a nude Marilyn Monroe reclining on a lush bright red fabric backdrop. As if this wasn't enough, the 2 x 3 photograph was framed in a marvelously ornate gilded plaster frame, the kind you see in stuffy art museums. The photo and the frame competed for your attention. I don't remember a time in my Father's house when Marilyn wasn't around. The sheer size and weight of the picture created a loud crash whenever the closet door was opened. The sound of her banging against the door was distinctive and unmistakable. My brothers and I took pains to prevent it during the rare times we dared sneak a secret look at Marilyn's glorious pink and blonde nudity. Her semi-secret place in the closet seemed totally natural to me. It was analogous to the place of my missing blonde mother who had left when I was three. Her whereabouts were known but she had little contact with us and she was generally spoken of with somewhat hushed and, you know, sinful tones. To my child's mind, Marilyn was a symbol of all the mysterious and allusive qualities of women that you desire and love-their exquisite physical difference from men and their allure and apartness. She was proof that love and acceptance from them was trapped in a gilded frame, forever unattainable.

When I was a young teenager, my father remarried and moved. Marilyn came out of the closet and moved to his cellar workshop. I of course had much more than Marilyn to think about. I had a new mother who was actually there, a new collection of stepsiblings, a new neighborhood, and a new school. That time in 1966 marked the beginning of a procession of events that turned me into an adult - relationships, college, drinking problems, my own children, divorce, remarriage, new beginnings and finally, almost 20 years later, a relatively stable existence. Marilyn remained in the workshop gathering dust and the occasional snicker

In the summer of 2000, within a few days of his 75th birthday, my father was diagnosed with melanoma. Given 6 to 9 months to live, he barely survived 2. His passing placed me in an emotional place indescribable to the inexperienced, and to the experienced, no description is necessary. During the inevitable sorting of his things, I was told "take Marilyn as soon as you have a place for her". Marilyn had come to my father from his father so it made sense for her to come to me. The only problem was my strong feeling that I didn't want her. At first, I thought that maybe my reluctance was a form of denial about my Father's death but realized it was something else. I had lost the sense of Marilyn's mystery and had become a real grown-up - she now embarrassed me. She was extremely politically incorrect and in my way of thinking very, very, sad. I knew how she had been shamelessly exploited and victimized in her life and death and how she had 13 abortions before she was thirty. She had become a picture of all that was wrong with our culture and to me, a symbol of all the sad fantasies and misperceptions a little boy, now a grown man, had entertained about his lost mother. She just didn't fit in- not in my closet, not in my life. I took her anyway. That's what my Dad would have wanted.

It didn't take too long for me to figure out what to do with her. I called my friend Daniel who happens to own the Dreamaway Lodge. The lodge is a mythic Berkshire roadhouse tucked away in a remote section of our remote town that happens to be just minutes from my home. The Dreamaway would be perfect for Marilyn and Daniel, when he saw her, agreed. For years the Dreamaway has provided sustenance, more than a few stiff drinks, and a few nights worth of home for the occasional famous folk singer, beat poets, in-laws, outlaws, artists, dancers, and just plain working people. Long before it was fashionable, the Dreamaway welcomed rich and poor, old and young, black and white, gay and straight, the afflicted and the comforted, - you name it. The Lodge has always been a very hip destination. And like Marilyn hanging in my father's closet, the Lodge, tucked well out of the way of the casual observer, is filled with inviting secrets.

I understand that there is great controversy at the Dreamaway as to where Marilyn should be placed. There are advocates for a place of honor in the main dining room or the bar. Others would have her in a guestroom or one of the many funky hallways, nooks or crannies that fill the buildings. Any place should be fine as long as she can see the light of day and the neon glow of the evening.

I know my father would be pleased that she is finally getting the appreciation she deserves. And I, well, I am just as happy to let her and all my associated fantasies reside comfortably down the road. Far enough away for consolation yet close enough to measure just how far we all have come.