Diners, Drive-ins, & Dead Secrets
a sad jersey girl with depression and celiac
When I was a kid in the 90’s, my Pop-Pop would take me to Rexy’s Diner for dinner.
Every time, I’d get a pile of spaghetti in red sauce and a grapefruit-sized meatball in the middle, covered in parmesan and paired with a sprite.
The drive was only 1.5 miles down the Black Horse Pike, which butted up against our neighborhood, so we went often.
Pop-Pop was a 6’4 grizzly-bear who never cooked - so breakfast, lunch, and dinner was always out with his wife, my Grammy, aka the woman who adopted my mom. (For context, we (my mom, sister, me) lived in his mom’s attack apartment in Jersey since leaving the DV situation with my dad in Bucks County, PA ~April ‘93/94.)
Grammy and Pop-Pop didn’t live close, recently relocating from Voorhees, New Jersey to Phoenix, Arizona, because Grammy was done with the humidity.
At least twice a year, they drove for four days to return to Jersey and visit Grandma Russell, his mom, our house, and do “business.”
*Business =
Meet with other men dressed like Tony Soprano in diners, always bringing me home delicious cheese and fruit danishes.
Go to the Hershey trade show every Autumn, where he brought me back birthday chocolate in fun shapes like vanity items (hairbrush, blowdryer, hand mirror, etc).
Collect art and antiques, where he took me to talk shop with his friends.
Visit the frame shop, where I was introduced to every friendly face they knew.
Fill our basement with collectables, or as everyone else called it, trash. This is where i spent the most chaotic years of my life (8-14yo) exploring, dreaming, writing, playing, and hiding.
For some strange reason, these two characters favored me over my little sister and did not care if it showed or not (I’m not sure if it’s because my middle name is my grammy’s first name or what the obsession was).
it ALWAYS felt gross and as a child and forced me to take on an advocate and self-sacrificing role in my sister’s life which has festered beyond survivor’s guilt…
it was an obvious dynamic that others were aware of, too.
They would take me with them everywhere:
trade shows, antique shops, diners, their hotel pool (my sister came for these!), work, meetings, their frame shop, dinner, Disney (as preteens, Joannie and I had a blast!) you name it.
They treated me like a doll. Like their princess.
From my memory, David Russell aka “Pop-Pop” or “Big Dave” was an antique collector, a frame shop owner, a massive goofball, and a mama’s boy. He ducked when entering rooms, his presence was boisterous, laughter contagious, and he was truly larger than life from the inside out.
There’s many a photo of baby Loren sleeping on this outstretched snoozing giant’s lap, with his cat Sparky stretched across the top of the Lazyboy…
Fondly, my (great) Grandma Russell (pop-pop’s mom, whom we lived with) would sit at her writing desk, gazing out of her bay window at the Black Walnut tree over Newton lake, and swoon over how her son, my Pop-Pop, would carry me under his arm like a football everywhere he went.
As kids, my sister and I played “Parent-Trap” style pranks on him, and he was always fun and a good sport.
As an adult, I’ve spoken with his sister, whom I call Aunt Pat. She lived right next door to us growing up, and was a true guardian angel for me. Not sure I would be here without her.
(Trigger Warning: abuse)
In recent years, Aunt Pat has reluctantly told me chilling stories of the abuse her now deceased golden-child-brother put her through, and how it shaped her relationship with her parents, her self confidence / self worth, and life overall.
When I was no older than 8, I recall stories my mom told me of this same man, my “Pop-pop,” going on vacation with Grammy for days, leaving mom home alone to care and cook for her little brother. This “man” breaking her bones and sending her to the hospital when she was in high school. Broken ribs. Broken nose. Sick shit. And here he was, holding me under his wing “like a football,” parading me around Jersey Diners and Collectors Reunions, threatening to take me away from my mom (and dad who physically fought non-stop) like some sort of savior?
Who was this man?
As an older teen, i would go to diners with my friends after work or events. Ceremoniously, i’d reach for the warm creamers in the middle of the table, peel back the cover, and drink one.
Now, i’m lactose intolerant, so i’ve been torturing myself my entire life guzzling shooters of coffee creamer, but I just can’t help but realize that sitting in a diner booth, with the gross pleather sticking to my thighs and music at my fingertips, is the only time i’ve ever felt home.
now, he seems like a thing i wasn’t supposed to love. kind of like that creamer.
How does one reconcile with this?
(if this is screaming inappropriate or pattern, it’s because it is… Pop-Pop’s dad abused me, my sister, and Aunt Pat’s daughter. Pop-pop abused his sister, my mom, and I’m sure many others…)
I want to make it incredibly clear that I will always make space for others to share their stories.
For too long I’ve known “strong women” of the family to hold the secrets of dangerous men, and normalize their behaviors, as their parents did before them.
this cycle needs to stop.
people need to be held accountable for the way they treat other humans.
If you’d like to break the chain of secrets, and tell your story, you can do so anonymously here.
xo Lo
(a photo of my grammy at Silver Diner in Cherry Hill NJ ~2014. on this night, she offered me cash to stop all communication with my sister, who i had been working to help get clean for years. obviously, i refused the money and this was the last time i chose to speak with her. she died Aug 2020, shortly after Pop-Pop passed. my sister and mom memorialize her to this day. none of us speak to this day.)