The Brook Would Have No Music

She's Got Legs III

2011-11-03T11:55:00.000-07:00

Afternoon melts into evening as I sit and wait and worry. I hear everyone come home at various times, talking and moving about downstairs, totally unaware of my misery upstairs alone in my room. Unaware of my existence.

"Dinner is ready!", I hear announced from the dining room. Do I go down without being told to? Maybe it was said so loudly for my benefit, or maybe it was said loudly because whoever the announcer was noticed I wasn't there and had no idea I was upstairs in the middle of punishment. What do I do? I walk ever so lightly down each step so as not to be heard and therefor able to change my mind and run back up at any moment. I silently enter the dining room and Dad looks up, "You don't eat with the rest of us. Go to your room and you will be called if there is anything left," he says very slowly and deliberately. "Yes", is my only reply as I return to my room, glad for his decision. Dinner would have been tense and unbearable with snide comments rushing at me with each bite of food that I had to choke down anyway. Anxiety always makes eating difficult.

After about an hour I'm called down to eat at the empty table and I choke down what's on my plate. Then I quietly clear my dishes, return to my room and continue the agonizing wait.

Darkness slowly envelopes my room and my eyes adjust. As my head hangs down, eyes to the floor, the dark gets a bit darker and my heart jumps as I realize Dad's frame has filled my doorway casting a large shadow in front of me. "Go to my room and get the broomstick, Puke," is snarled at me. I run to his room and look frantically for what's been ordered, not knowing what this could mean and not really even thinking about it because at this moment all I want is to find it quickly before he has to come and do it for me. Aha! There it is resting against the corner by Mom's sewing machine. I snatch it up and run back with my arm proudly outstretched to hand it to him--I found it, yayy, isn't that great?

"Pull your pants down and bend over, " I'm ordered and I am instantly mortified. Pull my pants down??? Is this really happening? Dad doesn't spank--he punches, slaps, kicks, anything but a spanking and honestly I'd rather the latter over the humiliation of pulling down my pants. Full of embarrassment, I unfasten my jeans and let them drop toward the floor then lay the top half of my body atop my bed as I've been instructed through angry gestures.

I immediately understand why I was ordered to bend over onto the bed as the force of all of Dad's strength brings the broomstick, baseball bat style, to a screeching halt at the back of my thighs. Had I not had the bed under me, the force of the hit would have sent me across the room. Pain sears from the point of impact, both legs mid-thigh, and radiates up and down my legs. Dad continues his batting practice on my legs, swinging with all of his might, until his might tires. I grip the bedclothes and try to be tough through the pain because if any sound is emitted I know the punishment will intensify. Fortunately he's not making me count this time because I know my voice would never allow it. The hits range from just above the backs of my knees to the bottom of my bottom.

Then, just like that, it stops and he walks away. I can tell from the heaviness of his breath that he has only stopped from pure exhaustion. I remain in position for what seems like an eternity, questioning myself as to whether I should move without having been given permission to do so. I finally decide, after hearing him descend the stairs, that it's safe to move. I stand upright, ever so gingerly, and wince from the pain of my jeans touching the tenderized skin on the backs of my legs as I pull my jeans back on.

I stand in place, not daring to move in any way lest the jeans touch against my skin again. I stand there in the darkness as my family members prepare for and go to bed, one by one. When all the lights have been turned off and there is no noise for what I deem to be long enough to move, I undress, very carefully, and put on my long nightgown. Even it causes me to flinch as it breezes against my skin. I lay on my stomach on top of my blanket and try to sleep. Eventually I succeed only to awaken again and again as I move, forgetting the pain in my sleep. Morning finally comes and as I lay wondering if I will be allowed to go to school, Dad enters my room. I jump, through the pain, to attention and am told to get ready for school. And so I do...

This is one of the rocks that creates some of my brook's best music. I like this one right where it is.

Jen ;-)

She's Got Legs: II

2011-09-12T15:14:00.000-07:00

I roam uneasily from room to room, sit for a few seconds on the edge of anything resembling a seat, then stand again, wring my hands, fight back the urge to puke, and walk to another room. I go over and over in my head what I will say even though I know Ill never get the chance. Even if I did, my fear would make me foget my lines anyway. So I sit, stand, sit, walk, go to the kitchen and think about eating something as I stare blankly into the fridge and cabinets. Deciding on a spoonful of peanut butter, I remove a spoon from the drawer and get down the Jif, but as soon as I unscrew the lid the aroma hits my nose and travels to the pit of my bile-filled stomach. The acid that has been multiplying in there makes its way to my throat and I run for the bathroom. As I vomit, I plead for God to make it all stop. And stop it does, as I freeze to the sound of the outer front door rattling closed. I come-to and quickly wipe my face from tears and regurgitated stomach acid and bolt back to the kitchen to return the spoon and peanut butter to their proper places. My throat burns from the bile recently forced through it, but the sound of the heavy inner front door locking into place replaces the pain with a lump of pure terror. I simply stand frozen in the kitchen, my thoughts taking over. What do I say? Where do I go? Do I dare to move?

I hear his heavy footseps lumber up the stairs. With each step my body relaxes a little more. Oxygen slowly escapes my lungs where it's been held captive. Maybe he doesn't know I'm home. Maybe Mom answered the call and covered for me. Maybe Mrs. Gregaydis just said she called to scare me. Maybe..."JENNIFER!!!!!!"

Maybe not, I surrender as I rocket up the stairs to the master bedroom.

"Yes?", I ask with the glimmer of hope that one of my earlier maybes will hold true, but knowing inside that the maybe not would end up winning out.

"Why did I get a call from your teacher today?" he asks in his own special cynical way. Now here's the kicker with this particular question; it has previously been used to trick my brothers and me into false admissions when, in fact, no call was ever actually received. Is it a trick? Is it worth the gamble that I am caught lying by saying I have no idea why Mrs. Gregaydis would call? School is fantastic, in fact? Do I feel lucky? Well, do I, Punk? I decide that no, it is not worth the risk--chances are too good that he already knows.

"I didn't do my homework?" I half tell, half ask the half truth with which I choose to answer. I left off the "for the past couple of months" part, but I can see from the immediate tightening of his lips that he already knows this. Or they could be the result of incorrectly chosen words or tone. Not only does each word I utter need to be precisely chosen, but its tone must also be perfect--an equal balance of strength, respect, and submission, spoken at the perfect volume to be heard loudly and clearly, but without giving any air of anger or sarcasm. Improperly spoken words can prove to be very painful. I didn't choose carefully enough. I see his hand move and I try to brace myself but I'm not quick enough--I blink and every molecule of air is forced from my lungs, upward and out of my mouth by a fist the size of my entire 9-year-old abdomen. I'm left with an exploding feeling in my chest, throat and head.

"Do you think you're too good to do homework, Puke?"

Having no air in my lungs renders me unable to utter a word. I open my mouth and I try but nothing will come out. My right cheek burns from an angry open-handed whack. "Don't play games. Answer me, Puke."

"No" finally crackles from my lungs that are refilling entirely too slowly. The hatred that I'm feeling for him at this particular moment must be radiating through my expression because his expression changes almost to one of disbelief.

"What are you looking at?", he seethes.

I'm a bit caught off guard because I'm not understanding the question. "I'm looking at you because you're speaking to me", I try to sound meek and timid though inside I feel like a rudely awakened bear.

"Wipe that look off your face", he says in disgust. I try to soften my expression by widening my eyes and it seems to work. "Get out of my sight you disgusting puke". I'm happy to oblige and back quickly through the door then scurry to the sanctuary of my room where I sit on the edge of my bed waiting to be called again. I know, of course, it's not over.

She's Got Legs

2011-09-11T21:45:00.000-07:00

I am reposting the following post because I am finally ready to move on with my story--I'll post the continuations in the next few days...Thanks for reading about the rocks that make my life's music ;-) Jen

SUNDAY, MARCH 7, 2010

She's Got Legs

Mrs. Gregaydis, however, disagrees. She lets my laissez-faire attitude go for quite a while because, really, my grades are not suffering--I'm still getting perfect grades on all of my tests even though I haven't done any homework in months because, like I said, I've learned this material a million times before. But she can no longer stand my lack of work and poor attitude--don't get me wrong, I'm never rude or disrespectful, just disillusioned and maybe a bit sad. After all, school has always been my escape and now that's been taken from me.

She makes the phone call home. Again. Damn her. At least this time she waits until it's time to go home to tell me, so I don't have to stew in in all day. How kind of her.

I pray that Mom answered the phone because usually Mom will keep things from Dad if she knows the information would be detrimental to us. She's one of us in my mind. One of the victims. One of the weak ones. It's Dad against the rest of us.

My walk home fills me with stomach knots and a throat hardened with stifled tears. Each step feels as though someone has strapped 10lb. weights to my scrawny legs. As I near the corner where I can see the front of my house, I see that there is no car parked in front! No car = no Dad = no punishment! For now. I'll take it!

The weights are lifted from my ankles and my stomach knots loosen a bit (they never really disappear. Never). I get to the front porch, constantly looking back, expecting to see Dad pulling up in the car behind me. If he does pull up, what do I do? What do I say? The knots begin to retighten until I get into the sanctity of the empty house. The big, empty house is heaven with only Thor, our Great Dane, to greet me. How I wish he was one of those protective dogs like I've seen in movies and on tv. But he's afraid like the rest of us. He's been beaten down by Dad one too many times. He, too, is one of the weak, subservient, subjects of Master Dad. Sorry Thor and thanks for the hug--I really need it right now.I

Thor, you are one of those strong currents that make beautiful music as it passes by my big rocks. I can still feel the strength and warmth of your neck beneath my hugs.

Jen ;-)

My New Old Life

2010-09-05T14:43:00.000-07:00

Before I continue on with my childhood stories I thought maybe I owe an explanation to my followers as to where I've been for the past 4 or so months.

Whenever asked, as a child, what I wanted to be when I grew up, my answer was a very honest and passionate, "to be a mother." I never considered the husband part (obviously for those of you who know me well :-)). I just wanted to keep having children to provide me with the unconditional love that was absent in my life as a child. I never understood why the Old Woman Who Lived in the Shoe was so miserable--when I recited this rhyme to my own children she "kissed" them all soundly instead of beating them. Bitch.

Wellllll....I did become a mother--I actually got married first. The first time. Then divorced when my precious Alexandra was 9 months old--husband #1 was looking for a trophy wife and I just wanted babies. I didn't care about travel, vacations, or any other such marraige-type things--just babies. Him, not so much. So, here I was alone with a baby at 20 years old. Still wanting a husband to make tons of babies with--you'd think that would be an easy thing to find, huh. Not so much, really. Just the baby making part, not the marrying and/or staying part.

I had two more babies. No marriage either time. In fact, the fellas scattered like cockroaches upon the good news. But I didn't care. I had my babies. My unconditional love.

But I began to get lonely for adult interaction--I had my babies and ran a daycare out of my home. All the unconditional love one could ask for. But the song "Desperado" (Eagles) hit some definite nerves. Damn it, yes, my feet got cold in the winter-time, I was losing all my highs and lows and it WAS funny how the feeling (goes) away.

So I prayed. And prayed and prayed and prayed. And God sent me Mike. He was handsome, loving, romantic, and best of all, when I got pregnant, he stayed! And wanted to get married. He wasn't interested in any more children but I let him slide on that one. I tried to warn him when he asked me to marry him that I was crazy. That I didn't do well with others. That I was very used to being in charge of me and my children. He said we would be happy together forever and I conceded.

Fast forward 4 years. I knew I couldn't do it. I was just made to be alone. Mike is a good man but we are too different. He was angry, pessimistic, and full of rage. I suggested we move to a small town far away where people are kind and there is little crime and that would make him happy and we would be okay.

Ummmm...not so much. Now instead of angry people and high crime rates, we have unpaid debt and not enough income to feed our children--anger, rage, pessimism go nowhere. He did try to hide them around me but the tension level in our home was unbearable for everyone.

My Alex was still in Florida and now having children of her own who I could not visit due to lack of funds, I hadn't made any friends outside of work in the three years I spent in NC, and Mike and I were miserable together. I prayed to God, asking for a sign--I said, "God, if I'm supposed to go back to Florida, please give me a sign." As I said it I was near a patch of 4 leaf clovers so I added, "let me find a 4 leaf clover." I was at work, went inside to the classroom and was sitting at the computer, depressed because I didn't find the clover. Toni (the teacher in our room), walked over to me and handed me a huge four leaf clover. I closed my eyes and said, "but God, did I really find it?"

I agonized over the meaning of Toni's clover all night. The next morning at school, I asked my co-workers what they thought, and being women, they couldn't agree so I decided that Toni's clover was not my sign. I went for a walk with my sweet Jared (one of our students) who has no ability to communicate. He's 8 years old and generally is led everywhere in his life so when we went on our daily walks, I would just let him go wherever he pleased and i would follow. On this particular day, he slid his hand into mine and led me to a patch of clover where he stopped and sat down. So I sat with him and began to look for my sign. I immediately saw my 4 leaf clover, but I questioned God again, "Is it really a clover God because the leaves are rounded instead of heart-shaped? Is this really my sign?"

Jared again took my hand and walked a bit further until stopping yet again. This time I looked down and right at our feet was a 5 leaf clover with perfectly heart-shaped leaves. I looked up at Jared who was standing above me as I picked the clover and he beamed. I stood up and asked him if he was one of God's angels and he smiled the most beautiful smile and held my hand tightly for the rest of the walk.

Over the next week or so I was inundated with 4 leaf clovers. My co-workers found them and gave them to me, my children found them and I even found a couple more. I have them all neatly pressed in the back of my bible which I try to read each night before going to sleep or each morning before starting my day. Please don't think I'm a bible-thumper--far from it. I was just raised with very little religious training so I'm trying to figure it all out on my own--it's not easy.

So I'm back in Florida. Life has returned to my smile. I see my friends and my granddaughter whenever I like. I make enough money to pay my bills again. Life is damn good. When I moved into my new home--on 10 acres with a horse barn that I will someday fill, I lifted my bible out of the bag where I had been keeping it, and all the clovers fell from the back of it onto my bedroom floor.

I'm home.

Jen ;)

She's Got Legs

2010-03-07T18:12:00.000-08:00

A few months have passed since my first real punishment. I'm still in the fourth grade physically, but I haven't really been there since I became aware of the terrible injustices that exist for me. Dad can pull me out any time he pleases, teachers cannot be trusted, and the other kids cannot relate to me nor I to them. I have come to despise all that school is--bullies, cliques, know-it-all teachers who really don't know the half of it, and going over and over the same material I've already learned a million times. School is stupid and I will no longer be a part of it.

Mrs. Gregaydis, however, disagrees. She lets my laissez-faire attitude go for quite a while because, really, my grades are not suffering--I'm still getting perfect grades on all of my tests even though I haven't done any homework in months because, like I said, I've learned this material a million times before. But she can no longer stand my lack of work and poor attitude--don't get me wrong, I'm never rude or disrespectful, just disillusioned and maybe a bit sad. After all, school has always been my escape and now that's been taken from me.

She makes the phone call home. Again. Damn her. At least this time she waits until it's time to go home to tell me, so I don't have to stew in in all day. How kind of her.

I pray that Mom answered the phone because usually Mom will keep things from Dad if she knows the information would be detrimental to us. She's one of us in my mind. One of the victims. One of the weak ones. It's Dad against the rest of us.

My walk home fills me with stomach knots and a throat hardened with stifled tears. Each step feels as though someone has strapped 10lb. weights to my scrawny legs. As I near the corner where I can see the front of my house, I see that there is no car parked in front! No car = no Dad = no punishment! For now. I'll take it!

Thor, you are one of those strong currents that make beautiful music as it passes by my big rocks. I can still feel the strength and warmth of your neck beneath my hugs.

Jen ;-)

I'm A Yia Yia (Grandma)!!!

2010-02-28T18:17:00.000-08:00

I would like to offer a sincere apology for the long hiatus in posts. I got the call early last Wednesday morning from my son-in-law that my Alex was in labor--I could hear her in the background saying "ow, ow, ow, ow" in a sort of panicky voice--yup, this was it.

Two and a half hours later the phone rang again to say that she was at 8cm. already--this time her panic-stricken voice was a bit louder and she could be heard summonning the help of God (she chose 'natural' childbirth (no epidural)). Of course I was still awake from the previous call. Still checking flights on the computer and thinking of my options to get 700 miles away as quickly as possible on the $150. I had in my bank account (wait, that was my husband's bank account and I couldn't use his money (he's not a very giving fella), so I figured I would find a payday advance place. When daylight came I would find a way to get the money and drive the 10 hours. I knew she would be delivering soon so I told her husband to call me at work and I would leave as soon as she delivered.

I got to work, told them I was leaving and began to look for a pay advance store. Guess what? There's no such thing in the mountains of NC. So my Toni was going to get a short term loan from her bank for me. Really. She struggles, often, to feed her children and was willing to lend me the money. But not my own husband. My eyes were opened very wide that day.

Now here's the kicker. My daughter's school bus driver was dropping off one of our students and I asked her if she, perhaps, knew of any pay advance places in any nearby towns as I didn't want to take the money from Toni. She tells me she has cash in her purse that she was holding on to to pay a bill at the end of the month and wanted me to have it. She said God spoke to her. She cried. I have never been so moved by such giving people. So now, there are two people, neither of whom are my husband, willing to help me get to Florida to be with my daughter and new granddaughter. Maybe it's because they are both mothers and understand. Maybe God speaks to them but not my husband. What have I married? The disappointment grows in me every day. Every time I look at him.

At any rate, my son in law called me at 8:30 to say that Alex delivered baby Maria just minutes earlier at 6lbs.3oz. and 19 1/2 in. long. I was on the road within an hour and got to Florida by 8pm to hold that perfect little baby. I'm in love. I stayed with them all week and just stared at this tiny miracle sent from heaven. And at the miracle that came to me from heaven 21 years ago. My God I love her with every ounce of my being.

Sunday was Alex's birthday. I was still in the fog of happiness and went down to the tourist shops (she lives in a condo on Clearwater Beach) to find her just the perfect gift. And there it was, a perfectly dainty silver necklace--its pendant, a turtle hatching out of a shell. She's always had a thing for turtles. It was only $10 too--bonus! Well when my husband heard about it, he got his undies in a wad because guess what I used to pay for it? The Visa attached to his account. How dare I use his money to buy her anything when I shouldn't have bought her anything at all since she's wealthy and has everything she could ever want? Yes, he said that--almost verbatim. Now my disappointment is turning to raw hatred.

Again, what have I married?

I apologize for the rambling. This was supposed to be dedicated to my sweet little baby Maria. Any words of advice on how to get past the idiocy and infancy of my husband? I know you love him Gare, but really, he's an ass hole. See? Even baby Maria thinks so...

Gus, Alex and Baby Maria are all wonderful, healthy, and happy! I can't wait to see them again as soon as school lets out. Or maybe sooner...

Because do I really need more rocks in my brook? I think the music is just right as it is.

Jen ;-)

My First Valentine

2010-02-14T19:44:00.000-08:00

On this Valentine's Day, I'd like to tell you about my first Valentine. I believe in doing so I will offer some insight into my forgiving nature where my father is concerned.

I actually can't tell you when I received my first Valentine because I can never remember not getting one--a card, and/or some chocolate or flowers, a funny note... Dad was just as thoughtful in his good deeds as in his bad--with me anyway. He always put a lot of thought into making me feel special on special days, be it Valentine's Day, birthdays (except the one that he made me skip ;-)), Christmas and Hannukah since we celebrated both, any occassion that he thought I should feel special, he would make sure I felt special.

My first Godiva chocolates were given to me by Dad and whatever the gift, it came along with a note usually saying "Be Mine" with one of his many pet names for me (Kymus, Tilla, Aradomie, Fraymus, the list goes on and on) the signed "Love, Dad" or one of the pet names he had for himself like McFith (don't ask). At any rate, it was real and it was kind and it made me feel special.

But it wasn't only on special days that Dad made me feel special--he was the only person in my life who showed me affection (okay, so they were very tight bear hugs that took my breath away, but they were hugs just the same and I felt love behind them even if the words were never spoken), without me forcing it upon them. I loved bed-time because I could force Mom, Dory, Gary, and Dave to hug me, but Dad did it quite often totally on his own.

Just he and I would go for all day walks to get ice cream and while we walked we would talk and he would listen to me and ask me about school and my friends and my future.

When I began to play the flute in 5th grade, he would ask me to "serenade" him. Imagine a beginning floutist (much like a beginning violinist). I know I sounded awful but he would ask me to play song after song for him and close his eyes as if it were the most beautiful music he'd ever heard. I got so good so quickly because of this, I was first flute when I entered middle school--beating out girls who'd been playing years longer than me. Every new thing I tried, he encouraged me. I still don't know if it was because he looked at me differently or because he realized the awful mistakes he'd made with my older siblings in forcing everything on them with punishments and belittling rather than encouragement.

As I said in an earlier post, Dad rarely held down a job so Mom worked long hours as a waitress. Late at night when she would call for a ride home (she never drove) he would always take me with him and we would sing together along with the oldies station in the car and he would tell me stupid jokes and sayings from when he was young like, "what a face, what a figure, two more legs and you'd look like Trigger" (Roy Rogers' horse), and he'd tell me to say "under the sheets" after every song title and we would laugh at how it changed the whole meaning of the songs. He'd sing "Mrs. Brown you've got a lovely daughter", "Henry the 8th", "Raggmopp" and "101 pounds of fun". He'd point out the advice in songs like "if you want to be happy for the rest of your life, never make a pretty woman your wife" (not really sure here if he wanted me to remain ugly or be a lesbian, but I listened intently at his words of wisdom. I think he was talking about his own life, really.

Also on these drives he would let me shift the gears as he drove and he'd always have to stop at a convenience store for some item or another and bring me out a "prize", usually marshmallow snowballs or some other such yummy thing. I did love that time together. And I did love Dad. Here's a poem I wrote many years ago, shortly after his death that may put it into perspective a bit:

Tilla Fray, Kymus Arodomie.
These are the names
When you were happy
You used for me.
When you were happy
There was nowhere in the world
I'd rather have been
Than with you Dad.
I reminisce--
About our walks,
Our talks,
Your bear hugs,
The way you made me feel loved.
I miss you Dad.
I miss the fun we had.
And I understand the bad,
Was meant for good.

Once I got to the point where I was no longer afraid of him--and he knew it--I could say absolutely anything to him. I would argue for hours with him trying to convince him to get a job. After hours of banter, he would finally cave and tell me that he would look "tomorrow." Tomorrow never came as far as the job hunt, but it was still a victory for me. Those sessions, where I learned to choose each word ever so wisely, taught me how to convince just about anyone just about anything. A very good skill to have in one's arsenal. It also taught me how to sooth the most savage of beasts. In my last job, I had a boss who was infamous for his ill treatment of workers. By the time I left that job, he would call me to his office (or those below him but above me would do so), just to talk him into a good mood. And I would. Every time. I became a master because of Dad.

I know that Dad was very mean, very often. I also know he was mentally ill. And I know that he was a man who knew right from wrong and chose wrong much too often. But I forgive him. And I thank him for his part in making me who I am--my brook has a much more beautiful melody for all of the rocks he put into it. I only wish Dory, Gary and Dave had happy memories of him too because it's the happy memories that help to wear away the edges on the more jagged rocks. Still some damn fine music though!

Jen ;-)

Let The Good Times Roll

2010-02-13T13:34:00.000-08:00

Punishment is over, I've survived, wiser and stronger. In the words of Rick Ocasek, "let the good times roll." Even the "good times" though, were often uncertain and quite confusing for the nine year old child that I was.

Take for instance, Dad's toys. He loved his toys: staple gun, knives, hammers, blow torch, you get the picture. Most men do love toys/tools. But not like Dad. As he aquired them, he loved to test them out on the easiest prey. Usually me, of course.

First there was the staple gun. Whenever I wore my hair in braids, he would wait for an audience (generally my siblings), then stand me on my tippie toes against the wall, extend my 2 braids (I learned not to wear my hair in braids after several sessions of this) toward the ceiling as high as they would go and use his cool staple gun to staple them in place. This was all done with a nice big smile on his face but with the underlying threat of compliance. And there I would stand, in front of my audience who laughed heartily partly because it wasn't them, partly because it did look funny, and mostly because Dad would be angry if they didn't. I don't remember how long I would stay there up high on my toes--probably until Dad left the room because the amusement wore off, but I would eventually gently remove the industrial strength staples from my hair and the wall, take my seat at the dining room table and work on some homework or reading or other thing that would be pleasing to Dad should he walk in and find that I was no longer attached to the wall without being given permission to do so. "Games" were always difficult because I never knew where my boundaries lay as far as resisting or setting myself free.

Setting myself free was something that had to be done with his hammer and nail game as well. The one instance I vividly recall Mom becoming angry with him was after one of these great games. This particular day I happened to be wearing new clothes (a rarity for me) when he layed my on the floor and drove nails through my pants and shirt, into the hardwood floor, pinning me there like a chalk outline. Mom got mad on this occassion, though, not because he was torturing her 9 year old daughter, but because he put holes in my new clothes. Really Mom? He beats your children to a pulp and it's this you choose to be angry about? Go figure. I guess she chose her battles after the whole splitting open of Dave's head after she thought her words or anger could stop a beating. I'm actually quite suprised that he didn't immediately go upstairs and drive holes through every piece of clothing I owned. Just to make a point. But he didn't and my clothes and I survived to play another day. Lucky us!

Rarely holding down a job, Dad had many hours alone while we were at school and Mom was at work to think up fun new games. The family favorite for everyone in the family except me, was the never-fail, crowd-pleasing "You Light Up My Life," which was a popular song at the time. In fact, I bet if any of my siblings are reading this now, they are already snickering a bit, just remembering the hilarity of it. Dad lights his blow torch, corners me with the flame an inch or so from my face so I can feel its intense heat, and orders me to sing, "You Light Up My Life," which I do in my small, crackly voice and the crowd erupts in laughter. You know how you hear that kids are resilient? I'm here to tell you that's a bunch of crap. To this day I cannot and will not repeat something someone tells me to, nor will I sing in front of anyone. Makes learning new languages difficult (that's why I use Rosetta Stone, so no one can hear me repeating, then laugh when I sound silly). I guess I'll always have a few issues, even after years of therapy...

Now I don't want you to think that only I got to play Dad's fun games. Sometimes it was a family fun time (by family I mean the children and by children I mean Gary, Dave, and I because Dory rarely got to play with us, poor girl), like being tied up with ropes and left for hours sometimes to free ourselves.

Then there were the cultural games like Gestapo, which I told you about in an earlier post, and Russian Roulette. If you are unaware of Russian Roulette, it is generally played by 2 or more people, sitting in a circle using a gun with only one round in it and one by one the players pull the trigger that is pointed at their temple until the "loser" finally gets the round in his skull. Our version, luckily, did not involve guns but slaps or punches. I'm sketchy on the details, maybe Gary or Dave could help me out here, I just remember playing it and hating it.

The last game I will relay to you is one that was actually palatable. It was the clothespin game and it was played whenever we had company (along with the 'dead game' in which all the children tried to be 'dead' for the longest). It was basically a contest to see who could attach the most clothespins to his or her body--like most games, Dave usually won this one. So that's our family fun time in a nutshell, because nuts is what we all were/are!

These 'games' make up some of my most rockin' music in my brook and are responsible for a great deal of who I am and what I can handle "in fun." No one will ever call me a stick in the mud--I know how to have fun damn it! I'm having fun doing the backstroke down my brook, listening to some wonderful tunes. Let the good times roll...

Jen ;-)

TKO, But Damn It, I'm Still Standing

2010-02-05T11:50:00.000-08:00

I'm yanked from the deep slumber that comes from pure exhaustion by a sharp pain on the top of my scalp and a feeling that there is someone above me trying to remove my head from my neck. Dad is waking me via hair. Like the drunk desperately trying to prove to the cop that he is sober, I try to awaken and focus.

"Did I give you permission to go to bed Puke?" is being forced through gritted teeth an inch or so from my face, which he is holding in place with his fingers woven through my long, stringy hair. I am his marionette--he pulls my strings and my limp body moves to his direction. Welcome, Jenny, to round three.

As it turns out, round three isn't so bad--a bit of name calling, some slaps across the face, some punches to the gut and a few knocks to the floor--nothing too intense. The fact that I've been in a deep sleep makes it all kind of dream-like (I have what I consider to be a gift in the deepness of my slumber--I can have a full conversation, eyes open, with someone who wakes me, and not remember a word of it after I go back to sleep and awake again--it has been very helpful in instances such as the aforementioned "round three").

"Go to sleep, you worthless piece of shit," then he leaves my room and I do just that. In the silence that is left I am Daffy Duck re-attaching my beak that has fallen to the floor, and moving on. The adrenaline crash returns me to my deep, deep slumber.

I wake to the sound of music from my alarm clock and begin to dress for school. Whew, respite from punishment. I do believe that Dad has been waiting for this moment all night, he knows exactly what I'm thinking. "JENNIFER!!!" jerks me out of my skin and I sprint to his room and, again, assume position of attention.

"Where do you thing you're going, Rat-Liar?" (The double names were always the best--he must've thought extra hard to come up with that one).

"To school?" I ask, beginning to wonder if my days are confused and it's actually Saturday, not Friday.

"You don't deserve to go to school because you're a rat and a liar. Go to your room, Rat-liar."

"Yes." I return to my room and sit deflated on my bed. I didn't see that coming at all--I didn't know he could do that but, of course he could, he could do anything he wanted. He took away my birthday once (told me I would have to be 5 for another year) and he can do this too. He's the father and it's the 1970's. I wait until I hear Dad go down the stairs, then I let loose the tears. I watch Dory, Gary, and Dave pass by my room on their way down the hall and glance in at me with pity in their eyes. It makes the punishment and the fact that I will spend the rest of my life inside this huge gray coffin, somehow palatable that my siblings may actually care about me.

The loneliness of my childhood forced me to rely pretty much solely on God for help. He was the only one who listened and cared (He had no choice, really, he was the only one who couldn't or wouldn't walk away from or hit me for my words). So all of the long, lonely hours in my room were spent asking God for help and making promises about my future behavior if that help was received.

So goes the weekend. I sit on or lay atop my bed praying and waiting to hear my name. I respond to endure some form of physical punishment and listen to what a rat, liar, puke I am. I am allowed after a day or two to join the family for mealtimes at the table but may not speak unless spoken to and the only time that happens is when Dad is hurling insults at me.

I begin to accept the fact that this will be the rest of my life when Sunday night rolls around and I respond to the usual holler of "Jennifer." To my sheer suprise he askes me if I have learned my lesson. "Yes," I respond with a stomach full of butterflies. Could this mean what I think it means?

"Why should I believe you? You're a liar and a rat."

"Because I know now not to be a liar and a rat."

"Prove it."

Here's my chance. "If you let me go back to school, it will never happen again," kinda sounds like my plea to God.

"Again, why should I believe you? All you've proven to me is that you're a liar."
This is my last chance. I need to make it good. Lay it on thick. "You have taught me that it's wrong to lie and it's wrong to get people in trouble and it will never happen again. Please let me prove it to you by letting me go back to school." And I really mean every word of it.

I see his face soften, "Alright, I'm going to believe you this time. I better never get a call from your school again. Do you understand?"

Do I understand??? Yes, yes, a million times yes! Could it really be over? "Yes," I practically shout at him.

"Go take a shower, you stink."

I am thrilled to oblige and so I shower, go to bed and return to school on Monday morning. I've survived my first real punishment. Yay for me in the tone of Willie Wonka telling the bratty children not to do something that will hurt them.

Of course I didn't win, I never did with Dad. It's a TKO but at least I'm still standing. The weekend as a whole, is a rock that adds quite a bit of music to my brook. I think I'll leave it right where it is and enjoy its guitar solo with a bit of oboe added for good measure. What is pain? Oh yeah, that's right, it's weakness leaving the body!

Jen ;-)

Ding Ding! Round Two

2010-01-10T17:01:00.000-08:00

"Jehhhhhhh-nifer!" hurtling down the hall, bouncing from wall to wall around the corner, and through my bedroom door, jerks me from my thoughts. And so round two begins.

I snap to my feet, a bit disoriented and nervous about reaching the location of the yell quickly enough not to warrant greater ire from its source. If a second yell is warranted I know how it will increase the punishment's severity. As I rush past my bedroom door I see that the light is on in Mom and Dad's room. I swallow my stomach back down to where it belongs and quickly make my way into the only other lighted room upstairs to find Dad waiting for me, belt in hand.

He holds the belt, folded in half, an end in each hand, then pushes his hands slowly toward one another and quickly jerks them back apart causing a loud snap as the two halves of belt reconnect. My body shuts down for a split second then stiffens to attention. "Shut the door" he spats at me with pure disgust. I do, then return to position of attention.

I am ordered to tell him, again, the offense committed. I keep my voice loud and steady because I know he likes strength, and relay each horrible detail, making me feel disgusted with my own self. He asks if I deserve to be punished for this. "Yes", of course I think, as if there was any other answer anyway. But I hold a secret hope that I already had been. I know (maybe from the snapping of the belt or maybe from the leading questions) he has a plan for punishment all thought out regardless of my answer or anything I could possibly say. All I can do with words now is make it worse, so I pray for "right" answers.

"What do you think your punishment should be?" is the next question. Hmmmmmm...do I really have a say--a choice? Should I suggest our earlier meeting count as punishment? Should I suggest a grounding? Definitely nothing that has to do with that belt he's snapping at me... But as I just said, all I can do now is make it worse with words. "I don't know" is all I can force from my dry, shaking mouth. "No, of course you don't know. You're a moron who can't think for yourself. You're a follower. Hold out your hands. Twenty on each side. If you move or I can't hear you, I will start over. Do you understand, Moron?" "Yes", I choke out as I extend both arms forward, palm facing the ceiling--I knew this drill. Dad loved punishments that hurt like hell but left no marks so this one was one of his favorites.

"Whap!" The pain startles me. I don't remember it hurting this badly, though I'm sure it did. I forget that I'm supposed to be counting--sensation overload. "Okay, we'll try it again, " Dad oozes with sarcasm. So another first try: "whap!" "One" I amost shout jumping ever so slightly. I can do this. Mind over matter. By ten, however, my voice shrinks and begins to shake and I'm using my body and all mind control I have left to force my arm to remain forward as it seems to have developed a survivalistic mind of its own. As my elbow jabs into my stomach my stomach pushes it back forward--all body parts seem to have cried "every man for himself!"--if stomach can keep arm outstreched it won't get punched, if face doesn't cry it won't get slapped, if legs fight the jello-ey feeling in them and continue holding up the body, they won't be kicked...

Unfortunately, elbow beats stomach at about count 14 and the belt slips to the side of my hand. "You want to play games, Puke? We'll start over." Whap-ow! "One" I shrivel.

By my right hand's count of 20, I'm actually looking forward to left hand's turn both to take the pain from where I can stand it no more and to get this whole mess over with. And actually, the left hand is usually a bit easier--body and mind have about gone numb by this point and Dad's resolve has begun to weaken along with his strength if this is possible. Or maybe I'm just used to it now. Finally, "twenty", the relief of the end has given me my voice back.

"Get out of my sight, Puke", Dad snarls. "Yes" is my only answer as I turn and try not to run back to my sanctuary.

By now it's bedtime so I put on pajamas and wait for the sound of his heavy steps going down the stairs. I don't dare turn on any lights. I walk softly down the hall to the bathroom then return to the dark sadness of my own room. I lay atop the covers as I havent' been instructed to go to sleep yet. I wait. Will round three be tonight? Will there be a round three or could it be that Dad had just given me all of my punishment? No, I know better and wait for round three. I'm so exhausted but desperately try not to allow myself sleep yet lest I should anger the beast even more.

I survived round two. This rock is kind of small and insignificant--like an oboe player during a Bon Jovi song. I think I'll take it out of my brook and place it on Dad's headstone--I have plenty of music without it. Whattaya think, Gare?

Round One

2010-01-06T18:03:00.000-08:00

The questioning began very controlled: "yes/no" questions to which he knew the answers. Each answer was followed by a hard, angrier-than-I'd-ever-felt-before, slap across the right side of my still small face (he was left handed so that was the hand used especially for horrific crimes such as mine). At some point during the question and answer period he lost control. I don't recall exactly why (I probably tried to expound or defend one of my supposed-to-be yes/no answers) but at this point I became air-born and was told all of my horrible inequities. I was a liar, a follower, a puke, a punk, a rat...the list grew with each toss of my body. He would grab a large handful of hair (pretty much all of it) in his baseball mitt hand, lift me off the floor, then throw me back down onto it with a force that caused as much shock as pain. Each time my rag doll body hit the floor I'd scramble to my feet as he'd growl, "get up."

Between flings he'd knock the wind out of me with a punch always placed in the precise spot to do so, then ask one of his questions. When I couldn't answer due to lack of air, I 'd hear "stop playing games" followed by the pain of my hair being used to, again, lift and hurl me to a spot hopefully far enough from his feet that I wouldn't get kicked back down if I didn't scramble to attention again quickly enough.

After what seemed like hours (it probably really only lasted about 45 minutes) of this initiation into my first real punishment, he snarled for me to my room. Of course he had to get one last push to the floor in as I passed him to get to the stairs leading to my room. Thank God, I made it through round one. A bit shaken, bruised and in shock, but I finally hit the sanctuary that was my bedroom.

I sat on my bed and cried quietly until there were no tears left to cry. It was a healing cry--it was the unleashing of the months of guilt, the day of pure anxiety and the hurt of Dad's rage and hatred toward me. Yes, it was a good cry and when it was done I sat quietly and waited for round two. Still and quiet I sat there on my bed, cried out, as the light drained from the day and the room darkened. I heard Dory, Gary, and Dave arrive home from school at various times, I heard them talking, then eating dinner, then watching t.v. I waited and wondered what could possibly come next. I was scared but a little bit empowered too. Empowered by my survival.

That survival is the strength that has pushed me past my rocks of various shapes and sizes. And that strength has been a damned good thing in my times of need. Rocks shmocks, I say! Let the orchestra play on!

Jen ;-)

A Punishment Well Deserved

2010-01-05T18:31:00.000-08:00

Still Cute in 1st or 2nd grade

Not so cute anymore in 3rd or 4th grade

I lost my cuteness somewhere between third and fourth grade, or maybe it was just something about that big, gray house that just totally morphed Dad into the beast he became.

Tiama was the new girl in Mrs. Gregaydis’ fourth grade class. She was different. She was quiet and shy and had a funny name.

Gretchen was my best friend at school. She was strong, opinionated and could be very, very mean when provoked. She ruled our friendship and I allowed it because she was the most amazing young girl I had ever known. She was the fourth of four girls and her father really had his heart set on a boy so his boy is what she became. She knew how to work all of his power tools to create things, she could sew, gut and skin a deer, swim and dive like athletes I’d seen in the Olympics on tv, make amazing pieces of art, she would snake hunt--knowing all of the species of snakes and all things in nature--flora as well as fauna. She just amazed me. I felt empowered just being her friend.

Gretchen did not like Tiama for reasons unknown to anyone but Gretchen. When Gretchen did not like someone, she felt the need to hurt him or her and so devised a plan to hurt Tiama.

As our class lined up to leave the room, Gretchen planted something of hers (I don’t recall the item now, I believe it was cash) in Tiama’s desk as she passed by. Later in the afternoon Gretchen told the teacher that the said item was missing and that she witnessed Tiama take it. She continued with her story, telling the teacher that I witnessed the thievery as well. Assuming Gretchen was telling the truth--she was my best friend after all, I backed my friend and stated that I had seen it as well.

Sweet, quiet new girl’s desk was searched, item found, and she was whisked out of the room not to be seen again for several days (I assume she was suspended). When she returned she was called out of the room several times a day to speak with the school counselor.

Gretchen, at some point later, admitted her own guilt and thought it was all quite funny. She had never received a beating so consequences were never an issue for her and was rather disgusted with my lack of ability to see humor in the situation. I was tortured with guilt for my part in what may have caused a sweet, scared girl an undeserved and maybe severe punishment. What if she had a father like mine?

I don’t recall if it was mine or Gretchen’s guilt (I doubt the latter) or good questioning from our teacher, but the truth was revealed. The whole thing was a set up and I was in on it.

Parents would be called.

Dad would know.

My stomach churned and I stifled tears (not always successfully) the entire rest of the day. The anxiety was more than my 9 year old body could handle--I began throwing up. Mrs. Gregaydis knew Dad. She taught Dory and Gary in years past. She looked at me now with a mixture of anger, disappointment and sympathy. She knew what awaited me (well, not fully, not yet) upon my arrival at home, but she had to take care of this ugly situation. In her mind I plotted to set up a sweet, innocent, scared new girl and punishment, however severe, was necessary. The guilt I had been carrying around was torturous and I agreed with her. Almost.

It would be my first real beating--I knew this. I had endured the occasional whack across my face, punch to my gut and belt to my palms but I had only witnessed Dad’s beatings through Gary and Dave. I was well aware of the possibilities or rather, probabilities.

As I walked home from school my mind raced, my body shook and my churning stomach remained high in my throat. I got to the corner of our street and saw that the car was, in fact, in front of the house. Dad was home. I forced my rubbery legs to finish the journey home.

With great trepidation I ascended each of the creaky wooden steps onto the front porch, inhaled very slowly then turned the knob on the thin outer front door. I stood several minutes between the two doors before quietly closing the outer door behind me. Once between the two doors I felt a momentary desire to flee--far and fast--but I took another long, deep breath and entered the eerily quiet house through the heavy wooden inner door.

To the right of the door was the living room and there sat Dad. He would have appeared to be stone faced to anyone from the outside world, but I saw the intense anger beneath the façade…

My next few entries will be some of the most enormous rocks in my brook. I’m happy to say that I’ve made it past all of them and can relay these stories with very few tears and no self-pity. These are the rocks that are the feeling behind one of my favorite quotes: “Pain is weakness leaving the body” and these are the rocks that turned my little brook into the roaring river my life is today…

The Truth Will Set You Free

2009-11-21T19:34:00.000-08:00

A son shows his father's strength and wit through his own. Every son's father worries, therefore, that his progeny will not be strong, smart or simply 'good' enough to mirror him. My father had two sons. Gary, his first son, was born long and lean and incredibly easy to please. One year and two months later, David was born. Dave was a tiny, five-pound ball of fire--as stubborn as an angry drunk in a bar. I think my father felt an immediate need to strengthen and mold tiny David--named for the mighty King of Israel--otherwise, people may think the father 'small' and weak like the son.

So young did his training begin that as an infant, he left an impression of his will on my mother that she sees vividly to this day and Dave is now 44. In my father's quest for knowledge of how to raise a perfect child, he came across a Native American technique for stopping a crying baby by stuffing a cloth into his mouth. He waited for his diminutive son to cry, which didn't take long, and promptly stuffed a washcloth into his mouth. My mother reports that Dave immediately stopped crying and looked at his enormous father with a a glare that sent chills through his 6 foot, 200 pound frame. I believe it was at this moment that my father began to look at Dave as a challenge. He no longer wanted to shape him, but to break him. And break him he tried for the next thirteen years.

All of us were punished with much more severity than any other child we ever knew (unfortunately we didn't know Dave Pelzer), but no one endured punishments like Dave. As a toddler he was 'dried' in a clothes dryer for bed-wetting; he was slapped, punched, beaten with belt buckles, canes, brooms, whatever was in reach that Dad thought would make an impact. His head was continually flushed in the toilet when he once puked on the floor due to a punch in the stomach (of course by Dad) after dinner. This was to teach him where puke belonged (as if he could have said, "Could you stop punching me for a sec Dad, I feel a puke coming on from that last punch and I'd like to let it out where it belongs--in the toilet.").

When Dad wasn't mad a t him, he'd give him 'challenges' to prove how tough he was. These challenges included pulling eggs from boiling water, being tied up with a multi-knotted rope and left alone for however long it took to free himself, or attaching as many clothespins as possible to his body (we all actually played this fun game). Dave actually enjoyed proving himself with feats such as these as he never once failed to have the ability to execute one. No matter how tightly he was tied up or how much pain was involved, Dave would never quit until his task was complete. Grievously, this just created more of a challenge for Dad.

Beatings and exploits became more and more severe as the years passed, with Dave rising above each and every one. My father succeeded not only in creating a son that mirrored his strength but, as he was soon to discover, surpassed it.

The defining moment came late one particular night after Dave, now 13 years old, came home from an evening at his friend's house. I don't recall the reason, but there had been an attempt made to locate my brother. Dad had Dory (he never did the legwork if it meant dealing with the outside world) call him at his friend Kevin's house. Kevin had a brother named Dave who, apparently, was out that night and when a call was made for 'Dave', Kevin's sister told the caller (Dory) that Dave wasn't there. Dad, now believing that his son lied to him--the greatest offense one could commit with Dad--stewed for hours in his anger and his Jack Daniels for my unfortunate, unsuspecting brother's return.

Interrogations were common with Dad. Before he began, he made sure he knew the 'truth'--his truth, which was very rarely the real truth. When the beating began, we had to figure out the 'truth', tell it, and stop the beating. Dory, Gary and I did it that way anyway. Dave stood his ground. Dad would not make him lie, damn it. So for hours that night, Dave was kicked in the shins with heavy boots. He was kicked until Dad's legs got tired of kicking at which point a broomhandle was used to demolish the bones in his young son's legs. When his bloody, flesh-exp0osed legs would give out and he'd fall to the floor, he would drag himself back up with a renewed sense of strength. As Dave claims, he finally 'won'. Dad, exhausted and utterly defeated, sent him to bed.

The next day, my father presented Dave with a mini poster which read, "The truth will set you free, but first it will make you miserable." It depicted a rag doll that had been wrung through a wringer. I wonder if Dad ever realized that poster referred to him. I don't think he enjoyed hurting us (okay, maybe he did a little) but he was really just trying to produce perfect children. He fell terribly short here where his mission was to raise truthful children, he actually created liars. We learned to lie for our safety. Except Dave. He won that day. He won for all four of us. It was a small victory for which he paid one hell of a price.

The years of lies are rocks both large and small that I struggle to pass as I make my way along. The memory of the sound of the broom handle hitting Dave's legs and the sight of the wounds it left, though, are almost mountainous and dammable in my brook. But I'm pretty stealthy--I can maneuver around, over or under just about anything. Or maybe I could just lie my way through...

Jen ;-)

Accident?

2009-11-10T20:03:00.000-08:00

Gary and Dave's bedroom was directly across the hall from mine. How I envied them and their possession of one another. I loved being in their room for any reason (they had exercise equipment, tons of music cassettes with a stereo, model airplanes, cool artwork, always new, exciting things to explore) and would weasel my way in any occasion I could think of. To actually be invited or wanted in there was generally only a dream.

It was the summer before I started the 3rd grade. You can imagine my joy and surprise when Dave actually agreed to play with me one afternoon (Gary must have been busy somewhere else in the house because it was just Dave and I). We played school. Innocent enough.

I sat on a barbell anchored by large weights on either end, on a braided rug in front of their dresser--this was their workout area. Physical fitness was stressed so strongly by Dad that the boys tried to improve their physique every chance they got. This meant an entire weight set with benches and accessories in their room. So there we sat, the barbell and I, cushioned by the multicolored rug--Dave standing in front of me as the teacher and I, the student.

I sat as a good student would--being punished for an imaginary misbehavior. I continued my obedience as Dave pointed his bb pistol an inch or so from the bridge of my nose (I think I remember it actually touching my nose). I thought it was his idea of how a teacher would threaten a misbehaving child, so I sat perfectly still, waiting for him to deem my behavior worthy of playing again. I guess my behavior was still not satisfying to him so he pulled the trigger.

I remember next only my shock and pain. And Dave's fear. "Tell Dad you walked into a nail" was plead over and over to me above my dramatic screams (of course there were no parents home at the time). This was semi-believable in our century old, always under construction house. But a mixture of fear at being caught lying and a guilty desire for vengeance made me respond to Dad's questioning later that evening when he finally noticed the round, bloody sore at the top of my nose, with Dave's suggestion followed by a question mark--"I walked into a nail?", pretty much knowing that it wouldn't be accepted.

When I told Dad the truth after a couple more tries at the nail story, I ended it with an emphatic, "he didn't think it was loaded" and "we were playing, it was an accident." As the words escaped my lips I felt the acid build in my stomach at the thought of Dave's punishment. I immediately regretted my words and my greedy desire for vengeance. I wished I could suck the words back in and start over from the beginning when I walked by Dad with my head turned away to hide the wound. I wished I had played klutzy little girl who walks into walls. I could've pulled it off if I tried.

What was done was done--I think it's the only time I ever saw fear on Dad's face rather than anger. He sent me upstairs to my room where Dave and I waited at least a thousand years until his booming voice hollared, "DRJYEN--A!" Whenever he yelled a name in anger we would all look at each other and try to decide whose name had been called, this time we decided it sounded more like 'Jennifer' than 'David', so down I ran. If ever we were wrong about which name had been called Dad would just send us back for the proper recipient of his wrath. But this time we were right.

With acid in my stomach enough now to eat through a concrete wall, I faced Dad at attention. I was ordered to hold out my hands, palms up, and receive 10 belt slaps, of which I would keep count. Only 10 was very exciting, I could probably even do this without trying too hard not to pull my hands back. I held them out strongly and counted loud and clear, assuming I was being punished for ratting my brother, and feeling as though I deserved it because I knew his punishment would be much worse.

When he finished I was informed that I was punished for "being stupid enough to sit still while someone pointed a gun in (my) face." Did I understand--this was standard after anything Dad said--he had to be sure he was understood. I did, and so said, "yes" and was sent back upstairs to "send David down." My heart sank as I caught sight of Dad's huge ball-peen hammer (or maybe it was a sledge hammer, I just remember a large scary hammer) on the coffee table.

As I raced upstairs I thought of how we could escape down the back stairway, through the kitchen and out the back door. Dave, of course, wouldn't hear it--he marched bravely (or stubbornly, I could never tell which--or both) down to face Goliath. After a short period of questioning that no matter how much I strained my ears I could not hear, he was back upstairs retrieving the guilty pistol.

My mind raced--would Dad shoot him with it? Beat him with the hammer? The possibilities were endless with Dad, a pistol, and a hammer. I shuddered, felt as if I would puke, then began to cry as I heard the hammer followed by shattering. I hated myself for telling. I was stupid and selfish and weak. Why did I tell him?

I crawled into my bed and covered my head with my pillow and blankets and any stuffed animals I could find.

Finally Dave came back upstairs and I ran across the hall to him. He never showed any emotion--no negative emotion anyway. He looked okay--no blood or marks that I could see, but that didn't mean anything because Dad was a pro at knowing how to hurt us without leaving marks, that's why he loved stomachs and palms--they are tough to bruise. I asked him what happened and he simply told me that Dad smashed his gun. That's it. I still don't know if he was being tough or protecting me or protecting himself by not telling me more. Or maybe he was hating me as much as I was hating myself. Or maybe he was wondering why that bb pellet didn't kill me. Or maybe there really wasn't any more. But I doubt it. Dave was always such a damned tough kid. Even if he was hurt, he'd never tell.

Being shot was a melodious rock in my brook. Dave sometimes was a rock that I'd try to understand as I passed its awkward shape, sometimes a current, or even a stream feeding into mine making it doubly strong for a bit.

Jen ;-)

21 Frear Ave

2009-11-09T16:30:00.000-08:00

We moved in the summer before I was to start 3rd grade. I had a little time to get used to the new house on Frear Ave and the new neighborhood before school started. Frear Ave was a small, dead-end street. The houses numbered 1 (our house) to 22 ( the Callahans) then there were woods beyond 22. Actually there were two houses beyond the Callahan's on the same side of the street: the Harts and the O'Riellys but you couldn't see them unless you went down into the woods a bit, so I don't really count them.

Almost every house on the street had children. They would gather in the center of the road and play kickball or wiffleball. I first met the majority of them when they noticed me watching a game and asked if I wanted to play. I couldn't look too eager, but, well, yeah, of course I wanted to play so I trotted on over. The games were very organized--with teams, bases, outs, runs--and I don't recall anyone ever fighting or even being unkind. It was a dream come true for me--unlimited friends. Nice friends. I do believe it was all that made my years on Frear Ave. tolerable because this time period was the absolute craziest Dad ever was. And I don't mean crazy,fun, I mean crazy, insane.

My very first friend--solo friend, outside of the street games--was Karen. She was two years older than me, smart, funny, nice, and more interesting than any child I had ever known. She was wise well beyond her years--always. I was in awe of her. Shortly after becoming friends we decided we would build a fort in the woods behind her house--did I mention she was tough too? (she lived in #21, the last house on my side of the street). We gathered wood. I believe that's as far as it got. We continued to talk about it for quite a while. She was best friends with Tricia Callahan (the last house on the other side of the street). One day after the three of us were finished playing at Tricia's (she had the coolest playhouse behind her house--it was a real, tiny house that her dad built), we walked across the street to Karen's house. I hadn't met her family yet. As we were leaving to go out again, her younger sister Kim asked to come with us and Karen and Tricia told her no. She began to cry. We left and they said she was a 'cry baby' and to ignore her. I don't remember if I went back right then or later but that was it. She became my best friend. We were so alike in our emotions--both so very sensitive (I was called cry baby by my siblings quite often as well), but so different in personality.

Kim was quiet and shy. I was outgoing and sometimes a bit overbearing. She was honest and I had learned to lie to stay alive. She never understood any reason for lying--it drove me crazy because she would tell Dad the truth about things I previously lied about. But I admired her for it. She got me into some trouble at times but I knew she couldn't help it. I think we balanced each other out well.

As much as Kim and I were opposites, her family and mine were just as much so. She had a loving mother who often said "I love you"--I never heard those words, they were for sissies. Her mother and step-father would stop what they were doing at any given moment and hug each other--real, loving, embraces that made me a bit uncomfortable because I never witnessed anything like it. The closest I ever experienced to that was a hug good-night that I would force upon my standoffish family members. They hated it and I knew it but I needed it just the same. Kim's mom would hug me. Without being forced to--just because she liked me. It was a beautiful feeling. It was a beautiful home.

At our house food had to be spicy, sour, or just taste bad to be acceptable. For instance, we never used mayonnaise or ketchup--sissy stuff. Our condiments were hot mustard or horseradish. Liver, sardines, melba toast, and gefilte fish are some memorable foods that were plentiful in our home. Even ice cream couldn't be plain, it had to be pistachio or rocky road--I loved just plain strawberry or coffee but no, that wouldn't do--too plain, it must be for sissies too. Kim's house--soft, white bread, sandwiches with mayo, hot dogs with ketchup, neopolitan ice cream. I loved to eat there. No one cared how much or little I ate, or if I scraped my fork on my teeth (that was an instant backhand from Dad if he heard it), or if I spoke. There was no tension, ever, in their home. I loved going there and it's no surprise that I spent a good deal 1977 through 1982 there. Kim and I grew from little girls to young teens together. I had many other friends but Kim and her family were always the people I chose to be with whenever I had a choice.

I may be going out on a limb here but I think those years with them saved my life--a very strong current pushing me past all the rocks piling up from home.

Jen ;-)

Note about clicking

2009-10-29T18:33:00.000-07:00

Apparently there is a limit to how many times one person can click on the ads to the side of the blogs--the ones that are no longer there on this one because the fellas at Google detected "invalid click activity." You heard right, "invalid click activity." I'm not even sure what else to say--I guess when you visit someone's blog, you can click, but not too much, and never from the same computer. Hmmmm...I'm really stumped on this one. So my "account has been disabled." Only fitting I guess seeing as my life has become disabled these days as well... I hope I don't write too much or the wrong thing and the fellas at Google decide to disable my blog as well. I guess I'll cross that bridge when I come to it--in my wheelchair (because I'm disabled, get it?). I'll admit I'm a bit bummed--I checked the balance every day and it was racking up--maybe that was the invalid click activity. Maybe I'm not allowed to care how much is being made (after they say it's a way to earn extra money). Helephino. Oh, that's a mix between a hippo, elephant, and rhino. It's also what I think of this very bizarre event.

I'll be back to my regularly scheduled blogging tomorrow after what I'm sure will be a hellacious day at the zoo with hundreds of second graders (that number rises every time I think about it).

Thanks for reading, heed my advice, and happy clicking. But not too much!

Jen ;-)

In Dealing

2009-10-28T19:10:00.000-07:00

When Dad's ire was lit, whoever was the target knew they were going to have to get through it somehow. I never saw it when it was directed at Mom because he'd focus in on her late at night when we were all upstairs in bed. I only heard his hushed angry voice, bangs, crashes, blows, then the next morning would see the marks, usually finger marks around Mom's neck or bruises on her arms (because that was the only skin visible to me).
My point is that I don't really know how Mom dealt with his anger because I never actually witnessed it. I do know, however, how the rest of us did.

Dory, the oldest, simply removed herself either in mind, spirit, or body. She didn't seem to be home much, except when she had to do the things Mom couldn't because she was working to support our family. Dory usually had to do things like make dinner, clean up the kitchen after meals, laundry (at a laundromat--sometimes, I got to go with her and thought it was the greatest, most fun thing in the whole world and wondered, why did she hate it so much?), and brushing my hair for school. If not doing one of the aforementioned things, she was out with her friends or had friends spend the night (we were always safe when an outsider was in the home). I think that's why she has such trouble with memories, because even if she was in the house when bad things happened, she was in her room "reading" or "studying". She tried to steer clear of Dad. Wise one. I always thought I saw some kind of survivor in Dory. I think I was kinda right.

Next was Gary. He was the good one. Good behavior, good grades, just all around good. He did (or tried to do) everything right. Unfortunately that tactic didn't much work with Dad because if he couldn't find things wrong, he would invent them (remember the line ups I mentioned in an earlier post?). Sometimes he would smack Gary just for walking past him or chewing food too loudly or walking too heavily on the floor. It was hard to figure out what was "good" in Dad's eyes--but Gary still tried. I always thought I saw some kind of halo over Gary's head. I think I was kinda right.

Number three: Dave. Wow. Dave had his own very unique way of dealing. He dealt with Dad in his strong, bull-headed-I'm-gonna-prove-you-wrong way. Imagine, if you will, the last great act of defiance: a mouse giving an eagle the finger as he's flying in for the kill (remember this guys?). Poor Davey. He tried his whole life to show Dad how very strong he was and because he was so physically small compared to Gary, the task seemed that much harder. Dad knew though. He knew there was no one in this whole world stronger than Dave--mentally or physically. Except, maybe, himself (I'm talking physically only here). And maybe that was the battle. Dave would not allow Dad to hurt him and Dad would just try harder. This never stopped in all the years he lived at home. I always thought Dave was some kind of super-human miracle. I think I was kinda right.

Now me, I just tried to deal with it as it came and when it wasn't there forget it all together. I'd frustrate myself for years trying to understand, but I had an epiphany while waiting for Mom and Dad to return home after what I knew was a bad parent-teacher conference (prior to this day, I would shake, sweat, puke--totally anxiety ridden). But as I began to panic on this day, something came to me--it would end. He would either tire of beating me or he would beat me to death--either way it would eventually stop. I could take the pain if I knew there would be an end to it. From that day on, I did not care what Dad did to me because I knew it could not last forever. And when it did end, I would be happy again--because no matter what life threw at me (pepples, stones, rocks, boulders) I remained happy. Happy to be alive and to be the person that God made me. I think I still am. Yep--I am--happy to be me and to be the sister of 3 awesome survivors!

Jen ;-)

Frear Ave

2009-10-26T18:14:00.000-07:00

This is 1 Frear Ave many years after we left

The house was huge. I was 8 years old which made it more huge. The first thing I saw were flowers--beautiful purple flowers all along the ground in front and bushes full of white flowers on either side all the way into the back yard. Flowers were always one of my favorite things in life--already I knew this would be a good place. Things would be happy now. That's what my 8 year old mind told me.

I made my way up the old wooden steps--I liked the way they creaked and moved when I stepped on them--onto the biggest porch I'd ever seen. I thought it must wrap around the whole house (it actually only went halfway).

Finally into the enormous front doors. The first of the two sets of doors into the house was thin and light. The kind, if you weren't careful would slam and break the glass panes at the top. But no one ever slammed doors in our family. Everyone was very controlled. No one yelled, ran, laughed too loud, cried, anything that would show lack of control. Beatings were even controlled. Dad was always sadistically calm while the cane, belt, fist or broom handle made its mighty way (with the help of his great strength) onto our small, lithe bodies. We, in turn, always remained in total control. Never a tear or even a sound, except the numbers of the count we were to keep, escaped us (we had to count each strike out loud as it hit our body).

So in the five years we spent living at 1 Frear Avenue, that door never had to fear for its safety. In fact, we learned to love the forewarning it gave whenever Dad had been out and was returning home.

About a four foot space, then the inside door. A large, heavy, wooden door that worked well to keep out the cold and wind of upstate New York, and keep in the sounds of a tortured childhood.

The interior of the house was just as magnificent to me as the exterior. Having been built around the turn of the century, it was complete with stained glass windows, secret passageways, an attic full of treasures left behind by previous families, and an enormous fireplace for keeping warm on cold winter nights. I loved that house from the moment our car first pulled up in front of it. The things that happened within the walls of it are quite a different story.

Jen ;-)

Mom (this is for Toni)

2009-10-25T16:32:00.000-07:00

There we are, Mom and I. Me in all my glory reaching up to her. Usually, she would accept my uplifted arms--I'm pretty sure after this picture she did anyway.

Mom's childhood was just pure neglect so she's never been very good at showing feelings--I don't much think she knows how. She has always known, however, that she's supposed to. I was a very needy child and I remember hanging on her, begging to be loved (not literally). I'd have it no other way. She would love me whether she wanted to or not, damn it!

I think those early years of forcing affection on her did teach her to love a little easier because as I grew she got better and better at it (with me anyway). She would hold me on her lap, sing silly songs to me like "Mares eat oats and does eat oats and little lambs eat ivy, a kid'll eat ivy too, wouldn't you?" She talked to me about God and religion. She talked to me about beauty and would impress upon me the importance of inner beauty and the insignificance of outer beauty--this was a tough one to grasp because I just wanted to know if I was pretty. She'd say, Dory is pretty outside, but you have inner beauty (my sister and I discovered as adults that she said the same thing to Dory--"Jenny is pretty outside, but you have inner beauty--we'd been duped). She would call me Precious. I can still hear her saying it to me as if it were my name.

I don't think Mom knew how pretty outside she was, but her beauty would take my breath away sometimes. She said she grew up hating her looks because she looked just like her mother who, she was constantly told, "abandoned her children like puppies". I imagine it was difficult for her father to look at her, her stepmother I'm sure couldn't stand it, and her grandparents, she said, would actually scold her resemblance to her own mother. I loved it. I loved to admire her perfect complexion, eyes, nose and lips. Her smile lit up rooms and hearts. Her voice sounded angelic to me when she sang, which was quite often. I was so proud to be seen out with her, that people would know I came from that.

When she'd make herself eggs and toast, or peanut butter toast, I'd beg like a puppy and she'd always share a bite. Things always tasted better off of her plate. She would let me 'help' her with the crossword puzzle (she always had a newspaper folded in fourths in front of her, pencil in one hand, cup of coffee in the other, and glasses slid down the bridge of her nose.

Mom was never unkind. She loved us and tried to protect us, but she was no match for Dad. The one time she tried to say something when he was beating Dave, Dad went into a rage and threw him into the corner of the wall, splitting his head wide open, blood everywhere. He looked at her and said, "now look what you made me do." She never said anything again. She would try to escape life with him many times--sometimes with us, sometimes alone. He'd always pull her back in.

She was usually the sole provider for the family as a waitress. The cash in hand each day made it easy to stash money from him for use during times of starvation after he'd make her quit her job. One of my favorite memories of money stashing came when I was in early high school, I think. It was Christmastime and he dropped us off at the mall. I wasn't supposed to know there was no money--it was all a big game. Mom was supposed to tell me that she'd forgotten the money at home, oh darn, we couldn't do any shopping and would just have to wait for Dad to come pick us up.

My sister had just had her first son and Mom was determined to get that grandchild a Christmas gift. Mom had $100 stashed in a compartment of her purse. We decided to tell Dad that we found a hundred dollar bill on the floor of the ladies room--how fortunate for us since Mom forgot all of her money at home (wink, wink, nod, nod). I still smile at the look on Dad's face when he pulled up and saw us standing there with all the bags. It was beautiful because what could he say, really. Mom loved to give.

The last time we left Dad it was just Mom and I left at home. For a while we lived in Gary's girlfriend's family's abandoned basement near a gas pump that was supposed to blow at any time (that was the reason it was abandoned). I loved being there with her. No modern conveniences, hiding out. It was so primal. Eventually Gary helped move us back to Florida where the three of us lived for a while--again, so primal, yet so wonderful.

Like I said in an earlier post, Mom is Cinderella without the happy ending. She even had the ugly stepmother and stepsister who were jealous and hateful to her. She grew up and thought she found her prince--he was handsome, intelligent, from a good family. Unfortunately it's difficult to see mental illness until it's too late.

Mom did the very best she could with what she had to work with. She was good and kind and taught me all that I deem important in this life. Though she never learned to swim, she taught me how to gracefully stroke past those rocks. I thank God every day for her.

Jen ;-)

Back to New York

2009-10-24T18:37:00.000-07:00

Florida was the first time I remember Mom leaving Dad (the first of many). One day when he was out walking, Mom gathered us and the few belongings we had and we quickly piled into Meme's car, which seemed to have been waiting around the corner for Dad to leave the house.

Mom and the four of us kids set up residence in Meme's new husband, Ken's house. It was a very cool house, especially having come from the home in the poor neighborhood with no electricity. Most vividly I remember a huge marlin and swordfish mounted on the wall in the main living room. I also remember that, for a family that had just rid itself of all of its anger and negativity that was Dad, everyone seemed very tense, all the time.

Dad found us, of course. A fight ensued between he and Ken. Gary jumped in to help Dad. I cried on the sidelines for the humiliation Dad must have felt. Eventually, through Dad's wooing, we left Ken's house and moved into an apartment complex with him. I've often been reminded that this was mainly my fault as I "missed my daddy." It's funny how we forget wrongs done to us so quickly when loved ones are involved. I am still quick to forgive though--life is just too short for grudges. Not that I don't regret getting our family back together--I often imagine how different our (Mom, Dory, Gary, Dave and my) mental states would be now had we not had to endure so many more years of his abuse. Would we be happier, more confident, more successful...?

We lived with Dad a short time in the apartment complex (the one pictured--isn't it lovely?) I wrote of earlier--remember the "Yellow Submarine" and Jeannie Manini and Gary's friend's blind father? This is where Dad actually had a job (a rare occurence) selling VW's. I always loved it when Dad worked because he was 1. happy, 2. gone, and 3. we had money.

He must have gotten a pretty good paycheck or stole the money, who knows, but it was enough to get us back to New York. We left for New York like we had for Florida--quietly in the wee hours, but this time I knew what was going on. And I was glad to be going "home." It was the summer of 1977.

Home was where I got Grampa O'Brien's hugs, family gatherings with cousins, aunts and uncles, and friends that I'd been missing.

I don't remember the ride home like I do the ride down. We stayed with Uncle Dan and Aunt Tiela when we got back--now they had three children. The younger siblings I always wanted. I wished we could stay there forever. But as I was enjoying my new cousins, Kelly, Mickey and John, Mom and Dad were looking for a new place for us to live...

This new place would provide the majority of rocks into the brook that would become the symphony that is me.

Jen ;-)

Post Script: Sorry, Toni, I'll get to a happy Mom memory--I promise. I just needed to get this transition in here.

Dr. Seigel

2009-10-23T11:33:00.000-07:00

Pain equals strength. Moreso, remaining calm and cool through pain equals strenth. This would have been our family mission statement when I was growing up, if we had one. Actually, one of my favorite quotes to this day, I heard from my husband Mike, a former Marine, "Pain is weakness leaving the body." One of my mother's favorite things to tell me when I'm dealing with a difficult issue, "If it doesn't kill you it will make you stronger." Okay, so you get the picture--no whining, complaining, or showing weakness was allowed at any time during my life.

Somehow, Dad found a denstist that shared his belief (I believe he was a friend of Dad's parents), Dr. Seigel. Dr. Seigel was the only doctor of any kind I ever remember going to. I know I received all the required shots in infancy, but beyond that, never. Only Dr. Seigel. He was a nice enough guy but a bit on the sadistic side. I think all four of us (Dory, Gary, Dave and I) became anxiety ridden each time we'd pile into the car for the long ride to Albany, to a quaint little office that looked like a home that should have a white picket fence around it. It was Dr. Seigel's dental office.

It was always good to go first so you didn't have to hear the drill which caused more nervous anticipation than report card day. The visits started normal enough--x-rays (that dumb cardboard thing that always cut into the back of my jaw and cheeks and made me gag a little). Then on to the cleaning while they waited for the x-rays. The tasteless sand mixed with clay on the rotating brush (okay, the brush was cool). Then spit into the swirly sink thing--that was pretty cool too. Then...

Then he'd take that damned suction tube and put it under my tongue and leave. Oh the anxiety. The smell of drilled enamel was still in the air from whoever was in there before me and it made my stomach churn. By the time he comes back in, that dumb suction tube thing has drained all the liquid from my body and is resorting to sucking the tender flesh under my tongue.

The nurse enters with a pitiful look on her face (the nurse always felt bad for us). Dr. Seigel turns on the drill--the sound reminds me that there is still liquid in my body and it would really like to come out at that very moment, but, of course I don't say this because there still that sucker thing in my mouth and Dr. Seigel has his ready for business look on his face and really, I just want to get it over with. I tell myself I won't raise my hand this time.

The hand raising is what the nurse tells me to do if it hurts. Did you notice that so far there has been no mention of novacaine? Naw, novacaine is for sissies--we're tough. More weakness is getting ready to leave the body. So the hand raising. I'd raise my hand when I absolutely could take the pain of the drill hitting the nerve no longer, and guess what Dr. Seigel would do? He'd slow his drill speed down a notch. Yippeeee! Now the pain is still there and this process will only take a little longer. So, like I said, I'd tell myself that I will not raise my hand. But I do. And I'm immediately sorry for it.

Finally, the drilling is done, and I get to feel the filling being mashed into the newly formed crater with the still exposed nerve--this feels like someone pushing your tooth either out of your cheekbone or down through the bottom of your jaw (depending if it's an upper or lower tooth), and sounds like someone squeaking a styrofoam cooler against itself just a bit at a time. Did I mention the smell? And I think I still have some of the sand-filled clay floating around in my mouth.

When I was all finished (I usually had at least 2 fillings), Dad would come in with his puffed up pride at how tough his little girl was especially after the nurse told him how tightly I squeezed her hand but never made a sound. And whew, I was finished for another 6 months or year with promises to myself to brush my teeth more often.

I still have all of the fillings Dr. Seigel gave me--their silver color has turned to dark gray if not black--except for the one that fell out about 10 years ago (I chose to have that tooth pulled rather than refilled much to the chagrin of the dentist I went to). I've made several appointments with dentists in my adult life and will make it through a cleaning. I might even come back for my appointment to have cavities filled, but I always end up leaving the waiting room as soon as I hear the drill or smell the burnt enamel.

I guess that's just a rock I'm still trying to bypass. I'd love to hear Dory, Gary and Dave's take on Dr. Seigel, and if they go regularly to a dentist now or am I the only baby. I can take a good deal of physical pain, but wow, that really hurt. A lot.

Jen ;-)

Extended Family

2009-10-20T15:18:00.000-07:00

Extended family are the condiments of life. Did I mention how not plain my childhood was? My immediate family was made all the more colorful by surrounding family. I liken some of my favorites to several of the muppets shown above, for example:

Animal would be Aunt Tiela. I'm not even sure I spelled that name correctly or if there is a correct spelling. Tiela was a made up name. Her real name was Marcia and she was Uncle Dan (Mom's brother)'s wife. Marcia was entirely too plain of a name for her personality so I guess someone came up with Tiela. Aunt Tiela had silky black hair that reminded me of an Indian (which was okay to say in the 70's--Indian, I mean). Her smile was easy and huge. She had a mouth full of big white teeth which she would pop out and suck back in for my amusement (there was nothing cooler in the whole world to me). I never saw her stressed, upset or angry. She was happy, carefree, and a bit crazy--I loved being around her--she just didn't care about anything (great for an extended family member such as myself, not so much for her husband and children because when I say she didn't care about anything, she did not care about anything). But damn she was fun!

Uncle Dan, Aunt Tiela's husband, would be the muppet with the sax mixed with the all-knowing eagle. He was a thinker, but cool too, and kinda fun, and kinda crazy. And he hugged me and loved me--I could always feel his love for me. He was an awesome father to the three children he and Aunt Tiela had--especially after she left them at 2, 3, and 4 years of age. He was a single parent long before it became a common term and he did it well. Ever heard Elvis Presley's Don't Cry Daddy? That was he and his kids after Aunt Tiela left. I tried to tell Dory about that song when we were out to lunch one day and I started crying so uncontrollably I couldn't stop, then the waitress came over to take our order and it made me laugh that I was crying so badly which made Dory laugh and we both probably peed a little. I'm not sure if I ever got the whole gist of the song out to Dory, but if you're curious, I'm sure you can find it on Google or UTube. Uncle Dan, at any rate, has always been one of my favorite people and I venture to say that I may be one of his <3 .

Now we come to Grampa O'Brien (sigh). I loved and still love him with all that I am. I guess he would be a mix of the two old men that sat in the balcony seat. He was brilliant (an amazing artist, read every book ever written, I think, and questioned everything), funny (he used to make me laugh until I had no breath), imaginative (he made up stories about how the boils on his back were war wounds from the Apaches attacking him (of course I hung on and believed every word)), and he was so very kind. He gave me all the compliments I ever heard in life and hugs that, if I close my eyes and remember, warm me to my soul to this day. Every time I saw him he would give me one of those hugs and ask me, "how can something that was already perfect get more perfect?" He would tell me how smart, and beauty-ful (that was how he said it) I was and tell me all about "Gawd." He knew the bible inside and out as well as every other religious book and questioned them all and came up with his own opinions about Gawd and his presence and his and our purpose. I loved to listen to him and be with him. I loved the smell of his cigarrettes, which he rolled himself (well he had a little machine with a handle that he'd let me turn to roll them). We would play poker and rummy and casino (he called it Big Dick and Little Pete). My time spent with Grampa--any time--is the most content time my memory holds.

Mom's sister, Aunt Dee was Miss Piggy and her husband, Uncle Tony, Kermit. I'm not just choosing Miss Piggy to be Aunt Dee because Dad called her "Swinella" due to her messy home (my siblings, by the way, call me Swinella Jr. for the same reason)--it's just her personality. Strong willed and a bit full of herself but not unkind--unless someone messes with Kermit who's just an easy-going-leave-me-alone-to-do-my-own-thing kind of guy--like Uncle Tony. Dad hated Aunt Dee's strength and Uncle Tony's easy-goingness which he saw as weakness. I loved them both and loved going to their house to play with their 5 children. That house was always just a mess. I don't mean messy, per se (though it was), but there was no order, no discipline, just chaos. I loved it. My cousins loved Uncle Hal (Dad) because he was so fun and crazy. Uncle Hal played games like "how many clothes pins can you pin onto your face?"(I believe Dave always won that one) and "hang children out the window by one leg". These games were fun to them because they were crazy and only had to play them when we came over which wasn't very often. Oh, Uncle Hal was so crazy and fun! Kermit and Miss Piggy's kids thought so anyway.

Uncle Chuck was Dad's brother and if there is an ass hole, pervert muppet, that would be him (the guy under the big monster in the top right corner looks like he could be a contender). Chuck was never kind to me and thought it was funny to cause my brothers to be beaten so I don't really have much to say about him--colorful, yes--maybe black and brown running together.

Finally, when I got to Florida, I met Aunt Nellie and Uncle Art. Aunt Nellie was Meme's sister. I searched out the muppets for one like Aunt Nellie and physically maybe the professor guy but no one really matches her--maybe Aunt Bea from the Andy Griffith show without the sweet nature. She wasn't mean, just very serious. She had a yard full of lime trees and cacti, always wore an apron and was always cooking or making something. My favorite was her limeade--the smell of limes still brings me back to her kitchen, a wonderful place. Now as serious as Aunt Nellie was, Uncle Art, Gonzo, was that not serious. He was the cutest, sweetest, little old man I'd ever known and still have ever known.

So there are the condiments of my life. Oh, and I know this isn't extended family, but I always loved Jim Henson and always likened the monster in the top right corner to Dad, Grover to Gary, Ernie to Dave, Bert to Dory, and I was Cookie Monster--I've always gotten a bit of tunnel vision when cookies are involved.

Jen ;-)

P.S. Sorry I don't have a likeness for Mom--she's just Mom, there's no one to compare, except maybe Cinderella (without the happy ending) and she's not a Jim Henson character.

Florida II

2009-10-16T21:10:00.000-07:00

Okay, I've been informed that some of my chronology is a bit off. We started at Meme's, went to the nice house next to the kids with the great mom and the ass hole dad, then the nothing but mangos and liverwurst house (and A&W on Tuesdays), then we "jitterbugged" on Dad, moving back in with Meme and her not very kind, now husband Ken, Dad found us, won us back with promises of lovelieness and we moved into Banyon Gardens (the apartment complex with Jeannie Manini). Whew--chronology fixed--I hope.

Sooo...the nice house where I was spared the black cane? A flashback memory came to me here. This is where Dad started the line-us-up-for-interrogations-of-things-that-never-really-happened (this wasn't a fun game like Gestapo, this was a real crime being committed, if only to Dad). The first line-up was over a gas torch being left on. "Who was playing with the blow torch?" Really Dad? Because that's what kids love to do--play with torches, then leave the gas going, knowing their insane father will find it and beat them for it. He lined us up then asked us again, one by one, "Were you playing with the torch?" One by one we would, as strongly as possible, tell him, "No." After the 'no' there would be a hard slap across our faces, one by one. Finally, Gary stepped forward and said he did it. He didn't, of course. He just knew that this would go on all day if someone didn't take the hit (no pun intended). And, as he says, it wasn't easy watching his 6 year old sister being slapped by a hand whose pain he knew all too well. All I remember after his admission of guilt, and every one thereafter (it was always either he or Dave who would step forward and take the punishment for the imaginary crimes), was hearing Dad say, "you stood there and let me slap your little sister?" followed by more slaps which turned into punches, kicks, or, more likely, the black cane against their 10 and 11 year old bodies. Yes, Jill and I had very much in common--we both had a house full of nice people led by an insane sadist.

Jill had something I envied terribly, though. She had the kindest, most interesting woman I had ever met working in her house every day. Hattie was her maid. She was an older black woman (think Mammy from Gone With The Wind only a bit smaller, who interestingly was played by Hattie McDaniel). She spoke in the slow southern drawl--I could listen to her all day long. She never got flustered or upset. She always remained calm and slow paced but incredibly efficient. I still see her sitting in her maid's uniform (yes the kind they make Halloween costumes into) with her bare feet dangling over the side of the pier (our street was on the water), catching fish with her simple cane pole (no reel--just a pole and some string). She'd let me sit next to her. She didn't talk much but would answer, with the greatest of patience, all of my incessant questions. "How do you catch so many? What do you use for bait? How will you get them home? Do you have children? How far away do you live?" She caught the fish to bring to her own home and eat. She always did this before she was ready to leave for the day. I used to imagine her home and wished I could go there with her. I imagined it calm and quiet, with wonderful aromas of fish cooking. No insane masochist there because she just wouldn't have it! I admired that woman more than she could have known.

As I said before, in Florida at this time, segregation was still alive and well and blacks and whites would never live in the same neighborhood--this was new to me. Our street in New York was an even mix of black and white and one of my favorite neighbors to visit was a huge (to me anyway) black man the kids all called "Big Willy." He and his wife had no children and would invite in any child that came knocking on their door. Once inside they always had smiles, laughter, good food, and affection to give. At Christmastime he got all the children filled stockings--I cherished mine. I spent an awful lot of time at Big Willy's house and regretted not knowing his full name (or even real name) after we moved because I couldn't even write him a letter. I knew I would never see him again and he meant so very much to me. But, like Hattie, he helped me form my early opinions on race and racism. Racism is one thing I will always stand out very strongly against. I would not be who I am without the kindness of all the races of people who helped to shape me, especially Big Willy and Hattie. They are definitely strong currents in my brook pushing me past those stinkin' rocks.

Jen ;-)

Florida in the 70's

2009-10-15T17:02:00.000-07:00

So we make it to Meme's in Florida but don't last too long with her because her energy is entirely too positive and her work ethic (something Dad lacked greatly) entirely too strong. I loved the short time we were there, though. Dad was nice--he had to be with mother-in-law watching--we always had good food, my Uncle Tim (Meme's son from a later marriage) was a teenager and very cool, and Meme was just the most positive person I had ever encountered. I remember her going to and coming from work. She would sing, "work, work, work, fun, fun, fun." Of course, being 5, I didn't realize she was saying it for my unemployed father's benefit, I just thought she was always really happy to be working! Wow, did Dad hate her! Moreso because we all loved her and bought her positivity as just that--a positive attitude.

We left her house and moved into a beautiful home next to a family with 4 children all very close to our ages. It was wonderful. I practically lived next door with my new best friend. Her mother and brothers were very kind, her father was an ass hole, so naturally we related perfectly to each other. Jill would tell me some of the horrible things her father did, like forcing her mother to shave her head and various beatings she and brothers would receive. I, in turn, would tell her the horrible things my father did like prison, drying my brother in the dryer for wetting his bed, torturing the cat we used to have--I had no idea how much worse it would soon get. Jill's mother taught me to swim, brought me, with Jill, to the finest restaurants, bought me beautiful dresses, and protected me at her home from the hell next door. I believe this was the home where Dad regularly used a black cane to beat my brothers--I escaped this form of punishment as I was always next door. Thank God.

When we stopped paying our rent there, we moved to an apartment complex where my only memories are: nearly drowning in a too crowded pool as I got stuck under a bunch of people, singing "Yellow Submarine" to a heavy girl who came to the pool in a yellow bathing suit (I still feel bad about that, I was stupidly following other kids), Dad working at a car dealership and bringing home different VW's all the time and when we went on long rides I would have to ride in the hatchback, which is a fancy word for trunk, Gary's crush on Jeannie Manini whose name I would just say over and over again because it was just too cool, Gary and Dave's friend's blind father sitting alone in their dark apartment, and being molested by my friend Jessica George's drunk father when I spent the night at her house. I thought it was so kind of her to let me sleep in her bed while she took the floor. She knew--at least I saved her one night of something she probably dealt with her whole life. Amazingly, this has really left no emotional scars--just a little bit of paranoia when it comes to my daughters sleeping at friends' homes.

Oh, I forgot to mention that in Florida in the 70's segregation was still alive and well. And little known fact here: Jews were on the same level as blacks during that whole segregation era (my father was put in an all black regimen in the Air Force). I was put in an all black classroom in a separate room (trailer) from the rest of the school. When she began to see the work I was bringing home, which was probably at a pre-kindergarten level because you know "them blacks and Jews ain't too bright," she stormed into the school demanding an explanation. They were forthright in the whole, "you're a Jew" thing--being Irish and never feeling discrimination, she said she realized then what black people must feel. I wish everyone could feel that even if just for a moment--I'll bet a lot of racism would disappear.

Finally, we moved to East 14th Street. This was my favorite place even though we had absolutely nothing--no food, no electricity, no clothes that fit us, therefore no school, no shoes. Nothing but each other, a new dog that Dory got for her birthday and a mango tree in the backyard. Thor was Dory's black Great Dane. Dad would get him riled up and he would run, jump, bark--make noise and be crazy--things never allowed in our always controlled world.

Then there was the food situation. By now it was 1976--I remember this because we would get a half gallon of red, white and blue ice cream (everything that year was red, white and blue) and have to eat the whole thing because, as I mentioned, no electricity. At 7 years old, this was a wonderful thing. Tuesdays were A&W chilidogs days (they had a special on Tuesdays--10cent hot dogs or something like that) and I would walk to the stand in my bare feet with one or both of my brothers, watching for glass and picking up treasures: bottlecaps, long round shells, discarded toys... It was one night a week we knew we would eat something other than liverwurst (I'm not sure why, but that was pretty much all we ate when we lived there). Liverwurst and mangos.

We ate the mangos from our tree in the backyard until dad realized we could make money selling them, so he sent Gary and Dave into the tree to pick them then hawk them at the local grocery store. Did you know that mangos emit a poisonous syrup? Gary and Dave woke the next morning with their eyes swelled shut--in fact the skin over their whole bodies was swollen. Mango poisoning. Who'da thunk it? I can still taste the dry pasty liverwurst and the sweet but gritty mango. I've not eaten either one since.

As I write I realize there is so much more Florida than I though I remembered. I'll have to post a Florida II tomorrow. Maybe even a Florida III and IV. But for now, I smell London Broil and rice pilaf upstairs waiting for me. Mike is a good man.

Jen ;-)

Goin' South

2009-10-14T16:34:00.000-07:00

As I mentioned earlier, I loved our Sunday drives in Maude (the old red station wagon), so you can imagine my joy at being awakened in the middle of the night, not for a beer party as usual, but for a ride in Maude! The mood seemed a bit tense and nervous but I was 5 so I just figured it was some big surprise, wherever we were going, and I was damned excited about it! Fourteen or twenty hours later the excitement had worn off.

Maude was sure packed for some big trip and everyone seemed to know our destination but me. As we drove, scenery changed, accents changed, the mood changed. At one point we got out of the car to eat and I had no idea what the kind lady was saying to me. Mom had to repeat everything the woman said to me in my language. Had we driven to a foreign country? Well for a little girl who'd grown up in New York, yes, the deep south was a foreign country. "Whah ain't yooou cyooter thayun uh squahruhl's ay-yur," was translated as "She said you're cute, Jenny." To which I replied, "thank you." (I'm not sure if she understood me either because she just smiled kind of vacantly). Order taking and giving was impossible so I just accepted whatever was ordered and brought to me and mostly wasn't sure what I was eating. Oh, except the Mr. Peeyub (Pibb), which I had never tasted or even heard of and loved at first sip. The only thing I understood and repeated the entire rest of our trip was, "Y'all come bayuck nah, ya hear?" I loved it but just couldn't understand why everyone understood them but me--had I missed some sort of language instruction?

It was somewhere around North Carolina that we were informed (or maybe it was just me, I think everyone else was privvy to this information already) of our destination. Dad said we were going to see Meme (Mom's mom) in Florida and that he'd give a dollar to the first person who spotted a palm tree (this would make it great fun I'm sure he thought). I was up for the challenge even though I had no idea what a palm tree was or looked like but damn it I looked and looked for any kind of tree that looked different than the others. I think one of my brothers saw the first one, then, of course, that's all we saw the rest of the way down and I burned the image into my mind in case I was ever asked to spot one again.

When I realized this wasn't just a day trip I began to panic inside--my bagee(pronounced like baggy but the emphasis on the end rather than the beginning)--my bagee, my beloved 'Linus' blanket was home on my bed. I mentioned it, trying not to sound too anxious, and I was told the movers would be brining it down. Movers??? We're moving? I didn't say goodbye to anyone. My toys. My stuff. I hadn't packed anything. It was to be the first of many sly, in-the-middle-of-the-night moves to avoid confrontation at not having paid rent to a landlord.

My first experience of Florida was our first stop, probably about half-way down the state. It must have been June because I had just finished Kindergarten. The air in the car had been on full blast. Ever been in Florida in June? The weather never changes from June to August--they call it the three H's: hazy, hot and humid. When I got out of the car I was hit with pure panic because there was no air to breathe. I had never, in all my five years, experienced air so thick (made thicker by the air-conditioning I had been breathing in the car up to this point). I had a little inner mental breakdown--no bagee, no toys, no clothes, no AIR? How could we live here? How did people survive with no air to breathe? Gary told me I would get used to it, but for the first time in my life, I did not believe him.

We got to Meme's, I got used to the air, and the lizards, and the smell of the salty, fishy ocean, and no toys, and the same clothes day after day. I never, however, got used to no bagee. Boxes did actually arrive from NY. I waited every day for them. Mom thought I would forget about my security blanket. The yellow one with silk edges that I would wrap around my finger and rub across the bottom of my nose. It wasn't in any of the boxes. It's been 35 years and I still haven't forgotten. Whew, how scary for the only security I had in life to be gone. Now I had nothing to fall back on but me and my own strength. No silk edges to smooth across my nose and calm me or ease my anxiety. No, just my strength and spirit, which I think have served me well. Again, a small rock, but a large current in my brook's symphony.

Jen ;-)

baby blue typewriter

2009-10-12T14:21:00.000-07:00

Every child wants to please his parents. I am no exception. Dad loved to write. He loved the reactions he could incite through his writing. His father, Grandpa Freedman, wrote for an advertising firm and Dad obviously inherited the love and the gift (or he just wanted to please his father) for writing. Dad's mental illness caused severe paranoia, which oftentimes made him reclusive. He would sit, though, at his baby blue manual typewriter and 'hunt and peck' faster than any secretary I've seen to this day. I loved that sound. I loved his spirit when he was writing--it was light, yet thoughtful. Never angry or hurtful, in direct contrast to his usual spirit.

When I was absent from school as a child, he would send in long, elaborate notes that the teachers would howl at as they read. These notes would be passed from teacher to teacher. How they would laugh and carry on all day long about the content (which I was rarely allowed to see--I know one informed the teacher that 'the rabbit' died. I was 8 years old).

He would write to companies in someone else's voice. Jack Daniels made him a lifetime honorary something-or-other after reading his letter meant to sound s if he grew up in the backwoods of some small southern town (kind of like where I'm living now). This was ironic as, when he died at the age of 42, the autopsy listed his cause of death as 'alcohol poisoning'. From Jack Daniels.

Dad had a love of words and writing and all things literary. Dory, Gary, Dave, and I always had 'required readings' and had read most of the classics long before they were required in school. I was 9 years old when I first read (I say 'first read' as I could, and have, read that book over and over again) Richard Bach's Jonathan Livingston Seagull and I fully understood it.

We were forced to enter any writing contest of which he caught wind. Of course, his hand usually wrote most of the always winning essay or story. I was first published in the 6th grade when I was given an assignment to write a research paper on bees. Dad helped me write one on B's, in which he pondered the question, "Where would we be without the B? Would we 'ake read' and would a mean woman, then, be an itch?" Mr. Ginsburg, my teacher, loved it and sent it in to some educator's publication. He gave me a copy with my (Dad's) published article. It was Dad's way of living vicariously through us.

Some parents create athletes and beauty queens, mine created writers. All four of us kids love all things literary--especially writing. Dad was my absolute influence as a writer. He created my love and ability for words, both written and read.

Jen ;-)

The Cup

2009-10-11T17:16:00.000-07:00

That old cup everyone talks about--is it half empty or half full? Well, half full of course! What I really think about that cup, though? I think that I would like that cup to become a carafe, a pitcher, a pond, a lake, river, ocean--filled to its very rim. Spilling over. Spilling over with all the good things that cup was holding--blessings, good fortune, health, happiness, and contentment. And what I think is that I would like for everyone to see the world and our lives within it in an equally positive light.

We, as creatures of the earth, are immensely fortunate to exist on a planet so beautifully diverse, both visually and climatically, yet so perfectly in sync with each of our personal needs. All creatures of the earth have been given the ability to adapt to and excel in their own individual environments. Take for example, the polar bear and arctic fox of the bitterly cold Antarctic and the reptiles and birds of the rain forests. Larger, more dense (physically) peoples of northern lands and smaller, more agile peoples close to the tropical equator. All of earth's inhabitants have been given different senses with which to experience all that she has to offer as well. All living things upon the earth are created to be so perfectly in tune with their environment. How fortunate for us!

As human beings we have been blesesd with the highest functioning intellect of all creatures. We are at the top of the food chain, which affords us the peace of mind not to have to be weary of any natural predators that we could not outfight or outsmart. We have been given the ability to feel with both our hearts and bodies. We feel such a wonderful variety of things that no other earthly creatures can. How very blessed human beings are.

As human beings of the western hemisphere we are doubly blessed as we have evolved into a people who appreciate the contributions of all people: men, women and minorities in politics, science and every other aspect of our lives. The majority of people of the western hemisphere are free to feel, worship, work, and play as we please. We should all feel fortunate for the freedoms we possess.

As Americans, we are just about the freest and most fortunate people in the world. We, even as children, are free to do just about anything we wish. We are not restrained by birth or social status from moving up the social ladder. I had a neighbor from Pakistan who brought with her to this country a slave girl of 9 years old. She did not understand why she had to send her to school when she needed her at home for housework and caring for her young children. I told her she was in America now where slavery has been outlawed for many years. This girl has since graduated high school and lives on her own--free of her "owners." If we are unable to provide for our children, find a job, attend college or technical schools, quit addictions, or are being repressed in any way, the government will help us. There was a young lady in the news recently who grew up homeless on "skid row" and has just graduated from Harvard. In America no one has to go hungry. How incredibly fortunate we are to be a part of one of the greatest nations in the world.

Now, as North Carolinians, we have some of the mildest weather, oceans as well as mountains, big cities, farms and very small towns, some of the very best colleges in the country, and definitely the kindest people I've ever encountered. Wilkes County goes even one step further as it lives the motto, "It takes a village to raise a child." Yes, this is a life that is bubbling over.

We are all afforded so much opportunity to excel in any area we could possibly choose. With hard work and a dream we can be anything we want to be, go anywhere we want to go, and live any life we choose to live. Yes, the cup is definitely half full. Half full of all the good things life has to offer--so drink it up!

Jen ;-)

Gestapo

2009-10-08T17:36:00.000-07:00

Mom was Irish Protestant, Dad was a Russian/German Jew. We celebrated both Christian (though the Christian ones were never about religion, but about fun) and Jewish holidays, learned prayers in Hebrew and even attended Hebrew school and synogogue for a couple of years. I think Dad was worried about us not knowing our heritage or being confused about who were, even with all of that, so he made up a game to play to remind us: Gestapo. I thought I remembered him playing with Gary and Dave as well as me, but Dory said the reason they all loved it so much was because only I got to play (Gare, let me know which one of us is remembering correctly). At any rate this was a game I remember from early childhood--until age 5 or so.

So the game of Gestapo...Dad would sit down and either stand me in front of him or, sometimes, sit me on his lap. Then the questioning would begin, "Vaht ees your name?" I would feel my stomach flutter and my mind reel, trying to remember the right answer, or if there even was one. I always tried the truth first in case he was testing my honesty, "Jenny", I'd squeak out. Whack! His hand covered the right side of my tiny face and he yelled in his angry fake German accent, "YOU LIE!!!" My cheek burned, my teeth chattered and my head began to ache. He would try again this time emphasizing each word separately, "Vaht. Ees. Your. Name?" Now my mind raced and I would look to my audience for clues (there was always an audience when such fun was being had). Dory and Dave usually had a knowing kind of smirk on their faces, kind of enjoying watching bratty little sister suffer, Gary either looked sad or removed and Mom, if she was there, would look disgusted. No clues there. So I'd try my nickname, "Kymus", I would say. Sure that I had the right answer this time. The pain across the right side of my face, followed by "You lie!", once again told me otherwise. I'd try Becky (the twin sister dropped in the Hudson), friends' names, family names. This usually went on for 5-10 interrogation questions, to which I never had the right answer.

When it was over I would get the story from Dad about how no answer was ever correct in Gestapo questioning. After each time hearing the story I'd hope that he considered the lesson learned, only to be called back to 'play' again a couple of days, weeks or a month later. I don't recall feeling angry about this game, but anxious, confused, and sad for the people in the story Dad told me.

From this game I learned that sometimes there is no right answer, especially when you're speaking to someone whose mind is made up. I actually did learn something--warped as it was--about history. And I learned that pain is only temporary--something that would prove very useful as I grew. So I'm not sure if I'd consider this one a rock that I had to make it past or strength given to me to push past future rocks. A little of both, I guess...

Jen ;-)

Maude

2009-10-06T16:24:00.000-07:00

Okay, time for happy memories. Maude was our old red station wagon. She didn't always start the first time Dad turned the key so I would have to put a penny in her vent. Paying her would start her up every time! Maude had a special "Jenny seat" between Mom and Dad up front, which was really just the arm rests folded down. Whenever all 6 of us piled into her I knew it would be a good day (Dory, Gary, and Dave strongly disagree with this statement, but in my 4 and 5 year old mind, we were all happy). Sometimes we would just drive--from early morning until dusk. We would see all of the beauty of upstate New York: the mountains, the farms, both crops and cows alike, small towns, rickety homes and mansions. No one ever fought (everyone knew better than that). Mom and Dad would laugh and joke and tell me stories about how I wasn't really a part of their family (I was blond and fair-skinned while everyone else looked very Mediterranian like Dad), they found me under a rotten apple tree and took me home. I would beg them to take me to my birthplace (the rotten apple tree) and never understood why they found it so funny that I would want to see such a place. Then they would go on to tell me that I had a twin sister as well named Becky but they couldn't keep both of us so the had to throw Becky into the Hudson River. I was probably about 10 or 11 years old before I realized that I never really had a twin sister. I was extremely gullible which must have made it great fun to tell me these great tales. Oddly, these stories never upset me, they just made me more curious about who I was.

These days were also the times I'd learn about Mom and Dad's childhood (like how Dad played superman as a young boy and knocked himself out on the floor 'flying' off of a table or how Mom had to dodge spiders in her outhouse as a young girl when my uncle would bang on the sides while she was in there to knock them loose). I'd hear stories about Dory eating her poop as a toddler, Gary being a perfect baby who was happy no matter what Mom did to him (she'd gush about how if she wanted to hold him he was happy to be held and when she needed a break and put him down he was happy to be left alone), and how Dave always won the marshmallow stuffing contests and he was so tiny, how could he fit all those marshmallows in his mouth? Dad would tell prison stories about two priests who did time for burning draft records. It was always very intriguing. I guess I was just happy to have Mom and Dad paying attention to me--undivided attention for hours at a time. That's a basic dream day for any young child.

There was usually a destination. Sometimes historic places where a lesson was to be learned. Sometimes Saratoga Springs, which I loved until we would get to the mineral fountains. Dad loved this foul-smelling water and would drink it by the gallon (filling jugs whenever we went). He also expected us to drink it and there would dare not be a complaint or a face made; we would just drink it as told. Once or twice our destination was Albany but I think we generally steered clear of that because it was a busy, crowded city and that's just not what "Sunday" (they didn't have to be on Sunday, that's just what we called them) drives were all about. They were about exploring and being together and that's just what we did.

Days like these formed a part of who I became as a parent. I realize the importance of sharing life history with my children, forcing family togetherness (even and especially when the children became teens and didn't think they wanted family time) and I've always made time for our "Sunday Drives." This is the flowing current that fills my brook.

Jen ;-)

Punishing Gary

2009-10-03T11:07:00.000-07:00

I think Gary must have had a report sent home from school that he was misbehaving, or maybe he showed too much emotion at home for some reason (emotion of any kind was not allowed to be shown in great amounts: happy was a timid smile, funny was a quiet giggle, sadness and anger were just not allowed, and affection was a quick hug (but only for us girls, Gary and Dave were not to show affection (unless I hugged them first))). Sorry for that tangent...

At any rate, Dad decided that Gary should make him laugh by acting like a clown, if a clown was what he wanted to be. Well, he either got bored with this game or decided it would be more humiliating for Gary if his "audience" became his little sister. So I was called to the punishment room--whichever room this may have been--to be Gary's audience. I immediately saw the hurt, humiliated look on Gary's face and felt the pit in my throat grow. I felt tears well in my eyes and tried to swallow down the lump because crying was never allowed. I couldn't laugh. There was nothing funny about Gary, who incidentally was the only person in the household who was ever kind to me, half loping/half dancing around the room in an attempt to be 'funny'. Now Dad's ire turns to me. "He will do this until he's funny. Don't you think he's funny?" Then back to Gary, "You're not funny enough, Puke (that was our name when we disgusted him, which was quite often). I thought you knew how to be funny, Clown. Keep going until your little sister finds you funny." So I laughed. I laughed and I hated Dad with all that I was for doing this to me. It was the first time in my life that I felt hate--pure, raw hatred, and I did not like the feeling at all. Gary never did anything to me that I should have to punish him and I hadn't done anything wrong to be punished by making me be a part of hurting my brother.

After he made me laugh, I was ordered to drag him through the house so everyone could see his funny act. We could all just have a great big party at Gary's expense--wouldn't that be fun? And ostracize me while we're at it by letting Gary resent me for being the one to drag him through the house and my other two siblings resent me for hurting the only nice person in the household. Everyone loved Gary because he was always easy going and kind--no matter what was going on. He was always the one to tell Dave and Dory to stop picking on me. He was the one who let Dave beat him in the boxing rings Dad set up from house to house so Dave would feel tough. He was the one who told Dory she was cool and pretty and things no one else would say because we didn't see them. Gary saw them. Gary saw the good. Gary was the good. And damn Dad for making me be any part of hurting that goodness.

I still feel a queasiness in my stomach when I think about that day. It is a rock that I'm still trying to maneuver around but it's like the Grand Canyon and Mount Everest combined in the middle of my meager little brook...but like Dori, I "just keep swimming."

Jen ;-)

Beer Parties

2009-09-27T13:31:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure if it was because Dad, himself, had been drinking (he wasn't so much mean when drinking, but odd) or because he thought it would teach us something (there was never any telling what he thought his "lessons" were teaching), but oftentimes we would all gather on Dave's bed in the middle of the night (I was awakened, I'm not sure about my siblings). The purpose for our gathering was a beer party. No special occasion, no reasons ever given, just to sit around on his bed and "chug" beer to Dad's song: "Here's to (Jenny) and the way (s)he does the hoochie-kooch, soooooo....drink chugalug, chugalug, chugalug..." We all got our turn to "chugalug" and everyone loved my turn because of the faces I made when trying to be tough about drinking something so awful--especially to my four and five-year-old taste buds.

Did I mention four and five-year-old taste buds? It amazes me still that none of us have any drinking or drug issues. If his lesson was to make us, me in particular, dislike beer, it worked. I won't drink it to this day. Another thing I learned from those beer parties was how fun things were when the family was together--even if it was doing something I detested in a place that was uncomfortable to be (Dave's bed was not a welcoming place with boogers on the wall and blood stains on the sheets from his constant bloody noses). It was still fun to watch my siblings have their turns and to just be close to each other.

Does it make me an optimist to see the good in this or just warped from drinking the rocks out of my brook?

Jen;-)

The Early Years

2009-09-02T19:24:00.000-07:00

My father must have been just as overwhelmed by my arrival as my mother because when I was about a year old, he and a friend drove halfway across the country and robbed a bank (Dad drove the getaway car). The responsibility of a wife and, now, four children, along with manic-depression drove him to the edge. I still have the letters that he wrote to me from Danbury Federal Prison. One that comes to mind has a sketch of Linus with his blankie on the front (I, too, was very attached to my yellow blanket, "bagee bagee" (emphasis on the "gee")). It's funny how I see that sketch in a different light now that I've worked in a correctional setting. I know that inmates "pay" (in cigarettes or food or protection) for those sketches. In that way, I guess, artistic prisoners get lucky. Incarceration is such an ugly thing, when letters are sent to loved ones, they want them to see past that ugliness. They hope that the art on the letter or envelope will ease the pain at the thought of their loved one in such an undesirable place. I was four when Dad came home from prison.

While my father was away, Mom worked long hours at a local laundromat to support her four children. I went to a preschool run by the Salvation Army. My siblings were all in school by this time. Since my mother didn't drive, I was transported to and from school daily by taxi, which the Salvation Army also paid for. Needless to say, I never miss an opportunity to drop any extra money I have into the bell-ringing Santa's bucket.

As most people, I remember very little about my early childhood. My three most vivid memories are of helping Mom clean the lint out of the industrial size driers at the laundromat, singing Helen Reddy's I Am Woman while flexing my scrawny arms, and finally, I remember our orange tabby, Simba. Simba slept with my brother Dave who, incidentally, was the only family member who ever acknowledged my presence--he even played with me on occasion.

The first thing I remember about Dad coming home from prison was his hatred for Simba. And Dave. My two favorite things in the world. Simba was afraid of Dad (with very good reason) and Dad reacted with intense anger. He would trap her under a bed and use a slingshot to hit her with shelled walnuts. One day she was just gone and not spoken of again (in front of Dad anyway).

Simba taught me my first lesson about Dad's rules. She littered kittens on Dave's bed. We were instructed not to touch the kittens. One day I witnessed Dave pick up one of these precious bundles and, like most four-year-olds, ran to tell on him. Lesson number one: There will be no "rats" in Dad's house. Dave was spanked for the holding of the kitten but I was spanked doubly for being a "rat". Lesson learned.

I guess I was lucky in one respect. I only got a "spanking." Spankings quickly turned to beatings. As a matter of fact, that is the only spanking I remember receiving from my father. He must have decided after that day that spankings were either too easy or too average. He loved face slaps, belts to the palms of the hand, and punches in the center of the abdomen that knocked the wind out of us. After knocking the wind out of us he'd ask us a question that had to be immediately answered. When we were unable to answer due to lack of breath, he'd revert to the face slap, telling us to "stop playing games." Hmmmm... As Roger Waters once said, "All in all it was all just (rocks in the brook)."

What did I learn from all of this? I still don't rat or like rats, I keep my stomach muscles strong so I never have to feel the wind knocked out of me again, and I still love to clean the dryer lint from my dryer.

Jen ;-)

The Third Generation

2009-08-29T08:59:00.000-07:00

Meme was Mom's mom. She always had a smile on her face and a fantastic outlook on life. I don't know much about her childhood except that she lost her father at a very young age and her older sister, Nellie, had a twin that didn't make it. Her mother, who my mother always referred to as "Nanny Ainsworth", was very proper, attending afternoon tea daily. In her youth, Meme was the dream of every young man in our small upstate New York town. She married my Grandfather and had her first child at 16. Her second at 18. Her third at 20. She was a beautiful brilliant young woman and that was not the life she had planned for herself, so at 22, she left that life--husband, children and family--and moved from nowhere in upstate NY to her new sunshiny life in south Florida. Leaving behind her, devastation to all in her wake--but she would not be held down.

Meme had no regrets. She always held her head up high with her sights focused forward. Never looking back. Never looking down.

My mother has always been much the same way. I do know about her childhood and it was horrible by any standards--complete with abandonment, followed by wicked stepmother and stepsisters, alcoholic, abusive father then abusive, mentally ill husband. Did I mention poor? I mean, depths-of-despair-poor. No running water, no new clothes or shoes for school or ever, no running water... Whew! But...she always had a smile on her face and a song in her voice. She studied hard in school. She always held her head up and focused toward the future. She never looked back. She never looked down. She never dwelled.

I am the third generation. I always have a smile on my face--well, almost always. I keep my head held high--most of the time. I try to forget the past and look to the future. I guess sometimes I dwell. But mostly I try to see my past as learning, strength, hope, faith and the rocks that give my brook music.

Jen ;-)

Yia Yia

2009-08-19T19:52:00.000-07:00

Yia Yia is the Greek word for Grandma. Sometime on or around February 22, 2010 I will be a Yia Yia to a sweet new gift in Florida. No, I am not Greek but my daughter has married a wonderful Greek man from a wonderful Greek family so my grandchild will be Greek. I wonder what the opposite of a rock in my brook would be...Maybe a strong current? Or a school of fast-swimming fish? Or maybe a downward slope. Whatever it is, I seem to have many of them of late. So much so that I have begun a "Gratitude Journal." In this journal I write each day (sometimes several times a day--whenever the feeling strikes me) everything for which I am grateful. My heart is so full every time I open or close that book. Grab a notebook or a journal with a happy illustration and start writing. You'll be surprised how many wonderful things are bestowed upon you all the time--the more you write, the more you notice. Just try it and see how warm and happy it makes you feel--you'll be hooked!
Jen;-)

My First Rock

2009-08-18T19:20:00.000-07:00

College taught me so much more than curriculum. It gave me insight into my being and my family's opinions of such. Much to my siblings' delight I often refer to myself as a dingle-berry attached to my mother's backside. I do this because my mother has never pretended to be happy about my coming to be. I am simply an unpleasant appendage, if you will, of which she cannot rid herself (maybe I should send her some wet wipes?) She reminded me time and again throughout my childhood that when she became pregnant for me her youngest was about to begin kindergarten and she was not happy about starting over with a new baby. She was never mean to me, she just usually denied my presence--as did my three older siblings. My father always seemed smitten by my presence but, hell, he was crazy--no, really, bi-polar, hiding in closets crazy.

So early on in college I was given an assignment for one of my psych. courses in which I was to write an "infant autobiography." This was basically a chronicle of my mother's pregnancy and my first year of life. I was going to have to ask mom--this intrigued me but also made me a bit nervous. Mom has always been a woman of few words when it comes to any kind of feelings or memories. As it happened there was no need to be nervous or intrigued as she told me what I already knew; she just put it in such a way as to drive the point home (she's always been very good at this--short and to the point). Her sole asnwer to my query for information, "If abortion were legal, you wouldn't be here."

Turns out the first rock in my brook was in place as I divided into cells trying to form a being(there was barely enough water to maneuver that one!)--that must be why the water in my brook has always so easily flowed past its rocks.

Jen;-)

Introduction to Title

2009-08-14T19:15:00.000-07:00

Sitting on the huge back deck of Meme's (my maternal grandmother) breathtaking home, I often read the quote she had engraved in wood above the rambling creek: "If the rocks were removed, the brook would have no music". I would sit and think about how different that creek would be with no rocks. Would I hear the water moving with nothing standing in its way? That quote always stuck with me.

Then I went to college and majored in English where I learned about one thing representing another in literature. Ever notice how it's raining in the climactic scene of almost every movie made? Remember the TLC song "Don't Go Chasing Waterfalls"? Water signifies life--all that it is, gives us, takes from us... For instance, a lot of water such as a waterfall or heavy rain, would be major life experiences (good and bad), whereas TLC's 'rivers and lakes' and light rainshowers would be everyday life or minor experiences (good and bad). Then there are obstacles that life throws at us--those are the rocks in the streams, creeks, rivers that life must make its way around to continue on.

Meme's quote took on a whole new meaning to me. As an adult who has made it through life having to maneuver around some very large rocks (boulders, often), this quote became my life's theme. Because I believe that the person I've become, the music that I am, is due to the rocks that have been thrown, placed or rolled into my brook. Ever notice how boring people are who have had no real unpleasant experiences in their life? I'm truly grateful for my rock-filled brook!
Jen ;-)