The Truth Will Set You Free

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?

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

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

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

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

   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)

 

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

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

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

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 YouTube.  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.

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 cigarettes, 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

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

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

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

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 as if he grew up in the backwoods of some small southern town. Dad was from New York City. 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

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

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

 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

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

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;-)