Story Forth
One of my earliest memories is not really my memory at all,
but a story that I was told that has now become a memory. Sometimes I wonder if I have memories or if
they are really just impressions based on stories or photos. Maybe that is why I am obsessed with
photography, if I capture the moment, I will always have that memory which
ultimately becomes part of the story I weave that defines more or less who I
am. We have so many stories that we hear
from others about our childhood or that we experienced ourselves and we pick
and choose which ones shape our own version.
It is like we are creating a resume of our personal traits instead of
our job experience. We have several to
choose from depending on whom we are talking to.
My mother tells the tale that when my brother entered this
world in 1969 I stayed with my grandparents in their new-to-them, very old
house. My mother enjoyed putting me in
dresses and girly things, but when she came to retrieve me, my grandmother had
wrestled me into a pair of denim overalls.
Apparently, I had also taken a pretty good tumble down the stairs during
my visit, to which I’m sure my grandmother said “you’ll live”, dusted me off
and sent me on my way to further exploration and adventure. This anecdote illustrates many things about
my grandmother, which I find true to this day.
1. She was never much for convention; if you want to wear
overalls because they are more comfortable and let you move more easily, go
ahead. Just because you are a girl
doesn’t mean you have to wear a dress.
My grandmother was a tomboy when she was young, and growing up with
three brothers on a farm, I’m not sure she had another option. But over the last 20 years, I can’t say I’ve
seen her wear pants very often, so I have to assume that she is more
comfortable in dresses at this point. Or
it could be something as simple as her dexterity is not so great and it is
quicker and easier to pull up your skirt to go to the bathroom than to unbutton
pants!
2. A little dirt or abrasion will not kill you. Which was her way of saying “don’t sweat the
small stuff”. Since we were always
playing outside and climbing trees and gathering berries or otherwise finding
adventure, we were often scraped or bruised, and even though my grandmother was
a nurse, she didn’t give us a lot of medical attention. Usually we endured a torturous Bactine application
and then we were back to the races.
While I am not the best athlete, I am pretty tough and have weathered
some good storms – I like to think she helped make me this way.
3. Dessert is not optional and it doesn’t have to come after
dinner. This line of thinking doesn’t
really relate to the above narrative, but my grandmother ALWAYS served dessert
and she thinks nothing of having cake or pie for breakfast with a nice cup of
coffee. In the eyes of a child, this
was the utmost in cool decadence and certainly something of which my mother
would never approve. I still consider it
a great treat to have dessert for breakfast on occasion.
We lived in a rented home in Ledyard CT when I was very
little. My mom sometimes worked nights
as a nurse but also some afternoons. We
had a babysitter named Debbie who was attractive, but not very attentive. She had her boyfriend come over one day,
which was a big no-no in my mother’s book.
I have no idea how old she was, I’m assuming over 16 because I’m pretty
sure she drove there on her own. Anyway,
Debbie ordered some pizza for my brother and me, which was a great treat and a
good distraction. However, I had a loose
tooth that I was wiggling to death while Debbie and her boyfriend were fondling
each other on the couch. It came out
when I bit into the pizza and I leaped around and tried to show her the tooth,
but she was pretty into the boyfriend. I
was so excited to tell my mom about my tooth when she got home and she asked me
“What did Debbie do?” I innocently
replied that she was kissing her boyfriend on the couch. I didn’t mean to be incriminating, I was
just relaying the facts. Needless to
say, we never saw Debbie again. Did I
grow up to be a world-class, rule-following babysitter? I have to admit, babysitting was not my
favorite method of generating income, and once or twice I did have some boys
over when I was with a friend. I never
endangered any children, but my mom was right, focus on the job while you are
getting paid, not your boyfriend.
Theresa was my best friend from age 4-7. We did everything together. She was the youngest from a big family and I
was the oldest from a small family. She
was in my kindergarten class with Mrs. Luini (pronounced Looo-eeneee), who had
huge red frizzy hair like a clown.
Somewhere during that time in K or 1st, I remember thinking
about the bologna sandwich that was probably in my lunch. Accompanied by mayonnaise on white
bread. The more I thought about these
things together, the more nauseous I became.
I didn’t eat my sandwich at lunch and have never touched a piece of
bologna since. I am also not a fan of
mayonnaise, but can stomach it on occasion in the right concoction. I can’t say what triggered the bologna
rejection, but it was strong and it has lasted 45 years. It goes to show that sometimes you should
trust your instincts, even at 5 years old.
I had an uncanny sense that nitrate filled, processed meat partnered
with a disgusting fatty mixture was probably not good for me.
When I first meet someone and they ask where I grew up, I
tell them Essex CT, which is a small upper middle class town on the Connecticut
River, where it empties into Long Island sound.
It is a beautiful little boating town filled with historic homes, marinas,
old money, a picturesque Main St with cutesy knick-knack shops and historical
restaurants like the Griswold Inn and snobby stores like Talbots. If things don’t go further, I leave the
conversation here – allowing them to think I lived in a quaint New England
house on the river and had an idyllic youth. If you get to know me better, my story has
more depth. In 1975 my family built a three-bedroom
1500 square foot home in Centerbrook – an underfed neighbor of Essex with no
water views or cute stores. My parents
struggled to pay the bills each month and to be happy with each other. We moved to Centerbrook when I was 7 and I cried
every day for two months in second grade.
My kindly teacher, Mrs. Schneider, didn’t know what to do with me. Mind you, we only moved about 30 minutes
from my previous school – but my parents were not keen on travel, so I didn’t
see much of my best friend Theresa after we moved and I was devastated. This is an early testament to both my fear of
change and my love of my home – both of which were disrupted during that
dastardly move. To appreciate how far
I’ve come from that blubbering insecure moment in time, I have lived in 7
different towns/cities since graduating from college including NYC, LA, Boston
and Brussels and 11 different homes. I
have traveled to 18 different countries and I hope to double that list over the
next 25 years! Even though it was no Essex, and I still
missed Theresa, our neighborhood in Centerbrook boasted a platoon of elementary
aged children short on funds but long on energy and creativity. We
walked to school most days through a forest ripe for molesters, played games
outside every day we were able, rode our bikes everywhere, had our first kisses
playing flashlight tag as we entered puberty, tortured pollywogs, and crashed
go carts and skate boards. We played and
played until my dad whistled for us to come home, and then we would beg to come
out for another 30 minutes. There was
always something to do and someone to do it with. My friends were my refuge and created the
ideal environment for me to try new things, sometimes fail, but generally
thrive - something that is still true for me today.
I have lots of memories of Halloween from fairly early
on. They are kind of bittersweet. I don’t remember the actual event but there
is a photo of my brother, my dad and me and I’m in some sort of clown
costume. I remember liking the costume;
it was store bought, a rarity in our
household as my mom usually hand made most of our clothes and costumes (and her
patterns were more Simplicity than Vogue).
This is also why I never learned how to sew, out of spite or lack of
necessity I’m not sure which. The things
I liked most about Halloween were obviously the dressing up part, but also my
Dad always seemed to take the reigns at Halloween. He took us trick-or-treating, socialized with
the other dads, and even as we got older he would walk around with us and stay
on the street while we knocked on doors in search of refined sugar (also a rare
occasion). I think he mostly enjoyed
having a beer with buddies as we cruised the leaf filled New England streets. Our town also thoroughly embraced Halloween
with a full on costume parade consummated by a bonfire with hot dogs and cider
and awards for best costume (I never received one). As I got older and the pressure was on me to
conjure up a creative costume, I always felt let down. My mom was too tired to sew anything great,
and I wasn’t innovative enough to come up with anything on my own. One year, I put myself in a trash bag and
taped leaves to it so I looked like a bag of leaves. Kind of pathetic. I envied those kids who had moms who put
their all into the costume, or kids who had the balls to put together something
artistic on their own.
I am proud to report that I totally redeemed myself in
adulthood in a few ways. My husband and
I won best couple costume at a party when we went as Pam Anderson and Kid Rock,
and we won the “that’s just wrong” category when we went as the “lingerie bowl”
couple – wearing matching red bra, panties and football pads. I have
done a pretty good job keeping my kids on the cutting edge of Halloween
fashion. Some costumes were purchased,
others were made (using glue and Velcro – still don’t sew!), but we generally
had something fun going on. My daughter
was part of a group costume for years that they exhibited in the annual
Halloween parade in Park City. I adore dressing
up. Granted there is pressure to create
a memorable costume, but I love the idea of being someone else for the evening.
It allows a certain anonymous frivolity
not available in real life.
As I help guide my children through the terrorizing
experience of being a young adult, I am reminded of my own less than well-guided
teenage years and how my life and views have changed. I have always enjoyed writing, it is one of
the places where I can totally lose myself for hours and forget the outside
world. It is like meditation for me, but
instead of quieting my mind, I empty the contents in a way that hopefully
entertains others. In 10th
grade I won a poetry and short story contest, both pieces were published in the
local paper. I don’t remember the extent
of the competition, it could have been local or statewide, I have no idea. The award-winning poem was a haiku I believe:
Fake Fake Fake
Like the skin of a snake
Shed, and another façade is grown.
It is obviously short, very simple but in hindsight and
perhaps a deeper analysis, I view it as an accurate metaphor for the teenage
experience and the tumultuous nature of the female relationships I had during
that time. One of my greatest, and most
unsubstantiated fears is of snakes; I will run with knees high and emit a
horror- movie scream at the sight of a baby garter snake no bigger than a
straw. As I navigated my way through various high school groups, trying to
locate “my people”, I encountered some disingenuous characters. At the same time, I was changing as I grew and
learned more about the world and my place in it. Thus, we were all creating some façade and
shedding it as we moved through life in the quest to find comfort in our own
skin.
I also wrote a short story that was totally fictional about
my brother and I riding our bikes and my brother almost getting hit by a car,
which allowed me to appreciate him more.
Honestly, I have no idea where this one came from. In
truth, I wasn’t the best sister in the world. I enjoyed doling out my fair share of personal
torture. One of the worst was when he
suffered a spiral fracture of his tibia and fibia the very last day of school
in 6th grade and he had a plaster cast on his entire leg – upper and
lower, for the entire summer. He didn’t
get a walking cast until the day before school started in September. While my cast from a 7th grade
ankle fracture was covered in signatures and thoughtfully stored in the attic
by my verging-on-hoarder mother, Jon wanted to keep his clean and white, kind
of like his preference for plain vanilla ice cream, something I could never
understand. It was a hot summer and my
mother had to work, so I took care of my brother during the day. I dutifully completed my chores: hanging the
laundry on the clothesline outside, drying the dishes, etc. but I was not going
to let that crippled sibling ruin my summer fun. I made him lumber on his crutches all the way
to the neighbor’s pool four houses down the street, sweating his ass off, and
he watched me while I played in the pool with our friends. As you might recall, there was no swimming
or showering with those antiquated, hard, odorous, plaster casts. I didn’t offer to give him a sponge bath
after he ambled home after me in tears.
For some inexplicable sibling reasoning, he still loved me and looked up
to me. Ironically, now that I treat him
much better and want to have a relationship with him, he wants nothing to do
with me. I suppose that is the price I
pay for my poor babysitting skills and puberty induced selfishness from 3
decades ago. But that is the topic of a
whole other therapy session, I mean blog.
My senior year in high school, I took honors English, and
our teacher was of the variety that is not seen anymore. In addition to studying Chaucer, Shakespeare,
and JD Salinger, we learned about classical music, art, theatre, and
architecture. Mr. Sweeney took it upon
himself to give us culture lessons and escorted us to museums at Yale, played Mozart
and Bach in the classroom, and hosted special book clubs at home with his wife. In order to earn honors credit, we were
required to write the dreaded “Church Paper”.
The church paper necessitated us to learn all we could about
architecture by researching and visiting churches throughout New England, and
write a 75-100 page paper on the subject, including pictures and drawings. This notorious research paper was the topic
of great discussion at our high school for well over a decade. Seniors would band together and car pool with
those fortunate enough to have access to a vehicle and drive the New England
countryside following maps as we located places of worship and documented the
location of their pulpits and doors, the style of the pews and windows and
relayed in great detail what that implied about their constituents and their
beliefs. It was one of the greatest
learning experiences of my life and taught me how to research and write a
paper, an invaluable tool before I left for college. The church paper comprised a good part of
our 4th quarter grade, and our teacher made a recording of his
thoughts on cassette as he graded our papers.
I waited and listened with anticipation with my friend Tom (class
valedictorian who is now an Economics professor at Northwestern) for my final
grade, which was an A+!!! Pride welled
up in me, as only a few of us received this perfect grade.
(Emily Dickinson and the dash – other memory)
Determined that I would never be able to support myself with
any sort of writing or English major, and spurred on by my grandfather and
uncle to become an engineer at College, I started off as a math major. Truth be told, I also did very well in Math,
and in some ways appreciated the predictable nature of mathematics. There is always a right answer. My math career came to an abrupt and speedy
halt during my freshman year of college as we were rotating things around 3D
axis, and my social life was far more interesting than my 8:30 calculus
class. It is the only time I ever got a
C, and I called my mom to tell her about a grade. I went into the final with a failing grade, so
that C was a huge testament to last minute cramming and lack of sleep. My scholarship depended on a decent GPA, and
math was not the way to meet that goal.
So I took psychology, and geology, and political science and economics
and history as all good liberal arts students do.
Encounter
She walked through the single story cookie cutter affordable
housing complex searching for number 38.
As she approached the door, a feeling of anxiety washed over her and she
nearly headed back to the car. Maybe
this surprise visit wasn’t a great idea.
Instead she took an audible deep breath, and rapped on the screen
door. He didn’t answer immediately, but
the window was opened part way and she could hear movements. “Dad?” she called out at first quietly and
then louder. He opened the door and
looked at her for only a moment before uttering her name. They had not seen each other in 16 years. He
had not contacted her in any form during that time. She had at least sent the obligatory
Christmas cards. And been to
therapy. And sought out any number of places
to fix her daddy issues. She was not
sure what remedies he had tried for his problems, or if he thought he even had
any. It was much as she expected. His eyes seemed a lighter shade of blue than
she remembered, and his hair now white, but his stature and features were
fundamentally the same. The small one
bedroom apartment was home to a galley style kitchen, a set of golf clubs,
shelves of books, a television, and a newspaper, all orderly in a retired naval
sort of way. What was slightly
off-putting were the unframed photos of her children (from the xmas card), her
nieces, and her brother and herself (from high school – the last time he had a
relationship with either of them) neatly placed on his desk in a row. It felt like a stranger was passively
stalking her family. As he pointed to
them and said, “This is how I stay in touch” she struggled to figure out what
that comment could possibly mean. They
exchanged small talk about the weather, her kids’ college plans, and his golf
game. She inquired as to whether he had
her information and he produced an index card with her mother’s writing on it
with all of the necessary details to contact her and her brother. Perhaps he thought she was concerned that he
would be able reach them in case of emergency.
In reality, she just wanted to confirm that he in fact had the ability
to contact them and willfully did not.
