Laura A. Ellison's Blog, page 4
December 16, 2012
Thinking Of Newtown
Shooting rampages are a very modern problem. My parents went to school in the 1950s, and it's true, such violence did not happen then. Violence is a shape-shifter, changing itself to fit the era. Violence is now seen as the ultimate boogeyman, who is clever enough to know that the best place to hide behind is another stigma. In the case of Newtown, mental illness or disability.
Considering acts of mindless violence, the media seems to want to take the road to mental illness or disability. In the case of the Sandy Hook school shootings or the Portland, Oregon mall or the Colorado movie theater, the words 'schizophrenia' and 'autism' have been used a lot. These words encapsulate a spectrum of symptoms, but many schizophrenics and people with an autism related condition such as Asperger's Syndrome are not violent, so I don't see these conditions as much of an explanation, no matter how convenient. Also, consider the violent criminals who are not mentally ill. Charles Manson was never diagnosed with a mental illness. A borderline personality? Another very wide spectrum, more like a rainbow. In the scramble of trying to explain the reason behind senseless acts, we may have forgotten that we're dealing with a contradiction in terms. If something is senseless, reason can't be used as the most accurate yardstick. Nothing can fix it, and this is a way of avoiding the inevitable despair and acceptance when a whole country is asking themselves 'why?'
Twenty dead children, with forty parents who are in terrible shock and anguish, not to mention the families of the dead eight adults. If the shooter, a twenty year old young man, had only stayed home and slept late. Only if no guns had been in his house. What was he seeing when he pulled the trigger? Not the frightened, terrified faces of children and the teachers? His own mother? When he entered the school building, he must have seemed like a familiar face. He wasn't a stranger to the staff, but he was carrying four firearms. Why did he want his mother dead? I understand that autistics have a kind of wall around them, not always being able to relate to others emotionally, but why the need to commit such a destructive act? Why would he think this was okay? My mother mentioned that in the deranged minds of these shooters, they want to be famous, notorious, like a Charles Manson or a Jeffrey Dahmer. Their self-esteem is nonexistent, so they want to feel powerful, even if it means taking the lives of children. But the Newtown shooter is now dead, so he can't enjoy his celebrity like a Kardashian and hopefully there is some sense of justice in the After-Life. Maybe I seem angry, and forgiveness is the Christian thing to do, but the loved ones of the victims, I'm sure, are far from forgiveness right now. There has to be some sense to this, right? But I can only speculate on these things, and I'm staring to wonder if we're giving these crazed shooter types too much credit. Do they really think it out? The shooters at Columbine were known to be troubled kids. The movie theater shooter in Colorado gave himself up, probably because he was too much of a coward to take his own life, even if he wanted to be like the Joker. These shooters want to be seen as clever tricksters, when they are only damaged clowns who other people fear and pity. Right now, I'll bet pity is the farthest thing from the minds of the grieving parents and families. The loss is so great, there isn't room for anything else, and rage provides no comfort for a broken heart. I am not a religious person, but I think only God has arms big enough to wrap His love around an entire community, to make the pain bearable enough for the grieving to get on with their lives. Just like Columbine, 9/11, the Amish school shootings, Virginia Tech, and these recent shootings, there is a light trying to get in past the grief and the anguish, this energy coming from our own spirits, who knew love before and will continue to love after, because what else can we do? We're only human.
Considering acts of mindless violence, the media seems to want to take the road to mental illness or disability. In the case of the Sandy Hook school shootings or the Portland, Oregon mall or the Colorado movie theater, the words 'schizophrenia' and 'autism' have been used a lot. These words encapsulate a spectrum of symptoms, but many schizophrenics and people with an autism related condition such as Asperger's Syndrome are not violent, so I don't see these conditions as much of an explanation, no matter how convenient. Also, consider the violent criminals who are not mentally ill. Charles Manson was never diagnosed with a mental illness. A borderline personality? Another very wide spectrum, more like a rainbow. In the scramble of trying to explain the reason behind senseless acts, we may have forgotten that we're dealing with a contradiction in terms. If something is senseless, reason can't be used as the most accurate yardstick. Nothing can fix it, and this is a way of avoiding the inevitable despair and acceptance when a whole country is asking themselves 'why?'
Twenty dead children, with forty parents who are in terrible shock and anguish, not to mention the families of the dead eight adults. If the shooter, a twenty year old young man, had only stayed home and slept late. Only if no guns had been in his house. What was he seeing when he pulled the trigger? Not the frightened, terrified faces of children and the teachers? His own mother? When he entered the school building, he must have seemed like a familiar face. He wasn't a stranger to the staff, but he was carrying four firearms. Why did he want his mother dead? I understand that autistics have a kind of wall around them, not always being able to relate to others emotionally, but why the need to commit such a destructive act? Why would he think this was okay? My mother mentioned that in the deranged minds of these shooters, they want to be famous, notorious, like a Charles Manson or a Jeffrey Dahmer. Their self-esteem is nonexistent, so they want to feel powerful, even if it means taking the lives of children. But the Newtown shooter is now dead, so he can't enjoy his celebrity like a Kardashian and hopefully there is some sense of justice in the After-Life. Maybe I seem angry, and forgiveness is the Christian thing to do, but the loved ones of the victims, I'm sure, are far from forgiveness right now. There has to be some sense to this, right? But I can only speculate on these things, and I'm staring to wonder if we're giving these crazed shooter types too much credit. Do they really think it out? The shooters at Columbine were known to be troubled kids. The movie theater shooter in Colorado gave himself up, probably because he was too much of a coward to take his own life, even if he wanted to be like the Joker. These shooters want to be seen as clever tricksters, when they are only damaged clowns who other people fear and pity. Right now, I'll bet pity is the farthest thing from the minds of the grieving parents and families. The loss is so great, there isn't room for anything else, and rage provides no comfort for a broken heart. I am not a religious person, but I think only God has arms big enough to wrap His love around an entire community, to make the pain bearable enough for the grieving to get on with their lives. Just like Columbine, 9/11, the Amish school shootings, Virginia Tech, and these recent shootings, there is a light trying to get in past the grief and the anguish, this energy coming from our own spirits, who knew love before and will continue to love after, because what else can we do? We're only human.
December 10, 2012
Broke For Christmas
I used to like Christmas. However, limited funds and working in retail have managed to change how I feel about giving, not just receiving.
Children are the heart of Christmas, but adults are the spine and the brain. This is unfortunate, because adults are not objective when it comes to their children's wishes. We condition our children to want what they want, and adults control the stores and toy companies. But the parents turn around and complain about the expense of the things their children want, and the economy only makes the stress worse. When every penny counts for food and gas, there is less gifts under the tree and the Salvation Army red bucket feels light. But the bell keeps ringing.
I was pleased to see the Toys for Tots box at my local grocery store full of toys. The Salvation Army also needs donated gift cards for older kids and teens who no longer play with toys. In my area, the hardship has doubled as parents try to dig themselves out of debt. No one wants to use credit cards to buy gifts, but so many people have no other alternative. I see it a lot at my job at K-Mart. A cashier was trying to help a female customer contact her credit card company because her card wouldn't go through. The woman had no other way to pay for her items. She was kept waiting on her cell phone for twenty minutes as she grew more impatient. She ended up leaving without paying.
Layaway becomes a nightmare at the store, the upstairs loft above the counter stuffed with merchandise. The Thanksgiving doorbusters sale and Black Friday were frightening and wonderful, because K-Mart decided to finally compete with the other stores(Wal-Mart), hopefully ensuring higher sales. Proof of an improving economy.
I also noticed customers, for the last few Christmases, who act as if shopping at a discount store for clothes is painful, shameful, compared to shopping at the malls or department stores. Name-brand, designer labels are in their past. Some accept this reality better than others. Some seem almost weepy, despondent. For God's sake, just give fudge or cookies. Make your kids wait until the clearance sales on December twenty-sixth for a pair of Adidas.
I was lucky, there were always toys under the tree for my brothers and me, even if my parents had to get a loan from the credit union. I was happy. My mother and father didn't have it so easy growing up, and they didn't want their kids to suffer the same disappointment. When she was in high school, Mom was called to the counselor's office. Mom was asked if her family was suffering a hardship. Word must have gotten around that Grandpa was laid off, so Mom answered yes, but she didn't consider it a big deal. On Christmas Day, there was a knock at the door. Someone from the Salvation Army dropped off food and candy. Grandma was quite pleased and grateful, but she never knew it was the counselor at Mom's school who reported their hardship. There were a few Christmases with no toys, but Grandma always cooked and baked pies.
Christmas can bring out old family tensions and hurts. Most people breathe a sigh of relief after the meal is eaten, the gifts are open, and the relatives leave. It's just too much stress for some. Bring on the booze. Every year, my family would go to my aunt and uncle's house for the annual Christmas party. It wasn't the season unless one of my aunt's sons got drunk and started fighting (using his fists) with one of his brothers or cousins. Every year, my aunt would say,"I'm not doing this next year!" But she would, because no one else had a finished basement.
Christmas makes some people desperate. Stealing becomes worse. I heard a story about a woman stealing packages from UPS off someone's front steps. Some people steal out of the Toys for Tots boxes. At K-Mart, a few customers were stealing coats by hiding the new coat, tags torn off, under their own coat. The new coat is sold on the street. Shoes, CDs, DVDs, video games, and clothes are also sneaked out of the store, the packaging found in the fitting room. I find discarded tags and boxes every day. Many of these people don't steal any other time of the year, just the holidays. The security guys have caught women stealing clothes for their children. I have co-workers who have asked the Salvation Army and other organizations for help, because minimum wage barely cuts it for staying above the poverty line. Employees also steal from the store.
I won't be spending a lot of money on gifts this year. I think that if a person is childless, like me, doing Christmas should be an option. Why should you spend your money on relatives you see only a few times a year? But these same people get pissed off when you don't give them a gift, even though you don't get a phone call on your birthday because they would rather be doing something else. Give and take doesn't always apply in terms of my family, although we do try to help each other. My brother fixed my car just recently without asking me for anything. I try to help Mom as much as possible, and I'm still trying to find full-time employment. I'm hanging on, like most people I know. The car breaks down, a tooth cracks, or you lose your job. The only thing that really bothers me in the store(besides the endless loop of Christmas songs) is when I hear parents and their kids fighting over the price of things. These kids are older, over ten years old. They've had plenty of time to get conditioned to believe that Christmas is their time to get what they want. Parents hate to disappoint their children, but this generation has experienced a different kind of poverty, not unlike that of the Great Depression. Maybe it's making them a little bitter. These kids are like an equal team member with their parents, knowing how much their parents earn and well aware of their standard of life. My mom used to show me her paycheck, showing me how the amounts were taken out for taxes and insurance. She took me to the bank with her. I watched her figure out the budget. She was the exception, because the kids I went to school with or knew as friends didn't know much about their parents' earnings. Many had single moms on ADC, supported by the state, but my point is that the Great Recession is shaping a generation of shrewd savers and bargain shoppers. These kids can't wait to get jobs or babysit or clean up yards and other little jobs to buy what they want. Some help with food and bills. Grandma and Grandpa pitch in, too.
Christmas can be a special time without spending money. Did that statement seem sincere? I hope so, but I'm still going to buy a gift for my mother and a few other people.
Maybe we'll get the Christmas tree out of the closet, really get in the spirit. :)
Children are the heart of Christmas, but adults are the spine and the brain. This is unfortunate, because adults are not objective when it comes to their children's wishes. We condition our children to want what they want, and adults control the stores and toy companies. But the parents turn around and complain about the expense of the things their children want, and the economy only makes the stress worse. When every penny counts for food and gas, there is less gifts under the tree and the Salvation Army red bucket feels light. But the bell keeps ringing.
I was pleased to see the Toys for Tots box at my local grocery store full of toys. The Salvation Army also needs donated gift cards for older kids and teens who no longer play with toys. In my area, the hardship has doubled as parents try to dig themselves out of debt. No one wants to use credit cards to buy gifts, but so many people have no other alternative. I see it a lot at my job at K-Mart. A cashier was trying to help a female customer contact her credit card company because her card wouldn't go through. The woman had no other way to pay for her items. She was kept waiting on her cell phone for twenty minutes as she grew more impatient. She ended up leaving without paying.
Layaway becomes a nightmare at the store, the upstairs loft above the counter stuffed with merchandise. The Thanksgiving doorbusters sale and Black Friday were frightening and wonderful, because K-Mart decided to finally compete with the other stores(Wal-Mart), hopefully ensuring higher sales. Proof of an improving economy.
I also noticed customers, for the last few Christmases, who act as if shopping at a discount store for clothes is painful, shameful, compared to shopping at the malls or department stores. Name-brand, designer labels are in their past. Some accept this reality better than others. Some seem almost weepy, despondent. For God's sake, just give fudge or cookies. Make your kids wait until the clearance sales on December twenty-sixth for a pair of Adidas.
I was lucky, there were always toys under the tree for my brothers and me, even if my parents had to get a loan from the credit union. I was happy. My mother and father didn't have it so easy growing up, and they didn't want their kids to suffer the same disappointment. When she was in high school, Mom was called to the counselor's office. Mom was asked if her family was suffering a hardship. Word must have gotten around that Grandpa was laid off, so Mom answered yes, but she didn't consider it a big deal. On Christmas Day, there was a knock at the door. Someone from the Salvation Army dropped off food and candy. Grandma was quite pleased and grateful, but she never knew it was the counselor at Mom's school who reported their hardship. There were a few Christmases with no toys, but Grandma always cooked and baked pies.
Christmas can bring out old family tensions and hurts. Most people breathe a sigh of relief after the meal is eaten, the gifts are open, and the relatives leave. It's just too much stress for some. Bring on the booze. Every year, my family would go to my aunt and uncle's house for the annual Christmas party. It wasn't the season unless one of my aunt's sons got drunk and started fighting (using his fists) with one of his brothers or cousins. Every year, my aunt would say,"I'm not doing this next year!" But she would, because no one else had a finished basement.
Christmas makes some people desperate. Stealing becomes worse. I heard a story about a woman stealing packages from UPS off someone's front steps. Some people steal out of the Toys for Tots boxes. At K-Mart, a few customers were stealing coats by hiding the new coat, tags torn off, under their own coat. The new coat is sold on the street. Shoes, CDs, DVDs, video games, and clothes are also sneaked out of the store, the packaging found in the fitting room. I find discarded tags and boxes every day. Many of these people don't steal any other time of the year, just the holidays. The security guys have caught women stealing clothes for their children. I have co-workers who have asked the Salvation Army and other organizations for help, because minimum wage barely cuts it for staying above the poverty line. Employees also steal from the store.
I won't be spending a lot of money on gifts this year. I think that if a person is childless, like me, doing Christmas should be an option. Why should you spend your money on relatives you see only a few times a year? But these same people get pissed off when you don't give them a gift, even though you don't get a phone call on your birthday because they would rather be doing something else. Give and take doesn't always apply in terms of my family, although we do try to help each other. My brother fixed my car just recently without asking me for anything. I try to help Mom as much as possible, and I'm still trying to find full-time employment. I'm hanging on, like most people I know. The car breaks down, a tooth cracks, or you lose your job. The only thing that really bothers me in the store(besides the endless loop of Christmas songs) is when I hear parents and their kids fighting over the price of things. These kids are older, over ten years old. They've had plenty of time to get conditioned to believe that Christmas is their time to get what they want. Parents hate to disappoint their children, but this generation has experienced a different kind of poverty, not unlike that of the Great Depression. Maybe it's making them a little bitter. These kids are like an equal team member with their parents, knowing how much their parents earn and well aware of their standard of life. My mom used to show me her paycheck, showing me how the amounts were taken out for taxes and insurance. She took me to the bank with her. I watched her figure out the budget. She was the exception, because the kids I went to school with or knew as friends didn't know much about their parents' earnings. Many had single moms on ADC, supported by the state, but my point is that the Great Recession is shaping a generation of shrewd savers and bargain shoppers. These kids can't wait to get jobs or babysit or clean up yards and other little jobs to buy what they want. Some help with food and bills. Grandma and Grandpa pitch in, too.
Christmas can be a special time without spending money. Did that statement seem sincere? I hope so, but I'm still going to buy a gift for my mother and a few other people.
Maybe we'll get the Christmas tree out of the closet, really get in the spirit. :)
November 1, 2012
Elementary, K-5
Childhood horrors, for most people, did not occur on a day after day basis. The painful or unpleasant memories are collected like beads on a chain as we grow older, although these events could be spaced years apart. For me, the most awkward and strange moments occurred while I was at school.
My school system in Muskegon was not the best in the area, but not the worst. My elementary school, grades K-5, was also attended by my brothers, father and uncle. They all left a lasting impression. Less mischief was expected from me because I was female. But times had changed, many of the kids starting pre-school and kindergarden (not kiddy-garden) in 1977 were from all walks of life, many with very young parents. In Muskegon, it is not uncommon to see a five year old with a mom in her early twenties. The grandparents, who are around forty, help out a lot.
I was different. My parents were in their early thirties, and I was the last to go off to kindergarden. Mom took me to the elementary school and, unlike my big brothers, I was given a battery of tests.
Ah, the 1970s. Things had changed in another way. Educators expected five year olds to already know their letters and numbers and how to draw a human figure. My mother thought these were the things the kindergarden teachers were supposed to teach the kids, not the parents. There had been no trouble with my brothers, but I guess I couldn't draw very well, because I was sent to Developmental Kindergarden, aka DK, aka Dumb Kids.
I enjoyed nap time and cookies. Still do. I met two other little girls in DK who would be my best friends all through my school years. Learning my numbers and letters. I liked the Letter People, although they looked a bit strange. This was the era of Sesame Street and the Electric Company, and kids could learn from television, not just watch cartoons. I also enjoyed kindergarden the following year, but it seemed more intense, as if everything you learned was more important because first grade was next. No more nap time and cookies and half-days. In first grade, you bought your hot lunch tickets on Monday morning before class but you also had your first lunch box. Mine was a Star Wars lunch box made out of metal, as lunch boxes were back then. Also, when a kid attends school all day, the relationship with the teachers change. You're part of the herd now, so keep up. God forbid if you get held back another year. Because of my year in DK, I was already a year older than most of my first grade classmates. The girl sitting next to me on the first day of first grade was only four years old. Years later, when we were in eighth grade together, I was fourteen and she was eleven.
She must have been some kind of child genius. Maybe she could draw better than me. However, by first grade I could read my brother's fourth grade reading book. I was destined to be a writer, not an artist.
The following are memories of my teachers, grades Dumb Kids through Five:
1. Mrs. Dykstra. A young teacher who actually liked being a teacher. She showed us a picture of her husband, and kissed it in front of us. She introduced us to the Letter People. We went on a field trip and I rode a pony. I missed the bus home from school, and Mrs. Dykstra gave me a ride home. I recall, in the winter, that the zipper was stuck on my coat. Mrs. Dykstra was helping me unstick it when I sneezed, blowing a healthy wad of snot all over the front of my coat. She managed to clean me up and fix my zipper before I had to get on the bus home. Some people are born to be teachers.
2. Mrs. Cunningham. A much older teacher, close to retirement. I can't recall her face very well. She had a patient way about her, but she finally had to pin a note to me to tell my mom that I needed to learn to tie my shoes. So, at the age of six, I learned to tie my damn shoes. I also had a bus driver that scared the Hell out of me. In class, I learned to memorize my home address. I could have learned my phone number, but our phone service had been turned off. A child can never learn their number and address too soon. I met my first 'boyfriend' in kindergarden. Thirteen years later, I found myself with a babysitting job looking after a baby boy. The mother was fifteen years old, the father my old nap-time boyfriend. Full circle in Muskegon.
3. Mrs. Bianchi. I liked first grade. We were learning phonics and I remember a work book with a brown cover and pink letters. I knew how to read by the time I started first grade. I was put in the top reading group, and that group was small, maybe six of us out of a classroom of twenty-odd kids. I was introduced to reading guides, which accompanied the reading book and workbook. Along with a spelling book and phonics. Reading guides consisted of pages of questions that were answered short answer and essay style. Good thing I enjoyed reading and writing, or I would have fallen behind.
I don't think I was Mrs. Bianchi's favorite student. She didn't dislike me, but she was close to retirement, and I think she was sick of dealing with the kids and the parents. Maybe she thought I lacked self-discipline, but I've always liked to learn. Mrs. B is quite elderly now. I see her shopping at K-Mart sometimes; I never noticed that she wore wigs. She favored polyester pantsuits and blouses with frills or a large bow in the front. She was allergic to chalk. She lived in a little blue house across the street from the school. Her husband worked at one of the local factories, maybe Shaw-Walker, a manufacturer of office furniture. Or Sealed Power. The class was seated at a picnic table in the back yard. I can't remember what she fed us, but her house was very small. I would eat lunch out of my metal Star Wars lunch box, my friends two boys who were twin brothers. Very sweet boys. Mom would put Kool-Aid in my thermos. Baloney sandwiches on white bread with Miracle Whip. Pringles potato chips wrapped in foil. Some cookies. Life was good.
4. Mrs. Strum. School was about to get different. Some teachers go for too long before retiring; maybe it has to do with money or a need to stay busy. Who knows? The only thing I liked about second grade is when Mrs. Strum turned on the TV. She would let us watch a PBS educational program for a half-hour or so sometimes. She was prone to weird outbursts, probably from irritability. She slapped and pulled hair when she lost her patience. I discovered the books of Laura Ingalls Wilder that year. Mrs. Strum couldn't pull my hair if I was being quiet while Reading Little House On The Prairie. The days were long in her classroom. I fell in with a group of girls at school who liked to make fun of me or even picked fights with me. One of them gave me scabies. In the eighties, some teachers thought it was a big deal to put kids in groups, shoving their desks together. To be social and competitive at the same time. What a waste. I don't know why I tried being friends with these girls, except to say that my best friend had moved away after her parents divorced. I invited these brats to my home, and my parents did not like these girls, their mothers even less. I started feeling like no one at school liked me and I started to skip school more often. I started hearing more comments about my weight. Getting bullied on the playground. I was never so glad when a school year ended and I'm sure my classmates felt the same way.
5. Mrs. Comstock. Third grade was full of contradictions. I was the first Personality of the Week in my class, but I was being bullied daily by boys on the school bus. Once again, the principal turned a blind eye, because girls aren't supposed to stick up for themselves. I got into a fight with an older girl that sent me to the office. I didn't apologize either. I was tired of feeling sorry for being alive. I was learning to fight back. I also started writing at that age. My oldest brother had been involved in an accident the summer before and almost ended up in prison. I think the term 'involuntary manslaughter' applied to the situation. He had just graduated from high school, and ended up working two jobs to pay off the legal fees. He didn't go to prison. My brothers brought the drama, so I tried to be good, which is hard when you're so young and your innocence is being chipped at daily, making a child angry and scared. I started dieting that year, but was unsuccessful. Food has always been the best cushion for me. My teacher took a leave of absence, our substitute the principal's son for the next few months. He liked me, but I didn't care, because I hated school. I had lost a friend because her mother didn't like my father or it could have had something to do with my brother's accident. My brother's car, while he was making a left turn to enter our driveway, collided with a young man on a motorcycle. He was maybe two years older than my brother, about nineteen. He flipped over my brother's car and died in our neighbor's front yard. A tragic accident. Dad later said his hair went gray overnight. He had to bail my brother out of jail the next morning.
I started to go through an early adolescence, which made me hate my body even more. I had a hard time with math but, with Mom's help at the kitchen table, I learned my multiplication tables so I could pass the third grade. By the time Mrs. Comstock came back, I just wanted to be left alone with my writing. I tried writing plays, and would annoy my classmates by trying to put a show together. It never happened, because my teacher didn't care. She was so ill and tired. She used to keep a paddle at her desk. She paddled my well-padded ass with it once, but I ignored her. I was standing up with my back to her, writing my name on a homework assignment. I never responded strongly to physical discipline.
6. Mrs. Saelzler. I took my attitude with me to fourth grade. Mrs. S had also been my third brother's teacher five years before. She had been so awful to him, my mother had to come to the school to deal with the woman. My brother had asthma, and this old bitch would make fun of his wheezing, along with ridiculing the other kids in her classroom. She was a horror. Now, I had landed in her classroom. When I told Mom, she said she would get me out, but I refused. At first, I didn't think Mrs. S was so bad. Maybe I thought I could be tougher than my brother, as if I was being challenged. Let's say that fourth grade taught me what the word 'bitch' really meant, as did favoritism. The year before, I demoted from the top reading group to the middle 'average' reading group, and it really effected my self-esteem, placing a chip on my shoulder that didn't go away for many years. I was now the girl who had to try harder because I didn't like math. If a kid wasn't good with numbers, they were a loser in Mrs. Saelzler's class. And she wasn't known for her patience. She thought kindness was for losers, too. She did not encourage creativity in her classroom or friendships. No putting desks together. I was miserable, like usual, but I hid it behind my growing truancy. For some reason, Mom let my absenteeism fly. I think she just wanted that school year to go by for me. She no longer went to P/T conferences. She couldn't stand Mrs. S and offered to go to the school for me a few times. I declined every time, because I refused to let that old bitch hurt me. No more crying in the classroom or the bathroom for me. And that also included at home.
I concluded fourth grade by winning a book report contest. I was awarded a dictionary on the last day of school, but one of my classmates, one of Mrs. S's favorites, tried to steal it from me. I demanded it back, only because I knew my book reports were good. I was a writer, damn it, the other girl had received praise all year long because of her math scores and she was in the top reading group. That year taught me that creativity wasn't valued at my school, especially in the 1980s, that conservative era when competition was bred through athletics and academics; math, science, and sports. Not much room for anything else.
7. Mr. Wedell. He liked me, he really liked me. Mr. W was well-liked going back to third grade, when he would invite my class to his classroom to watch movies. Mr. W played movies all day once a week. After fourth grade, I thought I'd have it easy. However, Mr. W was two years away from retirement, and he was past caring. Sometimes, the classroom would be a zoo. Mr. W was known for his leniency and his affection for his students, but the chaos was only exacerbated by his ranting lectures. Like most adults in my life, he needed a drink or medication. Maybe both. He let me get away with skipping school and making up my homework instead of going to class everyday. I was getting into hard rock music and my friends. I wanted to be thin and famous, a creative job like actress or rock star. Screw school. Fifth grade was the highest grade at my elementary school, and I felt like I had paid my dues. I wasn't looking forward to middle school, which I would end up hating more. I had spend DK-5 being shuffled from classroom to classroom, being ignored or treated like shit for the most part. Sort of the way Dad treated me at home. When I look back, I thank God I loved to read, because if I had struggled with math and reading, I would have flunked a grade. Instead, I passed from year to year, promoted, not placed(whatever difference that made).
I was already talking of dropping out when I turned sixteen. :)
My school system in Muskegon was not the best in the area, but not the worst. My elementary school, grades K-5, was also attended by my brothers, father and uncle. They all left a lasting impression. Less mischief was expected from me because I was female. But times had changed, many of the kids starting pre-school and kindergarden (not kiddy-garden) in 1977 were from all walks of life, many with very young parents. In Muskegon, it is not uncommon to see a five year old with a mom in her early twenties. The grandparents, who are around forty, help out a lot.
I was different. My parents were in their early thirties, and I was the last to go off to kindergarden. Mom took me to the elementary school and, unlike my big brothers, I was given a battery of tests.
Ah, the 1970s. Things had changed in another way. Educators expected five year olds to already know their letters and numbers and how to draw a human figure. My mother thought these were the things the kindergarden teachers were supposed to teach the kids, not the parents. There had been no trouble with my brothers, but I guess I couldn't draw very well, because I was sent to Developmental Kindergarden, aka DK, aka Dumb Kids.
I enjoyed nap time and cookies. Still do. I met two other little girls in DK who would be my best friends all through my school years. Learning my numbers and letters. I liked the Letter People, although they looked a bit strange. This was the era of Sesame Street and the Electric Company, and kids could learn from television, not just watch cartoons. I also enjoyed kindergarden the following year, but it seemed more intense, as if everything you learned was more important because first grade was next. No more nap time and cookies and half-days. In first grade, you bought your hot lunch tickets on Monday morning before class but you also had your first lunch box. Mine was a Star Wars lunch box made out of metal, as lunch boxes were back then. Also, when a kid attends school all day, the relationship with the teachers change. You're part of the herd now, so keep up. God forbid if you get held back another year. Because of my year in DK, I was already a year older than most of my first grade classmates. The girl sitting next to me on the first day of first grade was only four years old. Years later, when we were in eighth grade together, I was fourteen and she was eleven.
She must have been some kind of child genius. Maybe she could draw better than me. However, by first grade I could read my brother's fourth grade reading book. I was destined to be a writer, not an artist.
The following are memories of my teachers, grades Dumb Kids through Five:
1. Mrs. Dykstra. A young teacher who actually liked being a teacher. She showed us a picture of her husband, and kissed it in front of us. She introduced us to the Letter People. We went on a field trip and I rode a pony. I missed the bus home from school, and Mrs. Dykstra gave me a ride home. I recall, in the winter, that the zipper was stuck on my coat. Mrs. Dykstra was helping me unstick it when I sneezed, blowing a healthy wad of snot all over the front of my coat. She managed to clean me up and fix my zipper before I had to get on the bus home. Some people are born to be teachers.
2. Mrs. Cunningham. A much older teacher, close to retirement. I can't recall her face very well. She had a patient way about her, but she finally had to pin a note to me to tell my mom that I needed to learn to tie my shoes. So, at the age of six, I learned to tie my damn shoes. I also had a bus driver that scared the Hell out of me. In class, I learned to memorize my home address. I could have learned my phone number, but our phone service had been turned off. A child can never learn their number and address too soon. I met my first 'boyfriend' in kindergarden. Thirteen years later, I found myself with a babysitting job looking after a baby boy. The mother was fifteen years old, the father my old nap-time boyfriend. Full circle in Muskegon.
3. Mrs. Bianchi. I liked first grade. We were learning phonics and I remember a work book with a brown cover and pink letters. I knew how to read by the time I started first grade. I was put in the top reading group, and that group was small, maybe six of us out of a classroom of twenty-odd kids. I was introduced to reading guides, which accompanied the reading book and workbook. Along with a spelling book and phonics. Reading guides consisted of pages of questions that were answered short answer and essay style. Good thing I enjoyed reading and writing, or I would have fallen behind.
I don't think I was Mrs. Bianchi's favorite student. She didn't dislike me, but she was close to retirement, and I think she was sick of dealing with the kids and the parents. Maybe she thought I lacked self-discipline, but I've always liked to learn. Mrs. B is quite elderly now. I see her shopping at K-Mart sometimes; I never noticed that she wore wigs. She favored polyester pantsuits and blouses with frills or a large bow in the front. She was allergic to chalk. She lived in a little blue house across the street from the school. Her husband worked at one of the local factories, maybe Shaw-Walker, a manufacturer of office furniture. Or Sealed Power. The class was seated at a picnic table in the back yard. I can't remember what she fed us, but her house was very small. I would eat lunch out of my metal Star Wars lunch box, my friends two boys who were twin brothers. Very sweet boys. Mom would put Kool-Aid in my thermos. Baloney sandwiches on white bread with Miracle Whip. Pringles potato chips wrapped in foil. Some cookies. Life was good.
4. Mrs. Strum. School was about to get different. Some teachers go for too long before retiring; maybe it has to do with money or a need to stay busy. Who knows? The only thing I liked about second grade is when Mrs. Strum turned on the TV. She would let us watch a PBS educational program for a half-hour or so sometimes. She was prone to weird outbursts, probably from irritability. She slapped and pulled hair when she lost her patience. I discovered the books of Laura Ingalls Wilder that year. Mrs. Strum couldn't pull my hair if I was being quiet while Reading Little House On The Prairie. The days were long in her classroom. I fell in with a group of girls at school who liked to make fun of me or even picked fights with me. One of them gave me scabies. In the eighties, some teachers thought it was a big deal to put kids in groups, shoving their desks together. To be social and competitive at the same time. What a waste. I don't know why I tried being friends with these girls, except to say that my best friend had moved away after her parents divorced. I invited these brats to my home, and my parents did not like these girls, their mothers even less. I started feeling like no one at school liked me and I started to skip school more often. I started hearing more comments about my weight. Getting bullied on the playground. I was never so glad when a school year ended and I'm sure my classmates felt the same way.
5. Mrs. Comstock. Third grade was full of contradictions. I was the first Personality of the Week in my class, but I was being bullied daily by boys on the school bus. Once again, the principal turned a blind eye, because girls aren't supposed to stick up for themselves. I got into a fight with an older girl that sent me to the office. I didn't apologize either. I was tired of feeling sorry for being alive. I was learning to fight back. I also started writing at that age. My oldest brother had been involved in an accident the summer before and almost ended up in prison. I think the term 'involuntary manslaughter' applied to the situation. He had just graduated from high school, and ended up working two jobs to pay off the legal fees. He didn't go to prison. My brothers brought the drama, so I tried to be good, which is hard when you're so young and your innocence is being chipped at daily, making a child angry and scared. I started dieting that year, but was unsuccessful. Food has always been the best cushion for me. My teacher took a leave of absence, our substitute the principal's son for the next few months. He liked me, but I didn't care, because I hated school. I had lost a friend because her mother didn't like my father or it could have had something to do with my brother's accident. My brother's car, while he was making a left turn to enter our driveway, collided with a young man on a motorcycle. He was maybe two years older than my brother, about nineteen. He flipped over my brother's car and died in our neighbor's front yard. A tragic accident. Dad later said his hair went gray overnight. He had to bail my brother out of jail the next morning.
I started to go through an early adolescence, which made me hate my body even more. I had a hard time with math but, with Mom's help at the kitchen table, I learned my multiplication tables so I could pass the third grade. By the time Mrs. Comstock came back, I just wanted to be left alone with my writing. I tried writing plays, and would annoy my classmates by trying to put a show together. It never happened, because my teacher didn't care. She was so ill and tired. She used to keep a paddle at her desk. She paddled my well-padded ass with it once, but I ignored her. I was standing up with my back to her, writing my name on a homework assignment. I never responded strongly to physical discipline.
6. Mrs. Saelzler. I took my attitude with me to fourth grade. Mrs. S had also been my third brother's teacher five years before. She had been so awful to him, my mother had to come to the school to deal with the woman. My brother had asthma, and this old bitch would make fun of his wheezing, along with ridiculing the other kids in her classroom. She was a horror. Now, I had landed in her classroom. When I told Mom, she said she would get me out, but I refused. At first, I didn't think Mrs. S was so bad. Maybe I thought I could be tougher than my brother, as if I was being challenged. Let's say that fourth grade taught me what the word 'bitch' really meant, as did favoritism. The year before, I demoted from the top reading group to the middle 'average' reading group, and it really effected my self-esteem, placing a chip on my shoulder that didn't go away for many years. I was now the girl who had to try harder because I didn't like math. If a kid wasn't good with numbers, they were a loser in Mrs. Saelzler's class. And she wasn't known for her patience. She thought kindness was for losers, too. She did not encourage creativity in her classroom or friendships. No putting desks together. I was miserable, like usual, but I hid it behind my growing truancy. For some reason, Mom let my absenteeism fly. I think she just wanted that school year to go by for me. She no longer went to P/T conferences. She couldn't stand Mrs. S and offered to go to the school for me a few times. I declined every time, because I refused to let that old bitch hurt me. No more crying in the classroom or the bathroom for me. And that also included at home.
I concluded fourth grade by winning a book report contest. I was awarded a dictionary on the last day of school, but one of my classmates, one of Mrs. S's favorites, tried to steal it from me. I demanded it back, only because I knew my book reports were good. I was a writer, damn it, the other girl had received praise all year long because of her math scores and she was in the top reading group. That year taught me that creativity wasn't valued at my school, especially in the 1980s, that conservative era when competition was bred through athletics and academics; math, science, and sports. Not much room for anything else.
7. Mr. Wedell. He liked me, he really liked me. Mr. W was well-liked going back to third grade, when he would invite my class to his classroom to watch movies. Mr. W played movies all day once a week. After fourth grade, I thought I'd have it easy. However, Mr. W was two years away from retirement, and he was past caring. Sometimes, the classroom would be a zoo. Mr. W was known for his leniency and his affection for his students, but the chaos was only exacerbated by his ranting lectures. Like most adults in my life, he needed a drink or medication. Maybe both. He let me get away with skipping school and making up my homework instead of going to class everyday. I was getting into hard rock music and my friends. I wanted to be thin and famous, a creative job like actress or rock star. Screw school. Fifth grade was the highest grade at my elementary school, and I felt like I had paid my dues. I wasn't looking forward to middle school, which I would end up hating more. I had spend DK-5 being shuffled from classroom to classroom, being ignored or treated like shit for the most part. Sort of the way Dad treated me at home. When I look back, I thank God I loved to read, because if I had struggled with math and reading, I would have flunked a grade. Instead, I passed from year to year, promoted, not placed(whatever difference that made).
I was already talking of dropping out when I turned sixteen. :)
October 31, 2012
Post-War Mom and Dad
My mother recently said, "Laura, I had a life for twenty-eight years before you came along." I know this to be true, although most of my relatives all became parents before they turned twenty-five years old, so it's not as if everyone gets to be free in their youth for very long, and Mom had her oldest child, my brother, at nineteen. But, yes, my parents had lives before their children came along. When Mom told me stories of her childhood, or the little I have heard of Dad's upbringing, I would always want to listen. Even now, when the stories have become well-worn, these memories seem to have more value to my mother and her siblings, along with my dad's, because it all becomes less specific as they age, blending all together.
My parents were born in 1944, the second world war still raging. Their parents were not married; a bit unusual in the 1940s, but not unheard of. I didn't know that my paternal grandparents remained unmarried until my father, their youngest, was two years old. When I told my dad's sister this news, she seemed surprised. Dad's brother later told me that my great-grandmother died giving birth to his mother, my grandma. My dad's people are not big talkers about the past unless confronted.
I am part English, Welsh, Scottish, Irish, Dutch, and possibly American Indian. White as can be unless I can somehow prove the Indian part.
My mother's people are more open about the past, possibly because they have less to be ashamed of, or they just don't care about what other people think. I used to wonder which side of my family was more uptight, but it would depend on the generation you were referring to. My grandmothers didn't have much in common; aside from having a child or three out of wedlock. My dad's mother was an alcoholic who had a lot of friends at the bar, and my mom's mom was a churchgoer who drank the occasional glass of wine. As for my grandfathers, things are a bit more complicated. Dad's dad has been referred to by his sisters(only three are still alive) as 'the rebellious one,' but he was never a criminal or an alcoholic. He worked at the same plant for over thirty years. He was a strict father, but he had to be. With an alcoholic wife and three kids, his life was full. (Not that my dad wasn't spoiled, especially by his mother. She always made sure his food didn't touch on his plate. If his potatoes and vegetables touched, Grandma would separate the food with a fork. She baked custard pie just for him). My maternal grandfather I never met, and my mother only met him for the first time at the age of two, in a courtroom when my grandmother filed a paternity suit against him. He had chosen to go back to his wife. They settled by my grandfather giving Grandma $600.00 with the agreement that she would go away. That was the 1940s; he wasn't forced to pay child support and Mom only saw her father a few times until the 1970s, when she heard he had died, and I went with her and Dad for a brief visit to the funeral home. He was bald and wearing a vest with a pocket watch. That old man was a stranger to me. Mom was blessed with a good stepfather that she preferred to call Dad.
Some things that happened to my dad between the ages of three and six(the stories are a bit sketchy; I think my dad's early childhood was blurry for him):
1. My paternal grandmother had a difficult birth for my father. She may have had a heart attack during delivery. My great-aunt, Grandpa's sister, said she also had to have surgery for a hernia. Grandma's pregnancies for my uncle and my dad were very close, both were born in the same year(my uncle in January of 1944, Dad in November). This could have caused the hernia, but Grandma and Dad survived the delivery.
2. Dad, as a toddler, was looked after often by my great-aunt, who was still a teenager. My great-grandmother was still alive then. She didn't care for her daughter-in-law. The story goes that Grandma wasn't eager to change diapers, leaving Dad and my uncle a mess until going to Auntie's house. Grandma would disappear, taking Grandpa's paycheck to the bar to drink with her friends. My grandpa's sisters were nice; he came from a brood of twelve, but Dad used to joke about his uncles, that their knuckles dragged across the floor when they walked. For some reason, he thought they were monsters. My great-grandfather was a tall, lanky Englishman who worked as an independent contractor, building houses in his sixties after the war. His father came off the boat from Britain in the 1850s, I think. Great-Grandpa was a smart man, literate but with no higher education. He held down a variety of jobs to provide for a wife and twelve children.
3. The worst thing that happened to my dad was at the age of three. The 1940s model car that Grandpa drove in those days didn't have seat-belts and child safety seats did not exist. Dad fell out of the backseat, the door swinging open. Dad was dragged for awhile before Grandpa realized what was happening. Dad had a scar on his arm and another on forehead for the rest of his life. He always made sure his truck doors were locked when we kids rode along with him, and I was always in the middle.
Dad never seemed bitter about his early childhood, and I'm sure there are many stories I don't know because Dad didn't want me to know. Mom was never one to hold back, and here are some events in her life between the ages of three and six:
1. My mother was often left in the care of her three older half-sisters, her half-brother almost a teenager by the time she was born. Mom was two years old when she wandered into the kitchen. A frying pan full of hot oil was on the stove. Mom pulled down the pan, and the oil burned her head and arm. The two big sisters assigned as babysitters were not paying attention(they were both under the age of ten, and why Grandma left them to babysit, I never know). The burns left scars and when Mom was getting chemotherapy for cancer three years ago, her hair fell out, and she showed me the burn-scar on her head. To this day, her sisters blame each other.
2. Mom, at the age of five, used to walk herself to school. (I know, it was a different time, but I still find it disturbing) A large dog was kept on a long chain. She was half-way to school when the dog jumped on her. She fell, and the dog barked in her face until it finally went away. Instead of running home, she kept walking to school. I think Mom learned about looking after herself before she could learn how to read. Only a few years later, she would find herself babysitting for her sister's children. She became especially close to her oldest half-sister, eleven years her senior, and lived with my aunt for awhile as a teenager.
3. My mom moved a lot as a kid. At the age of five or six, she had moved once again with her sisters to another house. By this time, Mom had a younger half-sister, who was about two or three. The next morning after moving in, Grandma came out of her bedroom to the kitchen. She found Mom and Auntie in their pajamas, saying,"Here, kitty-kitty." They did not own a cat. Grandma came closer to the kitchen sink, a large rat standing on the faucet.
Poverty effected my parents' lives in so many ways, the string buried in all of the abuse and neglect. My maternal grandmother tried to teach her children good values and made sure they were clean and fed, but she was overwhelmed before and after her divorce following the war. The Great Depression didn't help. My grandma sewed my mom's clothes instead of buying. As a teen, Mom took babysitting jobs to buy a new poodle skirt or a movie ticket to see the new Elvis Presley movie. My dad wore the same white shirt and black pants to high school every day until he quit before the tenth grade. Mom quit in ninth. They met at sixteen years old when Mom went to visit her oldest sister. She was helping with some yard work when she heard someone whistle at her. She turned around, and my dad was waving at her from his yard across the street. He walked over and introduced himself. They got married two years later.
Some things are meant to be. :)
My parents were born in 1944, the second world war still raging. Their parents were not married; a bit unusual in the 1940s, but not unheard of. I didn't know that my paternal grandparents remained unmarried until my father, their youngest, was two years old. When I told my dad's sister this news, she seemed surprised. Dad's brother later told me that my great-grandmother died giving birth to his mother, my grandma. My dad's people are not big talkers about the past unless confronted.
I am part English, Welsh, Scottish, Irish, Dutch, and possibly American Indian. White as can be unless I can somehow prove the Indian part.
My mother's people are more open about the past, possibly because they have less to be ashamed of, or they just don't care about what other people think. I used to wonder which side of my family was more uptight, but it would depend on the generation you were referring to. My grandmothers didn't have much in common; aside from having a child or three out of wedlock. My dad's mother was an alcoholic who had a lot of friends at the bar, and my mom's mom was a churchgoer who drank the occasional glass of wine. As for my grandfathers, things are a bit more complicated. Dad's dad has been referred to by his sisters(only three are still alive) as 'the rebellious one,' but he was never a criminal or an alcoholic. He worked at the same plant for over thirty years. He was a strict father, but he had to be. With an alcoholic wife and three kids, his life was full. (Not that my dad wasn't spoiled, especially by his mother. She always made sure his food didn't touch on his plate. If his potatoes and vegetables touched, Grandma would separate the food with a fork. She baked custard pie just for him). My maternal grandfather I never met, and my mother only met him for the first time at the age of two, in a courtroom when my grandmother filed a paternity suit against him. He had chosen to go back to his wife. They settled by my grandfather giving Grandma $600.00 with the agreement that she would go away. That was the 1940s; he wasn't forced to pay child support and Mom only saw her father a few times until the 1970s, when she heard he had died, and I went with her and Dad for a brief visit to the funeral home. He was bald and wearing a vest with a pocket watch. That old man was a stranger to me. Mom was blessed with a good stepfather that she preferred to call Dad.
Some things that happened to my dad between the ages of three and six(the stories are a bit sketchy; I think my dad's early childhood was blurry for him):
1. My paternal grandmother had a difficult birth for my father. She may have had a heart attack during delivery. My great-aunt, Grandpa's sister, said she also had to have surgery for a hernia. Grandma's pregnancies for my uncle and my dad were very close, both were born in the same year(my uncle in January of 1944, Dad in November). This could have caused the hernia, but Grandma and Dad survived the delivery.
2. Dad, as a toddler, was looked after often by my great-aunt, who was still a teenager. My great-grandmother was still alive then. She didn't care for her daughter-in-law. The story goes that Grandma wasn't eager to change diapers, leaving Dad and my uncle a mess until going to Auntie's house. Grandma would disappear, taking Grandpa's paycheck to the bar to drink with her friends. My grandpa's sisters were nice; he came from a brood of twelve, but Dad used to joke about his uncles, that their knuckles dragged across the floor when they walked. For some reason, he thought they were monsters. My great-grandfather was a tall, lanky Englishman who worked as an independent contractor, building houses in his sixties after the war. His father came off the boat from Britain in the 1850s, I think. Great-Grandpa was a smart man, literate but with no higher education. He held down a variety of jobs to provide for a wife and twelve children.
3. The worst thing that happened to my dad was at the age of three. The 1940s model car that Grandpa drove in those days didn't have seat-belts and child safety seats did not exist. Dad fell out of the backseat, the door swinging open. Dad was dragged for awhile before Grandpa realized what was happening. Dad had a scar on his arm and another on forehead for the rest of his life. He always made sure his truck doors were locked when we kids rode along with him, and I was always in the middle.
Dad never seemed bitter about his early childhood, and I'm sure there are many stories I don't know because Dad didn't want me to know. Mom was never one to hold back, and here are some events in her life between the ages of three and six:
1. My mother was often left in the care of her three older half-sisters, her half-brother almost a teenager by the time she was born. Mom was two years old when she wandered into the kitchen. A frying pan full of hot oil was on the stove. Mom pulled down the pan, and the oil burned her head and arm. The two big sisters assigned as babysitters were not paying attention(they were both under the age of ten, and why Grandma left them to babysit, I never know). The burns left scars and when Mom was getting chemotherapy for cancer three years ago, her hair fell out, and she showed me the burn-scar on her head. To this day, her sisters blame each other.
2. Mom, at the age of five, used to walk herself to school. (I know, it was a different time, but I still find it disturbing) A large dog was kept on a long chain. She was half-way to school when the dog jumped on her. She fell, and the dog barked in her face until it finally went away. Instead of running home, she kept walking to school. I think Mom learned about looking after herself before she could learn how to read. Only a few years later, she would find herself babysitting for her sister's children. She became especially close to her oldest half-sister, eleven years her senior, and lived with my aunt for awhile as a teenager.
3. My mom moved a lot as a kid. At the age of five or six, she had moved once again with her sisters to another house. By this time, Mom had a younger half-sister, who was about two or three. The next morning after moving in, Grandma came out of her bedroom to the kitchen. She found Mom and Auntie in their pajamas, saying,"Here, kitty-kitty." They did not own a cat. Grandma came closer to the kitchen sink, a large rat standing on the faucet.
Poverty effected my parents' lives in so many ways, the string buried in all of the abuse and neglect. My maternal grandmother tried to teach her children good values and made sure they were clean and fed, but she was overwhelmed before and after her divorce following the war. The Great Depression didn't help. My grandma sewed my mom's clothes instead of buying. As a teen, Mom took babysitting jobs to buy a new poodle skirt or a movie ticket to see the new Elvis Presley movie. My dad wore the same white shirt and black pants to high school every day until he quit before the tenth grade. Mom quit in ninth. They met at sixteen years old when Mom went to visit her oldest sister. She was helping with some yard work when she heard someone whistle at her. She turned around, and my dad was waving at her from his yard across the street. He walked over and introduced himself. They got married two years later.
Some things are meant to be. :)
September 21, 2012
Wisdom Teeth
The main character in the movie Bridesmaids drives an old car with a busted brake light. Throughout the movie, she doesn't consider getting another car, just continues to drive her old wreck. I also drive an old car, but my wreck has become my teeth.
I was fourteen years old when eight fillings were put in my mouth, all molars. My baby teeth were all decayed, but fell out by the time I was ten. I had done the damage to my second set. I don't know how my parents paid for the fillings; Dad didn't get dental insurance from his job, so they paid in cash. My third brother should have had braces, and my oldest brother has had dental problems his whole life. Dad didn't have a cavity in his head, but he later developed a habit of chewing tabacco, like Skoal. My brothers and their sons have the same bad habit. Alcoholism doesn't help, either. I remember watching a TV program called Britain's Worst Teeth, and America's teeth are in a downward spiral. We can no longer compete with Sweden. Our collective addiction to sugar and worse things, like meth, doesn't help, but we simply can't afford to go to the dentist. Most working people are lucky to be offered affordable health insurance from their employers, so dental and vision are becoming a luxury.
I could go into all of the reasons why most people are uninsured, but I'm sure you already know those reasons. I hadn't seen a dentist since 2001, when I was told I would need a cap put on an upper right molar, which consisted of more filling than tooth. I had insurance then, I should have had the cap put on. But I wasn't in any pain, so I put it off. Then, one day, I had no job and no insurance, but my teeth were okay. My smile looks fine from the front, all of the damage is in the back. I remained okay until two years ago, when I cracked a bottom molar while eating crunchy cereal. I was able to get the piece of tooth out of my mouth while spitting out milk and cereal. I wasn't in any pain, so I ignored it. A year or so later, a part of the filling in the same tooth fell out, and I spat that out, too.
The average dental visit in my area, with only X-rays and a dental cleaning, can cost up to three hundred dollars. With insurance, you pay around twenty dollars, depending on your policy. A filling and cap cost over a thousand dollars. A simple filling around a hundred. With no insurance, these numbers are Hellish to think about. I kept putting off buying dental insurance because I thought I wouldn't be able to afford a decent policy. My mother, who is retired, gets a reasonable policy through Humana, but I thought only seniors could get cheaper insurance.
I brush twice a day and floss. I am not the best flosser. My maternal grandmother put her teeth in a jar by the time she was fifty and my mom has been determined to hang on to her own teeth. My aunt, who is almost eighty years old, is considering having her surviving teeth pulled and getting dentures like Grandma. I used to work with a guy who was only in his mid-thirties, but he looked so much older when he wouldn't put his dentures in his mouth. Alcoholism had destroyed his teeth, but he could never get used to wearing dentures. He would take his 'teeth' out of his mouth and put the set of dentures in his pocket. Grandma would keep hers in the bathroom after she went to bed. I would enjoy looking at them through the jar, but I was told not to touch. My middle brother, the devilish one, would shake the jar and watch the teeth move around.
Over the last two years I could feel a cavity coming. Sometimes the tooth felt sensitive but no pain. I could chew. I was just okay until last Monday.
Damn cereal again. This time, a chunk of tooth from the upper molar that needed a cap eleven years ago. I had a mouth full of cereal when I realized I was chewing something hard. I ran my tongue over the molar and a piece of tooth was missing, the filling exposed. I had swallowed the piece of tooth, but I was all right. I wasn't in pain, so I finished my breakfast.
Mom called her dentist's office and asked about Care Credit, which she had used in the past. She was told I could go on the web to apply for a Care Credit account. Another credit card at almost 30% interest through GE Moneybank. I need more credit card debt like I need another cracked tooth. I applied anyway, and was accepted for $1,100.00 worth of credit.
Oh, joy.
I made an appointment with Mom's dentist. I was a new patient, my previous dentist may have retired or would tell me to go to Hell after eleven years. But Mom's dentist was happy to take me after being accepted for Care Credit.
I went to my appointment the next day very early. After X-rays and a through exam, I was given the bad news. I stayed for a cleaning, the hygienist less than thrilled to take me on at the last minute, scraping the tartar off teeth that hadn't seen a hygienist for eleven years. Good thing she was wearing one of those masks. I listened to relaxing music and a Disney nature movie on the TV.
I lucked out. No gum disease. My wisdom teeth were fine. My visit that day was around three hundred dollars. I could have used my Care Credit limit, but chose to keep that for the cap, so I used my Visa card. I would learn later that I only had one hundred and fifty dollars available on my Visa(oops), but that card mysteriously went through.
I bought dental insurance that day, finding a very reasonable policy through Humana. I should have done it sooner, but I could ignore my dental problems when I only had one messed-up tooth. But, with three, my back was against the wall. Now, I have a maxed-out Visa and all of my dental appointments moved to after October first, when my insurance kicks in. I had neglected my teeth long enough. My mother mentioned that all I needed next was health insurance.
I'm not sick. I feel fine. ;)
I was fourteen years old when eight fillings were put in my mouth, all molars. My baby teeth were all decayed, but fell out by the time I was ten. I had done the damage to my second set. I don't know how my parents paid for the fillings; Dad didn't get dental insurance from his job, so they paid in cash. My third brother should have had braces, and my oldest brother has had dental problems his whole life. Dad didn't have a cavity in his head, but he later developed a habit of chewing tabacco, like Skoal. My brothers and their sons have the same bad habit. Alcoholism doesn't help, either. I remember watching a TV program called Britain's Worst Teeth, and America's teeth are in a downward spiral. We can no longer compete with Sweden. Our collective addiction to sugar and worse things, like meth, doesn't help, but we simply can't afford to go to the dentist. Most working people are lucky to be offered affordable health insurance from their employers, so dental and vision are becoming a luxury.
I could go into all of the reasons why most people are uninsured, but I'm sure you already know those reasons. I hadn't seen a dentist since 2001, when I was told I would need a cap put on an upper right molar, which consisted of more filling than tooth. I had insurance then, I should have had the cap put on. But I wasn't in any pain, so I put it off. Then, one day, I had no job and no insurance, but my teeth were okay. My smile looks fine from the front, all of the damage is in the back. I remained okay until two years ago, when I cracked a bottom molar while eating crunchy cereal. I was able to get the piece of tooth out of my mouth while spitting out milk and cereal. I wasn't in any pain, so I ignored it. A year or so later, a part of the filling in the same tooth fell out, and I spat that out, too.
The average dental visit in my area, with only X-rays and a dental cleaning, can cost up to three hundred dollars. With insurance, you pay around twenty dollars, depending on your policy. A filling and cap cost over a thousand dollars. A simple filling around a hundred. With no insurance, these numbers are Hellish to think about. I kept putting off buying dental insurance because I thought I wouldn't be able to afford a decent policy. My mother, who is retired, gets a reasonable policy through Humana, but I thought only seniors could get cheaper insurance.
I brush twice a day and floss. I am not the best flosser. My maternal grandmother put her teeth in a jar by the time she was fifty and my mom has been determined to hang on to her own teeth. My aunt, who is almost eighty years old, is considering having her surviving teeth pulled and getting dentures like Grandma. I used to work with a guy who was only in his mid-thirties, but he looked so much older when he wouldn't put his dentures in his mouth. Alcoholism had destroyed his teeth, but he could never get used to wearing dentures. He would take his 'teeth' out of his mouth and put the set of dentures in his pocket. Grandma would keep hers in the bathroom after she went to bed. I would enjoy looking at them through the jar, but I was told not to touch. My middle brother, the devilish one, would shake the jar and watch the teeth move around.
Over the last two years I could feel a cavity coming. Sometimes the tooth felt sensitive but no pain. I could chew. I was just okay until last Monday.
Damn cereal again. This time, a chunk of tooth from the upper molar that needed a cap eleven years ago. I had a mouth full of cereal when I realized I was chewing something hard. I ran my tongue over the molar and a piece of tooth was missing, the filling exposed. I had swallowed the piece of tooth, but I was all right. I wasn't in pain, so I finished my breakfast.
Mom called her dentist's office and asked about Care Credit, which she had used in the past. She was told I could go on the web to apply for a Care Credit account. Another credit card at almost 30% interest through GE Moneybank. I need more credit card debt like I need another cracked tooth. I applied anyway, and was accepted for $1,100.00 worth of credit.
Oh, joy.
I made an appointment with Mom's dentist. I was a new patient, my previous dentist may have retired or would tell me to go to Hell after eleven years. But Mom's dentist was happy to take me after being accepted for Care Credit.
I went to my appointment the next day very early. After X-rays and a through exam, I was given the bad news. I stayed for a cleaning, the hygienist less than thrilled to take me on at the last minute, scraping the tartar off teeth that hadn't seen a hygienist for eleven years. Good thing she was wearing one of those masks. I listened to relaxing music and a Disney nature movie on the TV.
I lucked out. No gum disease. My wisdom teeth were fine. My visit that day was around three hundred dollars. I could have used my Care Credit limit, but chose to keep that for the cap, so I used my Visa card. I would learn later that I only had one hundred and fifty dollars available on my Visa(oops), but that card mysteriously went through.
I bought dental insurance that day, finding a very reasonable policy through Humana. I should have done it sooner, but I could ignore my dental problems when I only had one messed-up tooth. But, with three, my back was against the wall. Now, I have a maxed-out Visa and all of my dental appointments moved to after October first, when my insurance kicks in. I had neglected my teeth long enough. My mother mentioned that all I needed next was health insurance.
I'm not sick. I feel fine. ;)
September 14, 2012
How I Got This Way- Part Three
What I remember between the ages of three and six:
1. Wandering out to the busy street in front of our house and almost getting hit by a car. Dad was supposed to be watching me. I think that was the only time he ever spanked me. I'm sure I almost gave him a heart attack.
2. Going next door to Gene and Sue's house to watch The Munsters and Bewitched on cable TV. Gene's teenaged daughter Annie had the Grease soundtrack on vinyl LP, and she played it for me, along with that horrible disco song Kristie McNichol recorded with her brother Jimmy.
3. I almost drowned in Wolf Lake one summer. No one would teach me how to swim. I hate the water to this day.
4. I shoved a butter knife in an electrical socket and had a bit of a shock. My oldest brother says I flew across the room, but I don't recall.
5. A girl I used to play with down the street had a next door neighbor who owned a Doberman named Satan. The dog wore a spiked collar. Scared the Hell out of me. Who in their right mind names their dog Satan?
6. Our other neighbors, Bob and Hazel, were into the occult. Bob, who wore a ship's captain hat and turtleneck sweaters, liked to flirt with Mom, and Hazel, who was jealous, told Mom that if she fooled around with Bob, Hazel would put a curse on her, because Hazel thought of herself as a witch. Bob was supposedly a warlock. They drank a lot, too.
7. Speaking of Bob and Hazel, when their marriage fell apart, Bob moved into a mobile home on their property. Bob attempted suicide by setting the trailer on fire. I stood there, at the age of four or five, in the backyard with their granddaughter Julie, who was older than me. I would play with Julie often. I saw the smoke come out of the windows and Bob's grown sons carrying him out. Hazel took him back.
8. I shared a bedroom with my third brother. I was afraid of the dark, and when my parents kicked me out of their bed, I would wake up in the middle of the night and get in my brother's bed. I would fall asleep, but I would wake up hours later, my brother up and ready for school. Mom would make him Cocoa Wheats, and the kitchen would smell like chocolate.
9. My paternal grandmother passed away at age fifty-two from being a drunk, more or less. In her coffin, she wore a lavender dress with a white flower pinned above her breast. I was four years old, and it was the only time I ever saw my dad cry. I remember being bored, walking around the funeral home, then sitting with my brothers and cousins. Kids never know what to do at a funeral home, except be quiet.
10. For my fifth birthday, I was given a brand-new Malibu Barbie. I left the doll out after I went to bed and our dog chewed at the foot. Barbie had no foot by morning, but I covered it with a high, lace-up boot. I played with that doll for years.
11. I loved the Bionic Woman, Wonder Woman, and the Hardy Boys with Shaun
Cassidy. Charlie's Angels. Star Wars came out in 1977, changed my world. Roger Moore as James Bond, Mom's favorite. Grease was one of the first movies I ever saw at the theatre. Burger Chef forever.
12. My maternal grandma toilet trained me in one day. I think it was because I was a little afraid of her. I remember it made Mom happy.
13. Speaking of toilets, I fell in the toilet around that time, because someone forgot to put the toilet lid back down. I had to be pulled out by the arms.
My adventures as a toddler would be nothing compared to my school days. Well, when I actually showed up for school. :)
1. Wandering out to the busy street in front of our house and almost getting hit by a car. Dad was supposed to be watching me. I think that was the only time he ever spanked me. I'm sure I almost gave him a heart attack.
2. Going next door to Gene and Sue's house to watch The Munsters and Bewitched on cable TV. Gene's teenaged daughter Annie had the Grease soundtrack on vinyl LP, and she played it for me, along with that horrible disco song Kristie McNichol recorded with her brother Jimmy.
3. I almost drowned in Wolf Lake one summer. No one would teach me how to swim. I hate the water to this day.
4. I shoved a butter knife in an electrical socket and had a bit of a shock. My oldest brother says I flew across the room, but I don't recall.
5. A girl I used to play with down the street had a next door neighbor who owned a Doberman named Satan. The dog wore a spiked collar. Scared the Hell out of me. Who in their right mind names their dog Satan?
6. Our other neighbors, Bob and Hazel, were into the occult. Bob, who wore a ship's captain hat and turtleneck sweaters, liked to flirt with Mom, and Hazel, who was jealous, told Mom that if she fooled around with Bob, Hazel would put a curse on her, because Hazel thought of herself as a witch. Bob was supposedly a warlock. They drank a lot, too.
7. Speaking of Bob and Hazel, when their marriage fell apart, Bob moved into a mobile home on their property. Bob attempted suicide by setting the trailer on fire. I stood there, at the age of four or five, in the backyard with their granddaughter Julie, who was older than me. I would play with Julie often. I saw the smoke come out of the windows and Bob's grown sons carrying him out. Hazel took him back.
8. I shared a bedroom with my third brother. I was afraid of the dark, and when my parents kicked me out of their bed, I would wake up in the middle of the night and get in my brother's bed. I would fall asleep, but I would wake up hours later, my brother up and ready for school. Mom would make him Cocoa Wheats, and the kitchen would smell like chocolate.
9. My paternal grandmother passed away at age fifty-two from being a drunk, more or less. In her coffin, she wore a lavender dress with a white flower pinned above her breast. I was four years old, and it was the only time I ever saw my dad cry. I remember being bored, walking around the funeral home, then sitting with my brothers and cousins. Kids never know what to do at a funeral home, except be quiet.
10. For my fifth birthday, I was given a brand-new Malibu Barbie. I left the doll out after I went to bed and our dog chewed at the foot. Barbie had no foot by morning, but I covered it with a high, lace-up boot. I played with that doll for years.
11. I loved the Bionic Woman, Wonder Woman, and the Hardy Boys with Shaun
Cassidy. Charlie's Angels. Star Wars came out in 1977, changed my world. Roger Moore as James Bond, Mom's favorite. Grease was one of the first movies I ever saw at the theatre. Burger Chef forever.
12. My maternal grandma toilet trained me in one day. I think it was because I was a little afraid of her. I remember it made Mom happy.
13. Speaking of toilets, I fell in the toilet around that time, because someone forgot to put the toilet lid back down. I had to be pulled out by the arms.
My adventures as a toddler would be nothing compared to my school days. Well, when I actually showed up for school. :)
September 13, 2012
How I Got This Way- Part Two
I was brought home to the Crooked Little House and my brothers. I have no real memories as a small toddler, except Mom mentioned that I fell out of my high chair on two separate occasions, splitting my lip both times. There are photos of me tagging along with my brothers, wearing boys hand me downs, because that was all we had. I thought I was a boy until I started school. The Crooked Little House was bursting at the seams, with a family of six and a mini-zoo. A 'friend' of my dad's kept dropping off cats on our property, the kitties ripping up our old furniture and curtains. I don't know how Mom coped, but my maternal grandmother would babysit a lot, although my brothers got on her nerves, along with the condition of the house. Grandma was critical of my father, and there was some kind of disagreement, so I didn't see Grandma for a while. We didn't have a phone, so when Mom wanted to speak to Grandma or my aunt, she would have to use the phone booth blocks away at the party store. I think Dad,in his selfishness, would have been happy if Mom never worked, drove a car, or had friends and family. My brothers and I were enough aggravation for him. I tried to be good, but he yelled at me, too, for a lot of things. I spent my early childhood being at the memory of my father's moods. My paternal grandmother was an alcoholic, and between her evictions, car accidents, and getting arrested, my father was irritable and stressed out. He went for two years without a job, unemployed when I was born. Previously, he had worked for twelve years for the Road Commission and fourteen years at his next job until his death. He worked hard, and to relax, he would drink, as did Mom for a while. Drinking helped her relax, but it made Dad obnoxious. I was taught at a young age that men were assholes, but I still adored my brothers right up until I turned six or seven years old. However, my best friend was my mom. I have never regretted that closeness, although I wondered, as I got older, who was the mother and who was the child.
We didn't have a lot of kids in the neighborhood, except the boys my brothers knew. They always seemed to know a group of boys in the immediate area, who they played and fought with. They once got in trouble for breaking into a neighbor's house and stealing some of her things. My third brother said that all he took(he was around eight years old at the time of the break in) was some popsicles from the freezer. Those were minor misadventures compared to what happened later with my oldest brother.
Until I started school, most of my days blurred together. I remember Mom being with the Columbia Record and Tape Club, and country music would fill the Crooked Little House from her old stereo. Charlie Rich-Behind Closed Doors. That song got played a lot. Our neighbors Gene and Sue became a fixture, as did Bob and Hazel, who lived in a bigger house next to Gene and Sue. Sue was a nurse who worked at General, which I guess was a real swinging place, because it was rumored that Sue and the other young nurses would have sex in the closets with the interns. :)
We didn't have a lot of kids in the neighborhood, except the boys my brothers knew. They always seemed to know a group of boys in the immediate area, who they played and fought with. They once got in trouble for breaking into a neighbor's house and stealing some of her things. My third brother said that all he took(he was around eight years old at the time of the break in) was some popsicles from the freezer. Those were minor misadventures compared to what happened later with my oldest brother.
Until I started school, most of my days blurred together. I remember Mom being with the Columbia Record and Tape Club, and country music would fill the Crooked Little House from her old stereo. Charlie Rich-Behind Closed Doors. That song got played a lot. Our neighbors Gene and Sue became a fixture, as did Bob and Hazel, who lived in a bigger house next to Gene and Sue. Sue was a nurse who worked at General, which I guess was a real swinging place, because it was rumored that Sue and the other young nurses would have sex in the closets with the interns. :)
September 12, 2012
How I Got This Way- Part One
I was born August 17, 1972 in Muskegon, Michigan. I was the first and only girl after three boys. During her pregnancy, Mom said she prayed for a girl. Her prayers were answered(or where they?)
Mom made the time from when her water broke to my birth sound like a short film David Lynch would have made in college. All she needed was Eraserhead as her OB/GYN. Dad took her to the hospital not long after her water broke. At Muskegon General Hospital, now Mercy General, Mom was examined by Nurse Moore. She was rumored to be an alcoholic, not to mention a bit kooky. This was 1972, way before drug testing, HIPAA, and all of the serious rules in medical care came along. Nurse Moore seemed amused when she told Mom she heard two heartbeats through the stethoscope. She used a marker to write two Xs on Mom's belly, telling her that she might be having twins. Mom later showed the two Xs to Dad, who said Nurse Moore was a drunk.
Dad, surprisingly, slept in the bed next to Mom as she endured labor pains through the night, my birth taking a long time. Mom ended up getting two injections to induce labor. With the second injection, Nurse Moore said," Now don't tell anyone we're doing this..." The hot August weather turned dark, thunder outside. The hospital building was new, unlike the creepy old Osteopathic Hospital downtown, where Mom gave birth to my two oldest brothers, in 1963 and 1965. My third brother was born at General in 1967. Once Torrence House, the Osteopathic is now the Red Cross building. Still old and creepy.
Mom was later taken to the delivery room when her doctor arrived, followed by a group of interns. She had not given permission, but the strangers looked her over as a lesson during rounds, something new to Mom after three previous deliveries. I don't think they made any comments about the two Xs on her belly.
I was born, finally, around eleven in the morning. I was a big baby, with a lot of hair. The nurses remarked that Mom must have had gas. What pregnancy farts have to do with hair, I'll never know. Mom was relieved to have a girl after three boys, already a handful. She wanted to see me as soon as I came out, not wanting to wait after I was cleaned up. The nurses obliged her, wrapping me in a blanket and handing me to her. I think she wanted to see for herself that she had finally had a girl. I was covered in birth-goo, looking like Freddy Krueger as a newborn, but a mother's love is unconditional(most of the time). Dad would follow up with a vasectomy. No more kids:)
Mom made the time from when her water broke to my birth sound like a short film David Lynch would have made in college. All she needed was Eraserhead as her OB/GYN. Dad took her to the hospital not long after her water broke. At Muskegon General Hospital, now Mercy General, Mom was examined by Nurse Moore. She was rumored to be an alcoholic, not to mention a bit kooky. This was 1972, way before drug testing, HIPAA, and all of the serious rules in medical care came along. Nurse Moore seemed amused when she told Mom she heard two heartbeats through the stethoscope. She used a marker to write two Xs on Mom's belly, telling her that she might be having twins. Mom later showed the two Xs to Dad, who said Nurse Moore was a drunk.
Dad, surprisingly, slept in the bed next to Mom as she endured labor pains through the night, my birth taking a long time. Mom ended up getting two injections to induce labor. With the second injection, Nurse Moore said," Now don't tell anyone we're doing this..." The hot August weather turned dark, thunder outside. The hospital building was new, unlike the creepy old Osteopathic Hospital downtown, where Mom gave birth to my two oldest brothers, in 1963 and 1965. My third brother was born at General in 1967. Once Torrence House, the Osteopathic is now the Red Cross building. Still old and creepy.
Mom was later taken to the delivery room when her doctor arrived, followed by a group of interns. She had not given permission, but the strangers looked her over as a lesson during rounds, something new to Mom after three previous deliveries. I don't think they made any comments about the two Xs on her belly.
I was born, finally, around eleven in the morning. I was a big baby, with a lot of hair. The nurses remarked that Mom must have had gas. What pregnancy farts have to do with hair, I'll never know. Mom was relieved to have a girl after three boys, already a handful. She wanted to see me as soon as I came out, not wanting to wait after I was cleaned up. The nurses obliged her, wrapping me in a blanket and handing me to her. I think she wanted to see for herself that she had finally had a girl. I was covered in birth-goo, looking like Freddy Krueger as a newborn, but a mother's love is unconditional(most of the time). Dad would follow up with a vasectomy. No more kids:)
September 6, 2012
Consumed
Consumed, my new novel ebook, is available at Nook, Amazon, and kbuuk. $1.99 download.m Hollywood actor Derek Ballantine seeks vengeance on the men who kidnapped, tortured, and burned him, scarring him forever. He has to look behind the secrets and lies of his friends and family to find the truth. Amazon- http://amzn.to/PIhDMm Nook- http://bit.ly/Oaqgk5 You can also check out my audio/video preview at You Tube http://youtu.be/8HD3js_L0-0
Dinner's Ready- Part Three
I never said I was a Daddy's girl. Mom was the dependable parent in those days; she listened and didn't yell at me for using too much toilet paper. She took care of me. Sometimes, Dad would try, but his mind was somewhere else.
Dinner is supposed to be family time, but what is family is has changed, and so has the time we spend with family. Certain conventions start to feel like prison, but some are useful. I don't want to make it sound as if my father was the dictator of The Crooked Little House, as Mom called it. My dad loved animals and nature, hunting and fishing. From both of my parents I learned about loving animals. Dad never discouraged me about my writing and reading. When I was fourteen, he and Mom gave me an old manual typewriter that my aunt gave away. Mom found me an old typing book with drills. She had used the book when taking accounting and typing classes years before. My parents were relieved I was smart, but very disappointed that I hated school, frequently truant. This became a real sore point between Dad and me. When I dropped out, we didn't speak to each other for a while. He threatened to kick me out of the house once. I wonder if I just did it because all of my brothers had graduated with their classes, wanting to make Dad happy. I didn't feel it was my responsibility to make Dad happy; what did he care? I was the inferior female, with no potential, just as useless to him as my mother. He seemed surprised by the chip on my shoulder.
Dinner, by the time my brothers left home, was a tense experience between my parents and me. I would just shut up and eat, staying at the table to placate my father. They were snapping at each other a lot. In another year, Dad would be dead, the victim of a work-related accident that would take his life without time to say good-bye. In the months leading to his death, with only the three of us, he no longer could take his frustrations out on my brothers, but the laughter and warmth was missing as well. We were three people with little to say to each other, at the dinner table or anywhere else, although I didn't miss the anger and verbal abuse. Dad was only four years older than me when he died, and that reality has been sneaking up on me lately, an unwelcome reminder of my mortality. In spite of the pain or anger, I would give almost anything to be at that dinner table again, eating with my parents and my brothers, watching Dad spread butter on a slice of bread, wiping his plate clean. :)
Dinner is supposed to be family time, but what is family is has changed, and so has the time we spend with family. Certain conventions start to feel like prison, but some are useful. I don't want to make it sound as if my father was the dictator of The Crooked Little House, as Mom called it. My dad loved animals and nature, hunting and fishing. From both of my parents I learned about loving animals. Dad never discouraged me about my writing and reading. When I was fourteen, he and Mom gave me an old manual typewriter that my aunt gave away. Mom found me an old typing book with drills. She had used the book when taking accounting and typing classes years before. My parents were relieved I was smart, but very disappointed that I hated school, frequently truant. This became a real sore point between Dad and me. When I dropped out, we didn't speak to each other for a while. He threatened to kick me out of the house once. I wonder if I just did it because all of my brothers had graduated with their classes, wanting to make Dad happy. I didn't feel it was my responsibility to make Dad happy; what did he care? I was the inferior female, with no potential, just as useless to him as my mother. He seemed surprised by the chip on my shoulder.
Dinner, by the time my brothers left home, was a tense experience between my parents and me. I would just shut up and eat, staying at the table to placate my father. They were snapping at each other a lot. In another year, Dad would be dead, the victim of a work-related accident that would take his life without time to say good-bye. In the months leading to his death, with only the three of us, he no longer could take his frustrations out on my brothers, but the laughter and warmth was missing as well. We were three people with little to say to each other, at the dinner table or anywhere else, although I didn't miss the anger and verbal abuse. Dad was only four years older than me when he died, and that reality has been sneaking up on me lately, an unwelcome reminder of my mortality. In spite of the pain or anger, I would give almost anything to be at that dinner table again, eating with my parents and my brothers, watching Dad spread butter on a slice of bread, wiping his plate clean. :)
