Until I
turned 7-years-old, we lived in Idaho Falls, Idaho. I have several childhood
memories from that time. Some memories are cute and fun, some are hurtful (to a
child), and they are wrapped up by suddenly moving away (It seemed sudden to
me.) There are messages I received from my family and lessons I learned that
affected my beliefs about myself and the world and contributed to choices I
made in the future.
Those years
were my brother’s teenage years. My mother loved a good story and my brother
was having exciting times. He would come home and tell her all about it. I
remember him describing having been at a party when the police arrived and he
and his friend running to get out of there and hiding. I remember his being in
a school musical. He was dressed as a cowboy with a hat and he practiced his
singing number in our backyard using my rocking horse as a prop and
dramatically ended with lifting the hat off of his head and holding it high. My
brother made everything seem exciting. One day, he came home with a bottle of
bright red nail polish for me. I sat still while my mother carefully painted my
nails. She had me place my hand flat on the table with my fingers spread apart.
She put a stripe of polish down the center of a nail, then would roll my finger
to one side and spread the color from the center over the side of the nail,
being careful to not get paint onto my skin. I had to be patient, this process
took time.
My brother
would stay home with me some evenings while my parents went out. We would have
most of the lights out and he would play his record albums and we would sing
and dance. I also remember him opening my piggy bank and spreading my change
out on the floor. He showed me how to count my money. We made stacks of ten
dimes and placed them neatly in a row. He would straighten the stacks and they
looked nice and perfect. We made stacks of quarters and I remember counting the
pennies, separating them out. I learned there was a system, a way to do it.
My dad
emphasized always reading the instructions before beginning anything. I
remember him holding the paper and saying, “Ok, let’s read this all the way
through.” I also remember sitting in the kitchen and bouncing a little ball. My
dad walked in and got a piece of paper and showed me how to make slash marks for
each bounce of the ball. After the fourth mark, one makes the fifth mark as a
slanted line over the other four lines. Then, you add by fives to get the
total. Here was another system, and it made the counting easier!
My brother
played basketball and football. One season, he got his head shaved as part of
initiation for the basketball players. He goofed off with one of my mother’s
wigs. He was also the football quarterback. He was amazing! One time, my mother
let some cheerleaders in to decorate my brother’s room. There were streamers
and balloons everywhere. Streamers covered the doorway and he would need to
break through them to get into the room. They left a teddy bear hanging
hammock-like in streamers from the center of the ceiling. My own teddy bear had
most of the fur worn off from my constant carrying and snuggling. My brother’s
bear had long brown fur. When my brother left for college, he asked me to take
care of that teddy bear for him.
My sister
came home in the summer from college. I had a stuffed tiger named Tigger. His
fur was also worn off such that he had patches of material that were completely
bare. He had begun to come apart at the seams. My sister repaired him for me. I
watched her measure his stomach and cut out some orange fabric. I then sat next
to her as she carefully sewed the fabric on being sure the stitches were small,
neat, and even. Tigger was different but perfect again!
One day, my
brother walked past me as he headed outside. He said something I don’t
remember, possibly telling me something to do. I said “no” and he told me not
to say that and then gave a little slap to my face. It wasn’t a hard slap, it
was more symbolic. A little later, in an unusual moment, my Mom sat in the
kitchen and pulled me over to sit on her lap. We were not generally an affectionate
family, so this was different. I must have looked sad or something because she
began rocking me and sang “Rock-a-by-Baby.” She was being light and playful. We
looked out the window to the backyard where my dad was showing my brother how
to mow the lawn using the electric lawn mower (taking care to keep the
electrical cord off to the side so it couldn’t be run over and cut by the
mower.) Mom made the observation that Mike was learning to mow the lawn and I
broke down crying, sobbing. With shock and surprise she asked, “What is wrong?!”
“Mike slapped me!” I said without explanation because I was crying and barely
said the words. In an instant, my mother was in the back yard and I watched her
grab my brother and pointing at his face she yelled, “Don’t you EVER slap her!” She continued yelling at him and was
quite threatening. My dad stood by with a silent sigh and waited for her to finish.
My brother appeased her. I watched and felt terrible. I had had no intention of
getting him into trouble. I loved and idolized my brother and was simply deeply
wounded by his disapproval. I later learned in psychology classes that the face
is connected to our identity and a slap to the face is deeply personal. Though
it barely hurt, it had great meaning.
Another day,
I was like a lost child. I approached my mother as she loaded the dishwasher. I
tried to talk to her but she was irritated and sent me away. Next, I was around
my brother who was watching TV and he grouched at me to be quiet so he could
hear the show. Then, I approached my dad who was working on something and
before I could say anything to him, he swore in anger at whatever he was trying
to do. I left him alone. That night, we did my bedtime ritual. Mom tucked me
into bed. Dad came in and hugged me, kissed me, and told me goodnight. Mom came
around to do the same. Then she asked me if I had had a good day. I broke down
crying and said “no, everyone was mean to me and didn’t want me around!” As Mom
got the information on what had happened and I continued to cry with tears
running down my cheeks, my dad returned and so did my kitten, Smokey. He jumped
up and laid on my pillow right next to my face and then reached out his paw and
placed it on my cheek. Mom said, “Look at that! Smokey loves you and he wants
you to not cry. He wants you to feel better.” It worked.
So my dad
had been getting those migraines I talked about in my last post. He worked for
National Cash Register and often would be called out in the evenings to repair
machines while businesses were closed. I remember going with him to a bank and
a pretty, nice young lady let us into the bank and into a large room. Dad took
the panel off of a machine and began to make repairs. I ran around the room,
colored on some copy paper, and watched him work some of the time. He had his
shirt sleeves rolled back and his hands and arms in the machine. Over the
years, this is often how I saw my dad with tools such as screw drivers, wrenches,
and pliers, loosening wing nuts, bolts, and screws and removing them by turning
them with his fingers. He would set these objects aside in a certain spot for
safekeeping and in order of use.
Dad was also
in a supervisory position at work. Evidently management had changed or company
policies had. Employees were under pressure to meet quotas. My dad was under
pressure to fire employees who were not meeting the quotas. He was getting
migraines from it. As a child, I didn’t know this. I guess he took a vacation
and didn’t meet his own quotas and then quit his job. I remember him coming to
my school one morning. I was in the second grade. They were selling cupcakes
that morning, pushing around a cart from room to room. Dad bought me a cupcake
and we went home to leave. We were moving to Mom’s hometown, Hailey, Idaho.
