The book is loosely based on my life and this is part of something I've been working on. Interested in hearing what you think of it....
As a child, I have been told, I had a horrible way of registering pain and suffering. Whenever I got hurt or was disappointed or just plain didn't get my way, I would cry. Not just cry...I would let out one long wailing cry that lasted until every ounce of breath was out of my lungs. Then I would turn blue and pass out. Of course, this would scare my poor mother out of her wits. They tell me I would do this almost anywhere but the worst times were when I was in some precarious situation where my passing out would just cause me further injury and trauma. My mom told me that one time I was at the top of our hallway stairs. Again, we lived above my Dad's bar and those stairs were steep! I started crying over a paper cut, or small bruise, or hurt feelings at the top and launch into my long wail without breathing which then would make me pass out and launch myself head first down that creaky flight of stairs. All the while my mother was horrified, standing at the top, thinking for sure that this time I had, indeed, killed myself. Another time was at my oldest sister's wedding. I naturally don't remember this, this was all told to me by my parents, but apparently I bumped into something and started wailing and was launched down a hard set of stairs in front of everyone at the reception. I always knew how to make a dramatic entrance. My Dad said that “a cold compress and several Shirley Temples later, I was just fine”.
It's funny how some memories are taken in as you live them but some are given to you by the people who were around at the time. I clearly don't recall my strange way of crying and passing out but everyone in my family does. There are other memories like this in my life. For instance, we have an old photograph of my standing on a dock up in northern Wisconsin at a cottage we used to go to every year. My sister Patsy is standing next to me. I'm holding an enormous stringer of fish as though I caught them. I'm about two at the time. Patsy is holding the fishing pole. It's more likely that she caught the fish herself but the only way you can even tell it's her is because she had boney legs and knocked knees when she was a kid. Her head is completely cut out the picture. I think that one picture kind of sums up my early relationship with my sister Patsy. She was the “baby” for seven years before I was born. Sure, I was a big surprise but once I was here I was lavished with loads of love and attention. Not just from my parents either. My other older siblings treated me like baby royalty and, unfortunately, that was the end of Patsy's reign. She spent most of my formative years thinking of ways to ditch me in the neighborhood or stuff me behind a bed without getting caught. Hey, I don't blame her! If I was her and I came along, I'd hate me too! My mother didn't help the situation much. She would insist that Patsy take me everywhere with her. Whenever she went outside to play, mom would insist she strap me into the stroller and take me along. Now remember, Patsy is only seven years older than me. I was about two when this was happening so my mom was entrusting my safety and well-being to a nine year old. A nine year old who hated me! Patsy would stroll me over to the Fox's house. The Fox family – George, Bernice and their kids – lived a couple of houses away. Patsy would leave me sitting in their back yard, still strapped into the stroller and then she would go around the corner to play with her best friend Kris. She would come back and get me on her way home and my mom was unaware of the entire escapade. I was so little that I just sat there, looking around and enjoying the sunshine. Mr. Fox worked so he was gone all day. Mrs. Fox was usually home but she never came out of the house. But one day Mr. Fox came home early and found me! He called my mother and asked why I was just “parked” in his backyard. My mom came and got me and waited for Patsy to come home. Of course, Patsy was frantic because she had “lost” the baby and, though relieved to see I was okay, she faced the wrath of my mother. My mother, as it happens, was not worried about me at all. She knew I was safe the entire time. No, she was embarrassed that Mr. Fox had called because that didn't “look right” and that was always the most important thing to my mom. Throughout our lives she always worried that we were doing something, saying something, wearing something or associating with someone that would make other people think it didn't “look right”. My mother was no snob. That's not what she meant at all. It was not the social economic standing of people we hung out with or the need for designer clothes. No, to my mother it was all about deportment, how you carried yourself, how good your manners were and if you took pride in your appearance. To her, these were the outward signs of a good character and it mattered to her what “Mrs. Kelleher's daughters” did, said and looked like when they were out and about. After all, we were the physical reflection of our parents.
To some it might sound horrid that a mother would allow (read that force) a nine year old to take her two year old sister outside and expect that she would monitor that horrible toddler all day. I suppose now in this times it is a risk and likely cause for someone to call in Social Services. But back then, in that neighborhood, there was no way I was ever going to be hurt or kidnapped. In our neighborhood everyone knew everyone else's business. Every mom and dad had free reign to dole out punishment as they saw fit. If you were caught acting a fool at someone else's house they'd give you a swat, yell at you and send you home and, before you even had a chance to make up a good excuse, they would have already called your mom so she was well informed of your shenanigans even before you set foot in the door. Then you'd get another swat, some more yelling, sent to your room and, probably grounded for a while. Back then, before TV's and personal computers and Playstations were in every kid's bedroom, being grounded was like death. We never wanted to have to stay indoors and taking away our wandering rights was like tying us up and leaving us for dead! Yes, it was that dramatic. The funny thing is, just as each parent had full approval to punish as needed, they also would feed you and doctor you if you got hurt. If you happened to be over at a friend's house at noon, you'd get fed. They never sent you home at lunch time, only at dinner. If you fell and scraped your knee, they'd clean it off, put on some Mercurochrome, and give you a band-aid and send you back out to play. All mom's back then thought alike. If you got in trouble, or if someone said you did something wrong and called your mom, your mom would believe them, no questions asked. There were times when I got in trouble for crap I didn't even do but when I got home I still got it! My mom's philosophy was that if I was there at the time it happened, even if I wasn't directly involved, I probably at least thought about doing it so that deserved a punishment!
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