There were two distinct time periods at home. Times without Dad, when I could be “that kid,” and just revel in my activities. And then…there were the “Dad times.”
His work shifts alternated every week. One week, he was on the day shift, which meant mornings and afternoons were calm, but later afternoons and nights could be calm to violent, depending on his mood. The next week, he worked the evening shift, which meant mornings were dicey but afternoons and evenings were placid. And the weekend times were everything and anything.
And when he was around, I was on high alert. Whoever I was when he wasn’t around, that went into hiding. It was replaced by quiet, tense, scanning, always, for signs of trouble.
Was he in a good mood or a bad one?
Had I tried one too many times to “avoid him” and hurt his feelings?
Was I going to get hit…or more to the point…when?
When he was happy and fun, it was great. In fact, his bad moods seemed like such a distant memory that it seemed impossible that he could go back to that. At those good moments, the bad times seemed like they would never return.
But then it didn’t take much to have hope. Any sign of a positive, a day with a better mood, and you grasped at those moments like a drowning person to a life raft, convinced that, “THIS time it will be different.” The mental reality, at least for me, was, “How could he be this good, fun, seemingly kind and generous, then go back to that? No…that part’s over”…until it wasn’t.
The last of the cartoons had just finished on TV for that afternoon. As I walked away, I was still laughing at the character who had accidentally swallowed a bar of soap. Immediately, bubbles foamed up and out of his mouth, and his hiccups generated more soap bubbles. And that’s when the question popped up in my young brain:
Did people *really* cough up soap bubbles if they swallowed a bar of soap?
I thought about it and then headed for the bathroom. There was only one way to find out, and my scientist mind knew just what to do. Marching up to the sink, I picked up the bar of soap and shoved it in my mouth.
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Horrid sensations, I can’t call them “flavors,” flooded through my mouth, and I immediately spit the bar into the sink. Coughing and choking, I grabbed a glass and started rinsing my mouth with water while I tried not to vomit.
Hearing the chaos, my mother came into the bathroom to see what was wrong. In between spitting, choking, and heaving, I told her what I’d tried.
My mother’s face was a mixture of shock, disbelief, concern, and finally, amusement.
“Why did you do that?!” she said, laughing. *I* don’t even make you wash your mouth out with soap!!”
Why, indeed? Because scientists find out by doing.
Not long after that incident, and still not having learned my lesson about when to do things and when not to, I was playing with my yellow plastic cowboy pistol. No doubt we’d been having a day of cowboy battles in the house.
Afterward, I examined the gun more closely. I loved that pistol because it came with yellow plastic bullets that meant you could actually shoot at things. Yes, again, it was the 1960s.
Looking down inside the barrel, the question formed in my mind:
“What do the bullets look like when they come down the barrel?” And immediately, I had an idea for how to find out.
A few years ago, a male friend of mine, seeing my excitement over some new science factoid, told me that if I were a man living in the 15th century, I’d certainly be a Renaissance Man. I laughed and appreciated the compliment but didn’t think much more of it — until recently– when another friend of mine told me that to her, I *am* a Renaissance *woman*. This time, I stopped and really took that in, then asked her why.
Her response was two-fold. First, she gave me her definition of a Renaissance person — someone who can do anything, if they “will” it; someone who embraces all areas of knowledge and develops their capacities to their very best; and someone who does all of this with kindness, compassion, and love, as they inspire and lead others. The second part was her listing of all the times she saw me do those things.
Needless to say, I was overwhelmed and deeply touched by her comments. I’d never thought of myself in these ways — it’s funny how hard we are on ourselves and miss our specialness, yet others see our beauty. But anyway, her comments, on the heels of those from my other friend, really made my day. I’d always seen myself as simply someone who gets excited by all the world has to offer, and curious – sometimes dangerously so, as I’ll show in the scientist section. And maybe someone who’s just unable to stay focused on one thing. It seems I was always viewing me from a slightly negative or critical place. Hearing both of my friends’ comments showed me a whole new view of myself, and that kid.
Maybe that’s why I have had to take several entries to describe who I was as that kid. Just too many pieces to capture in one essay. So here I’ll talk about another one — that “visual creative” — before going on to the last and strongest part of me, the scientist.
June 20, 1965. While I don’t remember much of that day, just flashes and glimpses here and there, what I do remember is fantastic.
That day was the very first “bat day” at Yankee Stadium in New York City. That meant that anyone younger than 14 with a ticket received a FULL-SIZED Louisville Slugger-style little league bat made by the Hillerich & Bradsby Company. It came with the classic Hillerich & Bradsby of Louisville, Kentucky logo in the middle of the bat, as well as the top engraved with “New York Yankees” in script, and “Approved Little League.”
Photograph by authorPhoto by author
Mine also came with the engraved script of the ball player we all were in awe of: Mickey Mantle. I don’t know if other bats had other batters’ names on them, but mine had Mickey Mantle. It could have been a toothpick, but if it had Mickey Mantle’s name on it, I was in heaven. He was the ONLY batter worth having his name on MY bat.
I remember flashes of walking up winding stairwells to our seats. Bits of the game. Stopping somewhere along the way home at a hot dog stand. It was a glorious day in my book. And, let’s face it, for 1965, flat-out amazing, since I was a GIRL in a stadium full of boys.
A friend of my father’s had apparently arranged this. He, another family friend, and their two sons, one of whom was my football buddy, were going, and they apparently invited my father to join them. My father had no son, but, in all honesty, I was his substitute son in so many things, and I was the “oldest,” a ranking that my father identified with personally. So he took me, which was no small thing for the time. But my father was one to say to hell with what anyone else might have thought. And after all, his motto was always about not growing up to be a stupid woman, and his daughters were going to be something in a man’s world.
Whatever his exact reason or thinking that day, I had a great time. And most of all, I had THAT bat. We played with it all the time, using it for whiffle ball games, whether in the back street or in our yard. I treasured that bat, and it was like a gift from the gods.
The “oldest”
That term was mythical in how he viewed it. You’re the oldest. It was said as a designation of power, as well as responsibility. Rank, as well as privilege.
Along with the mantra of not growing up to be a stupid woman, the other one he drilled into me constantly was about my responsibility as that oldest child:
“You’re the oldest! You should know better!”
It was delivered whenever I failed to live up to his expectations about either doing something around the house or looking after my younger siblings. Quite often it came as a surprise to me, and when I heard it, I felt both shame and confusion. Shame because, yet again, I’d failed without even knowing it. And confusion, because I mostly wondered, “What was it that I was supposed to know better than the others?”
My father was very military in his bearing and approach to life and parenting. So in a way, he designated this as a “rank” based on experience and age. It was like I was in his “military.” There were things he expected of me, taught me (mostly) what I was supposed to be responsible for, then delegated that to me, and expected me to carry out his orders.
He also used this “oldest identity” as a bonding mechanism between him and me. He identified with me because he was the oldest in his family, as I was in mine. He saw that role in hallowed terms. He was responsible for his younger brothers and taking care of them. If they got into a fight and he didn’t defend them, his father would ream him out.
His mother used him, her oldest child, as a husband substitute. She would send him down to the “club” — the Slovak club where the men gathered on weekends to drink and get into fights — to drag his drunk father out of a fist-fight and bring him home. He was also the target of her rage at her husband…and her life in general — and so he was often physically abused. Her use of him as her support and whipping boy crossed emotional boundaries.
At the same time, she gave him the “perk or reward” for his status, of having his own room while the rest of the kids shared a room. I guess in the same manner, as he said one time, I had my own, as I was the oldest. But again, that brings up the whole question of why I was the only one who had a bedroom with a door and privacy. And in his house, there was something about his mother liking to give him enemas, her mantra being that the way to solve many ills was a good “physick.”
On the flip side of the responsibility and expectations, he also gave out perks, besides that room. The Yankee Stadium trip for sure was one. I was the one to receive the opportunities not always given to my younger siblings — something I did not realize at that time, and certainly something that generated envy and the perception of being the “favorite child.”
He would often take me with him to museums or out with his friends to go archery or rifle target shooting. I was gifted with my own archery bow and even got to participate in the town’s recreation department archery classes one summer. As an aside, it was a class full of boys and just one other girl, along with me. When we got to the final class, which was a competition, one boy, I, and she were neck and neck for first place. In the final shot, I ended up second, beaten out by the boy. And she came in third. Still, though, a pretty good showing.
But to come back to the expectations. It was understood that, as the oldest, I had both authority and responsibility whenever I went somewhere with my siblings, regardless of whether my parents were there or not.
In the summer, we would do a day trip to the Saratoga Horse Racing Track in New York. Each of us kids was given a set amount of money we could use to bet on horses we liked. It was my job to escort my siblings to the betting window. My parent stayed back at their seats.
I’d been taught the rules of horse race betting already, so I had to make sure everything went smoothly at the betting window for all of us.
For anyone unfamiliar with track betting, it works like this: When you place a bet, you have to specify what horse, how much money you want to bet — in our case $2 — and whether you want the ticket for “win, place, or show.”
Win means that you expect the horse to come in first. If you bet this and the horse does come in first, you win the most money. But if the horse comes in second or third, you win nothing.
Place means that you think the horse will come in second. If the horse comes in first or second, you win some money either way, but not as much as a first-place horse with a “win” ticket.
Show means you think the horse will only come in third. However, whether it comes in first, second, or third, you will win some money. Show does not pay well, but it is a pragmatic bet because at least you win “something” if the horse places in the top three.
So, when you go to place a bet, you state “$2 on whatever horse, for whatever you think is best – win, place, or show. Then, and this is key, when you are at the betting window, after you ask for your ticket and hand over the money, you must stand there and check to make sure your ticket is correct, and if you are due any change, you must count your money before walking away from the window.
The minute you walk away from the window, that’s it. If something is wrong with your ticket or your change, it’s too late to do anything.
Once we placed our bets, we were allowed to roam the grounds. So it was my job to look after my siblings and be sure nothing happened to anyone. The grounds at Saratoga, which is an 1890s race track, are beautiful. So we would explore the winner’s circle, the exercise area, and watch the horses by their stables before going back to my parents.
Another job of mine during summer vacations was that if a few of us went downtown to the movies, I was in charge. I had to make sure everyone was safe, nobody got lost or lost their money, and especially that no one hassled them.
One time, coming home, a man, obviously drunk, approached us. The younger kids immediately ducked behind me. He staggered closer and stood there swaying. I was scared, but I was in charge, so I didn’t move. Fortunately, he was in a good mood, and seeing us, gave us a bunch of coins and wished us a nice day.
Perhaps the most telling of what was expected, though, was on a particular camping trip. While my parents relaxed at the site nearby, my siblings and I went to the playground. I was about 8 or so. While we were there, a boy decked out in a full cowboy outfit, complete with hat, boots, and pistols, showed up. He proceeded to bully one of my siblings and shook the slide, causing a near accident.
Painting by author
I walked up to him and told him to knock it off. He laughed and did it again. So again, I warned him and this time elevated the threat — that I would hit him if he kept it up.
Now, I really didn’t want to hit him. The idea of actually hitting someone’s flesh with my fist totally turned my stomach. I just hoped that if I threatened to hit him, it would be enough to scare him off.
I also knew my father was watching from a distance. He was not interfering — military rules — I was in command, so it was up to me to handle this. But he was watching to see if I would protect them or fail.
The kid ignored me and continued to harass my siblings. Even as I cringed, I decided I’d better act. So I took a swing to prove I meant what I said. But still, I did not want to feel what it was like to hurt someone. So I gauged it such that it would just miss him. He laughed.
That was the last straw. I decked him.
He ran off crying.
My father came over and congratulated me on doing the right thing and taking care of business. Just about that time, the kid came back, accompanied by his irate father. Irate, that is, until he saw that his precious little cowboy had been harassing a group of little girls. This was the 1960s. Culture rules were such that no self-respecting boy harassed girls. Further, boys were supposed to be stronger than girls, but a girl decked his son. And my father was there. The boy’s father quickly made his son apologize and dragged him off in embarrassment.
I was, of course, congratulated again and considered a hero and success in my father’s eyes. I, however, didn’t feel like celebrating. And I’ve never really felt good about that whole incident.
Now, if I failed at my job?
One time when I was only about 7 or 8, we went to Storytown USA, an amusement park in Lake George, NY. As we were leaving, my youngest sibling, about 3 or 4 at the time, had wandered away. There was a frantic but successful search, followed by hell raining down on me, for losing my sibling. Even at 7, this was “my fault.”
But the worst punishment came after another incident, and involved my precious bat. We were all out in the yard one evening playing whiffle ball. One of the kids was standing there at home plate just holding the bat. One of my siblings ran to home base and hit her head on the bat, and started crying. My father, enraged, grabbed the bat and flung it in the trash. We tried to explain that no one was swinging the bat; it was just a collision of people. But he wouldn’t listen. That was the end of the bat….
Finally, there is what the “real costs” were of being the oldest, and especially what those perks were all about:
He was grooming me — good daddy showing a powerful dose of love
This made it all the harder for me to “hurt his feelings” later if I tried to stop him
It also made the shame worse because I’d been “ensnared” — by accepting without guile, moments of shared activities like archery, or the Yankees trip, I felt complicit, like I was partly responsible, and it was my fault
And there was one more cost of being the oldest under him — his self-hate and mother rage. His shame and his rage at himself for whatever his mother did to him, he transferred to me. If he saw me as weak, he raged. I suspect that as the helpless son of an abusive mother, he raged at his own perceived “weakness” then. And so he raged at me when he thought I was being weak or failing.
Essentially, whatever the supposed gifts I received or special treatment I was given, being the oldest was simply a trap for his referred anger, and his calculated abuse and molestations. Plain and simple.
There is a coda to the bat incident.
I did have the last word in this. A few years ago, as I reflected on all of this, I felt this strong need to see if I could find “that bat.” One from 1965, as I remembered it….the Mickey Mantle one.
After much searching, I found one on a collector’s site. I found that exact bat – it was even a little beat up, just like mine was, since we’d used it all the time. My husband even offered me whatever cash he had been saving for a new phone, just so I could get it. It turned out the price was reasonable enough so I didn’t need it, but his awareness of what this meant deeply touched me…as have so many of his loving gestures and moments of support over the years.
A few days later, the bat arrived. Opening it carefully, I pulled the paper away and felt a sensation of total joy as I stared at it. There it was…that familiar yellowish wood, the narrow handle. The beat-up end from hitting the ground, the worn but still visible etching of “Mickey Mantle, New York Yankees, and Approved Little League.” My joy was over the top, as if I’d finally been reunited with a long-lost relative.
But even more powerful than seeing it was the moment I touched it. It was like a jolt of electricity. Excitement raced through me. I wrapped my fingers around the wood handle and FELT that familiar narrow smoothness just settle right into my grip as if no time at all had passed! Joy, passion, a sense of literal physical power of youth shot through me — I felt HER again
That bat was yet another talisman, like the ham radio dials, my maps, and my chisel, connecting me directly back to that child again. It is perhaps the strongest talisman of all, like a portal for time travel.
Even now, every single time I touch it and hold that bat in my hands, I feel the POWER of THAT kid’s spirit from that time — the strength, energy, and hopefulness for a future dream, just like she felt all those decades ago. That bat has a power in me that even right now I feel like I could hit a baseball out of the park, even as I dare not at this point, given my eyesight and age. But oh, the power of that young girl, she still lives in me, and in that bat….
I was racing my bike around the block, happily flying down the hill on the last leg, before bombing down the sharp decline into my yard. My friend was on the sidewalk tossing his football up in the air. A mischievous smile crept across his face.
“I bet I can nail this football right in front of your bike tire!” His eyes danced with glee at the prospect of the challenge.
Mine did too, and I could feel the spark of excitement rush through me. It would never occur to me to show fear or back away from a challenge, especially one from a boy. In fact, this was all about showing him up and proving, yet again, that I was as good as any boy.
Taunting him back, I threw down the gauntlet with, “I DARE you!”
Then I shot past him down into my yard and started my next circle of the block. This was too good to pass up.
Rounding the corner of his street, I pedaled to the top of the hill and stopped. I could see him waiting for me, tossing the ball in the air, then taking his position to throw, a big grin on his face.
I grinned back at him, lowered myself flatter against the bike, and pushed off. Pedaling with all my might, I flew down the hill. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see his arm go up. I pedaled faster. He took aim. I leaned flat against the bike. He spiked the ball.
One of the things about writing deep and heavy things is that while I don’t shy from them, I do take time to savor the gift of the present moment. So today’s entry is a “Respite from that writing,” and a gift to my readers…
My neighbor stood at my front door, hands outstretched, holding a bag of treasure! Well, treasure to me, given my love of all things coffee. There is so much that excites me about it that goes beyond just getting a hit of caffeine.
First, it was just the joy of seeing my neighbor standing there. Second, it was the pleasant surprise of that bag of coffee she was gifting me. And third, it was her lovely comment that she wanted to give it “just to celebrate ‘me’.” How can you not love a gift like that?
From the moment I came “galloping into the kitchen” on my stick horse at 5, I was bound to be an adventurer. I grew up with TV shows like Zorro, the Lone Ranger and Tonto, Cochise on Broken Arrow, and Roy Rogers and his horse, Trigger. So I was always swinging a sword, galloping my horse, or sliding across the floor.
Of course, that particular day I fell, slid headfirst into the cast-iron radiator, and learned what it meant to get stitches in my forehead at the local hospital ER. I wasn’t scared at first, more intrigued by all the medical tools and equipment. At least, that is, until the girl across the hall started screaming. Not sure what was coming, I panicked and started screaming, too.
I did survive it and even got homemade chocolate chip cookies from Mom when I got home. So, I was an old hand at stitches when I ended up back in the ER again the next year, when I fell off a bench and cut open my jaw. The bottom line is that in spite of my reticence to ever let go of the side of that YMCA pool, I not only learned to swim, I became the adventurer.
Nothing was more exciting at the beginning of every summer than the Saturday night family shopping trip to a discount store in Unionville called Myrtle Mills. It had everything, but most especially, sneakers! The new summer sneakers’ trip. To this day, I still remember the smell of rubber as we approached the basement area in the back, where all the new sneakers were on sale.
When I was about 6, my parents enrolled me in swimming lessons at the local YMCA, along with a family friend. It was fun enough heading through the large lobby, getting my little membership card that said I was now a member of the “Pollywog” group.
It was an adventure going into the large room with benches and lockers, then heading through the tiled shower rooms where we got rinsed off before going into the pool. I didn’t even care that I was freezing every time we had to walk through those showers.
The pool was a challenge for me because I was short. The water level was literally up to my nose, even as I stood up on my toes. But still, I was game enough.
We had to do things like dunk our heads. Blow bubbles underwater. Hold onto the edge of the pool and learn how to kick. They had a whole string of things we had to pass so we could move up into the next level. In spite of struggling to keep my head above water, I hung in there and passed each test, one by one.
Finally, it came down to the last test. Kick your way across the narrow side of the pool while holding onto a foam board. It seemed logical enough. If you could hold onto the side of the pool and kick strongly, then you just had to do the same thing while using a foam board to hold you up. You didn’t have to swim across the pool unaided. That’s what the board was for.
One by one, each of the many kids in the class took their turn. They’d grab their board, give a little hop to get their feet out behind them, kick furiously, and in no time, each was across the pool.
I don’t recall when exactly they asked me to do it. It seems like I had more than one chance, but I wasn’t ready. So everyone else took their turns, then climbed out on the other side to cheer on the next person.
Finally, there was no one left. Just me. The teacher called me to take my turn. I was tired of stretching up on my toes to keep my nose above water. For me to stretch my feet out behind me meant I would sink a bit, and the water level was now at my eyes. This freaked me out. I refused to go.
Any kid who grew up in the 1960s knows this question, and remembers exactly how they needed to answer it…or else.
“No!” (Said while trying to breathe in between swallowing sobs as your chest heaved)
“You better not be crying!
“I’m not!”
“Okay. Because if you’re crying, I’ll give you something to cry about!”
While you still might be stifling a few more sobs over the next couple of minutes, as long as you showed you were shutting down any emotional display, you would likely escape further threats.
We all knew the rules of the game — this was part of the standard 1960s Parenting 101 technique. It meant: “You’re being too sensitive! You have nothing to be crying about, so stop it! Now! Or else!”
I can’t speak for how often this came up in other households, or how angry the parents really got over the crying, but for sure, it was the iron rule in our house, and a rage trigger for my father. And I was the frequent target of this, because 1) during childhood, I was still emotionally open and cried about everything, and 2) my father had NO tolerance for weakness, emotions, or crying. So, I learned early and fast to look away if I was ready to cry so he wouldn’t see me, or how to inhale and swallow sobs…fast.
In trying to answer the question of how I survived that household, I need to explore who that young girl was — me — in the times when Dad was not around, in the times I could just be “me.” In a lot of respects, so much of who I became, and still am, how I navigated life both then and now, came out of her spirit.
Even in my seventh decade, I am a 9 or 10-year-old at heart. I am still all of the qualities listed below that she had. Those things got pummeled and almost beaten out of me. But somehow, the spark stayed alive within, and slowly, ever so slowly over my lifetime, I’ve fanned those flames back alive. And I would say it is now, in my seventh decade, that I have fully returned to the spirit of that kid. And no, it’s not “second childhood.”
About the only problem, though, is that while I have reclaimed my inner 10-year-old and she continues to drive all of these things in my heart, my body begs to differ with me on some days. So I am learning now to “moderate” that 10-year-old to match the 70-year-old body!
But to come back to that question of how I survived, if I had to give a short answer, aside from key people along the way, and God, it would be: “Her spirit.”
Who was she? Here is a list of those qualities she embodied, and I’ll expand on them over the next few pieces.
Soul Mosaic 