Soul Mosaic

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.

And when he was abusive? He was ice cold.

The early scientist:

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.

Photo by author

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.

Bat day:

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.”

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.

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.

“Are you crying?!”

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.