Soul Mosaic

We were on a typical Sunday visit to Bridgeport, Stratford, actually, where Dad’s parents lived. It was always an uncomfortable time. We’d have to be dressed up, which meant not really being able to play or do anything fun, not that there was anything fun to do there anyway. The only saving grace was the TV set because Grandma could get all the New York City TV channels we could not. So we could at least watch old movies and programs like “The Thunderbirds. But there were strict rules in her living room, and God help you if you broke them.

For one, we couldn’t touch the TV. If we wanted to change the channel, we’d have to ask an adult to do it. If you were even in the vicinity of the TV set and she walked in, she would start yelling. The living room itself was equally uncomfortable, with plastic runners across the rug and plastic sheets on the couches so we couldn’t mess anything up. Also, forget about bringing a snack in there or touching the candy in the dish on the end table. And don’t touch any of the hundreds of her knick-knacks scattered around the room. One time, one of us accidentally broke one of her statues, and Dad actually hid it so we wouldn’t get in trouble.

But on that morning, all of that fun would come later. For right now, we were marched outside to say hello to Dad’s grandfather — my Grandmother’s father — who was usually referred to as “Little Grandpa,” because he was shorter than Dad’s father, who was “Big Grandpa.” Little Grandpa was very old at that point, and mostly stayed out on the patio in good weather, or upstairs in his room in bad weather, as he and Big Grandpa did not get along much.

On this particular Spring Sunday morning, he was sitting outside. So, we dutifully went up and said hello and stood there lined up like robots in front of him as Dad talked with him. Little Grandpa didn’t say much that we could understand. He had no teeth, didn’t speak much English, and just kind of sat there nodding his head at us. But there was one thing he would always say, every time we saw him. He would shake his head, point a finger at us, and look at us very seriously, as if he were about to deliver a sage bit of wisdom that would save our lives. He would draw himself up, raise his voice, which was very raspy, and say in a Slavic accent, emphasizing each word slowly:

“You…lucky…you…got…Richie!” Richie was my father’s nickname.

He would then shake his head again, fold his hands, and look down at the ground, I guess satisfied that he had told us this.

I was never sure what to make of it. Did I really trust a toothless old man who spent most of his time drunk? And given Dad’s alternating good and bad moods, I wondered why we were so lucky. But being a kid, I remember thinking, Well, he is an old man, and an adult, so he must know something. He must be right. I also wondered, if we were so lucky to have Dad, how bad were his brothers to live with?

So we just smiled and agreed, “We lucky we got Richie.”

But to this day, I’ll be damned if I know why…or if it was true.

Of my two parents, there is no question that Dad was the interesting one. And I mean that in a kind and grateful way. Whatever else I will say about him in this book, like all human beings, even ones who do horrible things, he also did good things. No one is *just* evil. And maybe it’s because of those things that it was so hard to know what to make of him, or to even know I should stand up to him.

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It was no accident or twist of fate that I started mapping our house in the radio room. He called it his radio “shack,” because apparently that’s what all ham radio operators called their “space.” And while the room had many things jammed into it, the REAL draw for me was that counter covered in radio receivers, transmitters, boosters, wires, coils, and that precious Morse code key.

I loved playing with Dad’s ham radios…when he was not home, of course. I would have been in trouble if he’d seen me flipping switches, spinning dials, and changing frequency settings.

One time, I went in there when I was really young, fascinated as always by the wall of black radios. The adventurer in me was overwhelmed with excitement at how these powerful things could bounce invisible radio waves, whatever those were, off the ionosphere, whatever that was, and depending on the frequency and time of day, those radio waves could reach people all over the world. I remembered that something magical changed in the ionosphere at night, so there were people he could talk to then, whom he couldn’t reach during the day.

When he was home using his radio equipment, I would rarely venture in there, though he was usually in a good mood then. I loved listening to the dit-dah-dah-dit sounds of him sending code, and the beeping from the US Bureau of Standards channel when they did their countdown to mark the exact time. But one time, while he was sending a code message on his key, I went in and reached up to touch this round metal coil — an induction coil — that was on the wall, and it burned my hand. Rather than get in trouble, I didn’t say a word, just pulled my hand back, slipped out of the room, and crossed the hall to the bathroom to run my hand under cold water. So, I usually stayed out of there when he was home.

But when he was at work? Oh, that was my time to dream. I would pretend to be flying a spaceship or on an adventure in the jungle, spinning the dials and tapping the code key. It was like a giant toy.

Two of the walls were covered with “QSL cards,” postcards from people he’d “talked to” in Morse code – a Ham radio operator’s way of being penpals with someone. Whenever he connected with another “Ham,” they would each send their postcard to the other to document their transmission. It would have the radio operator’s call sign, name, information, logo, and on the back, the frequency, time, and other notes about their conversation. The term QSL basically meant “I acknowledge receipt.”

The other thing that just fascinated the hell out of me was, of course, a map — the big world map taped up above the linen closet, across of his radios. Red stick pins were scattered all over the earth, each marking the location of someone he’d communicated with. It was a room that represented dreams of faraway worlds, exotic peoples, and adventure, all achieved through the magical, invisible force of radio waves.

The room also apparently spoke to the artist side of me. One particular day when he was at work, I went in there, as usual. Awed by the expanse of black radios, and armed with a white crayon, I was moved to create. For the next several minutes I scribbled all over that vast expanse of black. It was like an empty canvas calling to be filled. When I finished, I stepped back to admire my work and suddenly, that rational side of my brain freaked out. Realizing what would happen if Dad came home and saw white crayon all over his radios, I began to panic and cry.

My Mother walked in, surveyed the situation, and asked me why I had done that. My response was instantaneous and filled with the desperate realization that my survival was in her hands.

“I don’t know how it happened!”

She arched her eyebrows. “You don’t know how it happened?”

“No! But it will never happen again!”

I recall a smile and an acknowledgment of my “promise,” and she sent me off to play in another room. Later that day, the black radios were back to normal. I never did draw on them again, but the radios – they held a power over me that has never been broken.

I remember that Dad wanted us to get our ham licenses. He would teach us Morse code and test us on it over summer vacations. Because I found it so fascinating, I wished I had been able to get my license. But electronics were not my strength. I was about playing with the radios in my dreamer world and making up stories for myself, than of actually getting the license. I was never going to be an engineer. Case in point, years later, on a whim, I bought myself a model train set and promptly wired it wrong so that only half the track worked at a time.

But the radios served their purpose, though. His attitude told us that we could actually do something like this. It was a confusing message in one way. He expected us to be something. He would constantly tell us, “Don’t grow up to be a stupid woman.” While he instilled in us that we could do anything and we should, it was a horrible message. But at the same time, it all had to meet his criteria and rules and control, since he ruled the household and made clear what you could and could not do.

At that age I took it to mean that there were smart women out there– women who did well in school, got good jobs, did things, and then there were the “other women” and they were stupid. So HIS daughters were not to grow up and be that.

I look back and question if that was really about us and for our benefit…or so he could proudly show off his “smart daughters.” I also wondered – what did my Mom feel about that statement? His mantra. After all…she hadn’t gone to school, she didn’t work, she didn’t “do things” that his “smart women did.” Was she a “stupid woman?”

But at that time in my life, aside from his indoctrination, it was that room that fired me with a desire for adventure, a vast curiosity about the world, and a sense of possibility for my future. I didn’t want to be a wife or mother; I wanted to be out there, having adventures.

From a very young age I had spotted that it was the world of men that had all the fun and the power. Women cooked, sewed, and cleaned. Men had “careers.” They were scientists, explorers, makers of action. My father’s stories, and this room, with the QSL cards all over the walls, were proof. Even when I played house with the neighborhood kids, I would be the Dad because I knew men ran the show.

Even at that age, I knew I didn’t want to be the one worrying about whether supper was ready. I wanted to be the one coming home to supper. I wasn’t sure what I would be or how I would get there — all those “in-between” details I had no concept of then — but I would be “something and not stupid”….and the world with all the space flights and TV travel specials, the exotic places out there I was learning about and all the things there were to learn about, I fell in love with that.

Over the years, Dad would eventually replace the radios with newer transmitters and receivers. But somehow, one of those old black ones — a World War II Army tank radio — survived and made its way into my hands, along with that Morse code key. They have a place of honor now, in my living room.

My husband asked me one time why I kept it, why I kept something of Dad’s, knowing how bad many of the memories were. Without hesitation, I said I didn’t keep it to remember him. I kept it to remember her — that younger version of me.

That old tank radio is a talisman. Magical. Every time I touch one of those dials or press the key, I am directly connected to her — my young inner child playing and dreaming in that radio room — and I can still feel a sense of joy just putting my fingers on those switches. That radio was my talisman filled with hope and power, a portal that could transport me to a better future where I could reach for the magic in the world — whether it was radio waves bouncing off ionospheres or the dreams in my heart that said anything might be possible…someday.

So I have been busy posting several short pieces over the last couple of months, pieces that make up the first sections of my memoir-in-progress:

– The Introduction

– Packing for the Journey

– The End of an Era

All of those musings from the recent past catalyzed this book effort. And they set the stage for what I am about to write — “The Old Country” — aka, revisiting my past.

It is not easy to figure out what made up my younger self, much less how to share it in a story. There were the effects of so many things that influenced me — the time period, culture, place, people, things done to me, all of them ingredients for the “stew” that was me.

Add to that, one other major ingredient – my own nature. Why did I not quit? Why did I fight back even when it felt hopeless? What about the times of mistakes and despair? How did I extract enough emotional nutrition from all those solitary details and moments I loved in life, and why was I able to love anything in life? Lastly, how did I hold onto or regain that elusive quality — hope — when there should have been none? Yes, I am a stubborn person. But stubborn was never enough for this.

So that quest is the focus of the Old Country.

But sharing my past is not the most important part. Everybody has a past filled with things that happened to them. The key is — “What does it all mean…and what can it give to others?”

As I wrote those early pieces, order started to emerge from the chaos, and a book structure emerged.

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Crossing the line?

I always thought of this very early memory as the first time Dad crossed a line with me.  I assumed that up until that moment, there had been a time, “BA,” “before abuse,” a time I was safe, loved, and cherished properly.  Many years later, though, I would learn the truth.

As to the strength and intensity of this memory, especially given my age at the time, it says something that the details of my experience in that car that night, remain sharp over 6 decades later.

It did take painting the images that had been stuck in my head all these years though, to finally be able to tease apart the flood of inputs from that moment–images, actions, physical sensations, and nervous reactions, all mixed together — and to see that moment from “outside my head,” as an adult.

What I remember — The Torrington Creamery

The yellow streetlight was a fuzzy glow as we rounded the curve. Looking up at the car windows, I could see the tops of trees…I remember the empty branches. And I had the sense it was fall because I did not have a heavy winter coat on, and because it was already dark, even though it was early evening — just like it is in October or November after the clocks change.

The radio was a murmur in the background, and the steering wheel glowed slightly from the dashboard light. We were in that same light blue, 1954 Chevy Belair 2-door sedan, and I was sitting on the cloth front bench seat. Directly across from me was the radio–I was too short to see above the dashboard.

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Seeing “her” not the gray tones…

It’s one of those typical 1950s black-and-white photos found in our family albums, before the 1960s brought cheaper color film, Instamatic cameras, and those Polaroids where you could see the picture right away.

These always came across as ancient history — like something found in a history textbook rather than a real moment out of a someone’s life. Even as I know it is about 1957, it could have easily been judged as earlier, except for the car. Only the car gives a clue as to the time period…if you know enough about 1950s cars. And as far as “mood,” it’s hard to tell much unless you really study the shades of gray.

My early life was shrouded in enough shades of gray already. I wanted to see the real “me” from that time…get as close to the living, breathing, in-the-moment me as I could. Close enough to feel my cold breath on that winter day, and hear my laughter of delight sitting so big and proud on that car hood.

The details of a photo…

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“What do you do when the person you are dependent on for safety becomes the source of danger?”

Dr Becky Kennedy on parenting and how trauma happens

https://www.hubermanlab.com/episode/dr-becky-kennedy-protocols-for-excellent-parenting-improving-relationships-of-all-kinds

57 xxxx Avenue, Torrington, 1955-1957

In one respect, I wish I could go back in time to 1955-1957 and be a fly on the wall in this apartment. But maybe it’s better I can’t. Whatever went on at 57 xxxx Avenue is something I will never know because I can’t remember…consciously. But my body seems to.

This was the first place my parents lived when they got married, and it was my home for the first two years of my life. It’s always been almost an afterthought, a place mentioned in passing by my parents without much significance, because the place I really considered my childhood home would be a house my grandfather purchased across town. But this was the first home.

Google Maps Street View

A few years ago, on a quiet afternoon, I thought I would revisit that first home, just to see what the place looked like now. I knew the address and that it was on the west side of town, but that was about it. But, one of the benefits of the digital age is that if you have an address, you can instantly “travel” almost anywhere in the world via an online search and get a street view.

With no notion one way or the other about what to expect, I typed in the address and hit return. The view was off by a house or two, so I adjusted the image and closed in on “57.”

What the body remembers

However, even before the house was totally in the frame or I could form a conscious thought about it, as soon as I spotted the porch and the number 57 on the post, my body reacted…and not in a good way.

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