Soul Mosaic

Just like our summer days had their routine when Dad wasn’t around, school days did as well. I’ll talk more about school shortly. But for now, suffice it to say that while the days of the school year had a strict regimen, there was a brief respite period between the end of the school day and when Dad would get home.

The 2:30 bell would ring, and two by two we would exit school in an orderly manner. Then, once clear of the nun’s “jurisdiction,” we’d burst down the street, greedily sucking in the fresh air, literally and figuratively.

It was often the same group of us walking down the hill. My siblings and I, some of our friends from the neighborhood, and usually the two brothers who lived down by the corner of our road.

We were always careful to watch over the younger one. He had Cystic Fibrosis and was fragile, whereas his older brother had a robust loudness that couldn’t be easily contained. But still, he, too, had a gentle soul and worried about his brother.

On one walk home, the younger boy just passed out cold. I still remember the thud of his head against the ground, like a melon against asphalt. While we gathered around him, his brother ran full-speed down to his house, yelling for his Mom. I was grateful for his ability to scream on that day, because she came running up toward us before he’d even gotten all the way home. Fortunately, in spite of the fall, he was okay.

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The thing about memories during traumatic moments, very early childhood, or both, is that they are not preserved like a movie. There is no “narrative flow” or complete replay of an event from beginning to end. There are, at best, “flashes” — moments in time, stray images. They may be fully detailed and vivid, including the emotions of the moment. But they are brief. More of a photograph of a second in time, versus a home video of the whole afternoon.

I have a series of these flashes that individually are just that — “photos of a moment in time.” But they are all, with one exception, from around the same time period when I was young. Whether they are related or have any cause-and-effect connection, I have no idea. I can only say that I remember these “flashes in time,” that they are odd, and that they haunt me to this day.

Memory #1 – I don’t want Daddy to come home

I have no memory of anything before or after this moment. But this spot in time, I still recall with total clarity. I had climbed up on the high chair that we kept near the stove. Mom was stirring a pot. I was filled with dread. Supper meant Daddy would be home soon. It was often not fun with him around, not like the daytime home with Mom. I wished it could just stay that way.

I shifted in the chair. Should I tell her what I felt? My stomach tightened. The words were clamped in my mouth behind tightly gritted teeth. I looked at her. Then decided to risk it.

“I don’t want Daddy to come home.”

Mom kept stirring the pot. She didn’t look at me. Was I in trouble?

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The short version…

One of the first things I understood about life on his schedule was to know and follow “his rules.” No debating them. Also, his “view” on things was the right view.

Indoctrination by confusion

It was very clear, right from the beginning — my life was meant to be hidden. And that indoctrination started at a very early age.

I remember this particular time in that scary cellar. I was very young, but still, I felt so guilty…and bad about what Dad was doing with me. And I was so torn up inside about what it would do to my mother if she found out.

But the worst part was that I was caught between them. I did NOT want to hurt MOMMY. But I didn’t want to hurt him, and was afraid he would be upset. So even though I was nervous, and I hated the cellar, I went down there to talk to him.

Using all my brainpower, I worked to find the right words THIS time that would finally make him understand.

“I don’t want to do this anymore.” I expected anger.

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Since my bedroom was right off the kitchen, I got to listen to the recitation of the daily “morning litanies” between my parents.

“Do you have your badge?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have your keys?”

“Yes.”

“Wallet?”

“Yes.”

“Handkerchief?”

“Yes.”

All that was missing from their conversation to make it like the church litanies were a few Amens or Ora pro nobises.

It was the same mind-numbing set of questions every morning, done just before he walked out the door. And woe to her if he got to work and was missing one of these things because she didn’t ask.

On more than one occasion, apparently, he had forgotten his badge. This meant that he had to stand at the guard gate at Pratt & Whitney’s entrance until someone, most likely his hard-assed boss, came and verified he belonged there. Since they did government and military research at the plant in those days, security was not taken lightly. I expect he probably got chewed out, or at least mocked, for forgetting his badge. And since I think it happened a few times, it was probably becoming an actual problem, not just an embarrassment. So somehow, it became my mother’s job every single morning to run down the list before he left the house.

But even before this “festive routine” took place, there was the “battle of the breakfast” litany.

“What would you like for breakfast?”

“I don’t know!”

“Would you like eggs?”

“NO! Yes!”

“How do you want them?”

“I don’t know!”

“I can scramble them. Would you like that?”

“I don’t know! NO!”

“Over easy?” Boiled?”

“Just scramble them!”

“Do you want toast?”

“NO, I don’t want any toast.”

Each of his answers was delivered with an increasing level of anger and meanness. You’d think she was asking if he wanted a pile of dung on his plate.

Why she got up to make him breakfast is beyond me. Years later, I told him one day that I never would have bothered because, based on how he treated her, he didn’t deserve it. But I could say that years later because I was in my 20s, and it was one of those rare days he was in a good mood, pretending to be easy-going.

So he would laugh and agree and shake his head at the idea he could have been so miserable. And he knew he’d been miserable, because one morning he finally just told her not to get up to make him breakfast anymore, because it was better not to be around him in the morning. So even he knew he was out of line.

However, there was one that morning where the “leaving for work litany” actually ended on a protective note, and THAT caught my attention. Especially the reason, which scared me to death.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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