Soul Mosaic

Maria. Mary. Mary Gaura Tomala. “Grandma.” A loving, tolerant woman who welcomed us into her home without us even having to knock on the door. It was ALWAYS, “Just come in.” She was a simple woman, born here but mostly raised with relatives in Slovakia, until she returned when she was in her early 20s. I don’t know why she came back, but she did. To spend time with Grandma was to be enveloped in love, joy, and peace.

She had a hard life. Apparently, she had a difficult time with depression, possibly a breakdown, in the late 1930s. By then, she had delivered 4 children in 5 years, including during the Great Depression. My mother was her youngest. My aunt, the nun — Sister Luke — was her oldest daughter. Two sons were in between. The older son had the TV business, and the younger son was my uncle, the missionary priest in Puerto Rico, who came home for a month every summer.

But those early years had to be stressful for her. Then add in my grandfather’s work hours being cut, little money, and years of Sunday afternoon fights when my grandfather would come home drunk from the club, and I am amazed she was as happy as she was when I knew her in my childhood.

Her early life was equally turbulent and traumatic. When she was a child, her mother abandoned the family to run off with another man. Left with a daughter and son to care for, Grandma’s father took them back to Slovakia to live with relatives. It was a place called Nizne Ruzbachy – and my apologies to the people there that I cannot add the accents above the Z’s and the E. It’s interesting to look at pictures of that area on Google Maps. It is a hilly, rural area with farms, very similar in climate and geography to where we lived in Connecticut.

Years later, her mother tried to reconnect, but my grandmother absolutely refused. Grandma never forgave her. I wonder sometimes if Grandma’s deep hurt over that didn’t affect her overall sense of who she was and her own value. That whole sense of, “if my own mother left, who else would be there for me?” It would certainly make sese that Grandma might have felt much pain and shame over that abandonment. Then, add in having a husband who was an alcoholic and it would make her pull into herself.

In thinking about my grandmother as a person, not just as “Grandma,” I can’t recall her ever having any close friends, with one exception.

In spite of the very insular and controlled nature of our home, there was a wider circle of people in my life that offered some level of, if not support, at least distraction and moments of respite.

For one, there was our extended family in the form of grandparents and cousins, as well as school, church, and some family friends. I’ll speak about school, church, and friends in a bit.

In terms of family, I mentioned having grandparents who lived in Bridgeport and later in Stratford. Those were my father’s parents, and that whole family is a good example of the effects of intergenerational trauma. In a sentence, so much pain and dysfunction.

In fact, being there actually made our house seem normal by comparison. Years later, when I was in my last year of college, I lived with those grandparents for 12 months. I was doing my hospital internship for my medical laboratory degree, and the only way I could afford to do that so I could finish college was to live with them. I was there Sunday nights through Fridays for most of that time. You would think it would be a welcome break to be away from Dad this way. And in terms of being able to avoid him, it was. But these were the people who created my father, and frankly, by the end of the week, I was actually ready to go home. One time, I even drove home in a snowstorm just to get out of there.

There were some Saturdays when I was lucky enough to be home and Dad was busy elsewhere. This was especially true for a period in childhood when he would help one of my uncles with his TV business. Dad would be out for the afternoon, so peace would descend on our house.

Once my cleaning chores were done, I would try to tune the TV antenna just right to see if I could get reception for the New York City TV channels. These were the channels we watched in Bridgeport at my grandparents’ house, and I was determined to watch them at home, even if “just barely.”

If my parents didn’t have a fight on a Saturday, it would happen on Sunday, right after church. But then, right after church, I was fair game too. Especially the Sunday I declared my support for birth control, after the priest’s sermon that day demonized it. While my courage to stand up for my beliefs was admirable, you’d think I would have learned by then to just keep my mouth shut.

But it didn’t really matter what the trigger was. There would be a nasty fight on one of the weekend mornings, and after church was as good a time as any. He was miserable first thing in the morning on most days. Add to that having to dress up and go to Mass, and that only worsened his temperament.

Whatever the fight, it would end up with them in the bathroom and me at my bedroom wall listening to make sure he didn’t kill her this time. After the battle, he would storm out of the house, get in the car, and tear out of the driveway. That left our house in relative quiet while he was gone, except for the sounds of sobs or blowing noses. It was the stillness after a storm, like when the skies have unleashed their worst and now, energy depleted, they have nothing left to hurl at you.

On the bad Saturdays, there wasn’t usually much time for a respite. It was enough to just crawl into bed on Saturdays and try to get lost in daydreams under the covers until sleep overtook me.

There was no question that Dad was going to make me pay for “Doughnut morning rejections” and “Late movie avoidances.” Before Sunday Mass, he wouldn’t look at me or talk to me, the usual “silent treatment.” He would be personable with everyone we met there, but always avoided any eye contact with me.

Once we got home, he would start in with his barrage of questions — looking for something I did, or didn’t do, so he could start the fight. One time, it was the fact that I wore a sweater too short for me to church that morning. To him, that would be an affront and make him look bad to everyone else. It was like saying he wasn’t a good enough provider, and his family couldn’t dress properly.

That particular Sunday, we got in the house, and he literally ripped the sweater off my back and started yelling, and of course, coming at me. Mom ran interference, and I hid in my room. But eventually, once we had our big Sunday meal at noon, there would be no avoiding him.

He would fire questions at me. Glare at me across the table. I could barely eat, but I had to, or he would yell at me for that. I was so nervous, I could barely choke down my food. But the worst was yet to come.

TRIGGER ALERT – Depictions of abuse. Please be aware.

Saturdays – The mixed bag

Saturdays. They were all over the place in terms of what went on.

The “normal” ones

There were actually some relatively “normal” Saturdays, such as the ones where we headed out on one of those family day-trips, or out of town to do clothes shopping or bulk meat purchases. Some Saturdays, there were no fights, but this was rare. If it weren’t Saturday, then the fight would be on Sunday.

Sometimes we didn’t go anywhere but did chores. Or when we were young, the exciting thing was to accompany my dad and my grandfather to the dump…the 1960s name for a landfill. That was always exotic to drive out to the southern edge of town, get in line, and wind slowly up to the top of that hill, then be directed to back up into a wall of garbage, trash, and broken items. We weren’t allowed out of the car, and the place reeked, but still, it was fascinating to a young child.

Other times, Dad would decide it was a good day to try to teach our pet parakeet tricks. In a normal household, this might seem like a fun idea. It never was. First of all, our parakeet was terrified of Dad. Whenever he walked in the house, the bird would freak out, squawk, and fly into the sides of the cage. So Dad taking the bird into the bathroom to learn new tricks usually resulted in him getting more impatient and angry, and the bird screeching and flying into the walls

Afternoons could be calm on a “good-mood-day” for Dad. Especially in the summer, with the windows open and a breeze flowing through our apartment. He’d play his usual *Victory at Sea* or *Herb Alpert* record albums, and life would be relaxed. And the evenings sometimes included board or card games. Those days were the ones we lived for and savored. Those were the ones that made the others seem like a bad dream that would never come back.

Always, the weirdness…

But still, even on the good days, weirdness showed up.

TRIGGER ALERT – Reference to child sexual abuse

The back door closed, and the key turned in the lock. I bolted awake.

“God, no!” I’d overslept, and she was leaving.

It was Saturday morning. Mom would often go to a small local bakery — Baggish Bakery — to get fresh doughnuts for breakfast. Baggish was one of those old-time privately owned bakeries, not a chain, and they made the best poppy-seed rolls, crusty rye bread, sliced fresh, and…wonderful doughnuts.

I tried ALWAYS to be up in time to go with her. I risked his anger when I did this because he made it clear he wanted me available. But it was still better than the anger I encountered when I refused his approaches. The consequences for that were dangerous. So I tried desperately to wake up early and go with her. But sometimes, like this day, she was just too quiet.

Grabbing my clothes, I scrambled, but it was too late. The car pulled out of the driveway.

I froze. It would be a good twenty minutes before she’d get back with the doughnuts. I was an open target. My only hope was that he was still asleep.

On tiptoes, I stretched across the room toward my bed, almost in slow motion. Without a sound, I slipped under the covers.

Bare feet slapped against the linoleum floor in the other room and approached.

So many nights, especially in the summer, if it was Dad’s week to work 2nd shift, I loved to stare out of my bedroom window. I knew Mom was asleep on the couch as she watched TV. 

So, I would crawl out of bed, shut the door, and just curl up against my open bedroom window. Even on the hot days, there was usually a cool breeze at night. And often the smell of fresh-cut grass would waft inside.

The shaded living room windows of the house next door glowed a dim yellow. And through the darkness, I could see the various houses that backed up to our yard. A few windows here and there were lit up behind their curtains. But there was one house in particular I always looked for.

It was at the far end of our neighbor’s yard, sitting atop a retaining wall. The house faced the next street over, but I could see its back windows, and in particular, one small window on the second floor. It was probably a kitchen or pantry window, given its size. But the special thing about it was that it was always bathed in a soft purple light. I loved that window and would stare deeply into the peacefulness of that glow.

I think it was a plant light, as I could make out some racks and what looked like trays of plants in the window. It would make sense, then, that the light might glow at the same time every night for them. Whatever it was, I didn’t care. I only know that I would stare into that purple light for a long time, and just get lost in it.

I LOVED its tranquility. Soaking up its calming effect, I wondered who lived there and what they were like. I wondered about the world on the other side of that purple light, and dreamt up all kinds of ideas for what it would be like to live in that house.

On those nights, it was my respite. My moment of peace and escape to another world, far, far from my chaos. Even now, whenever I see one of those purple lights somewhere at night, it stops me in my tracks and floods me with a sense of calm, peace, and serenity.