Posts Tagged ‘family’

Setting the Scene – The Characters of Place and Time Period

September 15, 2025

In many stories, the place and the time period are considered characters in their own right. Certainly, I would agree given the unique flavor of where I grew up, and when.

Torrington, Connecticut:

Nestled in the valley between the foothills of a section of the Appalachian Mountains known as the Berkshire Hills, Torrington is built around the Naugatuck River, which flows south through that valley, right through the center of town. When the town was originally founded, it was located on the hillsides east and west of the river valley, where the climate was healthier and less swampy and mosquito-infested in the summer.

A lot of the surrounding county area was, and remains, rural, with dairy farms, state forests, and nature trails. It is hilly countryside, and as such, the geography itself gives a sense of “constriction” between those hills, and isolation from nearby areas because of them. There are a lot of hardwood forests, including things like oak and sugar maples, and in spite of steel-gray cold skies in November, Fall, with its amazing color display, is my favorite time of year there.

The town and surrounding areas are steeped in history. Whether it is of ancient Mohawk tribes living in longhouses, or the story of Connecticut as the Charter Oak State, the state is living history.

The latter story is based on the fact that the state was given a royal charter in 1662, allowing for self-governance. During the Revolution, the charter was hidden in an oak tree to prevent it from being confiscated by the British.

Many locations around Torrington and throughout the state have markers noting various sites of importance from the 1700s and during the Revolution. The culture of the area was heavily influenced by the strict ethics of the Puritans, who had moved there from England to have religious freedom. And throughout the area, there is still a strong sense of individual ruggedness. That ruggedness is further fostered by the climate, which can suffer extremely cold winters with blizzards, and summers and falls with hurricanes, tornadoes, and Nor’easters.

Torrington was and is a small former factory town in that Northwest corner of Connecticut. It was an industrial powerhouse in the 19th and part of the 20th century, providing employment, a decent standard of living, and a strong economic base for the towns there. Industry included things like brass production, arms manufacturing, skilled tool and die companies, and small factories providing parts for the automotive and aerospace industries. Most of those places shut down and moved south during the 1960s-1980s, and later those things moved overseas. So the employment and economy of the area have taken a hit. But during my childhood, especially with the ’60s space race, things related to aircraft and aerospace industries were still thriving.

Most people during the early and middle of the 20th century lived in the main town because they worked in the local factories. This allowed them to walk to work, shops, churches, and doctors. My grandparents did not have a car, nor did most of the older Slovaks. In fact, our house was just down the street from the church and school we attended, so easily within walking distance.

The homes in town, including the one we lived in, were multi-family 2- and 3-story homes, in keeping with the blue-collar, industrial flavor of the area. There were some single-family homes scattered around in town, but more of those were on the outskirts, in more residential or agricultural areas.

Drawing by author

Our house and street:

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The Chemical Equation For My Life in That Household

September 13, 2025
Photo by author

As a scientist, one of the best ways to capture what happens in a reaction, especially a chemical one, is to set up a formula. On one side of the equation are all the reactants, the items that are mixed together for the reaction to take place, and on the other side is the final product or outcome.

I wasn’t aware of what was happening to me all those years, because when I was living in the “water” of that house, I just considered it the norm and never questioned anything. But now, when I look back, I can see the patterns. If I want to visualize life in that house, I could use the following formula:

My nature + Time (Day/Wk/Yr) + Where Dad Was vs Where I Was + His Mood + His House Rules = My Experience

More generally, the ingredients were people, time, place, and rules. But no matter how you look at it, the equation was heavily weighted toward the power of his ingredients: Time, Where He Was, His Mood, and His House Rules.

Another thing about chemical reactions is that some ingredients have more power over the others, especially if they are present in overwhelming amounts, versus the others. In reactions, the reagent with the least amount present is called the “limiting reagent.” Once that particular ingredient runs out, the reaction is done.

For example, consider my nature. At any given time, my ability to be calm or in control of what was happening to me, was limited. If he he wasn’t around, most of the time I could be me, indulging in play with friends, books, daydreams, school. I say “most of the time” because there were times even when he was gone, that if he was angry with me, I would be a nervous wreck anticipating what was coming when he returned. But generally, I could use those “in-between” times away from him, to recharge, and live a “normal life.”

But when he was around, I needed to be on guard. I learned early on that everything about my day revolved around him and his mood. The absolute constant was to always be focused on him, assess the state of things, then adjust me to match what was happening. So in thinking about it, this required some amount of psychic energy no matter what.

If he was in a good mood, I still needed to stay on guard because I couldn’t be sure how long it might last or what might trigger a change. But if he was in a bad mood, I was consuming vast amounts of my emotional energy rapidly to “prepare or endure.”

The bottom line is that my emotional energy would run out long before his. So I was the limiting reagent. He could control me and have his way with me, even when I tried to resist, because all he had to do was keep battering me with his reagents — his mood, twisting his house rules, picking fights with me and not leaving me alone. Since he had these infinite amounts, sooner or later, I would run out of fight out of sheer nervousness. I would have to cave because I just couldn’t stand it anymore.

The last thing about chemical reactions is that they are either one-way or reversible. One-way reactions are “all-consuming,” that is, they can only go on until the limiting reagent is used up. Then the reaction stops. And there is no going backwards to restore any of that limiting reagent.

Reversible reactions can flow back and forth, sometimes benefiting one side and other times benefiting the other, depending on conditions. The chemical reaction in our house was one-way and all-consuming. His way, and I was being consumed.

Only now do I realize all of this, and the full extent of what I was up against. Yet, I am still here. I sustained, somehow, even if I am left with permanent scars. How did that happen? And what does that mean for my continued healing?

It’s time to look at not just Mom and Dad, but time, place, house rules, and the one “people” I haven’t said much about yet…that kid…me…that person in those “in-between” times. Just who was that kid, and why did she survive?

So that is next. But to start off, I will start with “place” — my world, the house and immediate area that I lived in. Then I’ll visit that young child and see what she was like, especially when he was not around…those “in-between times” when I could be myself.

And, of course, there will be maps and drawings.

Mom — Such a Complicated Relationship Contained in Three Letters

September 11, 2025

As usual on any afternoon, my Mother was preparing a full meal for dinner, including a homemade dessert. Dad expected full dinners, including desserts, with his meal. While store-bought” Oreos were allowed for snacks because Dad liked them and he brought home the paycheck, desserts had to be homemade.

On this particular afternoon, Mom had two cake layers cooling on top of the stove, and they gave off the sweetest vanilla aroma that I couldn’t miss as I ran into the kitchen. I stopped near the stove to examine them because they smelled so good, and that’s when I spotted the problem.

Poor Mom! She always worked so hard to make all her desserts from scratch, usually from recipes out of the red binder — her Betty Crocker cookbook. But today, looking at the cake tops, I felt bad at how they were turning out. That’s when the perfect idea popped into my head for how to help her and fix the problem.

Happily, I set to work with a knife. A few minutes later, I was almost done when Mom came into the room. She stopped dead in her tracks, her eyes wide in horror, and she yelled, “What are you doing?!”

“I’m helping you!”

I pointed to the piles of cake chunks I’d cut off the top of each tier – the uneven bumps that, to my mind, marred the smooth surface.

“The cakes were all bumpy, so I figured I’d cut them off and make it all smooth for you!”

My mother stood there, staring from me to the cakes, then back again, as she struggled to process my logic. For several moments, she said nothing. I wasn’t sure what was wrong. This was not the reaction I expected.

Then, she took in a deep breath then let her shoulders drop as she exhaled slowly, and said quietly, “It’s okay. Go play. I’ll fix this.”

Now, many years later, I realize the artful skill it must have taken her to spread frosting onto those two cake layers whose tops were almost totally crumbs….

**

I love looking at pictures of my Mother from her early years. She was beautiful and had a radiant joy that seemed to burst out from within.

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Childhood Talismans — Maps

September 4, 2025

A “talisman” is often defined as a magical object that brings luck or special powers to its owner.

If it is not obvious by now, maps, mind maps, charts are talismans for me. Being a visual person, these tools empower me to bring order to my life. It is how my brain works. Whether it’s a road atlas, a treasure map, or a topographic map, I love them all. Give me a map and I can do anything.

Maps give you knowledge, and thus, power. They show you everything that exists, where it is, how to get there. Maps make the unknown visible, clear, quantifiable, and possible. With a map…a plan, you can get anywhere you want.

So maps would become one of the key tools in my life, both for my journeys and my understanding. When I discovered “mind maps” I became a power user. Just a sheet of paper and some markers let me plan my life, a project, or my writing. And it all started with one Christmas when I was very young.

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The Family “Cell” — Who I Was and Why

September 1, 2025

“David Foster Wallace’s ‘This Is Water’ speech uses the metaphor of fish and water to highlight how the most fundamental aspects of our existence often go unnoticed. In the story, two young fish swim past an older fish who greets them with, ‘Morning, boys. How’s the water?’ After a while, one of the young fish turns to the other and asks, ‘What the heck is water?’ This illustrates how the most pervasive elements of our lives can become so familiar that they become invisible to us.

By Jonathan Winnegrad, ABO-AC, NCLE-AC in 20/20, Sept 2024

Many things go into forming a person, especially if the programming starts right from birth. As I tried to find the “entry point” to tell my story, I was overwhelmed by all the things I needed to weave into the narrative.

So, I resorted to what I always do when confronted with too much information: I throw everything I can think of onto a large sheet of paper to see it all at once. That way, I can then notice if there are key pieces that stand out — relationships, patterns, repeating elements.

In my true scientist way, I made a list of all the different influences over my young life:

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The Unexpected Side of Caregiving and Grief: The Breaking Dam

August 13, 2025

Painting by author

So what happened after Mom’s death?

I guess I expected that, like after Dad’s death, I would feel relief…or maybe more correctly, peace and serenity, given how it all ended.

While his aftermath was the relief of a threat finally extinguished, hers was the completion of caregiving done honorably. Though we parted with many unresolved things, I felt such peace at her transformation at the end…a kind of redemption from the rest of her life.

So I expected something more like: “It is done.” With both parents gone, and it being the end of that whole era, I should be able to “get over it,” “move on,” and “leave the past behind.” All those things people say, as if just the fact it is finally done means it is “over.” But nothing was further from the truth.

Instead, there was an intense explosion of a whole mess of emotions, ranging from love and grief, compassion and confusion, to anger, disappointment, abandonment, and back again to grief.

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Why Write…Now?

July 3, 2025

Death. Talismans. Madonna

Author photo of her 1960s 45 record collection

“Why write…now?” Three simple words, but a vital question that demands an answer to the motive for my change of heart.

Dr. Edith Eva Eger, in her 2017 book, The Choice, about her experiences both as a Holocaust survivor and a psychotherapist, talks about the question, “Why now?” Whenever she was confronted with a new patient, her approach was always the same–questions. I loved her description:

“Why now?…This was my secret weapon. The question I always ask my patients on a first visit. I need to know why they are motivated to change. Why today, of all days…Why is today different from yesterday, or last week, or last year? Why is today different from tomorrow?”

But before I can even answer why I would write now, I need to answer the question that came before it: “Why write?” I had actually tried three times before to write something about sexual abuse, wanting to help someone else in the same situation. I tried articles for adults, a picture book for small children, a chapter book for older kids. No matter what I did, it didn’t come out right. The message was wrong…missing…useless. What could I tell a child that might help their situation? “Go tell an adult, and they can help you.” First, I am not a therapist. And second, if I said that, would I be opening them up to a world of more hurt with a simplistic answer?

Even when professionals try to intervene, there are no guarantees that it will be better. Sometimes if a child tells, they risk breaking up their family, retribution for speaking, possibly being removed from the home and put in foster care, or maybe ending up in a worse situation. If authorities remove the offending parent, the entire family’s financial stability might be at risk. I so wanted to make a useful contribution. But what message could I give to anyone?

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The Post – Gab to Go

February 4, 2008

Given it’s Monday, you expect to see someone sitting at their desk with a coffee cup sipping tentatively before plunging into whatever awaits. So it’s not a surprise that I have this Styrofoam cup on my desk. The odd thing is it sits next to my regular ceramic mug, which is what’s actually holding my caffeinated drink of choice – tea. So why the Styrofoam cup?

Ah, a throw-back to yesterday’s post – start this one with a question, right? Well, questions are the order of the day, and that’s exactly the point with this Styrofoam cup. It doesn’t contain caffeine. It’s loaded with . . . questions. No it’s not some mystical beverage, or some liquid whose swirls you gaze into or whose curls of steam you study for the secret of life. It’s a game. And to a writer, it’s like a playground.

Questions are the staple of a writer’s life. It doesn’t matter if it’s nonfiction, essays, or fiction, you write to answer questions. Whether it’s what killed the dinosaurs, why we should care, or a story about bringing them back to life in a doomed amusement park, all three start from a question. No questions, nothing to contemplate, and hence nothing to write.

A question here: In an era of You Tube, My Space, video games and Instant Messaging, how do you cultivate a love for, and the ability to confront questions? No this isn’t another essay bemoaning all of this technology in our kids’ lives. Technology is here to stay and frankly, a lot of it is great. Just see the effect on homebound elderly who’ve embraced email and the web and thus feel connected not isolated. And let’s be honest, even adults are glued to all of the above, not just teens. It’s simply a realization that unless the power goes out, everyone is plugged into something electronic (like this blog?) and when is there time to sit across the table from someone, ask a question, and ponder an answer?

One family confronted this on a vacation trip. They realized each was plugged into their own electronic device, and hence, their own world. Fine up to a point. But there was no conversation. No connection. Now I’m not dissing this completely because hours of several people jammed together in a closet on wheels can get old. Each having their own space for a little while can be a relief. However, I did grow up in an era of “See how many different states’ license plates you could find” or “look for whatever object came up next on a list” as you traveled down the highway. Like it or not, you interacted. So I can understand this family’s concern.

They came up with a simple yet elegant solution. They came up with a list of questions, things like: “What is something about you that would surprise most people?” “What word do you really dislike?” “What is the biggest risk you’ve ever taken?” Simple questions. Yet even one person’s answer could lead to not only an extended conversation, but a newfound appreciation for people you reside with and ordinarily take for granted. We often find talking to “new people” exhilarating because it’s something new and different. Yet how many new and different things are within the very people sitting next to us that we may have grown bored with?

The family went ahead and created a product – a bunch of question cards in a Styrofoam coffee cup – and have recently started to market it. It’s called “Gab to Go.” It started locally and is beginning to spread as people realize what a gift asking a question can be.

For myself, I could probably take each question and write at least one post on it, maybe more, depending on how I slanted it. The possibilities, if not infinite, are pretty extensive. In fact, I may use a question/essay approach on a regular basis in future entries. For now, I revel in the new worlds and travels never imagined, with people very close to me, all because somebody thought to ask a question.

If you’re interested in learning more about the how and why behind this couple’s game, and news articles on their idea, check out “Gab to Go.”

The Post – Scarlett O’Hara and her molted ghost

January 31, 2008

fiddler-crabs-242.jpgfiddler-crabs-252.jpgfiddler-crabs-254.jpgfiddler-crabs-287.jpg

Well, I’ve been promising pictures of the fiddler family members so let’s start with Scarlett O’Hara and her recent molt.

The first picture shows her just after she molted, climbing down the side of the water filter. I love how they can have their eyestalks going in two directions as they move about. If you look closely, the right eyestalk is vertical, while the left one is scanning in a horizontal direction. Off to the right in the picture, her whitish “ghost” sits, discarded. With the water currents waving the legs and claws back and forth, the discarded shell looked eerily alive.

The second one shows her nestled safely under the water filter and behind her old self (fuzzy part in front), where she rested for some time. It is not unusual for newly molted crabs to hide. Their new shells are soft at this point and they feel vulnerable. So they hide to give themselves protection as their new shell hardens.

The third picture though a bit dark, gives you a close-up view of the ghost version. You can see the empty leg, claw and eyestalk casings. I will add that the “ghost of Scarlett O’Hara” no longer exists. Admiral Byrd ate it. Perhaps he is getting ready to molt. Crabs often eat discarded shells to reclaim the calcium the shells contain.

Last picture shows Scarlett O’Hara when she finally emerged from under the water filter. Still a bit tentative, she sought shelter under an overhang on the Live Rock.

These were all from Saturday, the 26th. Today she was back to her old self, running around the tank and eating. Maybe I can get a lighter picture of her now that she’s out and about. I need to work on “lighting” issues for these, but still, not bad considering no flash and long exposure times.

Soon to come, Admiral Byrd and Melanie Hamilton!!!

The Post – Caring, is catchy

January 30, 2008

Probably the most interesting thing in the fiddler crab experiment is my family’s reaction to them. My son came home from college at Christmas and initially looked at me like I was crazy because I talked so much about the crabs. In fact, my independent college student complained I was paying more attention to the fiddler crabs. He kept laughing at me as I talked to the crustaceans in that high-pitched mommy voice previously reserved for my toddler son and pet poodles. My husband just kept teasing me about the total amount we were up to on fiddler crab expenditures.

Within of day of being home, my son started watching them, and within a few days he was keeping track of who was doing what and telling me to check on Melanie Hamilton or Rhett Butler. In fact, I think he was the one who first noticed that Rhett Butler was dead.

My husband was the one who spotted Scarlett O’Hara molting and eagerly called me over to see her when I came in from grocery shopping. Last night, he came in from work and before he even said hello to me he stopped, peered in the tank and said with great concern, “There’s something wrong with Admiral Byrd! I think he’s dead!” As it turned out (after I poked Admiral Byrd with my latest acquisition, a 25 cc plastic pipette and bulb from Science Safari that I use to siphon out excess food), I think Admiral Byrd was just sleeping – they kind of hang there, their claws floating above their heads, and don’t react to much. But my husband walked away and said very seriously, “I think you’d better keep an eye on him.”

What I realized is that caring, like a cold, is an occupational hazard of sharing space. When you share space, even with a creature who has a brain the size of a pinpoint, it starts to get personal. When it’s personal, you start to care, even when you didn’t mean to.

I think the same thing happens with people. So often you hear people say, “I don’t like this group or that.” Then they meet someone from that group and find out they really are okay . . . maybe even . . . nice. It’s hard to share space – sit across the table from someone, hear their humanness, see it in their eyes – and not care. That’s the real risk factor I suspect . . . contact . . . sharing space. The minute you share the space, you start to see the real person. Once that happens, it’s personal. And once it’s personal, you’re done for because caring is catchy.