Not surprisingly, my childhood was divided into two irreconcilable parts. Sunday night through Friday evening I spent in the city with my parents. My primary recollection of those weekday nights is one of complete isolation. For five days out of seven, my entire world (aside from school itself) consisted of a 12x10 room and as many books as I could lay hands on. The noise of the house leaked into my room through my closed door but aside from that I was entirely alone with my thoughts. I recall actually looking forward to that noise, the evidence, no matter how distant that someone existed, that I wasn’t totally alone in the world.
If properly managed, my room was my safe haven. I recall distinctly one night when I was a bit older defying the norm and opening my door and leaving it that way. I went on as if nothing was unusual, probably reading some book for the 60th time when the silence was interrupted by the *WHUMP* of the swiftly closing door. In my warped mind I thought perhaps it was a mistake. A child’s mind does whatever it can to avoid the most unpleasant of conclusions. So I waited the obligatory five minutes and concocted an excuse to open the door with a quick trip to the bathroom. Upon my return I again left the door open and then resumed my reading. Thirty seconds later my scowling mother had the doorknob again in her bony fist and said simply, “Leave this Door Closed!” *WHUMP*
The lives of my parents during this time, though they had a larger space to roam about in frankly fared no better. My father, no doubt feeling trapped by his obligation as a father revolved in his own circle of hell between a woman he’d found to be beyond rescue and a father-in-law that made him want to wretch violently. He dabbled in all manner of occupations from surrealist art to woodworking in an attempt, I think, to fritter away the time as any prisoner will. My mother meanwhile revolved around my father. Since she had lived as a servant to her father for so long she now found her only natural role in life was to serve her husband who wanted nothing less than to be served.
My mother claimed later that the only reason she had been so evil to me was that she thought that’s what my father wanted and a case in point can be found in the family dinner arrangements. I remember eating dinner with my parents at the dinner table exactly once. In our first house I’m told that the kitchen was too small to accommodate three people at the table so I was placed elsewhere to eat. I have no recollection but having seen the house I can believe it. When I was somewhere between three and seven I’d guess, we moved to a bigger house where we had a round kitchen table where we could all have dinner together. Mysteriously, this happened only once. On the second night I recall sitting in my room hearing the sound of eating and wondering what could have possibly gone wrong. I don’t honestly recall if I came out of my room and asked what was going on but later I was told that my new position was to eat after they had finished. My mother brusquely communicated to me that my father thought I ate too noisily (or some similar problem) and that I wouldn’t be eating at the dinner table any more. She was right as it turns out; we never did have dinner together again.
This, for the most part was life with mother. She was a wretch filled with asinine reactions to unlikely stimuli. To this day, I do not understand some of her actions. When I was 10 or 11 it was announced that even my presence in the kitchen was not to be borne and that from that point forward I was to eat in my room. Further, I was to eat before my father came home. This meant that she would have to prepare separate meals for me somehow and to her credit she did exactly that. For at least a year I had scrambled eggs, a baked potato, broccoli and a glass of very suspicious-looking milk for supper every single night. Of course this sudden change in diet had an impact on me which in turn had an impact on our so my reasonable mother issued a further edict that I was no longer to use the bathroom in the house. She left it up to me to find a creative ‘outlet’ for my productivity. This went on for several months until a word was dropped into grandpa’s ear on the topic and the edict was quickly rescinded with many a glare at the overly talkative child.
My father was a different can of worms entirely. I have vague recollections of watching horror movies with the man and listening to music but none of these springs specifically to my mind today. Whereas I remember my mother’s abhorrent actions in some detail the specifics of my interactions with dad are all vague and incoherent. I only know he was there really because of the tracks left behind in my psyche. Whatever we did and whatever we talked about made me most of who I am. All about me that is philosopher, skeptic, poet or thinker came from him. My mother represented hate and my dad was everything else.
By this time, you must be asking about the other two days of the week. Every weekend of my life up to the age of 13 (as far as I can recall anyway) I went to my grandparents house in the country a mere 20 minutes from town. It was here that I did the things that children do. I stayed up until 5 in the morning watching scary movies by myself. I ran about in the three acres of grass and played football… by myself. Many an hour I spent playing tennis with my grandmother’s old racket against the side of the barn… by myself. I had long drawn-out conversations about any old thing that came to mind… by… myself…
As grandparent’s will, they gave me anything I could possibly want. If I ate a whole bag of potato chips in one day grandma would dutifully get more the next time she was in town and not say even a word about it. I had absolute and perfect freedom to do anything I wanted in a room as tall as the sky but absolutely nobody to share it with. Of course I talked to my grandparents but anyone knows this just isn’t the same. A child needs children and despite my best efforts including biking the five miles down the road (one way) to the nearest neighboring child I never managed to make any contact whatsoever. I had all the freedom and all the material wealth I could dream of and yet I was still missing the only thing I really needed. My prison was bigger but the only evidence I had that anyone else existed was the hum of the cars zooming by on the interstate miles away.
This hebdomadal rhythm went on undisturbed for 13 years. I recall not a single exception to the rule until one fateful night when my mother came into my room. Mother never came into my room. I knew with certainty that something had happened because the natives outside had been unusually restless. Her demeanor was almost tender as she sat on my bed. Mother never sat on my bed. Her words were short and simple as she addressed me directly. Mother never addressed me directly. “Well,” she said, “your father’s left us so it’s just you and me now. Whatever happened before is in the past and if we’re going to make it we’re going to need to stick together.” At those words my heart leaped; not because I was glad my father was gone but because I thought that maybe, just maybe, things would be better.
Currently
Periodic Robism: Don’t judge a man to be a nut until, like him, you’ve walked barefoot through Wal-Mart and been looked at like you were a nut.
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