When childhood fades

(If you are just finding this blog — start with “The Burden of His Secret”)

The years after my dad died brought several divorce-induced moves, changes in schools, pesky little brothers, my first taste of alcohol and subsequently my first hangover, nightmares, sexual curiosity, and of course the usual adolescent girl drama about which boy likes who and who your bestest friend is any given day.

My mom had always been a working mom and the arrival of my two little brothers didn’t change that. Since I was nine and seven years older than them, I was given increasing responsibilities for their care between school and bed time, often helping get them fed and bathed and entertaining them. When I had time to myself — time I was supposed to be doing homework or chores, I was usually immersed in a book and when I didn’t have a book to read, I could be found reading the yellow pages and those obscure sections in the back of the phone book that gave stats and facts about different countries and units of measurement. When I got bored with that, I’d find an old radio or clock to take apart. A pretty typical latchkey childhood I imagined. I had school friends, but since we lived in such a rural area my closest playmate was usually my cousin. He and I would trek off into the woods to build forts or just generally go exploring, waiting for one parent or another to honk the car horn signaling time to come in. My dad’s death didn’t really change anything in our household. Since they’d been long divorced and I didn’t have any regular visitation with him, he wasn’t part of the regular routine before his death so there was no disruption after. And really no mention of him at all.

Since I’d been such a regular at my grandparents over the years before he died, it was only natural that I’d keep going there for long summer visits and holiday meals. I mostly looked forward to the visits because it got me away from my babysitting duties and allowed me to be the only child. My Grandma was always a hoot to spend time with, always into something, she never sat still and still hates it when the weather pens her inside. One summer, she decided the house needed a brick walkway leading to the front steps. So we built a brick walkway leading to the steps. Just me and her. I don’t think she had retired by this time, so we spent several days over a weekend or two on the project. God help any weed, to this day, that dares grow between those bricks! Other times, we would fill the days with blanching and canning, shelling peas on the front porch or pulling weeds in the garden. She didn’t, and still doesn’t, talk much about daddy but he was always present between us. I was her link to him. My half-sister, Misty, was still so young when he died, she didn’t grow as close to Grandma as I did. Grandma didn’t rely on her for that connection.

My cousins would come from Atlanta with their parents for holiday visits: Mother’s or Father’s day in the summer, a birthday here or there, and Christmas. I was always jealous of them for their intact family with their stories of travel and their new coats and gadgets. But over time, I realized I had something they didn’t. I had Grandma. She and I had stories of picking the strawberries before the birds could get them that morning, digging those potatoes that were now mixed with mayonnaise and pickles in the middle of the table. It was me that knew she liked to play the console stereo and dance while she cleaned the floors. Only I could give her that connection to daddy. She needed me.

But I also needed her. She was present. Always happy to know how things were going, always willing to teach me something new and never distracted by work or smaller kids or housework. But for all the attention, she was also stern and expected me to behave and be polite and ladylike. She held me to realistic standards and never chastised me for failing. But she also made me pancakes on Sunday mornings — the greasy southern kind that crunched when you bit into them.

It wouldn’t be until many years later that I could put words to how my grandfather had exploited this connection. How even after my father died, he still managed to manipulate and control. But even then, I understood it. That’s when the hatred started. That’s when I started learning to hide my feelings and swallow the bitterness. That’s when I started looking for someone to blame. I was just 13.

{Author note: I am pulling from several years of notes and journal ramblings and weaving the story as I lived it — or at least as it appeared I lived it. In doing so, I’m gaining a better understanding of a lot of my emotions and motivations at the time. Hindsight is always much clearer, no? So even though the ugliest part has been left in the shadows, you are getting the benefit of hindsight to a degree. And whether or not it makes sense to the reader — it is serving it’s purpose for me. It really is true that one should just write and that the story will reveal itself. Thanks for sticking with me.}