Summer of 74

I recall it was a hot and humid day in late July to mid August. I remember lying on my bed at the age of 13, barely awake in the middle of one of the hottest days of the year. My blue double bladed fan, whirling and droning me to sleep perched in my bedroom window. How I loved the sound of that fan. I remember the sense of security it would bring me. White noise, back in 1974 I don’t think that was even a thing, but it explained a lot with my fascination with things that hummed and whirred. To this day, I do not sleep without a fan in my bedroom. And when I need to relax or just calm down I can put a fan on and the memories of childhood, some good, some not so good come tumbling back.

This memory on this day in 74 is categorized and filed in my brain as “not so good.” One of the highlights of my childhood was to go out to eat. Which we didn’t do often. Money was tight. So when we did, and it was always an Italian restaurant I would be beside myself with excitement. This was one of those days. My Dad came in and asked me are you hot.? ‘well yeah Dad’, I’m thinking it’s only a zillion degree’s here in my bedroom. Now there were two things very odd about this. First was my Dad never came into my bedroom, and two, he never asked me how I was feeling. But okay, I thought I knew why.

Dad proceeded to ask me if I wanted to go out to the Italian restaurant a few towns away, that was absolutely one of our all time favorites. Just me and him and Mom. Things had been strained AGAIN between him and my Mother, but it was after all the weekend, and of course Dad was drinking, so Mom was quiet as to not rock the boat and cause undue stress in the house.

We pile into the car, I’m sensing tension, and uneasiness between both my Mom and Dad, while I sit in the backseat, dreaming of what I will have at my most favorite restaurant of all time. Or was it my Dad’s favorite restaurant? maybe it’s a toss up. All I knew was we were going, and I couldn’t be more happier over a Sunday drive to Kitty’s. That was the name of the restaurant. Now I don’t know when I noticed it or what broke me out of my reverie of contemplating the visual of the menu in my head as to my choices afforded to me that day, but something did. I think it was my Mom telling my Dad that he was too close to the yellow line. Things became blurry and hazy after that, but the tension is the one feeling I remember with us pulling into the restaurant, and us all getting out. After that I don’t remember what happened or didn’t happen inside the restaurant except the ride home. I don’t even remember what I ordered, but I’m sure it was something like spaghetti and meatballs, because my go to was Chicken Cacciatore but that was rather pricey, and only reserved for when my brothers would go to the football game with my Dad. So Mom would take me and my sister out in a cab to go to my 2nd favorite restaurant of all time, Rocco’s! But today it was Kitty’s and Chicken Cacciatore was far too extravagant there. So be it, I was happy just to be eating out at an Italian Restaurant with my parents!

After we left the restaurant it’s flashbacks of the drive home. More of my Mom yelling at my Dad, saying he was too close to the yellow line. This time I even saw it. He was either too close to the yellow line, or he was driving off the side of the road practically. That ride home was the scariest thing to date I can remember. The feeling of being totally helpless in the backseat, while the only person that knew how to drive was my Father, and he was drunk… as usual.

The story goes of the little girl who grew up in an alcoholic household. Namely one alcoholic, my Dad. The memories, although some hazy are many. But the one common denominator in all of it was that nervousness I felt. That constant state of high alert. Uh oh here comes a holiday, Dad will be drinking and eventually Mom and Dad will be fighting.

There was the company Christmas Party when Dad was late coming home from work, and Mom accused him of something, I sure he was doing, and they started fighting. And in all the world all I was worried about was not being able to go out and get my new winter jacket that Mom had promised me we would get when Dad got paid that week. I guess the company Christmas Party and the women and the booze was far more important. I guess. It wasn’t a good day when Dad came home, they continued to fight, but the good thing was I did get my new jacket! Small things like that held me together in childhood.

I won’t go into all of the episodes, all of the fighting, all of the abuse my mother went through being married to an alcoholic, except this one. This one to this day is my Christmas Eve memory. I was about 7. Of course being any kind of holiday, my Dad would be drunk. It usually started this way. Dad would start drinking. Mom would run around with her head cut off, asking him if he needed something, something to eat? Dad would bark at her, and eventually go in his room, listen to his records and start crying. All of us kids knew that once Dad started listening to his music, that holy hell and world war 2 was about to commence. Nice holiday memories.

This one in particular was exceptionally frightening, because I was afraid my Mother was going to die. I recall being in the parlor, watching some show on Christmas Eve, excited as could be, even though Dad was drunk again. When you live with an alcoholic, you normalize these things in your head when you are a child. Even though as an adult we know this is anything but normal. All of a sudden, Mom lets out this shreek to my Father. Calling is name, saying she cut her hand wide open. And she did! How and why? Well, I have my suspicions now as an adult, but unfounded and unable to ever be corroborated none the less. There was blood everywhere. And all I can remember is her holding this white towel soaked in blood as my Father in his drunken state fumbles for his car keys. So, great!! my drunk Dad is going to take my Mother who from my 7 year old vantage point is bleeding to death in the car to take her to the hospital. I don’t remember exactly what happened next, but my dog ran past my Dad as he was going down the stairs and knocked the keys right out of his hand. Is there any wonder why I love dogs so much to this day. Remarkable creatures.

I’m not sure how my Mom made it to the hospital that night on Christmas Eve. I do remember I was worried that not only that I would never see her again, but Christmas would be ruined and Santa Claus would never come.

The next morning was Christmas. I awoke to find my Mom sitting in her favorite chair and awaiting the miracle of Christmas to begin. The mixture of relief that Mom was really okay, and that Santa Claus really did come and that everything was back to normal is what I remember the most. Not what I got that year, or even how the rest of the day went, I can’t tell you. I have gaps in my memory so I don’t remember any of that. What I am hoping now for my inner child is that it was a good day. And that she had fun, but honestly I don’t know. I think that may have been the year I got my new white go-go boots. But like I said, I have gaps.. I only know and only remembered the feeling that Mom was here with me and it was Christmas Morning. The bandage was not only placed on my mothers hand, with stitches that went the entire length of her hand past her wrist, but the bandage was once again on my Mom and Dad’s marriage. And for that day, it was good enough for me. I’d face the rest of it as it came.

Merry Christmas Mom… Merry Christmas Dad.