The Early Years

It seemed absurd. Every couple had problems in their marriage, especially young couples that were forced to endure the trials of Vietnam. Yet, that wasn't the issue that the counselor honed in on. No, she wanted to know about my early years. So, for the sake of Emma, my deepest love, I produced a brief journal. It's funny, but the outcome surprised even me:

My Journal

It all began back in early November, 1947. Theologians and poets alike have claimed that birth is merely a forgetting of everything we were before entering into this world. This must sometimes carry over because I don't recall anything that happened the first few years of my life. With the exception of a few random snapshots my mind decided to file away, the film in my brain must have been exposed somewhere along the line. Perhaps someone forgot to load it. Either way, my memories really do come in fuzzy bits and pieces, perhaps fragments of a truth I experienced with my own underdeveloped senses, coupled with collaborating stories I've been told along the years. In any case, it actually hurts to retrieve whatever I can remember. As they say - "No pain, No gain." So, here goes everything from the early years:

The first thing I can remember is my mother. Maybe this is not so much a thought or a picture as it is a feeling. She was there, always there. She had quite a distinctive smell and that alone could stop the tears. She fulfilled all my needs. My mother was the first link to my new reality. She was also my protection, my light, and my world. It's funny how some things didn't change - no matter how many years stood in the way.

In no particular order, days were marked by events and not by calendars:

Aunt Phyllis scolded me for chewing my food with my mouth open. It was a Coney Island hot dog and I was laughing and then she let me have it. When the words spewed out of her crooked mouth, I could actually feel my face burn red. I knew better and for the first time, I was embarrassed. My mother had taught me better and Aunt Phyllis seemed to enjoy the chance at putting my mother down. I made sure to never chew with my mouth open again.

My family didn't have much and without anyone ever announcing it, I knew. One winter day, Dad dragged home a huge cardboard box and left it in the bedroom. Within two days, Mom cut out a door and two windows, using the extra material to make a chimney. From there, she colored everything from furniture to pictures on the interior walls. Suddenly, Buddy, my big brother (by ten months), and I had our own Boy's Clubhouse. I knew then - I was blessed.

Every Friday, my Dad came home from work with fish and chips, and Buddy and I giggled from the excitement of being able to stay up late. When we didn't get punished for laughing, we'd sit in Dad's lap and listen to the tall tales of his own childhood. Nothing felt better than to fall asleep as his deep voice turned to a drone. It was even better to awaken in his arms when he carried me off to bed. I never once opened my eyes and always pretended I was sleeping. I'd grown too old to be held in my father's arms, but silently missed it. Some nights, visions of monsters and devils would force me out of my own bed and into my parents'. Unlike Buddy, who still occasionally wet the bed, my mother would place me between her and my snoring father. On those nights, when the wind beat angrily against the windowpanes, I enjoyed the sleep of angels. I almost looked forward to the vivid nightmares.

My Uncle Arthur rocked in his chair, entranced in the words of some voice that hid inside a radio. I sat, with knees to my chest, and listened too. With my eyes closed, I could picture every word. When it was over, he would pat me on the head and sneak me a sweet. He wasn't married and worked hard in a factory and so he was rich. He even got Buddy and me something for Valentine's Day. I adored my Uncle Arthur almost as much as my Uncle Skinny.

I was probably five when my grandma, mother and Aunt Phyllis took Buddy and me shopping for school clothes. Ma and Aunt Phyllis reeked of flowers, Grandma - of mothballs. Men passing on the sidewalk, smiled and tipped their hats to them. I couldn't wait until I was old enough to do the same. Once we finally got there, my mother gave the usual warning, "Look, but don't touch!" We didn't, for fear that my mother would have to pay for everything in the store. As my father would say, "She didn't have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out!" Instead, Buddy and I raced up and down the long aisles until Aunt Phyllis yelled, "Don't be actin' like retards!" I didn't understand the word, but knew it wasn't good. My mother scolded her as she would us. I decided then that even as an adult I would never like Aunt Phyllis. I was only five, but there were some things I did know.

Christmas quickly became my favorite time of the year. Besides Santa being the most generous person I'd never met, I loved walking along Pleasant Street during the first snowfall. It was dusk when Dad would take us into Pleasant Drug to see the newest tree decorations we could never afford. He always bought Mom something special at Jack & Harry's and had Mrs. Myia wrap it and told us, "Mums the word!" It was thrilling to know something my mother didn't, especially since it was something that would make her smile.

It was my first day at school when I asked my teacher, Mrs. Sullivan, to go to the bathroom. She informed me to, "Go to the basement." I walked around in circles, frightened that I wouldn't find my way back to the classroom, never mind "the basement." Without ever relieving myself, I ended up back in the classroom where I stood in horror as I urinated all over myself. The class laughed and my mother brought in a new set of clothes. They weren't new though and didn't have the smell that I'd spent the entire morning enjoying. I never wanted to go back.

Church was mandatory every Sunday, though I could never understand why. Ma listened attentively to the back of a man who rambled on in some foreign language. Dad usually nodded off, but when it was done, everyone lied, talking about how much better they felt because of it. The only thing Buddy and I ever got out of it was ice cream. Sitting still for that long hardly seemed worth it.

I was six when my mother got sick and went to the hospital. Grandma stayed at our house and took care of Buddy and me. Though no one ever spoke of Ma's illness, I was sick with worry. My father finally told us that she was getting better and took us to the five and dime to buy her something special to give her when she got home. I picked out a nick knack, a green ceramic parrot. Two days later, my mother came home. She was thinner than I'd ever seen her and I cried. It was a combination of both joy and sorrow.

As she began to unwrap my gift, she grimaced at the slightest movement. I thought I was going to jump out of my skin at the anticipation of her certain joy. When she finally pulled the treasure out of the box, the bird's head was completely broken off of the body. I cried more. Aunt Phyllis mumbled something and Ma snapped back, "He's a sensitive soul and I wouldn't have him any other way!" Looking at me, she added, "And I love the parrot. We'll fix him up just as fine as new!" I loved Ma more than anyone in the world.

To be continued...