Snapshots of Memory

When I was three years old, my voice was abnormally deep. It was a voice I had to grow into. Anyone who heard my voice did a double take. They would first look around for a much larger person, and then when they realized the big voice they heard came out of such a tiny girl they would laugh. Anytime I talked when someone other than family was around I was laughed at.
Dad's friends would offer to by me a Sprite if I would talk; I wouldn't talk for them. My sisters would say, "We will talk for a Sprite."

The guys would answer, "No, we want to hear her talk."

I would run into my bedroom, put my face in my pillow and cry myself to sleep. Dad would come in later and turn my face; I think he worried that I would suffocate. He would say, "I love you Bambino." Outside of our home, I stopped talking unless absolutely necessary, and when I did speak I spoke as quietly as possible. When ever I heard a girl with a "Snow White" voice, I envied her with all my heart. This remained a self esteem cruncher until my body caught up with my voice. Now that I am an adult I realize people didn't laugh out of meanness, they laughed out of surprise. Still, I hated my voice.

When Mom was pregnant with me she threatened to miss-carry. The doctor gave her some medicine to help her stay pregnant. This medicine causes birth defects. Because of this I wore leg braces and then later special shoes (always ugly) for several years. I remember sleeping in those horrible braces; they were miserably uncomfortable. After the leg braces had done the job they were made to do I spent several more years in corrective shoes. These shoes had to be special ordered and came in one style: plain, black, clunky, lace up oxfords. I hated them.

It is hard for a little girl to understand why she can't have pretty shoes. She goes to school and other girls have pretty shoes. White or black patent leather, even saddle oxfords seemed beautiful compared to medically necessary foot wear. The beauty of the shoes the other girls wore was surpassed only by the ever elusive red patent leather. I think if you asked any four year-old to choose the shoes she wanted to wear, she would choose red patent leather. There is just something about them. They make a little girl feel like Dorothy of OZ with her sparkly red magic shoes.

Grandma loved pretty shoes and understood my hatred for my ugly ones. She took me to buy pretty shoes one day. Unfortunately the store didn't have red, but she bought me a pair of white leather dress shoes. I was so happy. I proceeded to drive my mother crazy, pestering her to let me wear them everywhere all the time. Mom relented and allowed me to wear them for a couple hours a few days a week. Luckily for my feet and legs she insisted I wear the shoes that would help make them well.

I loved my dad even though I was often afraid of him. He sang silly songs and cuddled me often. When I sat on his lap, he sang songs and told me I was his favorite, his "Bambino." Dad can build anything. He built a dollhouse, a double seated desk, a play house, and we each had a model plane named after us that would really fly, engines and everything. The bad thing about the planes was that if the plane with your name on it crashed, then he would blame you for the crash. That made for some anxious little girls when we (he operated the remote) went to fly planes.

My Dad could grow a garden. All plant life loved him. We had the prettiest garden on the block. His vegetable and flowers seemed to grow larger than anyone else’s! Dad also loved the mountains. We spent many weekends in the mountains. He could build a fire anywhere, we never took charcoal. He taught us how to find everything we needed to make a fire. He could catch fish like no one I've ever seen before or since. We'd hike and he always brought a watermelon to eat at the end of the day. It would sit in the creek all day and be nice and cold when he cut it open.

Somewhere, sometime, I am not sure when, a bad thing happened to my Dad. Dad is smart, too smart. His intelligence often leads him to boredom. He is naturally curious about everything. He reads everything he can get his hands on. He memorizes scripture, from the Holy Bible to Josephus to Playboy. He wants to experience everything. Before I turned four years old Dad decided to try marijuana. This was during the Vietnam War. Hippies and flower children dominated the news. The drug scene was big, and it was groovy and happenin. Thus began my father’s and my family’s descent into hell.

I hate drugs with a loathing hard to describe. They took my childhood from me. Because of drugs I spent much of my childhood tired, hungry (starving), and frightened - a fear so intense that when I smell pot now, I shake; my heart rate increases; I feel intense panic, and more than anything else long to escape and find a safe place to hide. I made a choice at age six that when I grew up, no drugs would be used in my grown-up home. My children knew that if they chose to use drugs, I would happily drive them to the police station and turn them in. I was blessed that my children were able to learn from the mistakes of my father. None of them used drugs.

I remember good things about my dad; unfortunately, most of those good things are tainted by his abuse. I’ll go more into that another day.