Tag Archives: essay about relationships

 The Great Divider

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From a very young age I became aware of how very different our family was to other’s.

In terms of size, we were about the same: three kids plus two parents. The oldest child was a boy, something that should have pleased our dad. Then eighteen months later, along came me, then seven years later, my younger sister.

The gap between my brother and I seemed “normal” as many of my cousins had been born one right after the other. But the seven-year difference between myself and my sister felt weird. By that time, I was somewhat aware of how babies were created, so to think of my parents doing something creeped me out. Especially after one time opening their bedroom door without knocking and seeing my dad’s naked butt moving on top of my mom, I began putting things together. But not really.

My cousins’ parents didn’t always get along, so the yelling and cursing and throwing of things wasn’t all that unusual. However, their house’s always felt more peaceful, more relaxed than mine.

My mom had all kinds of rules that didn’t make sense to me. We weren’t allowed to close our bedroom doors, for example: until my brother began hurting me, and then my mother found him doing so many years later. Now, don’t get the wrong idea. He never hurt me sexually, but brutally, enacting what he called giant squeezes on my upper arm until they were covered with bruises or kicking me in the abdomen whenever he thought no one was looking.

In a way I understood his violence because our father was violent. I never saw him hurt my mom, but he did hurt my bother and I (never our younger sister).

My mom clearly played favorites, up until the day she lost the ability to speak, which was when her mind failed.

She protected my brother from my dad, hiding any graded papers with less than stellar marks, calling my brother inside whenever my dad got a little too loud in his condemnations. She hovered over my sister, surrounding her in a shield-like protective vise, afraid that if someone, notably me, upset her, that my sister would have another petit-mal seizure. (Those stopped around age nine, just like the doctor had predicted, but it didn’t remove the shield).

Mom wouldn’t let us enter other kids’ houses and refused entry to those very same kids. On her good days, we were allowed to play with them outside, but as soon as they wanted to go inside, we had to return home. This lasted until I went away to college.

The one aspect of her parenting that I understood, in some deep-seated way, was her ability to divide us against each other.

My brother was smarter than me. True, but she didn’t have to remind me. My sister was the smartest of us all. Also true, but considering how she was allowed to waste all that brilliance when my brother and I were punished, severely, if our grades didn’t meet mom’s expectations, hurt.

My brother and I played high school sports. I, as short as I am, was on the basketball team and for a brief time, on softball as well. I was great at stealing the basketball from rival teams, but was too short to score baskets. Softball scared me. It was much bigger than a hardball, which I could throw and catch and hit with ease.

When I stood at the plate, with a confident air, I expected to send the softball well into the outfield, but time after time, it never made it even to second base. I quit when I realized I’d never make the team.

My dad had taught my brother and I to bowl when we each turned twelve. By the time we were in high school, we were quite good. Both of us tried out for and made it on the same bowling team. We played against all the high schools in our area, and generally won, depending upon how well our other two teammates did.

My sister joined her elementary track team, for one season. I attended one of her meets, in an attempt to show interest. She did pretty well. She didn’t come in first, but she was always near the top.

One thing that was the same for all three of us: our parents never came to see any of us play.

Later on, when my brother and I both had kids, my parents went to see my brother’s girls swim for their respective teams, then would brag about how well they did.

My kids swam, played baseball, soccer and softball. We lived just a few miles away from my parents, yet they couldn’t be bothered to support our kids. (My brother, for a time, lived in southern California, then moved out to San Ramon.)

One year, when it was time to return to college, my brother had bought an old convertible which he intended to drive to Los Angeles. My dad felt my brother needed his support, so took turns driving. That was the only time one of our parents visited our college, not even for graduation. (One reason, among many, why I didn’t attend the ceremony, something I still regret many years later.)

It was once grandchildren arrived that my mom resumed her Great Divider role.

My brother’s daughters were smarter, more talented, better all around, than my kids. His potty-trained faster, walked earlier, talked in complete sentences sooner, and so on. Everything they did was bigger and better.

My sister never had any kids, but her dogs were cuter, better trained, sweeter, than any of our dogs.

My brother’s many houses were in better neighborhoods than ours. True, if better meant more hoity-toity than ours. They only lived in upscale neighborhoods, on hills in reclusive areas, while we live in the flatlands.

My brother’s furniture was better than ours. Also true, for we couldn’t afford brand new. Instead, we bought slightly used or relied on hand-me-downs.

 My sister-in-law was a better decorator. True. I had no sense of style and no money to coordinate colors and designs.

My sister, now, there was the decorator in the family! When you have neo kids, you can furnish your house with white everything complimented by off-white others.

When I was ushering kids off to school or sports or events, my sister was gardening. She even spent time chasing spiders back into her neighbor’s yards. When caught, she condemned the neighbor for secretly planting spiders on her side of the fence. (My mom believed my sister!)

My sister was the better cook, serving fancy things she’d learned from cookbooks. That’s true. I relied on the Campbell’s cookbook, in which all recipes were made from….Campbell’s soup! Basic, but edible.

My brother could BBQ better than my husband. I beg to differ on that one, for my husband is a darn good cook.

These comparisons made me dread seeing my siblings. I didn’t truly believe they were better in all ways, than I was, but deep in my soul, a part of me thought there might be a smidgin of truth. That they were, truly better than I in all the various ways in which we had been compared.

It made the requisite family gatherings painful. Because of my mom’s watchful eyes, I never got to truly know my nieces. Not when they were young, and still not today when they are in their forties.

I don’t really know my sister’s husband. The few times we were together, he seemed like a really good guy. He’s patient and forgiving. He stayed with my sister through drug and alcohol addiction and is supporting her obsession with cross training. He seems like the kind of person I’d like to know.

As my mom’s mind began to fail, she wrote things down. When I called and how long we talked. What we talked about. What I served when they came for dinner. How long they were in our house.

She never asked how our kids were doing, never attended a wedding, never gave gifts to them and never called them.

She attended all three of my brother’s daughter’s weddings, gave them gifts and called them regularly.

My sister was married three times. My mom attended all three.

When I spoke with my mom, she only spoke about my siblings. She didn’t want to hear what I was doing, what my kids were doing, what my husband was doing. I once tried telling her about what it was like to finally become a teacher, and she didn’t want to hear about it.

She told me all about my sibling’s different jobs, in great detail.

When my mom passed away, if felt as if the anchor had been removed from around my neck. I no longer had to hear about my inferiorities, my failures as wife and mother, my inability to decorate properly (when my mom was dirt poor most of her life, she learned “decorating” from women’s magazines.)

I no longer dreaded the ringing of the phone or the unexpected opening of the kitchen door.

My dad lived several years more. He married within two years of my mother’s passing to a sweet, caring woman. She was easy to be with. As an excellent listener, she was eager to hear about my family. She wasn’t a very good cook, so she loved coming to our house. She never criticized the food I put on the table.

In many ways, she was more of a mother to me than my real mom ever was.

When my dad died, all hell broke loose.

I never knew how much my siblings disliked my dad’s wife. It was way beyond dislike. They hated her, believed she had married my dad for his wealth (which was a joke as my dad only had the “mobile” home in which they lived and an old truck.)

My phone rang constantly, mostly my sister, condemning me for loving my dad’s wife. It was as if my mother had been resurrected, now in the body of my sister. All the old hates and envies and jealousies sprang forth anew, but more cutting, more vicious, more targeted toward me.

It reached a point when I refused to answer the phone.

Now the caller pops up on our television and on our phones.  If my sister’s number appeared, I wouldn’t answer.

She did post something on my daughter’s Fb, all cheery and wanting to reconnect. I disregarded the request.

My brother had gone out of his way to mend broken fences. He calls regularly. He’s been sharing photos of the ghetto in which we first lived and the houses we subsequently moved into.

He asks questions about my family and my health.

While he shares little, very private, like our mom had been, just hearing the tone of his voice feels good.

I’ve begun reminding him of things we did in our younger years. What seemed hurtful then, is now something we can chuckle over.

The Great Divider had been gone a good, long time, but the effects of her manipulations carry on.

Changes

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            Around the time our daughter turned twelve, she morphed into an angry, sullen young woman. She refused to be seen in public with me, wouldn’t let me braid her hair, and if I did take her to the mall to buy new back-to-school clothes, she’d walk behind me as if we weren’t related.

            Her new persona made the entire family miserable, but it struck me deep in my heart.

            As months passed, she distanced herself further and further away, essentially cutting the family out of her life. She hurt her father deeply and was so mean to her brothers that both were afraid to initiate conversations with her for they’d only end up in an argument that they couldn’t win.

            At that time, I was the primary cook for all three meals. I’d get up early, stoke our wood-burning stove, then prepare a hot meal. Pancakes, scrambled eggs, oatmeal: something to begin a productive school day.

            Then I’d pack their lunches, trying to put something in each that they’d like. I often also included a positive note, something upbeat to warm their hearts. I imagined that my daughter ate hers, but found out, when her younger brother caught her, that she was throwing the food away. Food we couldn’t afford to waste.

            Despite having little money, we’d gotten by. No one went hungry unless they chose not to eat (I refused to cook separate meals), no one wore rags or faded or stretched out of shape clothes, even though the majority of our clothes came from thrift stores. They had toys, which also mainly came from thrift stores, even as Christmas gifts, and they all got to play some kind of sport.

            By winter of that year, our daughter refused to eat anything I’d cooked. It felt like she thought I was trying to poison her, something I’d never do despite how obnoxious she behaved.

            Since our first child was born, I’d always included something in the meal that he would eat. By the time our third child arrived, I generally had two things they’d eat in every meal. With our daughter, however, she began screaming, “I’ve never liked…ham or pancakes or corn.” Even though that was an outright lie.

            I couldn’t keep up with what she no longer ate, what she would eat.

            On top of that, every meal was bound to turn into an argument. The only “safe” meal was a silent one. She’d claim the sky was purple if someone commented on how blue it was. Or she’d blame one of her brothers for not putting away the Lego when she was the one who had refused.

            She created a combat zone in our house. We were all miserable.

            A year in, and her health became impacted. At thirteen she should have been developing, maturing, but her body was on hold. She was frequently ill, with me getting calls at school to come pick her up, time I didn’t have.

            My husband began helping with dinner, even though it meant eating later than we preferred. He’d come home, quickly change clothes, then chop onions or form hamburger into patties.

            If our daughter saw him doing to cooking, she’d eat.

            We began “fooling” her. When she was busy in her bedroom, I’d start meal preparations. When my husband came home, he’d finish the meal, plate it and put it on the table.

            This worked for several months until she walked into the kitchen as we were making the switch.

            She became quite thin, and I was concerned that she was anorexic.

            One afternoon, I was called by her school, once again, to come pick her up. Apparently, she’d feinted during class. By this time Kaiser had opened an adolescent unit, and we were taken in shortly after arrival.

            The doctor met with our daughter first. After about thirty minutes, I was called into the room.

            The doctor told me what she’d said to our daughter. That her heart wasn’t beating regularly, that her kidneys and liver were in danger, that she’d die if she kept up her “eating” routine. I cried, shrugged, and told the doctor that I didn’t know how to change things.

            The doctor made our daughter promise to eat one full meal a day, two smaller ones as well. She told us both that unless the changes were made, our daughter would die.

            Something must have hit home.

            Beginning that night, she ate some of the dinner. She nibbled at breakfast the next day, and took the three dollars I gave her to buy something at school.

            The road to recovery continued to be rocky. We’d think we’d overcome one hurdle only for her to toss another in our faces.

            In high school she met up with several nice young men who both fell in love with her. The one she preferred was from another faith, but he seemed to make her happy. Most importantly, he’d invite her to his house for dinner.

            Of course I spoke with his mom, so she understood some of what had been happening. She offered to continue having her for dinner, so we knew she had one good meal per day.

            Several years later, during her junior year of college, they married. Something about being a wife, and very quickly a mother, change my daughter.

            I’d like to report that we still walk carefully, not wanting to upset her. But, when we talk on the phone or get to spend time together, we have lovely conversations.

            Time doesn’t heal all ills, but it can reduce the pain.

Seeing the Real Person

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            I recently saw a musical in which the teen suffers from an aging disease. It’s impacted the entire family, with the parents afraid to have another child in case he is born with the same genetic abnormality. As the character nears the end of her life, her parents decide the time has come to try again, in a way, replacing the teen.

            Toward the end, the teen sings about shucking off the ghost of the girl you wanted to really “SEE” the one before you. To appreciate their daughter for who she is, not for who she is not.

            The song struck me deep in my gut.

            I was not the daughter my parents had in mind. Even when quite young, I wanted to run and play with the boys. I was a pretty good athlete: not always on the varsity teams, but still wearing a uniform and competing.

            I hated dresses, but that’s what all girls wore to school in my town. At home I always wore shorts or jeans, t-shirts and sweaters. I didn’t “walk” like a girl, as my mom told me many times. I had no skills or interest in painting my nails, wearing makeup or styling my hair. I had no interest in learning to cook, something that annoyed my mother, as she claimed to have given birth to me only so I’d take over household chores. And be around to watch her when she grew older.

            I did have assigned chores. One that I hated the most was cleaning my older brother’s bedroom. Why did I have to pick up his dirty underwear? Change his sheets? Clean his bathroom?

            My mother’s excuse was that he needed to spend his time studying so as to go to college.

            I wanted to go to college as well, but that wasn’t important to her. She wanted me married as a teen and producing grandchildren, one after another.

            I wanted out: out of the house, out of her life, out of the family. The only way I could see to make that happen was by getting into college, earning a degree, and then being able to support myself.

            My brother was allowed to study from the moment he came home from school. I couldn’t study until all my chores were done. He finished his schoolwork by dinnertime: I began mine around nine o’clock, or later.

            Because I graduated from high school without a boyfriend in tow, I was a lost cause. I hated dating. All the sweaty hand-holding and sloppy kissing and front seat make-out sessions. I had been told repeatedly that I wasn’t pretty, that I was unlovable and so I couldn’t be picky,

            I was picky. If I married, I would choose a man who respected me for who I was, not who my mom wanted me to be. Therefor in college I dated a series of men. One, George, I thought I loved. Until he insisted that I change faith once we got married. End of that relationship.

            By the time I graduated from college, marriage became an actual thought. I dated a guy I met at the bowling alley, a too handsome guy who probably only took me out expecting something in return. He didn’t get it, therefor, no more dates.

            A couple of years later I walked into my new office to see a tall, smiling man who immediately warmed my heart. We worked a few cases together and had time to get to know one another.

            In time, we began dating. Then I enlisted in the Army Reserves because I wanted to go to the Monterey Institute of Languages, run by the military. I was sent to Alabama at the end of August, where the humidity was miserable and the constant drilling oppressive.

            I was only there two weeks, and was allowed only one phone call. I didn’t call home, which angered my parents. I called my beau, who met me at the airport with a hug and a kiss.

            Our relationship was sealed.

            We’ve been together 50 years. He’s always “seen” the real me. He’s never tried to make me into someone I didn’t want to be. He encouraged me to return to college to get my teaching credential, even though it was a financial strain and it meant he had to put the kids to bed.

            He’s my best friend, my partner, my fan club, my everything.

            If years ago my parents had seen the real me, I wonder if things might have been different. If our relationship would have been more amicable. If I wouldn’t have been a disappointment to them.

            Although I wasn’t the perfect parent as I made plenty of mistakes, I always tried to encourage our kids to be the person they wanted to be. As long as they kept their grades up.

            So this is a cautionary message to all soon-to-be parents out there: give your kids room to grow, to explore, to discover who they are supposed to be.

The New Clerk

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            A new young man is now working the desk at my gym. There was something about the stiffness of his posture, the rhythm of his speech, even his word choices that made me smile.

            After working with special needs students for twenty-eight years, I’m pretty adept at identifying young people who might have been in my class.

            This morning when I arrived, there was a notice on the desk that the pool will be closed on the 6th. Not knowing when that is, I asked the young man. He had to walk around the desk to read the sign. He pulled out his phone and then told me today’s date.

            He smiled a somewhat stiff smile that showed no sparkle in his eyes.

            Because no one was needing help right then, I began asking him questions. First, was he a student. Using a rather stilted word pattern, I realized that my first impression was correct: he was high-functioning autistic.

            He answered every question, something more guarded young people most likely would not do.

            I found out that he graduated from high school last year and enrolled in Cal State East Bay. He struggled with the course load and ended up failing a few classes.

            He hasn’t given up on getting a degree, in Entrepreneurship, no less. When I asked him what he intended to do with that major, he seemed befuddled.

            He then told me that he’s currently taking only two courses at Chabot College, a local community college. Even with that reduced load, he’s having a hard time.

            I told him about my granddaughter, who freaks out when too many assignments are due at the same time, and how I’ve tried to encourage her to focus on one assignment at a time, get it finished, then go to the next.

            He thanked me for that advice and said he’d begin doing that. In fact, he named his current classes and identified a study schedule for each.

            What surprised me was that he wanted to know how I realized he needed help!

            I explained that I taught Special Needs students for many years, working with them and with their teachers.

            That’s when he revealed that he was identified as being autistic when he was quite young and that he received quite a bit of help throughout his academic years.

            He also wanted to know how I deduced that. I tried to explain that his word choices and the structure of his sentences were the clues.

            I needed to go do my workout and he needed to return to the desk. We parted with me wishing him good luck in his studies. He mimicked my words, wishing me good luck with my workout.

            I am proud of him, and students like him, who don’t give up on their dreams even when it’s difficult.

            He found a job that’s perfect for him, greeting clients as they enter the gym.

            I hope he works there a good long time, as that way I’ll be able to stay in touch.

An Unexpected Surprise

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            When you grow up in a dysfunctional family, happy memories are few and far between. It’s easy to dredge up the pain and sorrow, to recall the angry words and the punishments that followed, but difficult to find just one that didn’t hurt.

            Today my husband and I went out for ice cream. After enjoying my delicious treat, as we were driving home, a sudden flash appeared: my sitting on a stool at a Walgreen’s counter.

            We seldom ate out. When you’re low income, money is tight and not spent on restaurant meals.

            When I was in fourth grade, we lived in a suburb of Dayton, Ohio. My mom had just learned to drive, which really made life better when all our doctor appointments were in the city.

            I don’t remember why I was the only one with my mother. That rarely happened. My mother must have left my brother with someone, a relative probably, as she had no friends in the neighborhood. I don’t recall taking him somewhere, but we must have.

            I’m not sure why we were in town. It was around the time the principal of my elementary school told my father that I could not return without glasses. That’s the most logical reason for our outing.

            I knew, even then, that when my mother left home at thirteen, she moved to Cincinnati to live with an older sister. She helped my mom get a job at a Woolworth’s Department Store. I don’t know what she did there as she was so young.

            Anyway, here we were, sitting on stools in a Woolworth’s in downtown Dayton. A bunch of colorful balloons floated above our heads, all tied to a long string so as not to float away.

            Like any kid, I loved balloons. The colors, the way they flew about my head, the feeling of owning something that was just mine. Until my brother popped mine. Every last balloon I possessed he popped. Probably out of meanness. Maybe out of jealousy.

            Anyway, here was a bright, colorful, happy-looking array of balloons. I wanted one so badly that all thoughts were erased from my head except for the one of owning a balloon.

            The person behind the ice cream counter told me I could have any balloon I wanted. I recall looking at my mother to see if this were true. Possible. I remember holding my breath as I waited for her response.

            When the clerk said the balloons held surprises, that each one had a slip of paper inside that would reveal what ice cream treat I could have. I think she said that a few balloons awarded a free treat. A completely free ice cream treat!

            Even at that young age I understood that nothing was free. If something good came my way it would be immediately followed by something bad. But I was a kid and kids hope.

            When my mother nodded that I cold pick a balloon, I was shocked. I. Got. To. Pick.

            I am sure my eyes were wide in disbelief. I am positive that I knew I’d never win. But, like any kid, I imagined that my balloon would give me something free. Maybe an ice cream soda, or if I was really lucky, a banana split.

            But there was a really good chance that all I’d get was a cheap sucker. One of those wrapped in cheap plastic that doctor’s give after a shot. There was a glass jar of suckers on the counter right in front of the clerk.

            I liked suckers. Any color, any flavor. We seldom had them, so winning a sucker wouldn’t be a bad thing. Just not the thing I wanted most of all: a banana split.

            My mother grew impatient as I stared up at the balloons, trying to see through, to read the slip so as to ensure that I got that banana split.

            The clerk asked what I was hoping to win. I looked first to my mother, then when she nodded, I said, loud and clear (something unusual for me), that I wanted a banana split.

            My mother laughed. Not a happy laugh, but a mocking laugh. You’ll never win that, she said. Or I seem to recall her saying.

            It seems as if my shoulders must have slumped. I bet my whole body slumped.

            I think the clerk told me to take a chance. That she thought I’d be a winner. Just point and tell her which one I wanted.

            Back then, as now, blue was my favorite color. Except for the years when my Catholic school uniform was blue. But I loved blue t-shirts, blue socks, blue shorts and really, really wanted a pair of blue tennis shoes I’d seen in the bargain store where we shopped. I’d never gotten the shoes.

            There were several blue balloons. One way up high, one to the right, one to the left, and one right on front of me, so close I could have touched it. I thought about that one. It was so close, so it must be the lucky one, right? But that would have been too easy.

            I nodded. The only balloon that might be lucky was the blue one so close to the ceiling that it brushed the tiles when the fan’s blades came near. I pointed with my right hand, my middle finger extended.

            Are you sure the clerk asked. It’s pretty far away.

            She made me question my choice. Did she know something that I didn’t? Did she know that one held a worthless slip of paper? Or was she trying to steer me away from a sure winner? The one with the biggest prize?

            It made sense that she’d trick me into making a poor choice. After all, my life had been one poor choice after another. Why should this be any different?

            By now my mother was getting impatient. I could tell by the way her eyebrows scrunched up and wrinkles formed around her eyes. If I didn’t make a choice soon, there’d be trouble later on.

            I changed my mind and went for the blue balloon right in front of me.

            The clerk popped it, a noise that always made me cringe.

            She handed me the slip of paper. My reading skills weren’t so good back then, so my mom had to read it to me.

            I’d gotten a discount on a cone of ice cream. Unsure what a discount was, I’d asked. All it meant was that it would be a bit cheaper.

            The clerk must have been clever at reading faces, for mine registered intense disappointment. My eyes filled with tears.

            Don’t you want an ice cream cone she asked.

            I shook my head.

            My mother grabbed my hand and pulled me off the stool. Sorry, she said, we don’t have enough money even with the discount.

            Choose another balloon, the clerk said.

            I turned to my mother and saw frustration and anger. She wanted to leave. I knew then that she had never intended to buy me an ice cream. She took me there for the free sucker in cheap plastic.

            The clerk repeated that I got to choose another balloon.

            I decided to take a risk and go for a red balloon. Red was not my color. I’d never liked it. But I had nothing to lose. So I pointed to a red balloon off to the right.

            The clerk pulled it out of the bunch and popped it. She didn’t give the slip of paper to my mom. She read it aloud. I had won a free banana split!

            I didn’t know what that was, but based upon the happy look on the clerk’s face, I understood that it was special. A rare treat.

            My mom said I could have it.

            The clerk peeled a banana and then split if down the middle. She placed the pieces on either sides of a glass bowl. She added scoops of chocolate, strawberry and vanilla ice cream. Not the tiny scoops I’d get whenever we were lucky enough to have ice cream at home, but huge, huge scoops.

            She added toppings. Pineapple, Strawberries. Marshmallows. The tiny kind.

            Over that she poured chocolate sauce. Not my favorite, but glorious in its brown gooiness. On top went huge fluffy swirls of whipped cream with a bright red cherry on each mound.

            When she placed it before me, I was in shock. It was more ice cream than I’d ever had in my whole life if you added up all the tiny bowls I’d eaten before. And this was all for me.

            Or so I thought.

            The clerk handed me a spoon. Then gave one to my mother.

            I really didn’t want her to have any. This was mine. I’d won it fair and square. I understood fairness at that point. Fair things seldom happened to me. To my brother, yes, if my mom was the one in charge. But never to me.

            My mother told me to get started eating before the ice cream melted. That we had to hurry because I’d taken so long to choose. That if we didn’t get home soon my dad would be angry.

            My dad’s anger was terrifying. He shouted words I didn’t know but felt that they registered disapproval. He hit hard, so hard it left bruises. He shook me until it felt like my head was going to topple off. And his spankings left belt marks on my backside.

            I picked up my spoon and got to work, shoveling in the gooey combination so fast that my nose froze. I scooped faster and faster, taking very little time to relish and enjoy.

            My mother worked from the other side, eating slower, but still chipping away at my treat.

            I didn’t get to finish it.

            When there was still more than half left, my mother announced that we had to leave. She stood, buttoned her jacket, then lifted me off the stool.

            I bet my eyes filled with tears. I am pretty sure that my body registered my disappointed anger, something I had perfected.

            It’s funny how some memories stay hidden for a gazillion years while others stay fresh year after year.

            I can remember the punishments my dad dished out as if they happened yesterday. But this one happy moment, this one time when I got a very special treat has remained hidden for well over sixty years.