Give us one of your early childhood memories. Make it really visceral, something we can feel. Bring us back to that moment, to the characters, to what they're saying.
It is New Year’s Eve in 1977 and I am ten years old. My father is in the hospital recuperating from knee surgery. I am at home with the rest of my family: my mother, my sisters Karen and Kim, and my brother, Derek. We are joined by our family pets: Ginger, the mutt that we rescued from the pound (best dog we ever had) and our cat Pepper.
This was the best New Year’s Eve ever because my father was not with us. He was in the hospital since the day after Christmas to shortly after New Year’s for knee surgery, a by-product of his work as a painter. This was our opportunity to just be kids - laugh, sing, dance, run around, everything that kids do, especially at a festive time.
Although my mother was exceptionally good at blocking out the harsh reality of our dysfunctional household, the one thing she was unable to do was shield us from the harsh reality of Daddy. My father was the exact opposite of my mother. Where she was loving, open-hearted and nurturing, he was hostile, volatile and demeaning. Talk about opposites attracting.
When my father was around, there was always a sense of foreboding. Every evening, upon his arrival from work, my siblings and I would peer over the banister listening for the tell-tale timbre of his voice that would determine our collective disposition for the evening. If Daddy’s voice was somber and subdued, devoid of the familiar bitter sarcasm he so often possessed, we could infer that he had had a relatively good day at work. The tone of his voice as he greeted my mother was always the barometer by which my siblings and I conducted ourselves on a daily basis. My poor mother was often the sacrificial lamb who unwittingly offered herself up to Daddy, in an effort to gauge his mood before he had an opportunity to unload onto one of her children. If his response to her greeting was demeaning or sarcastic, we scattered off to our rooms like roaches, listening quietly, in the event that his diatribe might graduate to more hostile behavior. Even now as an adult, I am sensitive to the tone of a person’s voice, unconsciously gauging the likelihood of subsequent violence.
On the off chance that he had had a good day and was relatively pleasant, we sensed that it would be acceptable to actually go downstairs and offer an anxious greeting, before disappearing into our rooms. It did not take much to set him off, so if he came home in a good mood, it was in all our best interests to keep him that way. Children who grow up in a household where domestic violence is present are often the very best of children.
This New Year’s Eve, Mommy had given us permission to stay awake until midnight, way past our bedtime. We were looking forward to banging our pots and pans and making lots of noise, to usher in the New Year. This was a huge deal for us – when Daddy was around, we were always discouraged from making too much noise. This was a difficult feat for us children – there were four of us, so it was a given that everything we did was inherently loud.
We made hot chocolate and sang songs, really loud songs. Mommy gave us permission to drag our mattresses down from our bedrooms and “camp out” in the living room. Ginger and Pepper lay on our beds with us, a definite no-no when Daddy was around. Mommy told us stories and we danced and sang happily and had our hot chocolate and snacks.
By 9:45 pm, our eyes were so heavy that we didn’t think we could make it to midnight. Mommy came up with a great idea. So, we banged our pots and pans and yelled “Happy New Year!” – at 10:00 pm.
I haven’t had a better New Year’s Eve since.
It is New Year’s Eve in 1977 and I am ten years old. My father is in the hospital recuperating from knee surgery. I am at home with the rest of my family: my mother, my sisters Karen and Kim, and my brother, Derek. We are joined by our family pets: Ginger, the mutt that we rescued from the pound (best dog we ever had) and our cat Pepper.
This was the best New Year’s Eve ever because my father was not with us. He was in the hospital since the day after Christmas to shortly after New Year’s for knee surgery, a by-product of his work as a painter. This was our opportunity to just be kids - laugh, sing, dance, run around, everything that kids do, especially at a festive time.
Although my mother was exceptionally good at blocking out the harsh reality of our dysfunctional household, the one thing she was unable to do was shield us from the harsh reality of Daddy. My father was the exact opposite of my mother. Where she was loving, open-hearted and nurturing, he was hostile, volatile and demeaning. Talk about opposites attracting.
When my father was around, there was always a sense of foreboding. Every evening, upon his arrival from work, my siblings and I would peer over the banister listening for the tell-tale timbre of his voice that would determine our collective disposition for the evening. If Daddy’s voice was somber and subdued, devoid of the familiar bitter sarcasm he so often possessed, we could infer that he had had a relatively good day at work. The tone of his voice as he greeted my mother was always the barometer by which my siblings and I conducted ourselves on a daily basis. My poor mother was often the sacrificial lamb who unwittingly offered herself up to Daddy, in an effort to gauge his mood before he had an opportunity to unload onto one of her children. If his response to her greeting was demeaning or sarcastic, we scattered off to our rooms like roaches, listening quietly, in the event that his diatribe might graduate to more hostile behavior. Even now as an adult, I am sensitive to the tone of a person’s voice, unconsciously gauging the likelihood of subsequent violence.
On the off chance that he had had a good day and was relatively pleasant, we sensed that it would be acceptable to actually go downstairs and offer an anxious greeting, before disappearing into our rooms. It did not take much to set him off, so if he came home in a good mood, it was in all our best interests to keep him that way. Children who grow up in a household where domestic violence is present are often the very best of children.
This New Year’s Eve, Mommy had given us permission to stay awake until midnight, way past our bedtime. We were looking forward to banging our pots and pans and making lots of noise, to usher in the New Year. This was a huge deal for us – when Daddy was around, we were always discouraged from making too much noise. This was a difficult feat for us children – there were four of us, so it was a given that everything we did was inherently loud.
We made hot chocolate and sang songs, really loud songs. Mommy gave us permission to drag our mattresses down from our bedrooms and “camp out” in the living room. Ginger and Pepper lay on our beds with us, a definite no-no when Daddy was around. Mommy told us stories and we danced and sang happily and had our hot chocolate and snacks.
By 9:45 pm, our eyes were so heavy that we didn’t think we could make it to midnight. Mommy came up with a great idea. So, we banged our pots and pans and yelled “Happy New Year!” – at 10:00 pm.
I haven’t had a better New Year’s Eve since.
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