1.3
I was four years old when my parents attempted to add to the family. Oddly, I have no memories of my mother being pregnant. I’m sure I must have known it, must have watched her grow bigger and listened to the baby kick and seen them build a crib and gather baby stuff. But the only memory I have is of sitting on the grass outside the hospital with my grandmother, and her telling me that the babies - twins - were early and they might not live.
They didn’t. And when my father picked up my mother at the hospital to bring her home, he brought her a puppy. What he was thinking with that gesture, I have no idea. But looking back, I think this was the beginning of the end for my parents’ marriage, the day my dad attempted to replace my mother’s dead babies with a dachshund. One that peed all over her favorite polka-dot dress in the car, at that.
There was a simple burial, that I don't remember attending, at a local cemetery. A few years later, we drove by the graveyard and I was told that my "sisters were buried there." In response to my questions, my mother told me that they had been so small, they were buried in a coffin no bigger than a shoebox. Misunderstanding her, I spent most of my childhood thinking that the babies had been buried in an actual shoebox, and to this day that's the image I get when I think of them.
Anyway. I was too young to grieve dead baby sisters but I was thrilled to have a dog around, since there were no kids my age in the neighborhood and, except for occasional birthday parties and holiday gatherings with family, never had any other children to play with. Dad had recently taken me to see the Disney movie Big Red and so, despite the fact that the movie dog was an Irish setter and this was a runty little dachshund, that’s what we named him.
Big Red was my best friend. My only friend, really. I spent hours pulling him around the yard in my wagon, putting doll clothes on him, and feeding him Walter Kendall Fives dog biscuits (and trying them myself once to see if there really was a difference between the yellow ones and the black ones and the red ones -- there was, but none of them were tasty). I was an extraordinarily lonely child, with only the dog and my imaginary friend, Elmer, to hang out with.
Then came kindergarten. Having never been around more than two or three other children at any one time, being thrust into school was a shock. I had, literally, no social skills when it came to people my own age - I’d been taught adult manners and adult speech, and my parents’ friends raved about how smart and adorable and well-behaved I was. I was a pretty, pretty princess, all right ... until I started school.
I’ll spare you the details. It was the usual sandbox/painting/counting/care for the bunny/go home and have a snack routine that every kindergartner goes through. Except that, at this time, my maternal grandmother was having health problems and my dad, in one of his classic problem-solving extravaganzas, decided to buy grandma’s place, tear down her small house and build a huge house for us with an dee-luxe apartment for grandma. So, every other day after kindergarten, I’d walk to the building site (being a fireman, Dad had an on-off-on-off schedule) and hang around the ever-evolving new house watching my dad sweat and swear and hammer. I’d sit in a quiet, sawdust-covered corner, away from the power tools, open my Captain Kangaroo lunchbox, and have a snack of cinnamon graham crackers and milk. Then I’d play with pieces of wood, metal “plugs” from the electrical boxes, and bits of colored wire until it was time to go home for dinner.
After we moved in, I made friends with two girls who lived close to my new house. Launa was, like me, round-faced and big for her age. She was the alpha. The other girl, Betty, was small and dorky, and wore cat’s eye glasses with little rhinestones. Yes, at age five, she wore cat’s-eye glasses. And was named Betty. She never had a chance.
Every day at school and after, we’d play Mighty Mouse, running around, “flying,” solving crimes and beating up bad guys. Except that Launa always got to be Mighty Mouse, while Betty and I had to be Mighty Mouse’s nephews (sometimes subbing as bad guys, although we usually just beat up stationary objects). I pointed out one day that I, too, would like a shot at being Mighty Mouse but Launa assured me that I wouldn’t be any good at it. Not wanting to provoke confrontation, I let it go. That may have been a decisive moment for me - what if I’d insisted on being Mighty Mouse? How different might I be today? Perhaps years of hardship, sexual misadventure and therapy could have been avoided if I'd just gotten to wear the cape a few times.
They didn’t. And when my father picked up my mother at the hospital to bring her home, he brought her a puppy. What he was thinking with that gesture, I have no idea. But looking back, I think this was the beginning of the end for my parents’ marriage, the day my dad attempted to replace my mother’s dead babies with a dachshund. One that peed all over her favorite polka-dot dress in the car, at that.
There was a simple burial, that I don't remember attending, at a local cemetery. A few years later, we drove by the graveyard and I was told that my "sisters were buried there." In response to my questions, my mother told me that they had been so small, they were buried in a coffin no bigger than a shoebox. Misunderstanding her, I spent most of my childhood thinking that the babies had been buried in an actual shoebox, and to this day that's the image I get when I think of them.
Anyway. I was too young to grieve dead baby sisters but I was thrilled to have a dog around, since there were no kids my age in the neighborhood and, except for occasional birthday parties and holiday gatherings with family, never had any other children to play with. Dad had recently taken me to see the Disney movie Big Red and so, despite the fact that the movie dog was an Irish setter and this was a runty little dachshund, that’s what we named him.
Big Red was my best friend. My only friend, really. I spent hours pulling him around the yard in my wagon, putting doll clothes on him, and feeding him Walter Kendall Fives dog biscuits (and trying them myself once to see if there really was a difference between the yellow ones and the black ones and the red ones -- there was, but none of them were tasty). I was an extraordinarily lonely child, with only the dog and my imaginary friend, Elmer, to hang out with.
Then came kindergarten. Having never been around more than two or three other children at any one time, being thrust into school was a shock. I had, literally, no social skills when it came to people my own age - I’d been taught adult manners and adult speech, and my parents’ friends raved about how smart and adorable and well-behaved I was. I was a pretty, pretty princess, all right ... until I started school.
I’ll spare you the details. It was the usual sandbox/painting/counting/care for the bunny/go home and have a snack routine that every kindergartner goes through. Except that, at this time, my maternal grandmother was having health problems and my dad, in one of his classic problem-solving extravaganzas, decided to buy grandma’s place, tear down her small house and build a huge house for us with an dee-luxe apartment for grandma. So, every other day after kindergarten, I’d walk to the building site (being a fireman, Dad had an on-off-on-off schedule) and hang around the ever-evolving new house watching my dad sweat and swear and hammer. I’d sit in a quiet, sawdust-covered corner, away from the power tools, open my Captain Kangaroo lunchbox, and have a snack of cinnamon graham crackers and milk. Then I’d play with pieces of wood, metal “plugs” from the electrical boxes, and bits of colored wire until it was time to go home for dinner.
After we moved in, I made friends with two girls who lived close to my new house. Launa was, like me, round-faced and big for her age. She was the alpha. The other girl, Betty, was small and dorky, and wore cat’s eye glasses with little rhinestones. Yes, at age five, she wore cat’s-eye glasses. And was named Betty. She never had a chance.
Every day at school and after, we’d play Mighty Mouse, running around, “flying,” solving crimes and beating up bad guys. Except that Launa always got to be Mighty Mouse, while Betty and I had to be Mighty Mouse’s nephews (sometimes subbing as bad guys, although we usually just beat up stationary objects). I pointed out one day that I, too, would like a shot at being Mighty Mouse but Launa assured me that I wouldn’t be any good at it. Not wanting to provoke confrontation, I let it go. That may have been a decisive moment for me - what if I’d insisted on being Mighty Mouse? How different might I be today? Perhaps years of hardship, sexual misadventure and therapy could have been avoided if I'd just gotten to wear the cape a few times.