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What are little girls made of made of? |
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Like most girls from Wisconsin, I was born with a taste for barley and a complete acceptance of the fact that my debut on the planet had nothing to do with the post-war suburban love miracle – later coined “baby boom”. It had everything to do with the fates making sure that Letty (my mother), by now a poster child for papal-inspired family planning, was still awake enough to welcome her man (John) home after "No-Tell-Motel" time in the early fall of 1960. |
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The very early childhood of a middle child thrown into Wisconsin-nuclear-family-meltdown-hell can also be described as being a skip in the middle of a scratched-up vinyl record blipping over and over into infinity. Aside from any exciting events, usually of the “forgotten in the bathtub for 4 hours” variety, this middle child was just another jump of the needle on a crackling & hissing broken record of a country family. |
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Much later in her life, Letty would spout: "You know… I raised you kids to be independent!" In a broad sense, she had a point. Although her comment would have been more on the mark had she said” "I left you all on your own to duke it out amongst yourselves and you're still alive, I don't feel guilty at all for my blatant neglect." It’s a waste of time to wonder if I might have turned out differently with a bit of parental audience in those early years. I know very well that my independent nature, buoyancy, resourcefulness and rugged individuality was built day by day, battle by battle in Lord of the Flies fashion. The pristine evergreen and birch forests along the ragged shores of Lake Michigan are as close as one gets to a desert island in the Midwest. A few kicks in the teeth against this beautiful yet desolate landscape can only build character among the unsupervised youth. My family traded loyalty, deceit, love and torture all in a survivor’s effort to better or maintain our respective positions in the pecking order. I was Piggy, but I lived. |
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John spent those years intent upon the big “3”: working, sleeping and drinking. I remember that he called the drinking part "going on a pisser." My four-year-old brain translated to mean that he had to drive all the way into town to use the bathroom. Letty spent those years with the "T" (for tavern) page of the yellow pages taped next to the telephone. I can still see her sitting at the kitchen table with her right leg crossed over her left, her right foot wagging to the Skeeter Davis song playing on the phonograph down the hall. Her index finger rhythmically flicked ash from the Chesterfield 101 (the biggest damn cigarette you could buy). The 101, a constant smoldering appendage usually dangled from her lips and wagged when she talked. With another economy dinner slowly burning in the oven, she’d spend the weekends being the "star" of the telephone party line that we shared with other residents of the State Park road. The domestic situation in our home was fodder and entertainment for the hypocritical Catholic gossips sharing the phone line and loved nothing better than to dish about our situation. She let them all listen in as she heatedly dialed establishments with names like "The I'm Not Inn" and "They Just Left Cafe" in search of Dad. |
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