I have this memory, elusive, yet alive. I don’t know if I can capture the thrill of it or if I even should try. Will I lose the magic if I try to imprint the moment into mere words?
Thinking back to my childhood is harder now. Not because of painful events, but simply because of time. I remember being a skinny, scrawny girl, pixie-ish. In fact, my mother used to call me… will I regret this?… “skinny minny fish-tale.” I know it sounds odd to you, but to me it was an endearment. The speaking of it was always accompanied with or quickly followed by a hug.
And those were sometimes scarce. My dear mom was a busy woman. She had four children, a factory job, and a husband who was by any standards an alcoholic–usually a difficult one. I know that were he to read this today, he would agree with the statement.
I perceive our economic status as “living paycheck to paycheck” and hoping nothing broke during the week. I’m not sure how they managed, memories of frayed cuffs and old coats hint that it was difficult. It seems that they were two people in this relationship called marriage not knowing a thing about how to go about it; and maybe not even sure how they landed there.
But I loved them. That’s the amazing thing about kids. They don’t see all the baggage that mom and dad have accumulated. They simply see mom and dad; and for them, that’s enough.
Thanksgiving was usually spent at a grandparent’s house. Either in Southern Ohio or closer to home, but I don’t remember a single Thanksgiving just at home in our house. I remember going to Southern Ohio one year, all of us together. But coming home without dad. Being a child and rightfully protected from the details, I only knew that my daddy was in jail. Now I understand that he chose to drink and drive and found himself at the mercy of a judge who decided he would have to spend sixty days in jail.
I have no memory about how we got back home. I am aware that my mother felt a great deal of shame and hurt as it had been the celebration at her parent’s house that was ruined by this event. On the one hand she was thankful to get back home, but on the other, her situation suddenly became more bleak.
She was hours from her own family, had four children to care for, had a factory job that exhausted her but did not even begin to meet the financial void created by the loss of my dad’s income. But she met the problem head on and took each day as she could. I remember assitance coming in various ways.
A teacher from the school providing some clothes for me; a civic organization bringing us a care basket; help from a family member to pay the utilities. The days, in my memory, were oppressively dreary. And I missed my dad. Most of the time I didn’t think about it, because there was school. But after school, when mom came home from work alone, only emptiness accompanied her. It would not be filled with childish chit-chat at the dinner table nor with Gilligan’s latest antics on the island.
It was really kind of ironic as I ponder our family. There really wasn’t much interaction with my dad on a daily basis, so the void shouldn’t have seemed so large. But with the longing of a child for her father, the waiting for his return seemed to stretch into eternity.
And then the sinking realization that dad would not be home for Christmas. Thanksgiving weekend plus sixty days was too late. Never had this happened before. Somehow, Mom was able to hold on to a tradition or two. From somewhere we got a Christmas tree. And there were a few packages beneath it. But we had schooled our expectations to be even less this year. The burdening thought to me was not that our celebration would be sparse, but that it would be lonely.
Days passed, school let out for the holidays. I remember those as long, forlorn days spent watching whatever was on television, waiting for mom to get home from work. And when she did arrive having a simple meal and returning to watch more tv because she was very tired.
Christmas Eve arrived. And I prayed. I prayed that my daddy would get out of jail and come home for Christmas day. Then I went to bed.
I do not remember ever praying before that time. I probably did, because the concept obviously was not foreign to me. As I look back through the ever-thickening glass, I am still amazed by the moment.
The moment I went to the window and saw my daddy’s truck in the driveway! Then yelling “Daddy’s home!”
The joy! The splendor of the moment! Christmas Day and Daddy’s home! Oh, God must really love me! He brought Daddy TODAY!
I posted this and then decided I had to P.S. it –
The judge, having reviewed his cases, decided that my dad had been there long enough and keeping him from his family on Christmas would more likely hurt us. Upon dad’s release, he went to my grandparent’s, who had compiled a whole truck load (it seemed) of groceries, household supplies, and Christmas gifts to send with him. There was a great bounty that Christmas Day of gifts and of love. It was one of those breath-taking moments that still lives in this child-heart of mine.
Havenlife by Linda A. Baker is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
havenlife
