Today, I set myself the task of remembering pleasant events from my childhood - things beyond the abuse to which my brother and I were subjected at the hands of our father who aren’t in heaven; Howard was his name.
May sobriety prevail in the world and all children be safe from the effects of alcoholic and rage-aholic parents.
One sweet memory comes up quite vividly. It’s a warm spring day and must be a weekend because both my parents are home. Mom's hair is fresh-washed and smells of Luster-Creme. She's drying it on the patio, which smells of the Eucalyptus leaves which I'm bending and shredding. I'm watching her paint her toe-nails - the acetone mingles with and sometimes masks the other scents. Dad comes out, takes his shirt off and asks her to get some blackheads out of his back. Both straddling the bench, she sits behind him and presses the curved end of a bobby pin directly into his skin centered over a blackhead on his shoulder blade. As she pushes deeply enough to leave a red imprint of the pin, his flesh yields up a thin wire of dirt that has been clogging a hair follicle or sweat gland. She wipes it off with a bit of toilet paper off the roll which she brought out to wrap between her toes. It is mysterious to me as I watch them "play monkey" with each other. He repeats the process on her back.
This reciprocal grooming behavior is vivid and dear in my memory. I am surprised by how comforting it is. It is such a contrast to the more familiar image of Dad at the dining room table squeezing his amber glass quart bottle of beer over his beer stein - pretending to get out every last drop, while Mom is at the Wurlitzer playing Cole Porter songs - tears leaking silently from the corners of her eyes. The 'Giant' (Ogre) and the 'Magic Harp' from “Jack and the Bean Stock” held a real resonance throughout my childhood because this scene was enacted so many times. Dad would knit his bushy eye-brows together and say in a voice scraped deep and splintery by chain-smoking, “PLAY, woman, PLAY!”
Is that all there is? No more cozy, dozy images of creature comfort shared by my parents?
At some point, Mom told me I was conceived to save their marriage, so perhaps it’s no wonder that I don’t have more memories of my parents’ cozy togetherness. The cementing of my cells within my mother's dark and quiet failed to cement their relationship. Go figure. My existence also was terribly inconvenient for my brother who was six years and twenty eight days old when they brought me home from the Stork’s Nest Hospital in Inglewood. It's not a stretch to say that he felt quite threatened that mom and dad's attention might be siphoned off by this cipher. I spent my early years on hyper-alert wondering from where the next blow would come.
I did, finally, learn the importance of what my mom always called “creature comfort.” The ability to lean into a couch or bed or chair or another person with complete letting-go is a lovely feeling... one that eluded me for decades, just because my hover-muscles were always engaged as part of my hyper-vigilance. “Wait, you need something? I’ll get it. It’s my job to save the marriage and make my brother stop hating me, and I’m doing a lousy job... so, I’ll just have to try HARDER!” Perched in readiness for whatever might happen - including running away from the yelling and fighting, or away from my brother, I sense my muscles as taut as a gazelle's being pursued by a cheetah.
How glad I am to have lost THAT level of hyper-vigilance. It comes on me now only rarely and only in very particular circumstances. Good riddance to that level of body/mind tension. It was exhausting!
Thanks to my beloved husband, and the safety I feel in his presence, I can nestle in and let go to gravity in almost any position. The world has become my practice arena for Shavasana (yoga's deep relaxation pose). Can I relax and really lean into the support of a chair? Or the couch, bed, bathtub or car? Most of the time, yes.
Oooh! Here's a total gestalt of sensory delight as another memory arises. It’s summer - maybe our last trip, before school starts - to “The Cove”* where we spend so much time with my Aunt Nora, Uncle Bob and cousins Debby and Eric. Debby and I are about four and five. Brother Mel and Eric are perhaps eleven and ten.
The adults are sitting on blankets on the “sand” which is really made up of fine pebbles. When the waves roll out, the larger rocks are tumbled in such a way that it sounds like applause. We kids are still wading in the water near the black rocks and tide-pools, which reflect the salmon-colored sky and purple clouds. All of us look as if we’ve been dipped in gold as the last rays of sun burnish our faces, hair and clothes. The water feels warmer than the air at this time of day. I always think it is because the sun drops into the water out there on the horizon - making it boil and bubble. This makes the shore water feel blessedly warm. Wondering if the fish out there are cooking in the hot water, I turn around and catch my dad slipping his arm around my mom’s waist, giving her a squeeze and a kiss. A bottle of beer is in his other hand, but the kiss seems genuine and, maybe, is returned. I feel a warm glow inside me witnessing that sweet connection between them.
One of my teachers, Ray Castellino of BEBA in Santa Barbara, says the single most reassuring thing parents can do to help their children feel securely attached is to gaze lovingly into one another’s eyes. When parents are on the same loving wave-length, there is a feeling of deep relaxation which comes over their kids. Aaaaaah....
May you find relaxation in your life and practice leaning into support this week!
*Bob, Debby and Nora Maxwell
at Malaga Cove.
By Howard Maxwell, Circa 1952
I am grateful for the hundreds of superb photos my dad took of our family, pets, friends and while on assignment for the L.A. Times. There! That's another sweet memory!
