He spent time guiding my bike by the seat until I could make it around the corner, many bandaged knees later. Once my father brought me a red metal fire truck, which I especially loved because it seemed to be a boy toy and such a surprise. There are others, I can hear them, they are helping." After several times in there she said, "Marsha go back to sleep. When I once did cry, almost silently, she said, "Don't do that" and I replied "I can't be brave all the time, can I?" She answered, "I guess not." During what was to be her last night (though we thought she had several weeks left) I willed myself to wake up every 45 minutes or so, to offer her water, comfort. In deference to her desires I held my grief in her presence. the most important tasks I have ever done, will ever do. I will always remember bathing her, holding her hand. My mother used the same determination she had drawn on to recover and focused on dying. A few years ago after watching a documentary about polio, I decided that she really wasn't obsessive-compulsive, just trying to keep us safe.Ĭancer had attacked her spine and (their) morphine helped amazingly. I was not allowed to eat the bottom of ice cream cones which might have been set on a counter. Cleanliness was important and we traveled with a jar of soapy water in our glove compartment. She was very duty-oriented and worrying seemed to be part of her duty. I heard "I didn't sleep a wink last night worrying about such and such" from her often. Like my father, she strove to fix things, make life fair. she worried about her actions, always wanting to do the right thing. She had a pet rabbit and fell into a cow pen.She always had a dignified and virtuous bearing, huge sensitive brown eyes and black hair. I don't know much about my mother's childhood. In looking back at my life I find I must recall relatives from whom I undoubtedly inherited genetic traits and unconsciously imitated behaviors, accepted or rejected attitudes and learned stories about triumphs and tragedies. There was a cherry tree with tiny bright red poison berries which I wasn't to touch. I spent many ecstatic hours gathering weeds, seeds, stones, feathers, moss and such and creating muddy sculptures. I still remember having the wind knocked out of me and gasping for air and having my dislocated shoulder put back into place. Some stories were repeated and refined, some were short lived.Īt around age five I fell backwards out of the tree while eating cinnamon red hearts from a paper cupcake holder. We named the process "story." We or sometimes just I would become characters surviving a struggle suggested by a fairy tale, a TV show, or our imaginations. There was an apple tree out back that I climbed as if through making the ascension I arrived in a new dimension, a place for dramatizations.
#CHAPTER 4 ASCENSION TV SHOW FULL#
The gardens were full of wonderful plants: hollyhocks (we made dolls from the blossoms), several varieties of daisies, roses and even gourds one year. I sat on hot floor registers and felt the sting as my snowsuit dried out. I loved the milk box, the shelves of preserved fruit in our damp basement, the sound of coal being delivered and banging its way down the chute. But I could barely see the 90-degree bend and realized I could get painfully stuck.
The laundry chute was a real temptation I so wanted to slide down three floors to the basement. One year I completely ruined my Christmas surprises by trying on the clothes I found in bags there. Only rarely did I sneak into my parents' long closet with a dormer window at the end. I'd sneak into my sister's to see what clothes awaited me in four years, though my mother's dress them alike phase lasted a number of years so I already knew some of the outfits. I also found our strangely shaped closets interesting. I was very intrigued by the dusty musty attic and its possibilities, but not allowed to go there. There were beveled glass French doors at the entrance to the living area, a playroom/music room, a dining room, huge kitchen, three large bedrooms upstairs, a walk-through coat closet, and alas, only one bathroom which the four of us somehow shared. I was born into a beautiful old house, four stories if you counted the full basement and attic, which I did.
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