Each passing day, it seemed, my timidity grew and bore into my nascent perceptions. Preferring the company of insects, to that of people, I was blissfully happy when left alone, to be with my collections. Caterpillars . . . the black woolies, and the striped ones, with black spikes, were my favorite by far. I collected lady bugs, and grasshoppers, too. But, mainly I loved my caterpillars and built elaborate castles for them, out of cardboard boxes of any kind that happened my way. Each room had a label, such as, “Living Room” or “Dining Room,” which my dad would neatly print out for me. All of my insects received fresh food daily, each sort eating differently. Caterpillars are voracious, so, it was a never ending task keeping them fed and I would go as far as two blocks for the woolies’ bush. There’s got to be more caterpillars on the next block, I’d think. But I was not allowed to go further, by myself. I had dozens crawling about at any given time, and others, in cocoons or coming out of metamorphosis. When the cocoons were opened by an emerging moth or butterfly, I would tease it tenderly onto my index finger and then wave my hand about, until the wings dried. Once dry, the wings would powder up and spread. Then, I knew another friend would soon leave me . . . and fly off to its’ destiny. Each time, a winged beauty took off, I would watch, mesmerized. I’d keep staring off to the point of disappearance and then, I’d just sit for a long while, in the hot sun. Thinking about it and wondering where a butterfly goes, after it dies.
My Grandfather Peter, perhaps the most frigid man I have ever known, owned the homes next door, one of which my father grew up in and the other, behind. He lived in “the other, behind.” Upon his orders to my parents, we children rotated the task of keeping him company during his noonday meal. It was not an everyday event, maybe once, every two weeks. Each of my siblings still suffer that sitting time. At attention, on the sofa across from granddad, I would sit, while he ate his boiled vegetables. His whole house stunk of them. Grinding his food into a fine mush, before he swallowed, he would, all the while stare out the window as if I weren’t even there. It made me a little sick to my stomach.
If I were lucky enough, to have been given notice the night before, that, I was to visit him, I’d conjure up no less than three tales in my mind. I figured if I kept talking it would keep me from fainting dead away from the austere silence. But, if I were given a moments notice, then I had to come up with something fast. Each time I wore myself into a fine lather, straining to carry on an animated dialogue. Pleasing the man, was very hard work. Now and then, he'd turn to me with utter disdain and say, "You'll never become a lady with those faces that you make."
I truly think we were summoned just so he could mentally torture us. In all fairness, I did learn a few things from Granddad. When he slammed the door in my face and that of my sisters', I learned the art of indifference. While sitting on his sofa, I learned to feel shame.
With the exception of Aunt June, my father’s family held us apart. They regarded my father with disappointment, and we, his offspring, though innocent of any crime, were going to feel the sting. Never-the-less, Dad was still a Goetten and it was necessary to keep up respectable standards. A facade was set up for all outside observations. Things were nice when it was necessary, but there was always, an undercurrent. A shun. Somehow, and in someway, this cruel treatment must have brought a sense of contentment to my father’s family. However, and worse, on the surface, we appeared to be quite wealthy and I, from a sheer sense of pride, learned quickly how to uphold the charade. But, it was extremely damaging to me and my siblings.
In my refusal to acknowledge the vindictiveness, I gave prove to its’ very existence. Holding my head high, and my shoulders squared, I learned to pronounce my words with a deliberation and also, I learned to distrust everything and everyone.
Gosh and Golly! I thank you all for your comments. It really feels grand to see that you relate, to what I've written. No I never studied writing in college. Any writing instructions that might have had an effect on me, came from eight years at Our Mother of Good Counsel Grammar School. Other than that I've been scribbling down things most of my life.
Childhood . . . makes one, wonder. You had very extreme and traumatizing things happen to you. Much more than what I have written here. But, it all leaves marks and as you say, "I still have the scars."
I just commented on the blog after this one...wrote something about my friend Kevin, who was brought up catholic. He declared war on the ants, and collected Martian Cards. My father had a brother who worked for Grumman on the lunar module, LEM, and he walked out of our living room one night when dad started badmouthing Nixon. He also gave my sister "driving lessons" and tried to grab her tit during one of them. Not to be confused with dad's other brother, John, who was a little like a benign mad scientist...I wish now, looking back, that my sister had told my parents of what happened. She only told me. It would have changed everything, real quick. I love to watch kids explore nature and see thier sense of wonder as they do!
EASY TO BE HARD
Often, there was the question of how, when or where. What matters most is why...
They say there is but five degrees of separation between all of us.
This is my story and observations about growing up under the infamous Hollywood Sign, in the 50's 60' and 70's. This is also a story of my entering the fast lane, and finding that if I wanted to survive, I had to get off it, but... it wasn't that easy.
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