The Book I Can't Write

I was reading the headlines today, and in Britain, a woman is suing her adult daughter for libel. Apparently, the daughter wrote an autobiography about her childhood - abuse, neglect, abandonment. The mother claims that none of it is true - that they were a happy family.

This got me to thinking - there are books upon books upon books, some fiction, so biographic, that paint the pictures of dysfuncational familes and abusive childhoods. And this thought thread let me to come to this - I could never sell my childhood as a book. I wasn't beaten, abused or neglected.

My only chance of selling my childhood? Write a fairy tale.

A former manager at Epcot used to read palms and she told me that the palm says more about where you've been then about where you're going. She looked at my co-worker Eddie's palm, and almost teared up by what she'd seen. He had a hard childhood - losing his father early, never having enough food on the table or attention and love to go around. Times were rough for Eddie and he wore the weariness of his childhood like a scar upon his palm.

And then she looked at my palm.

"Wow"...she said. "You had a happy childhood. I've never seen such a pure life line."

Yeah...I thought. I had a GREAT childhood!

My mom was always there - always. I think about it now, with this newfound perspective of adulthood, and realize that in some ways, my mom was a part-time single parent, taking care of two children five, sometimes even six days a week without someone to share the load. My dad worked second shift, so we saw him mostly on weekends. Monday through Friday though, it was my mom that was there for us. Always there. Always.

My dad wasn't particularly fond of his job, but he liked the lifestyle it afforded his family. And that was his great love story to his family - Every day, mostly six days a week, my dad went to work in the tire factory - dirty, long hours in extreme heat - because he loved his family.

Friday nights were special - we sometimes would meet my dad after work at the Rockin' U for pizza. Sometimes this would be the first time all week we saw Dad. It was always with excitement that I approached the Rockin' U for our reunion.

Weekends in my memory were a special treat. Thursday night the inevitable question - was Dad working on Saturday? How about Sunday?

My memories of weekends - Summers with the pool, Dad at the barbeque, Mom finishing up dinner in the house. The back patio, where I would roller skate around the posts holding up the aluminum roof. Cleaning up the damn hedge cuttings...mowing the damn lawn. Trying to play "Horse" with the net-less basketball hoop without the ball rolling down the driveway (the only hill in Findlay).

And in the winter - Dad watching golf, Dad snoring on the couch, most likely with the remote in his hand. The smell of pipe smoke, football games on TV. Mom grading papers, cleaning house.

Payday Fridays with Mom, eating at the Ponderosa before hitting up the luxious, glamerous Findlay Village Mall or Hills. Sunday nights with dessert - ice cream usually only once a week.

And we had the cottage - it came along at the perfect age for me. At that time of my life when I'm most likely looking for reasons to NOT hang out with my family on weekends, my parents "forced" us to travel 90 minutes away to our own lake house every weekend and three weeks each summer. Hours upon hours I could have been wasting in the mall I instead spent building a world full of memories. The boat, the deck, the campfire. Walks with my dog around Orchard Island, watching fireworks from the bow of the boat. The wave runner, the boat beach. Even the "boat up" McDonalds. And in all those memories - Mom, Dad, Donovan and sometimes Brenda. Good friends, good times...carefree days, warm nights with just the ceiling fan to cool my sunburned flesh.

At one point in my life, I may have tried the argument that my parents even having my brother was a form of abuse upon me - years and years of arguments, hostility, anger and annoyance.

And I may have even contended, in my younger years, that my sister was the more loved sibling - that in the summers she came to visit, my parents heaped mounds of love upon her. After all...she got to sit in the front seat without asking and I was forced to share front seat privilieges with my brother the rest of the year.

My, what a little perspective will do...

Now, my siblings are the greatest gift my parents ever gave me. Years and years of wonderful memories - sharing the bed with Brenda during thunderstorms, swapping rooms with Donovan so that I could sleep in his pop-up tent bed. Swimming in the backyard pool, creating "routines" with Donovan, trying to swim end to end under water with Brenda. My introduction to soap operas from Brenda, jumping from couch to chair to ottoman, to coloring books with Donovan to avoid stepping on the carpet which was, of course, the dreaded, deadly lava.

And my brother and sister - they know where I've been, the people I come from. No one else in the world can truly understand me better - they have walked step by step with me throughout my entire life. And it's a good thing, too. I'd be lost without them.

And that's it - My fairy tale, titled "Tales from the Severly Functional."

Once upon a time...