Mother Barn posted 5/12/2008 7:22:02 PM | 19 kudos what's this?     report abuse

LaughTillYaPuke

Becky and I learned how to sneak our food out of the pantry. And while I do have a pretty darn good memories of the "farm", I'm pretty damn sure the only meal we were ever fed was breakfast based. Tigers milk being the ultimate gagger. I STILL don't know what it is/was. But let us just assume that any three year old will assume that that milk actually came from a Tiger. Care should have been taken. The pantry was a magical place. The sunlight always shadowed through the windows, austronaut sticks for snacks.

And in this full and empty world I began my first real memories of childhood and would rock my self to sleep. For hours. And hours. Until daddy would come in and lay his heavy warm hand on my back and I would drop my belly flat on the bed and fall asleep. Safe and loved at last. I wasn't until I was much older that I would hear and learn about failure to thrive syndrome and the rocking child. And then I wept.

A mother who resented me, a dog who I loved, but ran so fast I could not keep up. A sister who could only tolerate so much from a little sister with so many questions. And a daddy who stayed away from home for longer and longer periods. Finding any excuse not to come home to us. Or more precisely, her.

There was a big red barn as I mentioned. And every once in a while this little girl would remember that their were golden eggs to be found. And it was magical in there. Vestiges of straw, dusty sunlight that streamed through warped barn boards, and giant plops of chicken poop to dodge. But it was the forbidden loft that I loved. The boards were warm to lay on and if you pressed your ear just right against the slats, you could hear that old barn breath. I believe it loved me. Waited for me. Anticipating my arrival. Until one day when my great mother barn betrayed me.

The massive wooden beams that ran from the roof to the floor. Giant squares cut out around to allow them room to plummet to the bottom. And my little foot slipped into one of these squares with a wet "sluicing' sound and would not come out. I thought it was my dress that was caught. And I pulled an tugged. Shocked that damage to cloth could cause such physical pain. I eventually could tug no longer, and stuck all the way up to my crotch, I eventually leaned over and slept against those warm boards.

And daddy was to come home and eventually a search was gathered to find his lost child. It went on until way after dark, until he tripped over my shoe and shown his flash light onto the the puddle of blood that it laid in. And he would look up to the ceiling of that great barn and see one little leg poking out with a red dripping sock attached to the end. And he and two other men with try to lift me out with a nail imbedded into my thigh. Shiny from my efforts at sliding it back and forth from my knee to my hip, trying to get free from the one mother who seemed intent on keeping me.

And the first big battle in my memory would occur that night. The yelling of just how long does a child have to be missing until someone notices? And what the hell were you doing anyway? And those raised angry voices in the night frightened me more than anything I had encountered in life so far. And it was the night where the battles lines would be drawn. And I heard my parents decide that I was my fathers daughter, and Becky was my mothers. I loved him and was proud to be his daughter. And now maybe he would take me away and he would love me forever. But it was him who left. And I was left to wonder just who owned me. I began to live for two things. Daddy coming home. And mommy taking us somewhere. When we were in public in our pretty matching outfits, she touched me, showed me off as if I were a prize. And it was worth it all.

But this story is becoming much heavier and depressing than I ever intended. I start these things out with a mental picture. one that will not leave my head until I begin. The writing. The typing. The sheer psychotherapy of taking it out of me and giving it over to something bigger than myself. Because isn't it all bigger than me? So it was a lonely time. A time of learning. A time of learning to love that which will never be reciprocated. But it was also a time of hope. I don't think you can be that age and have life with out that one emotion. As everything you do is surrounded by that one glowing promise. Hope.

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Blogs by LaughTillYaPuke: Felonies and other Petty Crimes What are You Looking for Rattling the Bones Spit In the Eye of the Devil The Best Damn Wayside EVER Coming into My Own Daddy's Girl Enough Already Trees Around My Heart The Mother Tree Colors The Most Beautiful Place on Earth Mother Barn In The Beginning TESTIFY!!! She's a Real Mother Alright..... Sharp Dead Toe Nails Melee Come to Life The Game....Part III The Game....Part II The Game....Part I Portrait........Portrayal Cold Puke in Blog Land