A Journey Through Life...'s Blog

No, not that 70's show.

By the 1970's flower power, elephant pants, go-go boots, "mod", "rad" colors/designs had made it to my corner of the Midwest.

The '70's were, for the most part, my elementary school/junior high years.  I was more concerned with fitting in socially than knowing anything about Watergate, the returning Vietnam veterans, etc.

 Fitting in socially was probably the biggest struggle during this decade.  My lack of social skills along with being dropped into the middle of an ultra (I mean ULTRA) conservative piece of the heartland (think round peg for square hole) made this an on-going task.  I had one best friend, Wendy, who was awesome.  I'm not sure I would have made it through elementary without her.  We still talk/email sometimes.  For some of the rest of the kids, especially the boys, I had something like "t a r g e t" written on my forehead.  I really don't remember the catalyst that brought about soooo much teasing from 1st grade until the last years of high school.  True, I was horribly shy and had no social skills but there were other kids with virtually no social skills that weren't such targets.  I wasn't particuarly ugly.  I usually had decent clothes.  For years this merciless teasing effected my relationships with men, particularly men my age.  I gravitated toward those 10+ years older.  Now they are all old men so I'm giving my peers a 2nd look!

Home wasn't horrible.  Between Kindergarten and 1st grade we moved to a newly remodeled home on a nearby farm.  Compared to our earlier house, this was a nice step up.  We had new carpet, some new furniture, more room and I think it was heated better.  Everything was in 70's greens and oranges of course.  I don't think I had as much anxiety in this house as I did in the other one.  Something about the memories of the 'new' house are more positive and calming than the one's from the 'old' house.

Wendy and a few other friends came over occasionally.  My mom was always pretty willing to let someone come to play and sometimes sleep over.  This led to less isolation than my earlier childhood did.  

Reading became my escape beginning about as soon as I learned to do it.  My parents bought a set of encyclopedias (1974 version, I believe) that I have read cover to cover.  More than once.  I loved the library.

My first grade teacher was kind of a scary, cold woman.  Overall, though, I think she treated me well.  I didn't get alot of warmth/nurturing from her but I think the fact that I worked my way into the top reading group impressed her.  (I think because I was so quiet and socially inadept, people thought I was stupid for a long time).  2nd grade with Mrs. Fos***n was worse.  She made me cry at least once but I don't remember why.  I'm sure she's dead now because she had to be 60 something when she taught me.  Mrs. Larsen.  3rd grade. Probably my overall favorite teacher, although high school would bring others I really liked.  She read Laura Ingalls Wilder books to the class after lunch.  She did have a warmth that many others of her generation seemed not to.  All of my teachers were over 50 until I was in the 5th grade......although that is from my perspective now.  They were older than my mom at least, but Kdg. and 1st teachers may have only been about the age I am now....choke, choke, cough. 

5th grade brought Mr. **rn and Miss ***la**.  My friend and I made up semi-pornographic stories about them....we were sure they were 'doin' it'.  They may actually have been.  He was married at the time but I found out within the past 10 years, he divorced his wife and ran off with another fellow teacher---a young one just out of college.  She was in her 20's, he was in his 50's.  **rn and ***la** were young in the 1970's though and this was a nice change from the fairly elderly ladies I had had up until then.    

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Kindergarten.  As close (enmeshed) I was to my mom, it was a bit hard to begin school.  Once there though I discovered a love of learning.  I also thrived with the structure and stimulation that was part of the educational environment.  Unfortunately I had few social skills at that time.  The 5 years I spent growing up on the first farm were spent primarily in isolation.  I occasionally played with a couple of cousins who were very close in age and I began Sunday School around this time as well but otherwise it was pretty much me and my mom.  Dad was there too but I remember avoiding him as much as possible.  I was a tender spirit who did not deal well with his teasing and his "children should be seen and not heard" responses when I attempted any sort of comeback.  I was and probably still am a pleaser.  He was virtually impossible to please.  Other kids would have probably let this roll off their backs but at the time, I was unable to do this. 

Overall, school brought more positives than negatives.  I naturally picked up on things quite easily and did well academically.  I recall being the one of the only kids in my class that could count to 100 at one point in the Kdg. year.  I blossomed with praise I received from teachers.  Mrs. P*****e* was my Kdg. teacher.  She and I hit it off quite well.  I remember getting in trouble once (I truly don't remember what I did) and was crushed when she told me to stop whatever it was that I was doing. 

This was the year we took an airplane to Denver to visit my dad's sister.  I remember very little about the trip.  Sitting on the plane, my head in my mom's lap.  Sitting in the bedroom of my aunt's house.  Lots of adult conversation that I did not understand.  I do remember coming back and having Mrs. P*****e* have me tell the class about the trip, the airplane ride and looking at Denver on the map.   I didn't realise it at the time, but my dad loved his sister.  She was the oldest and likely took over after his mom died.  She had many, many problems, however and ended up commiting suicide a year or two after we last visited her (I had been to Denver when I was 2 also but don't remember that trip at all).  The family blames only her husband, who definitely sounds like he was a jerk.  What they don't acknowledge is that she was also still dealing with stuff from when she was young. Stuff that prevented her from leaving the jerk and starting a better life for herself.  It is this aunt's daughter (who was 14 or 15 when we last visited) that I have become somewhat close to in adulthood.  I don't think she hung around the house much during our visit when I was 5 though.  Jenny, my cousin, deals with many of the same "demons" the others have battled, namely depression, but like myself, she has educated herself about it and does as much as she can to help herself find a sense of peace.  She's smart...a thinker...and very interesting to visit with.  I would like to take my dad, one more time, to the west coast to visit Jenny.  Traveling with him though, is a major endeavor.  Imagine traveling with a grumpy, somewhat anti-social teen who is dealing with all the aches and pains of old age.  That's what it is like to take a 'vacation' with my dad.  I love him lots more when we are not stuck together (with my 4 kids including a 'real' teen) in a plane/hotel/my cousin's trailer.  This is why we haven't visited Jenny since 2000.      

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I'm grouping these years together.  Obviously I don't remember much from this era. . .just some vague snipits here and there and I'm not even completely sure all of them are real memories or something that I pictured in my mind later, like when reading a book or something. 

I do remember watching Billy Graham on the black and white TV in the house I lived in from 0 - 6 years.  I remember meeting Aunt Becky for the first time ever in that house and didn't like her at first because she tapped me on the head with some papers. . .I remember being attached to my mom's side much of the time.  Riding in the HUGE chevrolet (probably a '66 or '67) to our little town for groceries.  I remember that I had a bed in my parents' bedroom and my mom had to lie beside me for me to be able to go to sleep. 

I should explain that I was and always will be an only child born to 'older' parents.  It seems strange to say that when I am now 9 years older than my mom was when she had me (and I'm the mom of a 6 year old) but for the day and age, they were 'older' parents who were well-meaning people who really wouldn't dream of huring anyone.  Unfortunately they also didn't have a real clue on what to do to raise kids either.  Not that anybody really did in those days. 

 My dad though, was at a real disadvantage.  In the work I've done with dysfunctional families since that time I've begun to try to figure them out but doubt I will never get it completely figured out.  Most dysfunctional families have some sense of attachment to other members but this does not seem to be the case with that family.  My paternal grandpa was a horribly abusive parent and likely somewhat mentally ill.  From what I've heard it appears that he particularly disliked my dad.  Whatever nurturing he got was from his mom who died when dad was 14.  Thus, my dad has always been emotionally a 14 year old.  I do not say this with malice.  He never physically or sexually abused me even though I believe both ran through his family of origin.  I am grateful that he knew, somehow, that this couldn't be carried on.   For awhile, when I was in therapy, I tried placing all of the blame on grandpa only to later find out that his own mother (my great-grandmother) had been somewhat crazy and mean too.  Perhaps, I began thinking, each generation is improving just ever so slightly and maybe by the time my great-children come alone the **a*h* family may have a clue about how to provide one of those awesome, Leave It To Beaver/Brady Bunch type of environments I've always envisioned others having.

 Anyway, I digress.  Essentially what I remember from my dad during these years is "children should be seen and not heard" and him taunting "cry baby, cry baby" when I cried about some fairly insignificant kid thing.  He was emotionally 14.  We've since made our peace but I would be an adult before any sort of real relationship has come about.

Mom was the gentlest, sweetest lady I've ever known.  She loved me although she would never say it without prompting.  Her family was slightly more functional but still had it's oddities.  My grandfather generally refused to have anything to do with organized religion and my grandmother was fanatical about it and in a denomination with it's own peculiarities.  As opposed to my dad's family though, these people would help me if I ever needed it and indeed, are still a part of my live. . .most of them.  On my dad's side I have contact with one aunt (who is really, really neat actually) and one cousin.  Both of them got far, far away geographically from the place where they grew up and it seems this perspective has helped them become "real people".  At least they know what to do with me.  It seems like I have 3 heads and 4 arms when I run into the rest of that clan.  They really have never experienced anyone quite like me, I guess.

Anyway, back to mom.  She was injured at birth or thereabouts and was somewhat lower functioning.  Growing up in a family of validictorians had to be hard but none of this ever seemed to really bother her.  She just never really concerned herself with "what if's". . .no matter what was going on, she just pretty much accepted life on life's terms.  A part of her I am now striving to emulate.  She had some really neat qualities.

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The year it all began.  On an unseasonably warm December day in a small to mid-size northern midwestern city.  Shortly after JFK was killed.  I came an early, tiny baby just a few months after President Kennedy's own son had been born early and tiny.  My mother has told me she was concerned but the doctor told her that premature girls generally fared better than premature boys and that I'd probably be fine.  I was.  Fine, that is.  Although there are those who likely disagree.  But I was fine enough to be released from the hospital a mere 16 days after my birth (on the actual date of Brad Pitt's birth, coincidently).  I've always been curious about how often my parents visited me during those 16 days.  They've said it wasn't every day.  Something about that has always bugged me a bit.  Of course, it was quite a drive to the hospital.  There was a blizzard at one point.  There was work to be done.  I was being taken care of and breastfeeding supposedly wasn't allowed for premature babies in 1963. So, I guess I'm fine with that as well.

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