The Monster of His Childhood

The reading I picked this week is an excerpt from Rick Bragg's book "All Over But the Shoutin'."  I've been trying to avoid reading or watching depressing stuff for a while now, really ever since my mom died, but the title seemed to jump out at me, so I went with it.  It was sad.  There's something awful about true stories that center on a terrible parent.  Bragg's father is dying, and he's just the same to his son as he ever was.  Bragg wants to resolve all the hurts from his childhood, but, as he's trying to come up with a way to do that, he gradually realizes that it's not going to happen.  
When my mom was dying, she was in hospice care at home.  We were all taking care of her, which was beautiful (I know that sounds strange, but it was beautiful in a lot of ways, mainly because she was a very good parent, definitely NOT the monster of our childhoods, and we felt as though we were doing something almost . . . holy with her--I can't think of a better way to put it) and horrible at the same time.  After three or four days, she stopped talking because of the pain meds, but she was still pretty alert and reacted to what we said to her.  I think we all managed to say everything we needed to say before she reached the point where she couldn't take it in.  But, like Rick Bragg, I have issues that I know I will never get rid of unless I let it go, and again like him, I'm reluctant to let go, but in my case, it's because what I'd be letting go is valuable to me but so complicated and messed up that it would kind of be like trying to cut it out of myself.  If that makes any sense. 
Maybe you can see why I've been avoiding these stories. 

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The First Thing I Remember

Catharina as a child, by Frans Hals.
 In her hand she holds a silver rattle
 with bells, a precious status
 symbol. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

For my narrative paper, I decided to write about the first thing I remember (at least, I think it's the first thing).  I could have picked a lot of other memories, but this one has stuck with me, and I thought it was about time I figured out why it has.  Here goes.
I am about 4 years old.  I am waking up on the old sofa in my grandmother's living room at her old house in Joliet.  My grandmother comes in and helps me put on my socks.  And that's it, the whole thing.  
When I started thinking about it this time, I realized I had some questions.  First of all, why was I alone?  Usually, when I stayed at Grandma's house, at least my sister Rebbie was there, too, if not one of my brothers or our oldest sister, Marie.  I'm guessing that my mother was in the hospital again (she had kidney disease), and my dad took me to Joliet because it was summer and he didn't want Marie, who is 10 years older than I am, to have to deal with all 4 younger kids.  I also guess that my brother Peter, who is the second oldest went to our other grandparents in Chicago, because he and Marie were fighting all the time.
My other questions had to do with my grandmother, and after I spent some time brainstorming about her, I realized that she is the reason I still remember this.  I haven't quite gotten to a thesis yet, but I will.

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Could I live in a dumpster?

Yes, this is inside a dumpster.
Dumpsterproject.org

Well, maybe, if I had to do that, but I sure wouldn't choose to:  I'm claustrophobic, badly enough that being in even a medium-sized room without an openable window makes my heart start to pound.  "Living Simply in a Dumpster" was published in the Atlantic some time ago, and it surprised me, just by not being about poverty.  By James Hamber, it's a profile of Jeff Wilson, a university professor who had been living in a dumpster by choice for some time when the piece was written.  More power to him, I say.  He teaches environmental science, and he puts his money where his mouth is.  I'm sort of wondering how much money he saved when he was living in the dumpster.  I'm imagining it--you can't have much, because there's no place to keep it.  So, clothing, just as one example.  If you could only have, say, four outfits, what would they be?  And pajamas count as one.  Ouch. 

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