Sunday, February 5, 2012

If Jesus Walked on Water......

 
  My blogger friend Tangled Lou over at Periphery posted a cool piece the other day that touched on the connection between memory and truth vs memory and fiction.  Her opening hook gave three incidents that occurred with she was four years old.  She recalled them as she remembered them, which admittedly, may or may not be the way they actually occurred.  As I read those three memories, I was flooded with a memory of my own.

      Once upon a time when I was five years old, I was playing out along side the garage (right over there by the clothes lines).  My dad had recently deconstructed an old house and had been able to salvage the windows.  He had stacked them on the ground along side of the garage but out of the general play way.  Remember, now,  that I was brought up in a devout Catholic home.  I had heard the religious stories over and over again and one that always intrigued me was that one where Jesus walked on water.  How did he do that?  There must have been pictures in the prayer books of this mysterious event because it was so real in my imagination.

     Maybe you've guessed where this story is going.  That (maybe) one foot high stack of windows looked like water to me.  I remember clearly thinking that  Jesus walked on water.  Maybe I would be able to as well.  Okay, so maybe I wasn't the brightest five year old but I was curious, adventurous and I was a risk taker.  Step on up.  Walk across that window.

     Oops.  Though I was a fairly slight 5 year old, I was not slight enough to be held by the glass.  My foot (which actually had a shoe on it that day) went right though the glass - all several layers of glass.  Oddly enough, I can't remember an injury (though there must have been at least some scraping).  What I do remember is being overwhelmed with fear and anger.  I was so mad at myself for having done that.  Papa was going to be SO MAD.  He was going to yell at me.  I distinctly recall laying down on the ground right there by the stack of windows and sobbing and hitting my hands against the dirt - ENRAGED  at myself.  After a bit, I went into the house looking for Mama.  Papa was at work but I needed to tell someone what had happened.  I don't recall much other than that she insisted that I would need to be the one to tell Papa when he got home.  Let me tell you.  I was one scared little girl.

      That evening, Papa came home from work.  It must have been a Saturday as the parents were getting ready to go out somewhere.  Papa had taken a bath and shaved and was dressed in his very nice jacket and tie.  I could smell his after shave lotion and that usually made me happy. Not that night.   For some reason, I went into to talk to him while he was finishing getting dressed.  Likely he had saved the bath water for me and I was supposed to be getting into the tub.  I remember approaching him with great fear and telling him I needed to talk to him.  He sat himself down on the toilet (all dressed in his fancy clothes) and gave me his full attention.  I remember crying while I told him about wanting to walk on water like Jesus had done and that when I tried to do that, I broke the windows.   My memory says he was holding my hands and he asked me if I learned anything (that man was all about learning things).  Very clearly I remember telling him, "Yes, I learned that I couldn't walk on glass."  My memory says he told me that he was glad that I had learned something and it was going to be okay.  I was so relieved.  He didn't yell.  That was my biggest fear.  He never hit me and I wasn't worried about that.  I was worried that he wouldn't want me anymore.

    All parts of this story are lodged in my memory.  It's odd to me that I think of him as holding my hands because I don't have many memories of that sort of affection. But it really does fit.   I suspect that Mama had prepared him for my words and, the fact that he had likely had a cocktail or two while getting ready to go out, might have helped my case.  That's the thing with Robert.  You never knew what to expect. You didn't  know if  he was going to yell or be patient.  You didn't know if he was going to want you along when he went to the hardware store or if he was going to rage off .  You didn't know if he was going to be a storyteller while you peeled those potatoes for dinner or if he was going to shoot pots and pans across the kitchen because he had detected some residual from last nights' dinner that the dishwasher of the night had not removed.

     In retelling the story, I am reminded that, even as a 5 year old, I did not cut myself any slack.  I am also reminded of how difficult it must have been to be a little kid in a world where love hinged on doing the right thing and where you really had to watch carefully to note the signs around you.  I think I was born an observer and my childhood honed my observer / people skills.  I learned how to read the 'rents and I also learned how to negotiate with the siblings.  All good skills for life, heh?
   

18 comments:

  1. I am very familiar with that hurt five year old little girl, I know her well.
    But you have managed to cast a positive light on the experience by recognizing the inter-personal skills you learned because or in spite of it.

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    1. Thanks, Lynda. Childhood is such a mixed bag. For me, there was security in numbers and consistency (as in routines). As a child, I was never aware of anything but goodness. It was all normal and fine. I do appreciate every part of my childhood and what I learned.

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  2. Yeah, anticipation was always worse than the actual dialogue. I think it was supposed to be a silver lining to owning up. I have had lots of practice owning up, so I know that of which I speak. One of these days, I will turn my attention to my own thoughts of Robert. Until that time, I have you. Sure do remember that picture.

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    1. I don't know about the silver lining.... I think it was me being mad at me for not being perfect. and scared that I had screwed things up for myself. I can't wait until you decide you can write about Robert.

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  3. It's interesting, I don't have specific memories of being scared or worried about fessing up to something, but I know that feeling. I've been thinking this morning about that, and I can't remember any specific time when I was really worried about telling you guys something I had done wrong... which is not to say it didn't happen, just that I don't remember it.

    But the knowledge that the anticipation is *generally* worse than the possibly horrific outcome has slowly become more and more apparent to me, in all areas of life. Rarely does the real world live up to my lively imagination...

    -bubba

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    1. Hey, Kiddo! Thanks for dropping by! I am glad your memory suggests that the door was always open for conversation and that we were not to be feared, I know you had some rough times around the age of 9 - remember the letters you sent to us from your perch in the tree on the lawn?
      I agree that rarely does real life live up to our imagination - except when it is worse (as in , for me, Grandpa's death).

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  4. And the thing I get most from your story is that your dad "held your hands," even though you don't have memories of him being very affectionate. Good dads are always there for their children, and I think he gave you just exactly what you needed after your "confession." Kudos to dad

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    1. I am sure he did what he thought was right. It is true that he had tough times and I don't think affection was part of his life as a kid. He didn't know how to be affectionate with us.

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  5. Valuable skills, indeed. And there's never really an easy way to learn them, I don't think.

    All of these tales of derring-do (here and over at Periphery) are stirring up memories of my own ill-advised exploits as a kid around this age. Suffice it to say here, I was notorious in the emergency room the year I turned five.

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    1. Ha! I didn't get to be a frequent flyer in the ER until much later in life -- mostly as 5 year old, I got to deal with being hit with baseball bats (thanks, Markie - and , in case anyone was wondering, he didn't do it on purpose - I was the catcher -oops)

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    2. I smacked my seven-year-old brother in the face with a Wiffle ball bat the same way when I was twelve. It was horrible.

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  6. Such a strong ethic of wanting to please in young girls of our era. A lot of stern dads, some of them with demons from their war experiences. I get a little sad and jealous when I see modern dads who are so free with their affection to their children. I wish I could have had just a bit of that affection as a girl. But our parents did the best they could.

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    1. I so agree - my brothers as dads were much more comfortable and involved with their children - Not that my dad didn't love us - he just didn't know how to show that.
      and yes - that need to please - pshaw on that.

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  7. My husband once fashioned himself wings out of Styrofoam panels and used them to actually fly. He set foot off the top of a slide, glided for just a little bit before hitting a tree. Subsequently, his parents broke the all the Styrofoam on the premises into tiny pieces.

    I remember that it was always with surprise and relief that I realized I was not to be punished for various things that happened which were so grave as to have nearly resulted in my being injured. This seems to hold true now that I am a parent. If a child is hurt or nearly hurt I seem to deem it consequence enough for what would otherwise really tick me off.

    In this way, children's most serious offenses (probably rightly so) go unpunished. :)

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    1. Thanks for stopping by, Tara - I checked out your profile - you are a homefry - I am in Sebastopol, CA - you went to the JC!
      My dad once told me that if I ran fast enough along the top of three foot wall in our backyard, I would be able to "flap my wings and fly". I must have been in the neighborhood of 5 years old. I tried again and again and only figured I wasn't trying hard enough. Go figure.

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  8. Reading these stories is bringing up memories of my own antics from my childhood...my Dad was similar- usually quick to yell, and we feared his punishments. Wonder if it was a generational (and likely Catholic) thing.

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