JULY 30

Most of my early memories are not pleasant but they were all I had.  I remember a few different places where we lived, events that happened in those houses and I held on for dear life to each and every memory.  In my young mind, I construed and misconstrued them into something good and something positive, grateful for the few moments that I could carry with me into my new life.  Years later, when reunited with my real family, I learned just how accurate my memory was.

The first house that we lived in I can remember fairly clearly.  A corner store up the street from us was painted with an unusual red-and-white-striped theme on the exterior that I never forgot.  We went there quite a bit although I cannot fathom where we got the money.  In those days, you could find quite a few glass pop bottles lying around on lawns and sidewalks.  Small bottles were 2 cents and large bottles were 10 cents.  We could buy 3 black balls (stop giggling!  They were min-gob stoppers) for 1 penny so on a good day of hunting, we could get in a good haul of candy!  Just what a

poor family lacking in nutrition needed.  And we were way too young to be crossing that busy street.    http://www.treehugger.com/

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Many years later as a teen, I was riding the bus past a store that had that same red-and-white-striped pattern.  I became convinced that this was the same red-and-white store from my toddlerhood but had no way of knowing for sure.  There were a lot more privately-owned variety stores back then and very few chain stores so this store would have been one-of-a-kind.  A few years later, when I had met my real family again for the first time in 15 years, they told me about the various places where they had lived.  One of those places was right up the street from this store.  I could not believe that I had remembered!

I was by there on one of my rare outings about a year ago.  I need those trips down Memory Lane occasionally!  Anyway, this store is still there and still painted red and white.  The stripes are gone but, after more than 50 years, it's still there, as bright and vibrant as it was in my youth!  It is a lovely red brick building with the corner bricks painted white and now it is much more elegant but it's still my store!

Knowing that I had remembered accurately was exhilarating!  But it also meant that those 'other' memories were likely accurate, also. 

JULY 21

The few (and only) times I ever talked about my earliest memories to my adoptive family, I was told that children do not remember much before their 5th birthday.  Any story that children think they remember is just that...a story.  They likely overheard it on TV, the radio or heard people talk.  In my case, I was just looking for attention.  If you're looking for attention, you're being bad, as good children are seen and not heard!  You must therefore be ignored until you can learn to be good!  While they were busy 'ignoring' me, they would routinely forget about me.

  I was also told that if I asked for something, I could not have it because I was rude enough to ask.  How dare I?!  I seldom if ever got anything, let alone something that I really wanted.  When someone was going somewhere and I could have gone along, I would end up not getting to go.  Why?  They didn't know I wanted to go because I didn't ask and why didn't I speak up?!!

So you see, dear daughter, even to this day, it is engrained in me not to ask for help unless I can show blood, a broken bone is showing through the skin, I've fainted or I've fallen and can't get up.  I tried never to call friends just to chat.  I made sure that I always had a 'reason' for interupting their day because I felt so guilty for bothering them.  But even that backfired when my friend Paula (you remember Paula?), near the end of one friendly chat said, "OK, so what did you call for?"  After I repeated her question in shock, she said, "Yeah, everytime you call, you want something."  I politely told her that I felt that I needed a reason to call her, as I could not otherwise justify disturbing her.  I never called her or anyone else again.  Your father answered the phone when he was around, I let the answering machine do its job and I got you to handle your calls to her daughter yourself.  You were getting old enough to arrange your own playdates and sleepovers, anyway.

   Talking about your problems was a sign of weakness and there just ain't no way I'ma gonna do that!  If you showed weakness in my adoptive family, the human vultures would circle.  They would dive in with their sharp claws of ridicule, insults, taunting cruelty.  One needs to build a high wall of protection around oneself and by writing this down, I'm am working oh-so-slowly to bring down that wall, brick by brick.  It is such tedious, draining work.  Tedious because I have always written things out with an actual pen, not a computer and I am losing my energy.  Draining can apply to physical energy but even more so, at least for me, it can apply to emotional, psychological and mental energy.  So you see, dearest daughter, you simply must forgive me every time I get sidetracked from a story.  I feel an intense need to stop and justify everything I say and do before I can continue.  Perhaps it's just as well that you are not here so I can just keep writing without constantly seeking your permission and approval.  Time for me to grow up and just get on with the task at hand... wouldn't you say?

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My Beginning

I haven't written to you for a while, my dear daughter.  Sometimes they keep us so busy here, especially over the long weekend , what with fireworks and families visiting and whatnot.  Since my family doesn't visit, I can sneak away and write when the other residents have private time with their family members.  Everyone thinks I'm sleeping!  TeeHee!  What they don't know...  Oh, it could be worse!  I might have family visiting and I would actually have to spend time with them!  Horrors!

The subject matter at hand, my real family, is a tough one.  It's a tough one to get back to and, if I'm honest with myself, I have to admit that I've been grateful for the excuse not to write and thereby not have to think about past woes.  But I musn't dally too often or for too long as I am sure that I'm running out of time and I will run out of energy before that.

I was born Aug. 2, 1961, the 6th child of 10.  I cannot imagine, knowing my mother as I do now, that baby #1 got much to eat, let alone baby #6.  I'm sure we did not get much love or attention and my mother wouldn't have cared or noticed.  If you can name it, we likely didn't have it.

  None of us know for sure, who our fathers are, although officially, all the others have a listed father.  But unofficially, when the cat's away...and in this case, it was my mother playing, as well as the 'fathers' and I believe she could name any number of men to be each of her kids fathers.  Where was Jerry Springer or Maury Povich, for that matter?!  My mother could have rocked both those shows and made those teens look like amateurs!  I don't think poor Maury could keep up with all the DNA testing needed and the show might go broke.  Imagine!  A low-life family like ours being responsible for bankrupting the Povich show!  Couldn't happen.  Could it??

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