In Sugarhouse ~ Inspired by Feelings that Kass's Blog Stirred Up: Chapter II

I think I'm doing all right getting to Sugarhouse the long way. Upon reflection, I can better tell the tales of later life - for by Sugarhouse, I'd attained the advanced age of six years - by laying all the groundwork first. If the reader doesn't know about us as individuals and know what has gone before, then the stories will have no context. If the reader doesn't know our presumed limitations, the reader won't be able to cheer loudly when we step out of character in a positive way. If the reader doesn't know how well we behaved under normal circumstances, the reader won't know when to be disappointed in us.

Dad got out of the Air Force and we settled into an apartment located a few blocks from Granny-O and Grandpa. Patterns of huge family get-togethers emerged. Two of my uncles married two sisters and they lived in homes side-by-side - a natural weekend gathering place for up to 50 people wandering from one house to the other yard, cousins moving between groups of other cousins, depending upon age, gender and just being like-minded. The uncles all worked in construction trades. There was a bricklayer, a plasterer (like Grandpa), a carpenter. The women were all stay-at-home moms of growing families. It was the early to mid-50s - Ike was president, Howdy Doody and the Mousketeers ruled. I really did love Lucy and Leave it to Beaver became a firm favorite (it still is today!).

My father went to work for Firestone Tire & Rubber at the huge facility in Downey. He worked in their printing department operating a printing press. I'm not sure why Firestone had a printing department or why he was determined to be well-suited to printing, but that is what he did. It seems his work and his judgment were well-regarded. When he recommended friends and relatives for a job, they were usually hired. He seems to have honed his craft over a few years, but he wouldn't run a printing press for very long. My mother continued to be ummm . . . anxious (thank you, Kass) and sensitive to harsh criticism, but now she was surrounded by her mother, sisters and sisters-in-law in whose care I spent a lot of time - weekends or full weeks at a time. By the time I was 3, it was acknowledged that I was bright and quiet, sweet-natured, "good as gold". 1950s children were expected to be good - good was desirable. Without siblings to show me the ropes, I hadn't worked out that maybe I could not do what I was told, or that I could be loud or messy or disobedient. I tended to play quietly or "read" my books or draw, alongside my 'tend friend, Carrie, with whom I had audible conversations. I was so attached to my father, legend has it, I'd run for the door when I heard the car arrive each evening, dropping my mother flat. I think that would have hurt her feelings. Every day.

It should also be noted that by about age 3, my fingernails were chewed down to the skin at all times. I knew how to walk into a room, look silently at my mother and sense the mood. I knew when to stay in a room with her and engage. I knew when to go back to what I was doing and wait for my dad to get home. I knew when to tiptoe, when not to speak, when to smile, when not to make eye contact. I was far too easily shamed, and very willing to accept blame for things I wasn't responsible for. Someone suggested that preschool might be good for me since I was very bright and needed some social interaction with other children each day. It was arranged that I would attend Kitty Kat Nursery School which was a wonderful experience for me.

My mother became pregnant and I have heard for more than 50 years how excited she was because now she would have a child. She apparently had surrendered me to be my father's child, and now she'd get one of her own. Her pregnancy was very difficult as she had the same hyperemesis she'd suffered while pregnant with me. My turn at that misery would come 34 years later. Gary was born in January when I was nearing 3 1/2 and I liked him immediately. I liked him so much that 'tend friend Carrie went away after Gary was born. I didn't need her any more because I had an ally who was a real person. OK, he couldn't talk to me, but they swore he eventually would and I believed them. If one pays attention to the stories, my mother was apparently very happy with her son and exhibited some good mothering skills. I've never heard any "yikes" stories about her caretaking of Gary, and if ever there was some fertile ground for "uh-ohs", it would be on Gary's path.

I always think of Gary as a beautiful baby. Dark hair on a beautifully shaped head, deep brown eyes, translucent skin ~ he looked like a blend of the two parents' families. I think of myself as a clunky-looking baby. Blue eyed, looking exactly like my father and no other person. For the portrait taken on my first birthday, they had to use Scotch tape to attach a bow to my bald head so I'd appear more like a girl. I was a tiny newborn and a kind of scrawny, colicky baby. He was a bigger baby with soft roundness to his cheeks and he seemed contented. His look makes me think of the beautiful paintings of infants by Bessie Pease Gutmann. There are pictures of him at about 3 months in the typical pose, lying on his tummy, resting on his arms. One can see he uses his neck to hold his head up, just the way babies of that age are expected to do. His eyes are dark and shining.

It was Easter and we were going to Mass - mother, Gary and me. My father was willing to take us there and pick us up, but he was not Catholic and did not intend to become one. My mother and her family battled him for two years after I was born to allow me to be baptized. He finally acquiesced. Gary was baptized as an infant - the issue had been settled when I finally was taken to the church at age 2. My mother went to the crib to gather the baby and put a hat on his head. Something was wrong with him. He was stiff and twisted, making terrible noises, shaking. The day did not progress as planned. Most of the cousins hunted Easter eggs with some of the adults in charge, while other adults joined my parents at the emergency room. "Seizure," they were told. "Why?" They didn't get the real answer until 1975. Nineteen years later. Oh, they got answers in the interim. Many answers. Wrong answers. My mother was 21 years of age that Sunday. Many things changed that Easter and were never the same again. A profoundly retarded child throws a long shadow across entire families, and we were about to lose contact with the sun.

There followed a period of learning how to do things. He was seen by doctors in the east and the west and in the middle, for years. There were surgeries that were wonderfully exploratory, but never successful. At first, both parents went to whichever destination for whatever treatment or exam. Ultimately, my mother began to show the very capable person she became (at least as an advocate for Gary). She and a sister or two, maybe a sister-in-law, would travel with Gary to whatever destination, leaving my father home to work/earn income and take care of me, Granny-O being his co-parent. Some relatives, sometimes, offered a $20 bill "to help with travel expenses". It was appreciated. Sometimes an aunt or uncle would announce a trip to Disneyland that would not be complete without Limes in attendance. It was appreciated.

My mother learned the fine points of tube feeding and other specialized care Gary required. My father continued to excel in his job and big things were about to happen for him. We were about to enter our gypsy stage of life, as he got better and better jobs requiring frequent moves. I attended a shocking number of different elementary schools. 'tend friend Carrie returned to my life, as it seemed Gary wasn't ever going to talk after all. I became an even quieter child, as Gary was often ill or just returned home from a surgery or rehabilitation facility.

Gary is a human who has never smiled out of joy or humor, never sat up, walked, held a spoon in his hand, never has spoken a word, probably never has formulated a thought. There is some debate about how he sees and if he sees. His body movements are not purposeful. He does not have the human instinct to suckle for nourishment. There is no doubt that he hears well. One only needs to stand beside the bed and say his name. He quickly turns his head in the speaker's direction. When he is awake, his head turns from side to side constantly, sometimes fast, sometimes slow. He is very beautiful. His skin has not been exposed to the sun or suffered acne. He's never skinned a knee or cut himself. He looks much as he did as that beautiful infant, except he's 6 feet tall and in his 50s. There's a little 5:00 shadow going on, sometimes. One might think there's not much to love here. But there is. We love him.

My parents were young, inexperienced at many things life threw their way, but they did one thing beautifully, seamlessly. They made Gary a part of our life and they made everyone we encountered aware that there were four Nows, not three Nows and a tragedy. There was some set-up for Gary at every relative's home - a crib at Granny-O's, at some aunts' homes just a little pallet on the floor surrounded by a mountain of pillows. That was OK - he'd be safe there. His birthday was celebrated just like all of the other cousins' and he was never left out of Christmas. My parents did so well at fostering Gary's assimilation, I've never been embarrassed about a seizure in public, or diapers on a big boy who didn't seem to be able to stand up or talk. When my mother was the class room mother during my first grade year, other children asked why Gary was in a baby buggy. I told them why, they seemed to accept it, and we went on to enjoy the cupcakes my mother had brought. I don't recall ever once being aware of someone pointing, laughing, jeering, or making me uncomfortable.

A story I love - I was right on the stage when it was played: Firestone hosted a huge Christmas party each year with multiple Santas and mountains of toys for the children of the employees. The children were asked to line up and come to select their toy. I was in one line, well-behaved, not pushing or making noise. I saw my father get in another line. It was clear he wasn't escorting me into Santa's presence. No, he was by himself in the childrens' line. One of his co-workers spotted him and started a little good-natured teasing. "Hey, Father Now, you planning to select a toy for yourself? I thought they said the kids should line up." My dad responded, "Oh, I'm selecting a toy for my son who can't line up and choose his own."

In my ears right now: Pride and Joy - Stevie Ray Vaughan. I needed some noise and some drive and some throb to write this one, folks. And I'm glad I've completed it. It's needed to be told for a long, long time.

Something that charmed me: We fired Matt yesterday. It wasn't easy and the decision was not easily made, but he left us no options. On the way out the door, he was as decent and good a man as we know he really is. He thanked me for influencing his life. I was in awe of that. That I could influence a life. We wish him well and worry about him.