“For God’s sake, Jonnie. Put that match down!”
Mom was hunched over on the front stoop, entertaining herself by lighting the dead grass in the cracked sidewalk on fire. It must have been early in her pregnancy to be ‘hunched’ over anything.
According to Jonnie’s mother-in-law, playing with matches in that way would result in a fair skinned baby, prone to sunburn. Mom acquiesced, although truth be told, she didn’t understand her mother-in-law all that well.
Her husband’s mother, Cecil, was a Medium and a Card Reader. Those two things alone should tell you that she was filled with premonitions and admonitions. She refused to read Jonnie’s cards. That alone should tell you Cecil was intuitive with a gift of knowing.
I think it all frightened my mom a bit. I couldn’t tell if mom was proud or fearful when she offhandedly remarked, “Cecil talks to her dead husband all the time”, punctuating it all with a slight eye roll.
Even though I was well into my two’s, I don’t recall anything about mom during her pregnancy. I don’t recall anything about Ralphie’s birth, such as him coming home from mom’s delivery to live with us. I see ‘brownie’ photographs…even professional photographs of Jonnie’s two kids…but nothing jogs my memory, even though I’m one of the two.
Ralphie, as we called him in the day, looked like none of us. He was exactly as Cecil had predicted.
I remember my toe headed, freckled brother, prone to sunburn, only by pictures. It seems like a 3-year-old would have some recollections. There is nothing. No incident, no hugs, no playtime, no discernible laughter. As if he really wasn’t there. This is no fault of his, mind you. Energetically, there is a huge void. As if I walled it off and stuck it all in some compartment for later inspection.
There are snippets of memories; standing in my crib making the two pictures of teddy bears on the wall into four. How disagreeable milk tastes after a mouthful of cranberry sauce. Accidentally crushing the apple pie crust as I motioned to see if it was cool, like I’d seen my mom do countless times, Mom interrogating me over our neighbor’s correct name; “What is her name Carol Ann”? We were standing in the kitchen amongst the pies. “Charlotte”, I answer, because of course we ALL knew her as Mrs. Fountain. Surely mom knew her formal name too, so mom must be inquiring about her seldom mentioned given name. Oh, but I was wrong. “It’s Mrs. Fountain, Carol Ann” she chastised. I felt ashamed because of course I knew to call her Mrs. Fountain, but that’s not what mom appeared to be asking. At that very young age, I recall feeling set up. Then there was the lecture about eating at the Millers’ home. “Don’t eat any food there. They have rats”. Mom and I went visiting shortly thereafter when Mrs. Miller asked me if I’d like a piece of chocolate cake. “No thank you”, I demurred. “Jonnie, would you like a piece”? “Oh Yes”, my manipulative mom pipes up. As she sat shoving that cake in her mouth, I felt shame and rage. Set up again. Curiously, I don’t remember Ralphie being at the Miller’s with us. Where do you put an infant while visiting? Maybe he’s in the freezer? He’s invisible to me. I was 4.
One thing I didn’t know until a young adult, the story of my insubordination. Apparently, I dumped the basket of clothes pins onto the floor. When commanded to put them back in the basket, I balked. The handy solution was to hit me to get me to comply. I’d pick one up. Then hit me again and I’d pick up another…and so the afternoon went. Some say our childhood experiences give us tools for life. I genuinely hate her for programming me with rebellion. I’m repulsed as I write.
I suppose I seem crazy to some as being way too introspective. I look at my innocent yet independent granddaughter as she empties containers. Apparently, it’s a thing and coincides with normal development. But my normal development was truncated with punishment.
Back to Ralphie. Another thing I didn’t factually know until adulthood is how my mom wanted to kill her newborn. The story would surface each Christmas, at close family gatherings, predictably there at the table with the gallon jug of Gallo. As Mom tells it, she fantasized about stuffing Ralphie in the freezer, the deep freezer in our basement along side the wax papered cupcakes and dad’s deer meat. Sometimes the fantasy involved the washing machine. In either case, the coffee klatch neighbor, Marie, would knock on the front door and break the spell. Mom made no apology for this. I’m not sure if she was asking for absolution or bringing us up to speed on the family dysfunction.
It makes sense why Ralphie isn’t in my recall. Our household energy was so dark, so painful, there was no way a toddler could manage this except to split themselves off from it. I wonder who I am in that split off part? Am I artistic? Empathic? Humorous? Or was I always, compliant, uptight, rageful?
Jonnie bore a 3rd child, who as she says, popped her out of her postpartum depression (psychosis?) She named our brother Peter after her delivery physician. What a tidy little package that all was.
I remember Peter coming home from the delivery hospital in Niskayuna. Mom and Dad coming up the front walkway. Me waiting on the concrete stoop, but still no Ralphie in the periphery. That little newborn bundle named Peter was so sweet. The sight of him reminded me of how melted butter on warm toast makes your mouth feel safe, warm, nurtured. “Oh, I could just eat him up!” I exclaimed. Why let in any light when we can perpetuate the dark? Mom was there to readily put me in my place. “Don’t you dare hurt him!”. Glad to know the boundary. From that moment, Peter was off limits. No warmth, no cohesiveness, no inclusion, no brotherhood…. “Just don’t you dare!“.
Gradually I came to know that Peter was untouchable and revered. I was the first born and only girl, which had its own responsibilities. And Ralphie? He was nolo contendere. Later when Peter passed at 50, at his wake I slipped an apology note in the pocket of his suit. It wasn’t his fault that he was labeled the favorite. He certainly didn’t ask for it. Frankly, his burden was surely more than ours. That obligation of being enmeshed in Mom’s endless emotional needs, her energetic cords. It’s all just too much and too sad.
Ah…parental responsibilities. Will adults ever learn? Ok, I’ll give them a break. 3 kids in 7 years. Those poor folks. Mom and Dad started to quarrel visibly. Mom, donning her hat and coat announced a trip around the block to cool off. Me tugging at each one separately trying to negotiate peace. Dad accusing me of choosing sides. Why should a young child be subject to such nonsense? Why would parents want their child to be burdened by any of this? Because they were immature enough to only care about themselves. If I had known this little tidbit early in my development, perhaps I could have staved off all the years of self-doubt and insecurity. Perhaps I could have relied on my own knowing rather than wonder what was wrong with me that I could not reconcile these adults’ behavior.
With parents now separated, Mom moved us across the state to be near her sisters. This story would not be complete without describing dad’s leaving. Gosh, I’ve told this story to how many therapists?
I was five, Ralph two and a half, Peter about 6 months. Dad is moving toward the open front door. Ralph and I are tugging at his coat begging him to stay. “The court is making me leave” …an answer to a court order? Mom and little babe Peter, together just watched. I was old enough to have had a relationship with dad. He was cool. I’m already missing him. Ralph is bummed, and spoke of it for years, that his Plymouth Auto Indian headdress was in the backseat of dad’s departing vehicle, Peter gave no verbal comment. And that was that. Any further explanation was of our own making in our young heads.
Perhaps I should give mom some slack. It’s shitty to be stuck with 3 kids and an unacceptable husband in the 1950’s. But I’m still angry about the clothes pins and the chocolate cake, so I am stingy with my compassion.
That’s the prologue to Ralphie’s life…and mine. And Peter’s.
