Disclaimer

I believe that the crap in our lives is common while the good in our lives is unique. My family is not like the sparkly, clean-linen Cleavers in Leave it to Beaver. We have our fair share of dysfunction — problems, drama, pain, tragedy — but I choose not to dwell on those things or identify with them.

Ishmael, the protagonist in Moby Dick, might have drowned along with the rest of Ahab’s crew if his friend's coffin had not buoyed him to the surface. There’s enough trouble in this world to pull everyone under, but I believe that in the worst times, life is a lot like Quequeg’s coffin pushing us up from the deep in an exquisitely precise gesture of friendship.

Call to Arms (photo: Bonnie Harrison)

My two sisters and I were raised by wonderful, quirky, playful, honest, hard-working, attentive, wise, and decently flawed human beings.

Both parents played with us — a lot. As soon as Dad came home from work, we tackled him. He’d fall on the floor and we’d climb all over him, laughing our heads off. We sat on his feet while he dragged us around the house. We held his hands, walked up his legs, flipped over, and repeated the whole maneuver ad nauseam. I loved the sensation of being upside down, climbing, pulling, twisting, flying, landing. When we were very small, Dad bounced us up and down on his knees reciting little ditties like Trot Trot to Boston or This is the Way the Ladies Ride. The anticipation of the punchlines heightened the thrill.

Trot trot to Boston,
Trot trot to Lynne
Trot trot to Chelsea Bridge
And fall right in!!!

Down we’d drop into the “water” under the bridge. Dad always caught us before we hit the floor and boy that was fun! When we had enough of Trot Trot to Boston, we’d move on to:

This is the way the ladies ride — trip, trip, trip, trip.
This is the way the gentlemen ride — trot, trot, trot, trot.
This is the way the farmers ride — hobbledy-hoy, hobbledy-hoy, hobbledy-hoy!!!

Dad threw us way up in the air for “hobbledy-hoy” and each time was more thrilling than the last. My sisters and I took turns and I remember being just as thrilled watching them fly high as when it was my turn.

Dad loved to tease us whenever we took ourselves too seriously, but if I had a real problem, Dad listened and he somehow always knew the right thing to say, even if that meant saying nothing and just hugging me for a while.

For most of my childhood, Mom was a stay-at-home Mom. Like Dad, she played with us a lot. She also took us on daily walks and outings. We walked to the library and borrowed books — lots of books that Mom read to us over and over again. We walked up the mountain to play in a little sand pit. (There’s a shopping mall there now.) We walked downtown to spend the dollar that Santa gave us for Christmas. When her best friend’s husband died on the Thresher submarine, Mom filled the kitchen sink with water and used a plastic jug to illustrate what happened. I don’t remember being scared or traumatized by her explanation. In fact, I was fascinated.

When I was in high school, I once came home from school with the blues. I crawled into bed and just lay there. A few minutes later, Mom knocked on the door and asked if she could come in. She sat on the side of my bed and said, “Let’s make a list of all the things that are bothering you right now.” I started making that list and Mom took dictation. When the list was complete, Mom left the room and I got up and did my homework.

My parents were strict. They held us to high standards and expected us to excel in whatever we did. We were not allowed to talk back or whine. We could not say “shut up” to anyone ever! We had to keep our rooms clean, make our beds, help with the dishes, and do whatever we were told to do.

My parents modeled kindness and thoughtfulness toward other people. We were active in our church and often invited people to spend the holidays with us. If they didn’t drive, Dad picked them up and drove them home.

My parents balanced each other in a remarkable way: My Mom thought I was perfect and my Dad knew better. In this way, the petri dish of my childhood was primed for my growth. With parents like these, you’d think I’d be a well-adjusted kid but I wasn’t. I was happy at home but I shrank, shriveled, and sobbed every day in school. I was painfully shy, riddled with anxieties, and I absolutely hated school. My parents, grandparents, and teachers didn’t know what to do with me.

In second grade, we moved to a different town. My new school building was old. The wooden stairs were worn and hollowed. Wainscoting lined the walls. As soon as Mom and I walked in, I thought, Oh there’s wood here. I’ll be okay.

Long after graduating from high school, I walked into an elementary school for the first time in 20 years. As soon as I walked in, the smell reminded me of those early, anxiety-ridden days but this time, I identified the smell: vomit! Or maybe it was the disinfectant. I don’t know exactly what I smelled, but it was that same odor — a pungent, unmistakable whiff of fear.