Where did all my stories begin? My stories were never written, only talked about till now. Talking is often easier than writing when it is meant for capturing the reader with my choice of language when I talk. I can see the person’s response, and I can change my words or stop or find some expressive drama. I so love to create with a captive audience. I’m much more secure with talking. In my family of origin sharing repetitive stories seemed to have a boring effect! They were almost frightening without immediate feedback. Personal lives were to be private. I really learned a lot about the need for secrets from my mother and her Southern roots. If the truth was boring a lie was better. she called it embellishment. As I searched for some old comfortable place to cling to in order to begin writing an recounting of my history; I thought of how do I draw a reader into the web of my life. Telling one of my more shocking narratives, beginning with the ones that gave me a sense of being a star.
A few friends who are still in my life for some 45 years remind me of my being quite the gal. I used to actually get asked for autographs. Why autographs? Well I had been on television, modeled, had a full page newspaper article written about my creative wedding and modeling. I had also been backstage with rock stars and did lip sinks on television. I sat with the press at concerts and over drinks with rock stars and coffee with movie stars. I got a back rub from soft and gentle folksinger. Then a star I am not wanting to be proud of, only now. I always wondered why I had a certain air of wild child, however it didn’t stop me. My very resilient, primal nature, with a spirit just keeps going forward.
I decided to set my stage where sense and thoughts of stardom and entitlement began. At the base of how I developed. I remembered the story my mother often told me about my father and me and not wanting a baby at 40. My parents were in their forties and there I was toddling into their lives with a force that pried opened their vision with: “Oh my God we have a baby...
One tale begins with my little purse and my father taking me to work with him. I was so loved by this man and can still feel the impact still. My little purse became the essence of what connected me to men and later in my adult world. At least I have discovered that in my years of searching for my truth.
“Do you have any money in your purse honey?” My father’s customers would ask pointing at my purse and sometimes even taking it out of my hands without permission. Blonde, curly headed, blue-eyed me with all the feminine charms a three year old could muster. Every time my mother told me this story, it changed a little. I continually got the feeling that she harbored resentment attached to the story and having a baby in her forties. She was in competition with a three year old and I was winning, at least I thought I was.
I can remember looking forward to going to my father’s rifle range where men would set down their guns and reach into their pockets, pulling out a hand full of nickels and dimes. Always noticing if they had quarters, I’d watch them carefully pick them out before offering me my reward. Quarters to men who lived through the Depression were not to be given away. Perhaps giving me money was a way to quiet me or get me to go elsewhere; they no doubt wanted to get back to their enjoyment of shooting.
A dime could buy a lot in the late Forties, a loaf of bread or enough sliced sandwich meat for several people. Looking into the large open hands of these men seemed like a wonderful opportunity for fun, I’m sure. My mother’s story continues with my need to always pick the nickels out of these hands. I was insulted about the dimes. She told me to give her the dimes after all dimes were smaller than nickels. How could these men insist I take a dime and they couldn’t convince me it was worth more? I did still take the money, I could see the dime was smaller. My temperament didn’t allow for teaching me otherwise. It seems laughable now and there probably isn’t a three year old alive that doesn’t know the difference between nickels and dimes.
I pranced around the rifle range in my cute starched dress, guns roaring. I ran from man to man collecting my coins to fill my purse. My mother told me I was thrilled with my treasure. Still I held on to the thought of these men having the nerve of these men giving me dimes. I remember the game my mother told of what developed between myself and her and the men’s money.
My father’s party spirit irritated my mother. She recounted that she would search for money in his pockets when he came home from the rifle range after drinking. I wonder if this is where my sense of money and men and spirit developed. This must have been a grand position for me at age 3 and 4 to having men set down guns, making loud noises and put holes in far-off targets. These men stopped just for me. The noise was tolerated, no doubt for the reward of the money and spirited dressing up like a doll. I presume the attention I got helped. It was in a grand position, I have been searching for such attention ever since. Given how I proceeded in my life, I am also sure my nervous system became hard wired for excitement, the noisier the better, metaphorically or not!
