by Margo Walter
Being the primary caretaker was a massive order for any teenager and particularly difficult for an angry, disturbed, resentful thirteen-year-old. After my stepfather died, a pattern began to emerge that would follow me into adulthood. I was either very, very good or very, very bad. Perhaps it was that early driving experience over that high dam, but one of my antics was to borrow (steal) one of the family cars when my mother was out and take my friends for joy rides back on old farm roads. Speed was always the goal. The risky behavior that would follow me into adulthood had begun. I would put the pedal to the metal until someone yelled stop. There was never an accident, and I was never caught. Still, no one came to look for me.
The newly built house that we lived in Virginia was very remote, with our closest neighbors being about two city blocks away. However, I did make friends. My best friend was my first young boyfriend, Timmy, and we did everything together. He was a celebrity. His dad was the first POW (prisoner of war) during the Vietnam War and was in the news quite a bit. Timmy really did not like to talk about it, except to me, and most of our time was spent on the river, either sailing, fishing, or crabbing. Looking back there were no sexual feelings in the relationship. We were simply great friends and cohorts in seeking fun and finding trouble. I do not know where I learned about sex, and I do not remember any serious mother–daughter talks. I was very naïve and a late bloomer, but I was starting to look at the opposite sex in an engaging, inquisitive way. Let me describe Timmy to you. He was a “hunk.” He was smart, extremely popular, athletic, creative, and extremely sensitive. That would be a prerequisite, as he set the standard for future boyfriends.
***
A young couple down the street had a standing date on Friday night, and I got my first job. I was hired as the babysitter for their two-year-old and their six-month-old baby. I really loved babies, but both kids were usually sleeping when I arrived and stayed asleep for the duration of my visit. After two or three sessions, I innocently discovered a bottle of rum in their kitchen. That was a very pivotal moment in my life. I decided to help myself to a shot, or two, while I was babysitting. One night the couple questioned me about the alcohol, and a lie that would last twenty-two years came out of my mouth. “No, I did not touch it.” That was my first but, indeed, not my last bad encounter with alcohol. I never babysat for that family again. My mother overlooked the indiscretion and did nothing to punish me and said nothing of the entire episode.
It was a very odd year. One project that caused a few raised eyebrows was the “worm” project. Reading in some magazine, I ran across an advertisement that suggested you could make a great deal of money by investing in bloodworms (yes, you read that right). Investing meant multiplying a dozen worms very quickly and selling them locally to the fishermen at a profit. After building a 4’ × 6’ wooden box covered with a window screen, I coerced my little brother to help me put it in the front woods by our house. By feeding table scraps to the worms and checking the squiggly things every day, I was successful in breeding lots and lots of bloodworms. Who could have predicted a crisis with a budding cottage industry like growing worms? Someway, somehow, the cover screen was taken off, blown off, or a more massive creature nudged it off, and every bloodworm flew the coup. They were all gone. I was furious and secretly blamed my younger brother, Hunter, for this act of vengeance. It was a great idea, and the goal went up in smoke instead of dollars.
Another ritual which had begun to flourish in my house put even more responsibility on my back. My mother started dating. She was still a beautiful woman, had bleached blond hair, wore the best outfits, and had money. She was obsessed with her figure and continued to weigh all of us on a regular basis. There was no extra fat, even on the dog, the new German Shepherd, Stormy.
I gave my mother specific curfew times, but they were ignored or overlooked. Many a night, you could find me pacing by the front door at one in the morning, angry and resentful. I was worried and fearful for my mother’s safety. She was the only parent that I had left. It was years before I realized that there was a major role reversal going on in our house. No wonder that I felt like a young adult rather than a typical thirteen-year-old. It was understood by my younger brother and sister that I was the responsible one; my older brother, Edward, was the crazy one; and our mother was usually missing.
One evening, just after dark, there was some banging on the front door. I went to check it out and saw this guy dripping wet in a drenched suit with his tie half pulled out. He told me to open the door, and I told him Mother was not home. Thinking that would take care of it, I went back to watch television with my younger brother and sister. Two minutes later, the same guy was pounding on the side door near the family room and demanding to be let into the house. Stormy, who was at my side, was barking at the door, but that caused no reaction by the perpetrator. I told him that I was going to call the police if he did not go away. I had seen that work on TV shows, so why not? My voice was a little shaky, and I was terrified. Hunter and Lynn were sent to their room, and I tried to stay in control. I had never called the police, but that man was threatening and would not go away. I ran to the kitchen phone and immediately dialed my friend Timmy. Why didn’t I call the police? In hindsight, that would have been the smart thing to do. Timmy’s mom got on the phone and told me to go join Hunter and Lynn in their bedroom, lock the door, and she was going to call the police. By this time, it was thundering, and the door banging had stopped. We never heard a siren, but in about half an hour, the front doorbell rang. The three of us huddled together in our nighties, made our way to the entryway, and saw that it was a uniformed police officer. Looking back, I went from scared to annoyed very quickly. The policeman had tons of questions that I could not answer, and he acted like I had done something wrong. I felt judged and not taken seriously. “Where is your mother?” That was the first question, and I did not know the answer. The whole experience felt entirely out of my control. It was almost like a bad play that never really happened. No, it was real, but one more thing that no one in our family ever talked about or acknowledged.
My mother’s dating did have some benefits. There was the fellow who only wore red socks. It turned out that he was a pilot and believed that his red socks were a good luck charm that would keep him from crashing. He offered my mother free flying lessons. When she declined, they were provided to me. At age fourteen, I was up in the skies flying a little Cessna after school. Unfortunately, that relationship only lasted three months. I fell short of getting my pilot’s license, but I did get my driver’s license the same year.
That brings our journey to a fellow traveler that was the love of my life, my grandma Lee. She also had a very dysfunctional, shaky childhood. She survived and thrived. I not only shared her middle name but I also adored my grandmother. Grandma was the only one who gave me hugs and told me how much she loved me. It was my grandma that taught me how to play board games and card games. Cribbage was our favorite. It was a time to laugh and enjoy life.
One very memorable occasion was when I was fourteen and Grandma Lee took me in her small Renault to take my driver’s license test. Behind the wheel, I was a nervous wreck and had difficulty with the parallel parking that was required. No problem! Grandma Lee distracted the policeman who was assessing my parking performance by talking his ear off. He did not notice the three times that I hit the curve. It was an exceptional day, using my grandmother’s car, a blue mini coupe. That car even smelled like my grandma. She loved to wear Estee Lauder perfume, and sometimes the scent was so intense that I knew when she had entered the room. I don’t think she used too much. It was the sweet smell that would stay with me for a lifetime. With her cunning assistance, I passed the license test the first time at age fourteen. That was quite a feat!
My step-grandfather died at the end of that year. He reminded me of Uncle Scrooge. There was only one time that I remember him smiling. I was nine years old and sitting at a card table trying to learn how to play bridg
e. Learning to hold thirteen cards in one hand is extremely difficult. I kept dropping those playing cards that had pictures of some cars on the front. No one thought that I was too young. My grandpa would stand behind me, and if I started to play the wrong card, he would grunt. However, if I played the right card, he would smile. I persevered with bridge, and Grandpa Scrooge went back to being miserable.
After his funeral, Grandma Lee spent lots of time at our new house (not the rental, but the newly constructed house) in Virginia. We had been in that house about a year and my grandmother’s visits were the highlight of our time there. The only difficulty was that I wanted my grandmother all to myself. Jealously reared its ugly head. I was forced to share her with my other brothers and sister.
Physically, Grandma Lee looked like a grandmother. She was short, round, with gray hair, and was very jolly. She was cuddly. I was growing up at a fast pace, but I could still be a kid around my grandma. That devotion and the special relationship continued between the two of us until Grandma Lee died at age eighty-nine.
Years later, I found a photo of my grandmother and this little blond-headed five-year-old holding a butterfly net standing on a front stoop. I had no memories of that time in my life, but I was smiling and was told that I loved going to visit Grandma in Iowa during the summers. We collected butterflies and pressed them in big books to add to our butterfly collection. I still have a special place in my heart for monarchs.
Life does go forward.
***
Burying the alcoholic did not bury the alcoholism. My mother remained the chief enabler who encouraged my behavior, good or bad, and family secrets were alive and well. I continued to babysit the two brats while my mother was dating and spent a great deal of time home alone. It was the year after we buried my stepfather, and it was also the winter after I buried my best friend, Duke, my German Shepherd that could not be replaced. Mostly black and technically a Belgian Shepherd, Duke was huge compared to other Shepherds, had the shiniest long, soft fur and eyes that penetrated when he looked at you. He never met an enemy and loved to kiss me when he knew I needed that attention. He welcomed everyone to be his friend, but I was his best “bud.” Getting a new Shepherd helped ease the deep-down pain that I felt, but it was not the same. It was the first of many losses that I would experience.
My new four-legged friend, Stormy, and I did spend a lot of time together. On my fifteenth birthday, Stormy and I were sitting on the kitchen floor. It was some kind of tile that was very cold on bare skin, and Stormy was lying spread eagle, enjoying the cold temperature, on his long, outstretched legs. He kind of looked like Kermit, the frog. In front of us was the liquor cabinet, the place where mother kept the forbidden bottles. I still remember the feel of that floor after fifty years. After talking it over with Stormy, I decided to test a little white wine. It was better than the rum that I had sampled before. It was great! I felt a buzz immediately, got kind of dizzy, and wanted a whole lot more. That was the beginning of a new tragic story into alcoholism and drug addiction. That drink would change my future forever.
***
My mother began dating one man quite regularly, and he even came to our house for some dinners, including one Thanksgiving with the family. I started asking that enigmatic question again: “Are you my father?” I knew the answer and kept the question quietly circulating in my mind. I was hoping for a different response. Besides, this was a total stranger. It was a conversation exclusively in my imagination. No one could hear the question, and yes, no one knew the answer. The reality was the photo of someone I had never met—that man in the military uniform. That was my father. I had to keep reminding myself that he was gone, or more precisely, never there. My mother’s current man was no one’s father, and certainly not mine.
In the middle of all the chaos at home, I was permitted to leave the boarding school in North Carolina and attend public high school for the ninth grade. I continued to excel academically and became highly active in school. Participating in community activities was popular, and I hung around with the “in” crowd and the “nerds.” I still managed to pick up Hunter and Lynn after their school every day to bring them home. Was I resentful? You betcha! I wanted to do things after school with my friends and not have the “brats” with me every day. The bottom line was that I did not want to be their mother or their father. I started rebelling and doing what I wanted to do when I wanted to do it. My mother became very frustrated with my attitude. My self-centeredness and “I deserve better” personality were emerging. My mother decided to try parenting for the first time. She started setting limits and threatening consequences. However, she had little time to really monitor my behavior and gave up trying. She continued to call me belligerent and let me self-parent.
I had already picked up a terrible habit of drinking alcohol at age fourteen when my mother was not around. Since that was often, it led to inviting other kids over to drink and on many occasions, driving drunk. I did not see this as an underage drinking problem. It was just a coping tool that seemed to work. Drinking made me popular with the other kids (so I thought). It relieved the stress and was a great way to escape into a fantasy world where I had a mother and a father that gave a damn. Many of my activities were getting riskier. Driving above the speed limit and making turns as fast as possible was a daily experience. No one stopped me so it must be OK.
About this time my mother decided to make her first big geographical cure and move to Venice, Florida. The house was sold, the furniture shipped, and the friends cut off forever. My mother never stayed in touch with anyone in Virginia, and I followed suit. Come to think of it, I am not sure she had any friends. In any case, we exchanged that past life for a new one. Having been left a substantial pool of money by my stepfather, my mother could pick and choose which part of the world she wanted to move to. She chose Venice, and I still do not know why. We lived in a rental home while our new home was being built. The new house was gorgeous. It had a swimming pool, three bedrooms, and was located on a large bay leading to the Gulf. My sister and I shared a bedroom, but only for a short time. There was a breathtaking view from every window.
Living on the water, boating became a part of everyday life. There was water skiing, testing Mercury engines for money, and pulling boats off sandbars for tips. Life seemed manageable. Feeling the wind blow through my long blond hair, bounding over the waves in the surf, and having the sun beat down on my face provided the happiness and contentment I so longed for. It brought back the memory of that Christmas holiday with my brother, Edward, when he taught me how to fish. I missed Edward and the relationship of big brother, little sister. However, I did not complain. I had my own speedboat at age fourteen and a knock-around sailboat.
You could see that money was not a problem at the time. Later the family estate from my stepfather’s will would take a nosedive due to a swindling lawyer. But that did not occur for a few years down the road.
After the family moved to Florida, initially, I shared a room with my younger sister, Lynn. Physically, we were total opposites. I was average-height, 5’5”, and had very blond hair. My sister was very tall for her age, seven, had long dark hair, and was “beautiful.” Anyone could see that she was only my half sister. Lynn collected dolls and had hundreds of them, probably twenty. I hated all those dolls lying all around our immaculate room and insisted they be kept on Lynn’s bed. At a young age, it was particularly important to me that everything had its place, be organized, and not be sloppy.
This obsessive–compulsive behavior continued through my adolescence and into adulthood. The day came when Lynn broke the unwritten rule of orderliness. She had played with her dolls and left some of them on the floor outside of the toy box and off her bed. I got a pair of scissors and cut the hair of every doll I could find. I lined them up neatly like they were holding hands on Lynn’s bed. That act of terrorism got my mother’s attention. The solution was to build an addition to the house so that I got
my own bedroom and no longer had to share with my sister. There was no other consequence, and my temporary act of insanity was rewarded richly. My “own” room. I skated by again.
***
A move to Florida might have been a good thing if there had been some changes in the family dynamics or in my behavior. That was not the case. It was another “find a new life” for my mother that did not work.
I did make a couple of friends in Venice High School, but they were never allowed to get too close. One of those “buddies,” Andrea, liked to drink beer on the weekends and be perfect during the week, which was my MO. At age fifteen, I owned a small car just like my grandmother’s mini coupe. Andrea and I would drive out to the airport, hang out in the parking lot at the sleazy local bar, and look for an easy mark. For a couple of dollars, finding someone that would buy us a case of beer was not difficult. Andrea’s mother worked nights so we would go back to her house, turn up the music, drink the beer, and play with her pet skunk, Stripe. Fortunately, Stripe had been de-scented, because it was entertaining to tease him and torture him as we got drunk. More than once, Stripe hid in a closet for fear of his life. Sometimes, I would drink and drive around town looking for trouble. There were no auto accidents, and the booze provided the escape from reality that I was still looking for. Being irresponsible felt good, and it was a miracle that no one was hurt or killed.
My one other good friend in high school was the smartest kid in the school. Rebecca played the first violin in the town orchestra (her father was the conductor), and she was just fun to be around. I did not have to explain things to her. She was smart. She just got it the first time around. Rebecca knew how rough things were at home for me and tried to help by inviting me to her house or attempting to include me in her family outings. Too bad that you don’t pick your parents—I would have selected Rebecca’s parents.