My Real Memoir: Don’t Let the Picture Fool You
I Was Alone From the Start
Look at that little guy, fearlessly facing the world before him. Knowing he’s adored by everyone, right? Don’t let the picture fool you. I spent my early years unsocialized and uncivilized, living in a world inhabited only by me, keeping myself company by telling myself stories. I lived in my head then, and still do. And although that sense of aloneness is clearly in my nature, nurture played a role as well. Or rather a certain lack of nurture.
Which is not to say that my parents were neglectful. Far from it. The connection between love and stories grew even stronger during those heavenly times when I would squeeze between them in bed (becoming the “&” in Mom & Dad) and hear fairytales from a magical, musty old hardbound volume. Oh, the wonderful smell of books!
Love and stories came to the rescue time and again. I wriggled in agony when my eardrum was attacked by an alien infection and medical soldiers had to be sent in one drop at a time to defeat it. Stories alone, as read by Mom, had the power to protect me until that horrendous war was won. But…
Life is Messy
My father’s truck-driving for the Herald-Express was what paid the mortgage on our little suburban dream-box. Until he lost his job, that is. Dad’s driving literally came to a halt when an old man stepped off a curb in front of him. Result? The man would spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair. The judge acknowledged that Dad wasn’t actually at fault, but revoked his driver’s license as a “symbol.” Dad’s loss of income, however, was anything but symbolic; the Herald offered him a loading dock position at half his previous pay.
So, Mom returned to work at a venerable leather goods company in downtown Los Angeles. And that, of course, meant I’d have to spend my days under someone else’s supervision. Grandma Teemley lived nearby, but Grandpa had died when I was two, and Grandma had also gone back to work.
Mom tried taking me with her a few times. But a creaky ten-storey factory wasn’t the ideal place to set a three-year-old amuck. And amuck I was, as my “Wild Indian” adventure had demonstrated. The law and common sense agreed that a kid my age—and with my imagination—needed close supervision or the human race as we know it would be doomed.
And So I Was Enrolled in Preschool
But six months and four warnings later, I was summarily expelled for continually correcting the teacher. I mean, how was she ever going learn if someone didn’t point out her mistakes? Like I said: unsocialized and uncivilized. Even when I wasn’t alone, I thought I was.
Enter Frieda and her Magical Garden, the most wonderful place in the history of, well, maybe not humankind, but Mitchkind anyway.
Photo: David John Terry (pinterest.com)
My first home (as I remember it)
