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.
Really enjoyed this read Mitch. A well painted portrait of the young mind’s perception of his reality at the time. Our school photos are in no way a picture of our true life but rather a false portrait of the child behind the mask. Not all smiles are joyful.
To quote a classic tune, ” No one knows what it’s like. ….
“Behind blue eyes”.
Thank you for the post. As I read each word I could see the young lad as clearly as if I was watching a film.
Thanks, Dann!
“a false portrait of the child behind the mask” – what a great way to put it Dann!! (Great post Mitch – you looked cheeky!)
Thanks
You continue to surprise with these life experiences. And hardships, apart from what Mom and Dad had to endure. I can’t imagine being taken to work at a leather factory at any time – let alone as small child!
Yep, expecially this child, Randy.
Reading my bio again Mitch. Different city, different address, same family and same school as it is.
Just call me ShadowNorm. ;>)
Love this one, Mitch. It triggered a wonderful old memory of my kids snuggling for a story and being the & between Dad and me. They were both wild Indians too, like their parents. This post added a great deal of depth to the words I know as Mitch.
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I loved how you described your childhood, Mitch. It brings back memories of the multitude of little boys in my neighborhood back in the day. 🙂
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awww, adorable! and I would have sworn this was a pic of a young Tom Hanks! <3
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That was so lovely. You took our stories of life, everyone has one, and gave it the detail it needed to show how much we are molded and shaped according to experiences that we simply label as part of life. Wonderful writing.
Also, adorable precocious little boy, the best kind of boy.
Aw, thank you, Choices.
I’d love to know what.kind of corrections a 3-year-old makes with his teacher. 😆
;>)
This is sweet…and well told 🙂
Thank you, Ritam. (Did I get your name right?)
You can’t call me Ritam. I’m not God as the Foundation of Cosmic Order. I’m Ritambhari or “she who upholds cosmic order”. If you want to shorten my name, you can call me Rita or Ritu, though they mean completely different things with Rita meaning truth or discipline or ritual and Ritu meaning season.
I’ve often wished that I could go back in time to spend just one more day with my parents. Thank you for reminding me that I can. 😊
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This picture of you did fool me! So fresh-faced with an equal mix of sweetness and mischief! Wonderful story telling, thank you!
My pleasure, Renate!
Beautifully written.
Thank you.
Having money certainly helps. Still, nothing can quite replace the attentions of parents.
Seems we had the same “nourishing mother”…
“Zot!” (ツ)v
Beautifully written, Mitch.
Thank you, T.
So you showed the teacher who’s the teacher. I wonder what you ‘corrected’ at that age 😁.
;>)
Great stories! Love abides.
Thanks, Gerry❣
And that what shaped Mitchkind! Full of imagination and stories to share with us. 😊👌🏼
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