The Sandwich Kid, Part II

Last time in Part I of my story as the middle child, you met my older brother, Gene.  For all time, my hero, someone I looked up to, and yes, even idolized at points in time.  Dreamed dreams of the romantic kind about his friends.  After all, there was 14 years difference in our ages (writer smiles here).

Me, mom and Brad (1954-55)

And then along came Brad, my younger by eight years little brother.  I remember the night he was born -- the disruption in my life began right then and there.

Awakened by my folks in the middle of the night, carted off by my uncle to his house, my impression of this little boy could not have been worse!

Morning came with dad arriving at my aunt and uncle's home beaming from ear to ear.  A man with two daughters from a previous marriage and a little girl eight years old, dad felt like God had blessed him like Abraham in his old age.  I truly couldn't see that this was such a big deal.

In those days (for those of you much younger), newborns and their mamas stayed in the hospital almost a week before coming home.  But come home they eventually did.

Brad didn't sleep.  He cried like a banshee in the night, all night.  And this is not just a child-like opinion.  He had medical issues not clear at the time -- enlarged tonsils and adenoids, which couldn't be removed until a few years had passed.  This meant he couldn't nurse well and breathing while lying down was difficult.  My parents would sit up holding him, while he cried, just so he could breathe and calm down.

Needless to say, I wasn't pleased to hear the words "shh, baby's sleeping" each time Brad slipped into slumber.  Mad would best describe my reaction.  Add to that the sweet things by everyone who came by to visit -- he's such a boy, so cute, so sweet, adorable, precious -- and I became totally disgusted with this crying, wrinkled little being.

Enter bad behavior!  Not that I was the perfect child, but what I'm about to describe was totally out of character for me.  I had heard enough and decided to do something about it.

Mom and dad had a beautiful suite of mahogany bedroom furniture.  In the beautiful wood on top of the nightstand, I proceed to carve with the point of a ballpoint pen, "Shhhhhhhh, baby's sleeping!!!!!!!"

Oh, the punishment rendered was painful but my satisfaction at having sent my message was delicious.  Imagine my horror when my parents never had the top of the nightstand repaired.  Yes, when we cleared out the house that last time after mom's death in 2001, there was my message for all the world to see.

Don't forget to tune back in soon for Part III of The Sandwich Kid!

Photo credit:  Bargain John's Antiques


Linking up on Tuesdays in March with Write it, Girl.  Come on over and check out whose writing!

JOURNEY OF A LIFETIME – Installment 5 [Early Memories]

Note to readers:  These "installments" are posted in the roughest of draft form.  My sole purpose in posting them here is to perhaps illicit from anyone comments, criticisms, editorial suggestions, grammatical errors, etc.  Additionally, suggestions about voice, characterizations, and story/plot welcomed!

Mama and Daddy, with me looking on -- one of my
treasured photos of Mama laughing!

My earliest memories begin somewhere around 3 or 4 years old.  Research has shown that anything earlier than this age falls victim to what is called "childhood amnesia."  As with most people, some memories are filled with delight and joy; others are not so happy.  Happiest among my memories are those associated with my father -- learning to ride a bike (or even a trike!), listening to music laying on my tummy flat on the floor beside daddy’s feet and the Stromberg-Carlson radio/phonograph playing one song after the other, spending time outside when he gardened, Sunday afternoon drives through the park, teaching (or trying to teach) me to fish, working for him part-time as a proofreader, and the list could go on.  Each of these memories carries with it a sense of pride exhibited by him in what I was learning to do or accomplish.

Some other memories where daddy played a primary role were our infrequent summer vacation trips.  Daddy took great joy in surprising us with vacations.  He would come home from work on Friday afternoon and announce that tomorrow we would be leaving for a destination, and we'd be on our way the next morning.  The only one not overly excited would be mama because it was such short notice to get us all packed up and ready to go.

As I think back through my childhood and youth, however, it's difficult to find many happy moments involving my relationship with my mama.  Instead those memories are tense, painful and often heartbreaking.  My mama memories bear none of the positive impact that I received from my daddy.  Instead, the feedback from mama was constantly negative.  And that is the basis for the story I shall attempt to share – my relationship with Mama and the impact it had on both our lives.

I dreaded getting in trouble with Mama.  From a very early age, I can still conjure up the emotions following one of her favorite punishments.  Inflicting humiliation and dread on the object of her anger seemed to bring her great satisfaction.  I hated to hear the words, "Go outside and bring back a nice long switch.  And while you're walking back make sure you pull off all the leaves.  That way it will hurt more and the sting will last longer so you'll learn from this." 

It didn't help to cry -- tears only increased her anger.  And if tears were shed, there'd be another barrage of words, "I suppose you think those tears will make me feel sorry for you.  Well, they won't!"  So, off I’d go to pick the tool to render my punishment and walk back to the house, tears coursing down my cheeks, while my child fingers stripped the switch bare.  I could already fill its sting on my legs and back, and so I walked what seemed the longest walk cloaked in a blanket of dread for what was to come.

Soon enough I became stoic during my punishments, and sometimes I think it angered her even more that I didn't show some fear or pain.  She would then hit harder and longer with her tool – the switch, one of daddy’s belts, her bare hand or a yard stick, to name a few.  Finally, if she could bring me to tears, the punishment would stop.  As a child, it was hard to discern just what she wanted from me.  I'm not sure that mama even knew the answer to that question.

As I grew older and began to want to do things for myself, times became more difficult.  I think it's safe to say I was a bright child but according to mama, there wasn't anything I could do correctly.  This was thrown at me when it came to brushing my hair, tying my shoes, putting on my own clothes, straightening and making my bed.  It was soon obvious to me that if I thought I was bright, I must be mistaken because obviously Mama thought I was dimwitted.  And weren’t parents right about everything?  The humiliation of being told “I wasn’t good enough” to do certain tasks for myself began to tear down any sense of self-confidence I might have.  Eventually, I accepted the fact that I was better off relating to Mama in a submissive state of mind and body.  I just finally gave up.

I so desperately wanted and needed her love and affirmation that I would stretch my child limits to reach for any affirmation that I was what she wanted me to be.  I firmly believe that I reached a realization that fighting against her was not in my best interests.  So, I turned myself into the complacent child around 5 or 6 years old.  By this time, my older brother was 19 or 20 and married and in his own home.  I was the only child in the house.  To avoid the infliction of her temper against me I decided to just go with the flow.  This worked for a while.  However, Mama figured out my ploy and soon it made no difference whether I appeared cooperative or not.

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Words Have Power

We've all heard it and said it, "Sticks and stones can hurt my bones, but words will never harm me."  At one time or another, I would guess that we all have experienced words that actually did hurt us, cut deeply into our being, and maybe even broke our heart.

Words have power for either good . . . or bad.  I know -- I have experienced both, and words that hurt us can leave deep, invisible scars that last for a lifetime.

At this point in my life, I don't believe my mother knew how her harsh, critical, demeaning words took those around her to a dark and doubting world.  I remember coming in from school on several occasions so excited by something a teacher had said, or an accomplishment I was proud of, and trying to tell my mother.  Often, it would be that she was just too busy with chores.  Other times it would landslide into a full out questioning of the incident I wanted to relate.  Was I sure that was what the teacher said?  Did I really accomplish something on my own, or was I making it up?  Now, those words don't necessarily sound too volatile, but imagine yourself as a child, your heart and soul bursting with pride, only to be brought down by someone's expression of doubt.

Years later, I realized that subconsciously I had absorbed my mother's ability to spew words in ways that hurt others, but most especially my young son.  My marriage had ended in divorce and I was left a single, working mother raising a son alone.  Circumstances had eventually placed us in my parents' home following the divorce, and this meant that my son received not only a barrage of words from my mother as she cared for him while I worked, but I would come home tired in the evening and my patience diluted by the day's stresses. 

As he grew and began school, homework and studies became a problem at night because of my fatigue, and one evening I heard myself using some of the same litanies my mother had used with me.  Imagine my shock as I looked into my son's face and saw that I had just destroyed the joy and excitement of a day that for him had been special.  That is when I began to rethink who I was and what my childhood had bequeathed me in the form of words and language.  It took me some time to put that behind me, and when my son grew older and began college, I had the opportunity to sit down and explain to him what had happened to me and to him.  I apologized for the treatment I had rendered in the form of powerful and hurtful words.  Hoping that the power of my kind words and explanation would preclude or change the course of our family's temperamental verbal barrages, I have patiently watched and seen him grow into a more patient individual in that regard.  That isn't to say he isn't impatient in other areas of his life!

So, when you use your words, think first and speak when you're certain that what you are about to say has God's seal of approval as found in Paul's letter to the Ephesians:

"When you talk, do not say harmful things, but say what people need
—words that will help others become stronger."
Ephesians 4:29 (NCV) (emphasis added)



Journey of a Lifetime - Installment 4

Nelle struggled on through life doing her best at the jobs she could find.  She was a hard worker and through her mother's training, she was a young woman with morals and values.  The family attended church every Sunday and the Bible was a focal point of reading at home.

Unfortunately, nearing 19 years of age, Nelle met a handsome young man named Joseph Whitehead.  At about the same time, her younger sister began dating Joe's brother.  It wasn't long until the two couples married.  And within a year Nelle and Joe had a son, Joseph Eugene Whitehead.  The marriage was not to be long-lived as Joe was an alcoholic and found it entertaining to batter those whom he proclaimed he loved.

The divorce was final in the mid 1930s, during difficult years for the country and the city of Nashville.  Nelle struggled once again to find work.  A variety of jobs came her way.  When the young men began to go away to war, she landed a job with AVCO working as a Rosie the Riveter on airplane parts.  She definitely did her part in the war effort!  However, that job ended when the boys began to come home and needed their jobs back, and once again Nelle found herself raising a young son and without work.

Luckily for me, Nelle found work at Foster & Parks in Nashville working as a devil for the typesetter who would become my father.  A “devil” in the printing industry is someone hired to tear down the type which had been set to print something, and then to melt that metal down so that it could be reused.  When her older brother learned about her new job, he told her to stay away from "that typesetter called Country Adams.  He's nothing but trouble."  Obviously, Nelle didn't pay much attention to her brother’s comments, doing everything Country asked her to do, especially when he told her if she could bring him back a pack of Luckies, he'd take her to the movies.  She did everything she could to secure that date, and came back with the Luckies and a smile on her face.

A promised date took them to the movies and out afterwards for a little clubbing.  Country unfortunately had a bad habit with drink, and he became drunk.  Nelle had strong feelings about alcohol and drunkenness and told him that if he wanted to see her again or have any part in her life, he'd have to clean up his act.  It must have been true love for Country stopped drinking, and they married in 1945.  They agreed not to add to the three children they had between them, but God intervened and I was born in February of 1946.  Nelle’s son, Gene (or Bubba to me), was 14 and quickly became my hero.

Country’s two daughters, Virginia and Elsie, were young women already married when my parents married.  They each had children born not long after my birth.  It wasn’t clear to me why at the time but Virginia and Elsie didn’t visit us much.  As I grew older, it became quite clear that they too had struggles with mama.

Between 1946 and 1954, Nelle suffered through four pregnancies, all of which ended in miscarriages.  The reasons for these losses isn’t known to me, but I do know that she didn’t smile much during this time.  Finally in November 1954 my young brother, Brad, was born.  Brad cried and fussed a lot due to enlarged tonsils and adenoids preventing him from sleeping well.  However, there was nothing to be done at such a young age.  The lack of sleep took its toll on our parents. 

I certainly didn’t like the idea of having a baby brother, and I made my feelings clear by carving with a ballpoint pen in a mahogany nightstand.  My parents were constantly telling me when Brad did fall asleep:  “Now, be quiet. The baby is sleeping.”  I soon began to tire of this repeated instruction, so I chose my words carefully and went about creating my art.  Neatly carved in that nightstand, until this day, are the words “Shhhhhh, baby is sleeping.”

No one seemed to understand the why behind my creation, nor did anyone take the time to ask me to explain.  I felt left out, and at eight years of age the last thing I wanted around was a baby.  Instead, I was punished, which I believe I deserved.  It was after all an effort on my part to get their attention to express my needs, and I chose a very poor medium to deliver my message.

Brad’s arrival seemed to round out the family as my parents wanted it.  Country was so proud exclaiming to all who would listen:  “God has blessed me like he did Abraham with a son in my old age.  He was 53 when Brad was born, and Nelle was 42.  At their ages, a fretful and crying baby was indeed tough for them.  Having an eight-year old carving up the furniture wasn’t helpful, and so they decided that there would be no more additions to the Adams household.

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I choose not to address anyone else's relationship with Nelle, or as I'll call her from now on, Mama, as I don't feel it is fair to delve into areas where I can't confirm facts.  What I do know about my life, and what I witnessed in my younger brother's can be confirmed, and I share it willingly because it ties into the end of our journey and brings power and beauty to the finished story.

And thus begins the story of my life with Mama.

Journey of a Lifetime -- Installment 3

In order to speak to you through the hues, shades and colors of his palette, an artist must layer color upon color to tell the whole story.  In that same way, I must share the layers of my relationship with my mother so that you can fully understand the miraculous nature of our last sojourn.  For me, the final layer held the best of times spent in my mother's presence.  So, to begin layering, I’ll start at the beginning with my mother’s story.

She was the middle of five children born in May of 1912 in Nashville, TN.  Her father was twice her mother’s age, not uncommon in those years, and the little red-headed, green-eyed baby girl had problems from very early childhood.  With poor eyesight and hearing, life would begin with those struggles already decided for her.

Nelle Mae Roper was named for a good friend of her mother’s, and the friend doted on this child long distance while living in St. Louis.  She sent cards, gifts, and made sure that Nelle was registered on the cradle roll of her church in St. Louis.  But despite all these efforts on the part of such a good friend, life wasn’t dealing a fair hand to this little family or this little girl.

Two other children followed, and when Nelle was 6 her father died suddenly leaving her mother with five children and no means of income.  In the early 1900s women weren’t as visible in the workplace and finding work wasn’t easy.  The family went on welfare and depended on the Big Brothers, a local Nashville assistance group, for food at the holidays.  The two older children were in school, and eventually finished and went to work.

However, graduation would not be in Nelle's future.  She just barely made it through the eighth grade, when her mother chose to take her out of school to stay home and care for the two smaller children, a girl and a boy.  Nelle's mother found a job as an elevator operator in a local bank building, and desperately needed the income this job would provide.  Nelle didn't have the first clue as to how to care for these children much less how to discipline them.

As young children will do, the two would become unruly, running through the house, not staying indoors, and making messes Nelle had to clean up.  Stories have been shared that in an attempt to discipline Nelle would grab handy kitchen utensils, most often large knives, and chase the younger two threatening them if they didn't behave.  Poor Nelle!  If only someone would help her see what her role really was supposed to be.  After all, she was only 11.

Time went on and Nelle was offered the opportunity, without a high school diploma, to attend business school.  By now, the younger children were in school and this would work out for all concerned.  Nelle's eyesight and hearing, however, made learning difficult for her, especially with her lack of schooling thrown into the mix.  Luckily, from time to time, she was hired by an attorney in her mother's office building, but these jobs never lasted.  Obviously, her skills were not well-honed and her ability to cope not well suited either.  Why didn't someone see?  Why didn't someone give her advice?

(Copyright 2011 - Sherrey Meyer)

What I Mean by "Righting"

I agree it is an odd usage for the word and not one we hear frequently.  And yet it seemed to fit a dual purpose.  It is my opinion that during my childhood and through a part of my adult life I was wronged by a parent.  Deep in my soul I feel a need to write that story out in order to find healing for myself and in the off chance of publishing my work.  More strongly, I feel that in writing my story I will also accomplish a righting of the wrongs that worked against me for so long.  It is a painful and slow process, and one I'm just beginning.  I don't know exactly how it will all work out but I firmly hope that in some way my writing might also help you.

As the verse of Scripture above, the Lord has plans for you and for me, "plans to prosper" us and "plans to give us a hope and a future."  Won't you come along with me?

What Kind of Childhood Did You Have?

I used to get so tired of that question being asked -- by teachers, pastors, counsellors, friends who didn't know me when I was a child.  The frustration came from not having the childhood everyone else seemed to have.  You know, the one with smiles, hugs, affirmations, quiet voices, harmony.   I did grow up in a Christian home, although as I tell my story that may seem a bit contradictory.  I'll bet there are some of you who grew up in a similar fashion.

Earliest memories are of living in a very small house with my mom, dad and an older brother who was 14 when I was born.  I must have been about three or so at the time.  For some reason, I was drawn to this older brother, and as I reflect back it may be that he was the calmer of the two people who seemed to be in charge of me -- my mom and this older brother.  My dad was in poor health from about the time I was two so he took little part in the day-to-day activities other than making a good faith effort to go to work and come home every day.

It's funny I now look back on this older brother as a sort of protector.  That isn't to say he wasn't the brunt of our mother's temper -- he was from time to time.  I wish I had known then what I know now about my mom because it would have made life so much easier growing up.  But then we aren't supposed to know everything when we're 3 or 4 or 30 or even 50, as you'll see as my story unfolds.

Mom, me and baby brother

And then mom began to get pregnant and have miscarriages one right after the other for a total of four between my older brother and me.  Then, when I was 8, my younger brother was born.  His arrival added to the tension already prevalent in our home, and things didn't get better.  It seemed every day held surprises for each of us. 

I hope you'll come back and read more later . . . maybe our stories will overlap.  Maybe they won't.  But I'd love to share mine with you just in case it should help.