Barracuda Summer

The calf weighed a thousand pounds. “Bet it was all muscle”. That’s what the farmers in town mumbled the next day. “Black Angus. Impossible to see at night.”

My mother chose the pattern and the material. It was an 80-piece Vogue pattern for a full-length camel hair coat. The picture on the front of the small flat packet was classic—a thin-wasted brunette with teased hair, smiling proudly while wearing the gorgeous coat.

In all of my 10 years in 4-H I am never encouraged to sew. I don’t think about it either, other than to occasionally feel grateful it has never come up for a serious discussion. My sister has been designing and sewing clothes for her dolls as long as I can remember. She wins championship ribbons at the State Fair year after year for her amazing outfits. To me, sewing pales in comparison to my entomology collection. My cases are filled with black and green beetles, creepy spiders, butterflies and moths—wings beautifully spread with silver pins stuck through crispy bodies. If you asked my sister she’d tell you my “bugs” and my “carrots”, as she refers to my award-winning vegetables, are nothing compared to her fine sewing. As we’ve gotten older we don’t fight about it much.

When I walk by the material sitting on the kitchen counter I stop and touch it because it looks like you should bury your hands in its soft, plush, yummy golden heap. I think to myself, “I wonder what this is?  Is my sister starting a massive new project?” I continue on through the kitchen. “I’m glad sewing is not my thing,” I think. My mother, who is standing at the stove, calls me back. “Do you like this material?” she inquires. As she pushes the pattern toward me she asks, “Would you wear a coat like this?” I am confused about why she is asking me.

Then she tells me about her arrangement. She has hired Vivian Vinneberg to work with me to sew the coat. I have heard of Mrs. Vinneberg. She is supposed to be the best seamstress in the whole state of Kansas. She has a son who goes to my High School but I don’t know him. He is loner. I’ve overheard kids who ride his bus say he lives way out in the sticks. Did my mother actually just tell me I would be spending my precious summer with these people?

I feel as if all the air has been sucked out of me. I am trying to comprehend the meaning of what Mom told me. I feel completely pulverized! Isn’t a coat kind of a big undertaking for a first sewing project? My mind plummets. I can’t believe I am supposed to give up my entire summer to learn something I care nothing about. Is Mom really going to make me spend it with some old lady out in the sticks! How am I going to hang out with my friends?

I hate my mother for setting up impossible situations like this! The projects she picks for me always include some ulterior motive. She has some kind of fantasy that I will “feel good about myself” when I have completed them. How can she fail to grasp that it might not feel good to get credit for something someone has done for you? The thought of this happening again makes me miserable. Why does Mom assume she knows what I need? I sulk off to my room to figure out how to get out of this predicament.

Out in the sticks takes on an entirely new meaning the first time Mom drives me out to the Vinneberg farm. It takes a good 40 minutes until we turn off the asphalt highway onto a gravel road that has tall grass and sunflowers growing down the hump in the middle. After a while the gravel road turns into a rutted, one-car dirt path that bends into an even iffier 800-foot dirt driveway. The buildings have suffered years of neglect and many of them are falling down. The house is a typical wood-frame 2-story farmhouse that needs paint so badly it is impossible to tell if it was ever been painted. I slump down in my seat and fold the foil wrapper from a piece of Juicy Fruit gum as small as I can before I flick it out the window. I am furious!

I see Vivian Vinneberg standing, looking out through the screen door as we drive up and park in front of the house on the parched grass. She is thin and has deep wrinkles in her face that look like you could fall into them and never find your way out. Her bronze skin makes me think of Native Americans. She stands tall and has a shy smile. As we step onto the porch she holds the screen door open and looks down. When she doesn’t make eye contact, Mom starts talking nervously in short sentences. As Mom prattles on I get the sense Mrs. Vinneberg isn’t listening to her either.

Anger is rising in my body, tensing the muscles all the way up into my head. I don’t really want to find out if Mrs. Vinneberg is nice. I don’t care if she wants to share what she loves with me. My life, my entire summer, is being ruined by having to learn to sew. Mrs. Vinneberg has agreed to be a part of my mother’s latest scheme to make me into what she wants me to be. Mrs. Vinneberg, by participating in Mom’s egregious plan, is now the enemy. Taking on my mom will do no good. The only power I have is to be cruel to Mrs. Vinnegerg. I will pretend to be nice but will pour venom into every word, every look, and every smile.

I don’t notice when my father parks the new car at the end of the driveway one evening after work. I look out my bedroom window and wonder who is visiting. I have no idea the car is ours. It is a 1967 Plymouth Barracuda coupe---red with black vinyl interior. A large moon roof spans the entire back of the car, giving way to thoughts of stargazing and drinking beer with friends. In the past, my parents have always bought enormous Chryslers with big fins—never anything this sporty and fun.

It takes me a while to realize I will be driving the Barracuda every day when I go to Mrs. Venneberg’s—by myself. When this hits me all my animosity disappears. I ask to take the car for a spin. As I cruise down Main Street I feel “seen” as people turn their heads wondering who is in the awesome car. I can barely feel the railroad tracks’ bump as I drive out of town. I turn onto the straight road out by the grain elevator and put the accelerator pedal flat to the floor. The car responds like a dream. Before I know it I have reached the next little town and need to turn around to go home.

I got my drivers license when I turned 14. That was 3 years ago. It is hard to get “driving time” in my family because either my sister wants to drive or Mom is going somewhere, always late—so she has to drive fast to get there in time. Mom doesn’t encourage me to drive. I know she thinks I’m not very good at it. I actually feel pretty confident. I have never driven by myself, though, until this evening. I am looking forward to finally driving a lot this summer!

Cutting out 80 pieces of fabric takes days. Without talking about it, Mrs. Venneberg decides the best way to deal with my shitty antagonistic attitude is simply to ignore me. She pins the pattern pieces to the material as if she is helping a young child who is eager to learn. Her perky attitude annoys me! I cut around the little pieces with pinking shears, opening and shutting their jagged mouth forcefully, like a shark closing in on dinner. All summer Mrs. Venneberg sets up the next step and the next and I cut or sew or do whatever she tells me to do. My refusal to pay attention or learn anything from what we are doing does not stop the coat from taking shape. I have to admit it is a thing of beauty! I take no credit for it and struggle with what I can say when people compliment me.

Each morning I arrive at the Venneberg farm at 9. We work straight through the day and stop at 4. Then it is just the Barracuda, the open road and me. I back the Barracuda up onto Mrs. Vinneberg’s scraggly lawn to turn around, and then ease down the driveway. The bumpy dirt road bumps and bounces me around in the car. I am extra careful to maneuver the car so I don’t fall into a rut. When I reach the gravel road I pick up my speed a little. I like hearing the thump, thump, thumping of the sunflowers as they hit the front of the car. At the end of this road I come to a complete stop. I pause and carefully look both ways for traffic before I turn onto the two-lane asphalt highway leading home.

For a while the road, which is situated on the top a gentle ridge, makes you believe you’re driving along the top of the world. Looking out, it is astonishing how you can see pastures forever in all directions. The road emboldens me toward speed. I have been with Mom on this road when she’s driven a hundred miles an hour and she didn’t even realize it. I sit back in my seat and push down steadily on the accelerator pedal until it starts to feel like I’m flying. I see no other cars today. I decide I will slow down later when I reach the last five miles before town. That is the hilly stretch. If a car is coming toward you there, you can’t see it until it pops over the hill. I can feel the enormous smile growing across my face. I am lost in thoughts of what independence feels like. I decide I like being an adult and driving fast.

The next day Mrs. Venneberg tells me the coat will be finished on Friday. We work with focused determination all week. Then it is finally Friday. When it is 4 o’clock, our usual stopping time, we still have more finishing touches left. We take a break so she can make her husband and son and me some dinner. She fries some chicken and brings out a dish of cole slaw she’s covered carefully with saran wrap. She asks me to place little sweet pickles she put up last summer onto a relish plate. I pour water into glasses with ice cubes while she goes out to the barn to find her family. I feel nervous and totally out of place eating with her family. Mr. Vinneberg tries to chitchat about the weather when he sits down. The silence throughout the rest of the meal is interrupted only by the embarrassing sounds of mouths mushing food. I am glad to be finished with dinner so I can clear the plates and help her clean up the kitchen before we go back to sewing the coat.

When the coat is finished I open the screen door and step out onto the porch and into the night. I can barely see anything it is so DARK. I drape my coat protectively over the passenger’s seat and make sure the plastic Mrs. Vinneberg has slipped over it is entirely covering the coat. I edge slowly down the driveway. I have never driven at night before. It is different than I imagined. My vision is dramatically reduced and is limited to just what the headlights illuminate. It doesn’t take long before I feel happy again! “I am done with my coat! I don’t ever have to come back here!” I scream out my open window.

I search the sky for the moon. Maybe the cloud cover is hiding her? I can’t see any stars either. Once I get away from the house it is completely black! I poke slowly down the uneven road, watching carefully for anything the bright lights might highlight all the way to the highway. Once I turn onto the asphalt I still hang back. I’m not as comfortable cruising along at my usual daytime speed. Once I open all the windows and crank up the radio, though, my confidence is restored and the Barracuda begins to hum.

When I reach the section of the road where the hills start I see headlights from a car in front of me. Headlights do weird things when you’re driving in hills. They disappear and then reappear so quickly it is nearly impossible to judge distance. I catch up to the car sooner than I anticipated and have to put on my brakes because they are driving at a snail’s pace. After following them at a safe distance, I can tell by the way the car speeds up and slows down the driver has been drinking. They are weaving all over the road. There are several places between here and town when you can pass. I think I remember where they are although the road looks different in the dark. I have never passed another car but I’ve watched Mom do it a billion times. When she passes someone it looks and feels like sailing. I’m guessing it must be easy.

We must be climbing up a hill because we are going slower and slower. When speed picks up and I start cruising again I know we have crested over the top and are on the way down. I am pretty sure one of those passing places is coming up. When I reach the spot where the road flattens out I put my foot down hard on the accelerator. The powerful movement of the Barracuda clutches at my stomach and thrills me as I pull out into the other lane. The car responds instantaneously and I easily pull up even with the front of the other car. I look over and see we are neck and neck. I look back at the road, headlights peering into the night. All of a sudden I see a looming dark shadow up ahead ringed by the hazy glow from the headlights. The shadow is imposing but I can’t make out what it is. I quickly blink my eyes to make sure there really is something there. At the last moment I see what it is. A black cow is standing sideways in my lane. In that split second of recognition its enormous brown eyes lock with mine. By then there is nowhere for me to go. I can’t pull over into the other lane because the car is there.

I glance down at the speedometer and see I am driving at 80 miles an hour. The impact is a deafening sound of animal and steel. Instantly my windshield is completely covered with shit and the night goes completely away. The cow seems to be riding on the hood, pressed up against the windshield. The impact turns the car. It feels like I am careening sideways.

At first time is suspended. Then it moves in slow motion. I struggle to see, to make sense of what is happening. I know I am moving fast by the pull of centrifugal force on my body. Am I traveling through the air sideways? Should I take my hands off the steering wheel? My senses are on high alert, my mind completely shut down. My entire awareness is on movement. My body is intensely zeroed in to the unnatural feeling of being airborne. I see a picture of myself in a coffin with people filing by crying. Is this the last moment of my life?

At last I feel the tires rolling, dragging on the Barracuda. The sensation of slowing down is almost imperceptible at first. When the forward motion finally stops and car rocks side to side a few times. I sit in silence, not breathing. I can’t tell if I am still moving or not. I look around, trying to see anything through the blackness. I am frightened by a sound that I realize is my breathing—uneven and strained. My teeth are chattering and I can’t stop shaking.  Adrenaline surges through me but I cannot move. I hear a loud low moan and remember the cow. In my mind I see its eyes, begging me to let it live. Now it agonizes with groans that scream out desperately into the wounded night. As they grow more insistent I feel a sad heaviness and complete helplessness I can only guess is grief. Fear keeps me where I am. I cannot move to get out of the car. “Help me!” I scream into the punishing night.

For what seems like a long time I sit in the silent darkness. By now my breath is too shallow to detect. I am numb. Lifeless. I have lost all sense of time. It feels as though all the nerves in my body are wildly active while at the same time totally shut down. I am saturated with panic. The pitch black is disorienting so I close my eyes. With my eyes shut it feels like I’m still moving.  The claustrophobic confinement of the dark enclosed space is overwhelming. I become fixated on the feelings brought about by thinking, “I almost just died!” I feel blood racing chaotically through my body. My heart is beating uncontrollably. Even though it is a hot summer night, I am freezing and cannot stop shaking. I don’t know what to do. How will anyone find me? How will they know where I am? I don’t even know where I am.

Suddenly I think I hear a man’s voice. My door opens slowly. With the light from his flashlight I recognize Mr. McDowell. His brother rents the house across the street from my parents. I shut my eyes when he shines the flashlight directly into my face to see if I am okay. I burst into tears and it feels like an eruption of gratitude. He says he’ll be right back and disappears. It isn’t until the deafening silence following the gunshot when the groaning stops that I know the cow is dead.

Mr. McDowell comes back and gently helps me out of the car. My legs are like rubber so he puts a steady arm around my shoulder and helps me over to his pickup. Once I am in the passenger seat he fastens his shotgun in the rear window of his truck. He hands me a blanket from behind the bench seat and I pull it around me as we ride to town. He tells me he was driving this way and when he got to the hills he saw the lights from my car go haywire. The lights from the other car kept going. “I got to you as quickly as I could. I knew something bad had happened.” He told me I had gone sideways for a quarter of a mile starting in Riley County and ending up in Pottawatomie County. “That is the only piece of highway in the state of Kansas that has no signs or posts for that quarter of a mile. “If you had hit even a small post your car would have rolled and rolled. You would definitely be dead. You are lucky!”

When we see the first lights from town, reality hits and I start to wonder how my parents will respond to my having a car accident. I’m pretty sure they won’t take away my driving privileges.  I am absolutely certain they will be angry! Sure enough, when I tell them the story they don’t believe me. Mr. McDowell assures them I am telling the truth. My father is furious about the damage I’ve probably done to the new car. He keeps repeating, “I knew you were a bad driver.  I should never have let you take the Barracuda.” As I listen to him rant, all I hear is how I’m not an adequate person. Finally Mom, who has been silent, suggests we drive out to where the accident happened. I am relieved when Mr. McDowell says he wants to go.

We stand on top of the world in the dark. Flashlights reveal significant damage to the front of the car. While they are looking, I open the Barracuda’s back door and reach in for my camel hair coat. I pull it out and slide the plastic up and over the shoulders. The soft plush fabric makes me want to hug it. Hugging brings the comfort I so desperately need. I slide into the backseat of my parents’ car and lean my head on the window, embracing the coat. All the way back to town my father keeps talking about the accident and the cow. Thinking about the cow causes sadness so deep for me, I don’t think I will ever come back. I refuse to listen to him. The only thing I can do is pull into myself as the warm coat enfolds and holds me. Long after we get back home my father continues his tirade. I go to bed and still hear him going on and on to my mom. She answers him with muffled grunts implying colluding agreement.

I lie under the covers in the dark shaking, immersed in anguish. I wonder if my parents are scared? Did it occur to them I might have died? Do they care? I feel hopelessly alone. I wish my sister were home from college. She would sit with me. She would hold me. This experience is changing my world. I will never be the same. Tears run down my cheeks in an unending stream as I cling to my camel hair coat.

Depression

On the first day of fourth grade I eagerly enter the old red-brick three-story schoolhouse, trudge up the thirteen worn wooden stairs, and walk down a wide hallway that has tall windows that reach almost to the ceiling. At the end of that hall I climb another thirteen stairs to the third floor, walk down another hall and enter my classroom.

Mrs. Laswell, my teacher, is up in the front of the room by her desk. When I turn in her direction she looks down. Gray, I think. Her hair is dusty gray and her home perm looks recent. Her glasses have gray plastic frames with gray tinted lenses. Her polyester dress is a gray floral print and she wears a simple gray cardigan that looks thin and worn. She is old and tired of kids. She is dreading teaching another year. She has thought about it all summer, wondering how in the world she can get through the year so that she can finally retire next May. She settles on an idea. She sets up her lesson plans to be able to leave the classroom at least once an hour to go to the teachers lounge and have a cigarette. She hopes this year’s kids are old enough and good enough to leave alone—at least for the time it takes to have a quick cigarette to calm her nerves. It isn’t a perfect plan but it will have to do.

There are fifteen kids in my class this year. I take a seat in a desk next to my friends. The chair and the desk are connected. I lift the top of the desk and put my supplies inside: a brown glue bottle with a pink rubber nipple, 10 yellow number 2 pencils that need to be sharpened, a new pink eraser that’s rectangular with points at both ends and a 12 inch ruler that is wooden with a thin metal edge along one side. I look around and locate the pencil sharpener. It’s attached to the wall next to the black board in the back of the room. 

Once we’re all seated, Mrs. Laswell drones on and on and on in a muffled monotone voice while I look around the room. On the back wall are wooden cubbies where I put my coat and boots and other stuff like that. There are enormous windows all along one side of the large room and there is a big elm tree growing outside. We are on the top floor of the building and I can see the sky and watch the clouds moving by perfectly.

At 10:30 we go outside for recess and enjoy running around on the playground. Lunch downstairs in the cafeteria is next. Today they serve rice pudding for dessert. I miss after-lunch recess because I refuse to touch the rice pudding and the rule is you have to eat everything on your plate or sit there thinking about why you didn’t. When we gather back in our room for the afternoon, Mrs. Laswell announces we are going to have a special all-school assembly at 3 o’clock. She dodges our questions about what it is about by turning her back and writing furiously on the blackboard.

She hurries back into the room from one of her “breaks” at 10 to 3 and instructs us line up single file to go downstairs to the cafeteria for the assembly. All the kids from kindergarten through eighth grade are arranging themselves facing the stage that’s at one end. We sit on the floor and the teachers stand leaning against the walls, looking bored.

I search the room for the 6th graders. They are already sitting close to the stage. I see my sister with them, laughing with her friends Sandy and Pam. As more and more students arrive, the noise level gets louder and louder. I lean forward to better hear what my friends Becky, Linda and Mikie are talking about.

All of a sudden there is a loud metallic screech that silences the room. The principal is attempting to get the new sound system working. He definitely has our attention now! After bumbling and fumbling a while longer with the help of the Phys Ed teacher, he stands behind the microphone and begins to talk. His voice sounds garbled and too loud. It is difficult to understand him—almost like he is underwater.

He tells us that starting tomorrow the students will be ‘housed’ all over town because they are going to tear the existing school building down and build another, newer one. It will take the entire school year to complete. “We must all do our best to get through the year,” he says with absolutely no emotion. He goes on to tell us where each grade will be located. Some kids will be in buildings across town. One class will be in the clothing factory on Main Street. One will be in the Methodist church basement. I stop listening when I realize I am holding my breath and look down and see my fingernails digging into the skin of my leg.

When we are released to go back to our classrooms the kids file through the halls in stunned silence. Mrs. Laswell explains to us, “Tomorrow morning when you come to school go to the main entrance of the high school and turn left. Go down that hall and up four steps. Take the first door on the right. That will be our new room for the year.”

When I go home that night my feelings are unsettled and jittery. My leg bounces all through supper and later I have a hard time getting to sleep. When I arrive at the high school the next morning and walk into the classroom my fears slam into reality. The room is tiny. It is off the kitchen that is used for high school home economics classes. It is dingy and smells of mold and blueberry muffins. There are no windows so even with the lights on it is dark. There are no blackboards. Our desks are squished together and face the center of the room in the shape of a contorted square. There is just barely enough room to walk behind the chairs.

It feels like my breath has been knocked out of me by an unexpected punch. My eyes squeeze shut for a second as if the assault is coming from the oppression of the stuffy hot room. When I open my eyes it takes me a minute to focus. The beige asphalt tile floor, beige walls and low dirty-white ceiling tiles move in and out as if alive. My friends are already sitting in their assigned seats according to names written on masking tape across the desks. As I make my way to the desk with my name, I panic because not one of my friends is close by.

As I sit down in my seat I have a bizarre awareness that my brain and body are changing. There is a shutting down, a slowing and thickening, a shallowness of breath, a heaviness of extremities and an uncomfortable pinched constricted feeling in my throat. It all happens so fast I can’t grasp what’s happening. There is a visceral darkening of mood. General overall pain cries out. It is like straining to swim through peanut butter. I feel like I want to run screaming out of the room. I want more than anything to get outside, to run home, to hide. I don’t remember anything else about that morning but when it is over I run home for lunch as fast as I can. I do not go back.

That night I dream of the classroom. The walls are closing in on me and I am being pulled into a dark hole in the middle of the desks. The light that is ahead fascinates me but I am totally preoccupied with the force of the black swirl that encircles me. Mrs. Laswell is there and I know she sees me but she turns around and walks out of the room. I reach out to my friends to pull me back but no one is strong enough. I wake up panicked and panting. “I don’t want to go to school,” I tell my mom. She confirms what I already know—that that is not an option. How will I ever get through the year?

I am ruled by overwhelming sadness. I feel ripped apart. Everything feels like it is ‘too much’. I am anxious and upset—just like when you’re about to do something new for the first time. My attitude has gone from a positive “I can do this!” to a flat “there is no way!” By the time I step onto the school grounds the next morning the voices in my head have completely taken over and are screaming horrible things about how worthless I am and what I don’t deserve.

Each day the struggle continues. Every morning when I arrive at school I hesitate in the hall outside the classroom—my mind scatters, my feet are so ridged and heavy they feel like they’re glued to the floor. I have to make myself go in. When I sit in the room for any length of time I feel like I will lose my grip on reality. My mind gets blurry, my heart races and I wouldn’t care if I passed out.

By November I am despondent and withdrawn. I am obsessed with getting out of that room. One day I look over and see Gilbert, who sits next to me, leaning back in his chair. Mrs. Laswell spins around, sees what he is doing, and snaps, “Gilbert, you may take your distraction out into the hall. Sit on the floor with your back against the wall until I come and get you!” I have found a way out!

Gilbert and I spend our days on the floor in the hall. It is calming for me to sit on the floor. The polished linoleum is cool against my legs and provides solid grounding for my fast moving, spinning cycles. I don’t even mind the fatigue that comes with sitting on a hard surface for  long periods of time.

With lots of time to be quiet, I start to notice the difference between what is going on in the outer world and what is going on inside me. Sometimes outside can trigger a tornado of feelings inside. Other times my own thoughts can produce an avalanche of feelings. As I track my feelings it becomes clear that depression looms underneath everything. The sad, overwhelming, heavy, dark depression is a constant. The depression makes it difficult to have normal feelings. I get that I am not the depression but it holds me down until I want to scream.

Even though I am afraid of it, I get curious about the depression. When I am depressed I experience my life as being right over there on the other side of the room—just out of reach. I have very little energy available to move or do anything. The sense of hopelessness is overpowering. Being alone and isolated feels both safe and unbearable. I start to recognize that my depression is not the same as the other kid’s “feeling down” that they can snap out of pretty easily. Every day I know with more certainty there is something wrong with me. I am overcome with shame.

I begin to wonder if the depression will ever lift. I experience my predicament similar to needing to find a way out of the temporary classroom. Only now I need to find a way out of the depression. I spend the rest of the school year separated from Mrs. Laswell and my classmates by a thick brick wall. I know my pain is visible. But why isn’t anyone helping me? It seems odd that no one notices or steps up to intervene. Sometimes I do things that are kind of off the wall just to see what kind of response people will have. As I suspect, I am punished for bad behavior without acknowledgement of where it’s coming from. I’m certain my sister knows I am struggling and my friends have a way of letting me know without words that they will still be there when I get through this. Other than that no one cares.

By the time 4th grade is over in May I have become a different child.

I slog through the summer but nothing improves. Our new school building opens at the beginning of fifth grade. Everyone is excited to see what it is like. I walk into my new classroom and am grateful the room is large with lots of light streaming in the windows. I am disappointed that I still feel discouraged and completely depressed. I sink further into it. I don’t talk at school through that entire year. I am miserable. On Saturdays at ballet lessons in Topeka and I refuse to use my arms while dancing on point. I am silently screaming for help. I stop caring.

When I go into 6th grade I am sick and tired of the depression. I know my body and brain still aren’t working. I am so sad and lonely. I make a conscious decision to talk and try to be part of my class, although I know this means faking it. I pretend to be okay even though I’m not.

I remember the moment when the chemicals in my brain come back into balance and the depression lifts. It is September and I am sitting in seventh grade English class. A heavy curtain lifts in my head is replaced with a buoyant lightness and all kinds of positive activity. I have energy again. I have found the way out! How did I get here in the first place? How did I get out? How can I stop it from happening again? These are urgent questions and I need answers...

“Cultivation Of Culture In Kansas” Stories From Childhood

My mother teaches practically every child in my little town piano. I sit under the old spinet and wait for her. I get very good at waiting and knowing the letter of each note being played and if one is missed knowing what it should be. I crave my mother’s attention but she is giving her patient, gentle, caring to another child and then another. I wait and wait for her. I am 3.

I am pleased with the shoes but they are different from any I’ve ever seen before. I wish they were not pink. I hate pink but am getting used to the idea that my mother is going to pick out pink clothes for me and I do not have enough power to change that. We are in Topeka. We go into a building I’ve never been in before. I am not told where we are going. I am with Susanne but she disappears as soon as we go through the door with other girls into the main part of the room. I panic without her. My mother is there. She is angry with me. She is pulling at my coat and I am refusing to take it off. I am crying. Then I feel hysteria overtake me. I must be loud by the looks the other mothers give who are standing near us.  It is hot and crowded. I sense their eyes on my mother and me and hear snickers, laughter and remarks that my mother should take me outside. I cannot breathe. I feel like the most important thing in the world is to keep my coat on. If it is on, I won’t have to go with the other girls and Susanne. Mommy gets angrier and angrier. She has stopped trying to take my coat off and is now bending down talking to me.  I only hear parts of what she is saying: “If you don’t get out there...............” “I will never.............again.” “You were the one who wanted to do this and now ... ”Look what you are doing to me?” I am certain I have not asked for this because I have never seen anyone dance before. I am pulling away from her because she is too close to my face. Then I look up and people come into view. I lunge at my mother and cling to her leg. I am overwhelmed with anxiety and shyness! This is my first memory of feeling shame and embarrassment. I know I am a bad person because I have hurt and upset my mommy. I am 4 years old.

I don't know where we are going, but our lacy stockings and black patent leather shoes have been carefully placed on our beds. Susanne’s dress is blue but otherwise the same as my pink one. Mommy drives us to Topeka and we park in a lot behind a big grey building I don’t recognize. I struggle up some concrete steps and go through heavy metal doors. I see my piano teacher. She smiles and waves then comes over to us and hands my mother a folded paper with printing on it. My mother is fussing with our dresses. She tells me I am going to play “Tiny Tiger”, which is a piece I like to play a lot. She stands behind me as I peek out between heavy red velvet curtains. I see lots of people sitting in chairs facing a stage. The lights pointing at a stage blind me. Mrs. Durine is talking through a microphone to the people in the audience. I have never heard a microphone before. She gets done talking and walks toward me. Then she gives me a little push and I am on the stage. I am paralyzed with fright. For a minute I cannot walk toward the piano, which is black and open to the sky and extends practically clear across the stage, nor can I go back. All my thoughts disappear. Tears are rolling uncontrollably down my cheeks onto my dress. There is an uncomfortable rustling in the audience. Finally, I run off the stage into the arms of my furious mother. She takes me to a corner behind the stage and is bending down talking to me. She is too close and her grip on my arms too hard as if she is going to shake me. Her face is red and I know she wants to yell but cannot because of all the people. I hear another child playing the piano on the stage behind us. Mrs. Durine comes over and my mother straightens and stands up. Mrs. Durine is unhappy with me but it is not the same kind of anger as my mother’s. Her anger is not about embarrassment or feeling humiliated like my mother’s. She is simply trying to convince me to go out and play my piece. I am crying and cannot catch my breath. I am too upset to find any words. She goes away and comes back many times. In between, she tells the next student to go onto the stage to play. Susanne plays her piece. Then she stands quietly next to my mother. This back and forth pattern of Mrs. Durine’s goes on for what seems like forever. Finally, Mrs. Durine says she will give me a doll if I will go out and play “Tiny Tiger”. I jump at the opportunity for someone to be nice to me. By this time everyone else has finished playing. When I walk out onto the stage everyone in the audience laughs. The students have played in order of age and the high school seniors have just finished playing. I remember bowing but do not remember playing “Tiny Tiger”. I am 4 years old. I never get a doll.

Mr. Fetter is teaching me violin. I want to play because I like the sound of the violin when my big brother, Phil, plays. Mr. Fetter’s office is in an old stone building at Washburn University in Topeka. It is large because the orchestra practices there when he isn’t teaching. He is smoking a cigar and I am holding back a wave of nausea from the putrid smell. Mr. Fetter loves Phil. He has a daughter who is in Phil’s grade. It is a well-known fact that Phil is “like the son he never had”. Everyone encourages this relationship. Mr. Fetter doesn’t particularly like me or enjoy teaching me. He does it because I am Phil’s little sister. I am very motivated in spite of his indifference and do very well. I am 6.

I am playing “Meditation from Thais” at church. I play it beautifully. Flawlessly. Inspired. After church, some little old ladies I do not know come up to me. “That was so moving and beautiful,” one says. “ It was almost as good as if Phil was playing it.” I am 11.

Mrs. Flannigan is my piano teacher. I am playing Mozart and Beethoven Sonatas. I like them very much. She insists that I take a pencil and make a line every 4 measures on the pages through all the movements. Then I am to practice only one 4-measure group at a time, over and over and over again. It is tedious and although I can see value in it, it is not enjoyable. Mrs. Flannagan sits in the next room and chain-smokes. The house floats in a heavy blue haze. She barks out directives and criticisms. I can be there for an entire lesson and never see her. I do improve and music begins to make sense to me in a new way and takes on form, shape, depth and hue. I am 12.

I am preparing to play a solo for State Music Contest. Mr. Fetter has brought in an accompanist who is a student at the University. He is only doing it for the money and we do not hit it off. My best friend, Ron and I have been playing the piece together and doing great. I go to Mr. Fetter and tell him I would prefer playing with Ron. Without hesitation he says that is not a problem. Then, shortly after that, my mother tells me I am not going to take lessons with Mr. Fetter any more. She tells me he is extremely upset with me for going against his assignment of an accompanist. He doesn’t want to work with me anymore or see me ever again. I am 13.

I take on 5 piano students my mother doesn’t have time to teach. We start out slowly and soon they are playing advanced pieces well. It is the first time I have ever taught, except for Red Cross swimming lessons, which is completely different. I enjoy sharing music that I am starting to love SO MUCH! I am 14.

I am the drummer in a rock band called “Psychotic Reaction”. We play for dances in neighboring towns. I am having a blast playing trap drums and it gets me out socially without the pressure of having to talk to people. Even though I go with the guys in the band to the dances, my parents wait in their car through the entire dance and follow me home. One night I am wearing a red and navy hound’s-tooth pants suit and I am hot. A beautiful guy is there dancing with a number of different girls. I can tell that everyone finds him attractive and would do anything for his attention. He walks up to me at intermission and starts talking. His name is Dick Love and he is also a drummer. Would I go out with him after the dance? “No,” I say. “I have State Music Contest in the morning and my parents do not let me go out.” The next day I walk into the room where I am to play my violin solo and as I get ready to play I look up and there is Dick Love sitting smack dab in the front row. I am supposed to play a Mozart Violin Concerto and instead play the first movement of the Mendelsohn Violin Concerto, which I have never even read through but have heard Phil play. I do not realize I have played the wrong piece until the judge asks my why I played a different solo than the one listed. I never see Dick again...I am 15.

Mrs. Kew is a jewel. She is teaching me violin after Mr. Fetter has kicked me out of his studio. She pushes me hard in a gentle way and I am sounding better and better. She navigates my mother’s challenging ways by moving out the way like an Aikido Master. Soon after I begin working with her I earn the position of Concertmistress in the Topeka Youth Symphony, win the Topeka Symphony Young People’s Music Competition and play a concerto with them, play in an adult orchestra in St. Joseph, Missouri and start playing a series of recitals with my friend Ron. Mrs. Kew lives in Atchison, which is 60 miles from my home. I hate riding in the car anywhere with my mother, especially long distances. We fight all the time now and my anger overtakes my reason and I find myself off balance. I feel trapped in the car with her. I need her to stop. I am 16.

I am riding in the car with my mother driving down Topeka Avenue, which is wide with large trees along the side. She is yelling at me and threatening to not let me go to college if I talk with a certain boy in my class ever again. It is because he is a Catholic, she says. I am hemmed in by the confinement of the car and feel as though I will explode. I am yelling back and my mother speeds up. When I cannot take the pressure another second I open the car door and roll out onto the road. My mother continues driving and I have to scramble up out of the way of traffic. I am scheduled to take a piano lesson with Ron’s teacher that afternoon. I decide to walk to her house, although I have no idea how far it is. As I am walking I realize I am going past Washburn University. I walk to the music building. Just as I walk through the front doors Mr. Fetter walks out of his office. He sees me and comes over and gives me a large hug. He asks if I have a few minutes so he can talk with me. We go into his office. He tells me he was never upset with me but had had “enough” of my mother. He just couldn’t take her “demanding nature” any more. He was disturbed that I hadn’t been told the truth. I leave and continue walking. My feelings are confused by our conversation. I am happy that he cares about me. I keep walking and arrive at my piano lesson exactly on time. The teacher, who has only met me once, doesn’t realize anything is amiss until she asks where my music is and sees tears in my clothes and tears in my eyes. She is concerned and makes some phone calls in the next room. In about an hour my sister, who has come home from college for the weekend, shows up and drives me home. My parents never mention incident. We all pretend it did not happen. I am 17.

Dorothy Thomas has a clever racket going. She teaches groups of 10 girls half hour lessons in tap, ballet, modern dance and acrobatics. Every Saturday she teaches from morning until night. Marilyn Boone, Kathy Lever and Sheri Satin are her favorites—at least they always stand in the front so we can follow them. My sister and I are fleshy, tall and dark haired. Marilyn, Kathy and Sheri and the other girls are tiny with blond hair and blue eyes. They all live in Topeka and are friends. Their mothers wear stylish clothes and makeup and drive pink thunderbird cars and talk with each other during the lessons. My mother is overweight and feels bad about her and wears dresses that are outdated and practically rags. No one talks to her. I don’t know which is more embarrassing—my sister, our mother, or me. To add more humiliation to this experience, every year Dorothy has a dance review at the auditorium theater downtown. We have costumes for each dance we are in. That means about a dozen each. Everyone else has outfits sewn by the same dressmaker. Our mother makes ours. Ours are always way off mark and obviously different from the others even from the back of the auditorium. I hate dancing and Dorothy Thomas and Marilyn, Kathy and Sheri and my mom and the other mothers SO MUCH! I have never been more miserable than at Dorothy Thomas’s and dread going there every Saturday. I beg to stop and finally am allowed to quit after 4 years. I am 18.

I am playing principal second violin with the All Student Orchestra USA. We are playing a concert on the Eifel Tower in Paris, France. It is Bastille Day. As we play, large dark clouds gather and loom above us, threatening rain. We are outside on the first deck. I feel a sprinkle followed by several more. I do not wait for the conductor or the Concertmistress to give us all the signal to leave but get up and walk quickly under cover. Everyone follows me. I think this must be the most independent, powerful thing I have ever done. I am 18.