Home Sweet Home

I Promise Not to Tell
by Brenda M Weber

(Page 3 of 5)

If it were possible for me to relive my life from the beginning, that first moment of conception, and becoming a human being, while fitting snug and warm in my mother's womb, that could possibly be the most secure time in my life. That may very well be the only secure time in my life. That may very well be the one and only moment that my mother could leave her legacy to me. The only legacy she had to give, the legacy of stark naked life.

With my life there is no beginning, and seemingly, no end. I try to sort out the distorted and frayed fragments of my life, and can only come to the conclusion that it is dysfunctional, to say the least. I try to grasp on to memories while looking through a darkened mist, with blindness so desolate.

I came into this world at 6:18 am on Tuesday, May 24th, 1955, weighing 6 pounds, 12 ounces, and 20 inches long. Is grace the description for Tuesday's child? Grace is beauty or harmony of motion, form, or manner. Harmony is a state of order, none of which I've ever had. Beauty of motion brings to mind a graceful ballerina, but the movements in my life have been staggered and clumsy, resulting in many falls. I always get up; I always survive the scraps and scratches.

The children my parents produced are Mary, born in 1951, Rob 1953, John 1957, and Roger 1960. I was smack dab in the middle. That dreaded middle child, and a Gemini. More siblings would come later, with the interlinking of families.

I grew up in a wooded area just outside of the city limits of a small town in Michigan. There were about twelve houses in this area, and I lived in an old house with tarpaper siding and an outhouse that still stood in the backyard, even though we had an inside toilet. The three-bedroom, two-story house was nothing fancy with linoleum floors and plaster walls. Part of it had been a barn at one time and was slapped together with another building to form a house. I can honestly say I was raised in a barn! The city/county line ran down the middle of the house. I could stand in the living room and be in the city, and walk into the kitchen and be in the country. The house was cold and drafty in the winter and the upstairs was hot and stuffy in the summer.

Next to the house was a swampy area, with a little creek running through it that created a pond in the middle. In the summertime my brothers and I would catch frogs, pollywogs, and minnows. I loved the sound of the croaking frogs; the sensuous sound would lull me to sleep when I felt like escaping from my world. The wintertime was spent building forts and ice-skating on the pond.

Down the road was a family with three girls and a boy. My grandparents lived just across the field, and my cousin's house was two down from them. When I was ten, a large family with five boys and two girls moved in next to my grandparents. I was a tomboy, always with my brothers and the neighbor boys. After the large family moved in, it didn't take long before the summers were spent playing baseball, along with building tree forts, and fishing. The girls in the neighborhood were all older or younger than me, and I wasn't much for playing with dolls. The Christmas I was five, I got a Tonka dump truck, and my older brother got a doll. My Daddy worked hard, but still found time for his little girl, taking me rabbit hunting, fishing, and we all went for family rides in the woods, or to camp on weekends. There were picnics in the summertime with lots of aunts, uncles, and cousins. It would seem like my life was normal and happy, but the most important thing missing was my mother. It's as if she never existed, a gnawing sense of a void that can never be filled.

I know I had a mother, but have an equivocal memory of her, most of which family members have told me. Somewhere along the line, all my memories were stolen away. Someone packed them away in a box, put them in a dark, spooky attic, and forgot about them, forgot to tell me they even existed, let alone where they were. Some memories came back to me gradually, but only ones that have left guilt-ridden scars on my lonely soul.

I don't understand the intricacies of the human brain, and how it chooses to retain some memories clearly, and pick others to block out. I don't know if I repressed what happened to my four-year-old self when it happened, or if I selectively repressed most of my childhood because of the trauma I suffered at nine years old. At nine, the blackest of my memories scarred me for life.

About the Author

Brenda has been writing since the age of fifteen. She has compiled several booklets of poetry and written many short stories. This is her first book, a dream come true. She has written a fictional account of a lumberjack in Michigan which will soon be released. Brenda is working on a sequel to her autobiography as well as another work of fiction. She plans to write a series of children's books too. With four adult sons and a daughter, her children are her life.