Who Cares What Nansi Thinks?

We just got home from a family gathering at Mike's mom's house. Mike is the man I'm about to marry. This is the third marriage for both of us. Mike's mom is an amazing woman. She takes care of her disabled brother, full time. She does it with a pure heart and without agenda.

Mike is the oldest of seven children. They grew up on a Pennsylvania farm that had no indoor bathroom for much of their lives. The kids all worked the farm. They raised their food in livestock and gardens. His dad worked nights at a grocery store. His Mom stayed home and kept the family running smoothly.

Mike doesn't remember ever seeing his parents argue or fight. I've never had the pleasure of meeting Mike's dad, he passed away many years ago. His mom never remarried.

The stories of Mike's childhood are so different from mine. He talks of naming the cows, and crying when it was time to send them to slaughter. He talks of being chased by the neighbor's dogs on his way home from school, his first job in a grocery store, sharing space with his six siblings. Nothing too dramatic. Nothing too exciting. Normal? Is this what normal was?

I have fantastic childhood memories. Both good and bad. My earliest memory is of a terrible fight my mother was having with my oldest sister. Mom picked up a leather bull whip which our neighbor had gotten at "Six Gun Territory" that day. She snapped it like a pro and laid whelps on my sister's legs. I was four or five, which would have made my sister around eighteen years old. (My next memory is of that same sister coming home for a visit. She must have moved out shortly after that altercation.) I remember Mom chasing my other sister with a butcher knife. I remember her hitting my sister with a cast iron frying pan. I only remember violence against the girls. I never saw my mother mistreat my brother.

Dad. He was a handsome, jovial man. Everyone loved him. He sang and played the piano. He wrote funny skits for church youth rallies. He was a dead ringer for Benjamin Franklin. He waited on my mother hand and foot.

When mom was in her towering rages he would try to divert her away from us. Later he would come to us girls and say, "You know, your mom is unstable. Just hang in there. You are good girls and I love you." Then he would go to Mom and say "Our daughters are the spawn of Satan. No wonder you're so upset. I'll try to keep them in line."

We all thought we were right. Dad was trying to keep the peace in the house. But by playing both sides, he kept the conflict alive.

Both of my parents got jobs at Disney World when I was about 11 years old. That was the beginning of a few years of calm in our house. By this time, all of my siblings were married and it was just me. Like I said before, I knew how to gauge the situation and act accordingly. I figured out that if I kept the house clean, the laundry done, and dinner cooked, there was a better than 50/50 chance that all would be well.

The Disney Years were amazing. There was enough money in the house. We went to the theme park often and we even went on nice vacations. Just the three of us. I went to private school. I behaved. I only dated boys that who met with my parents approval. Life was good and life was relatively calm.

I once wrote in my diary that I'd rather spend time with my parents than anyone else. I'd say it was about a three year period of normalcy. I later learned that Mom had been on a good anti-psychotic.

When I was 14, Mom went to bed. She stayed in bed for weeks. She said it was arthritis. My two strong memories of that period were 1) She was unable to put on her bra. She made me do it. (for some reason that was absolutely revolting to me.) 2) She insisted that our very conservative pastor anoint her with oil and pray for her healing.

I envy Mike his mediocre childhood. I admire their frugality and wonder at the simple pleasures of life. My childhood was filled with the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. Rarely was there a middle ground.