“because I said so”

My neck crooked to one side in response to the tight and twisting hold she had on my hair, her nails digging at the roots; my mother was particularly expert at inflicting pain in several areas at once. She raised bloody welts on my thigh with the wooden spoon with her free hand. Saliva sprayed from my blubbering lips; I was choking with fright and gagging on my tears. Some minor infraction brought it on, this time it was the music. I played the New World Symphony one time too many… I had a blue and white folding, portable record player and had checked out the heavy Dvorak LP from the St. George Library.

I was memorizing the flute part so that my Saturday morning practice would sail by- the borough-wide orchestra was playing the symphony at its concert that spring, 1968. I really don’t know what was worse; the nasty grip on my scalp, the pain in my neck, or the realization that my record player and the pre-vinyl disc were now in pieces on the sidewalk below my bedroom window. I loved that machine. It usually sat on my window sill, playing the White Album, The Singing Nun, Dusty Springfield, the Stones or Mozart- the combination characterizing the mess I was in- a freak in my family, a gangly overlong 14 year old with passionate crushes on dead poets and my father’s friends. I believed her insults too readily. What the hell was I on earth for anyway? My life didn’t jive with my Sunday School lessons. I clearly remember saying to her face that I was sure she didn’t give birth to me, how could any woman be so hateful to their own baby? I saw myself, even at 14 as a baby.

When I was able to slip out of her lock and the voice became more distant and she grew distracted by the little kids, I roller-skated fast away, down the slate sidewalks, instead of braving the tar bubbles on the street. I became an Olympic roller queen, flying past Westerleigh Park, noting which streets had cobblestones to steer clear of their ankle jamming crevasses. It took about 15 minutes of determined sprinting on wheels to reach my grandmother’s house. Collapsed in her kitchen I never mentioned what terror held me captive just a short time earlier. With a cold Fresca in my newly washed hands I moved in on the action at the table. It could easily have been the NY Times crossword, but more likely it was rolling spongy rich dough flat enough to cut into rounds, dip into melted butter, and then align them in careful rows to become Parker House rolls.  Each one is perfectly folded into a half moon, just overlapping its neighbor enough to leave a lovely un-crusted spot on its spine once baked.

 How exquisite it was to arrange those perfect 2 inch scallops on the greased and floured pan, soon to be golden, warm and sweet. What perfection in order, what control, what harmony, what love at the table.

When my own children lose the thread of why they’re here, or why we’re a family, I’m tempted to spill all the details.  I am too often lost in worry about them. It’s a damn folly to expect one’s children to understand why they shouldn’t waste any time together fighting, why they must notice how much they are loved every single day, why they must understand how lucky they are. Its not folly to expect them to do it because you say they have to. I don’t miss any opportunity to do so.

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