Monday 14 May 2007

Snapshots of childhood...

Today, would have been my Dad's 71st birthday, if he was still with us. I have been thinking a lot of trying to put down on paper my father's story. But I realise, I never really knew him. I knew the stories he told, but it's sometimes difficult to determine what was fact or fiction. But I have memories, mental snapshots, and I wonder whether it is his story or my own that I need to write about...

Sitting outside of the old mansion in St Kilda, converted into apartments, that was home. My brother, Dad and I sitting on the front verandah watching the world go by, Dad telling funny stories about the people passing. And my yelling "there's Father Christmas, Daddy, there's Father Christmas" and wondering why he tried to shush me, as a heavily bearded man, in a black suit and a big hat walked down the street. It's only now looking back I realise why he was so embarrassed, the man was an Orthodox Jew walking to the synagogue and here was I calling him Santa!

Dad yelling at us, cause we'd brought home a kitten found in a derelict house, that we wanted to keep. "There will be no animals in this house" he roared, and then we found the kitten asleep on his lap that night. He cried when he buried Dirty Dora in the backyard years later. And for every animal we had, we'd hear the same roar, and then he'd love them and they him.

Driving in the furniture truck with Mum and my baby sister, with my brother and Dad on the back to the new house in Thomastown, only to arrive and find the house has no walls or windows, and the builder's done a bunk with our money and we are homeless.

Curled up on his lap, watching Little Women, and the two of us sobbing, as Beth dies.

Telling me to shut up or I'd be sorry, while I sobbed quietly lying on the top bunk of the room I shared with my sister, not understanding why I'd been sent to bed in the middle of the afternoon in punishment for some unknown misdemeanor. And then crying even more, as he closed the door and said to my brother and sister, who wants an icecream?

Sitting on his shoulders at a grown up fancy dress party, when I'd sneaked out of bed to see every one's costumes, and him insisting I be allowed to stay up, much to my mother's disgust. He was dressed up as Herman Munster, and he kept losing the bolt of his neck so he araldited it to his head, and it took weeks before it fell off.

Hiding under the covers, with my hands pressed to my ears, as he crawled drunkenly along the hallway, crying for his mother, after an alcoholic binge that lasted days.

Screaming through the hallways and alleyways around the apartments we lived in on a hot summers night, while Dad and the other grown ups threw buckets of water at us, as we raced around in our summer pj's.

Being bundled into my parents bed in the wee small hours of the night by a neighbour, and seeing the flash of the ambulance lights against the windows, while we were told that Daddy's had an accident, and has cut himself shaving... and my brother whispering to me, I saw him, why would Dad be shaving his wrists?

Watching a neverending stream of boys pile in or out of his Volkswagen Beetle as he drove them to football practice... the only father on the block with a car. He was also the defacto ambulance when we had an emergency, when Brian upstairs fell and broke his arm, or my friend Karen set her skirt alight while jumping over a bonfire.

Dancing around in his underwear, singing I'm So Pretty, oh so Pretty... and hamming it up for the camera.

Sitting at the kitchen table the night of my sister's wedding, and reaching out to pinch me at every opportunity, until a friend asked him why he was being so mean, and him saying "Cause I hate her"

Walking up to wait for me to finish work at the local gift shop on a Friday night, and sweeping up and helping out while he waited, and then holding my hand all the way home and telling me how proud he was and how much he loved me.

Terrorising the teachers, and amusing all my classmates at every parent/teacher night he ever went to. One of the boys said "You're Dad is so cool, you are so lucky" and I said "You can have him if you like!"

15 comments:

Have the T-shirt said...

It is amazing how our memories of our parents are so varied, wonderful and terribly sad too.

These were touching.

savannah said...

oh, miss frou...*sighing*

Indiana said...

Sounds like your Dad was like all of us, a swirl of emotion and experiences, driven to utmost despair and elevated to complete happiness...

...I'm never sure whether its with comfort or with sadness that I recognise the humanity in my own father, or maybe its more when I recognise him in me.

Miss Frou Frou said...

T - the post started off as something completely different and took on a life of it's own... almost didn't publish in the end...

Savannah - yep, pretty much.. funnily enough the overriding feeling I have for Dad is love, frustration yes, but never anger, he was an unhappy man

Indy - yeah, he was just an extreme version... probably because he was manic/depressive. And it scares me sometimes how very like him I am... just that I have the ability to cope better than he did

Birdydownunder said...

oh Frou... memories. I don't think we really know anyone do we? Always the secret part in the heart. I just hope my kids remember the good bits about me. aubirdwoman

Julia Phillips Smith said...

I pretty much had your dad sorted out when you confirmed it with your comment to Indiana. My husband is bipolar, too. He fights a monumental battle every day to prevent his condition from rippling out over everyone else. Mainly because his own dad was an alcoholic and he experienced some of that for himself.

I feel for your confusion, having to grow up with the ever-changing dad. Would he be the giddy, goofy dad, a conspirator in your child's world? Or a tyrant, ranting over nothing? Or prone to weeping over everything?

I come home to several different husbands, all the same man. But I'm an adult, and he's someone who understands what's going on inside him. Unlike your dad, probably.

My cheers to you and your family for getting through it all. And especially to you for your rivetting post. The back-and-forth between the light and dark was very, very effective, dramatically. I'm so grateful you hit the 'publish' button.

Miss Frou Frou said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
Miss Frou Frou said...

Sheila - kids remember, what kids remember.. its funny the bits that stick and the bits that don't. Its what we do with those memories that is important.. I could let myself be defined by my 'unhappy' childhood as my sister has, except it wasnt unhappy... it was difficult and crazy and rollercoastery, but it was mine! And truly I remember more fun times then I do dark ones, just that when they were dark, they were very dark...And I know I wouldn't be who I am without having had those experiences, both good and bad.

Julia - the difference for Dad is that he went undiagnosed until his 40s... he was lumped in the crazy basket, without any real diagnosis, and had a variety of different treatments, including electro/shock and deep sleep. Once he was diagnosed and they got his meds right he was very different... still difficult, as he used his illness as an excuse for some pretty ratty behaviour, but much calmer... unless he decided he was cured and flushed his meds, that was a whole other story...

Anonymous said...

sigh.....I'm amazed at your brilliant writing and am proud FOR you!!! As someone who has known you for so long now..and delighted that you are finally writing...I am learning so much more about you from your writing...even though we have had many (but not all) of the conversations...you are an inspiration....keep up the wonderful work....love you long time...

Miss Frou Frou said...

Thanks FBG... I'm surprising myself a lot of the things I find myself writing about... and the memories that are surfacing.

Anonymous said...

Oh Miss Frou Frou - this is such an amazing piece. I read that you hesitated posting and understand why - publishing makes it real, gives it voice. This is so beautiful and terrifying at the same time. Thank you for your honesty and the ability to go deep and share.

Wylie Kinson said...

Wow Miss Frou,... that was very powerful. I felt love, pity and anger for your father in those few paragraphs. And love, shame and pride for the small child whose emotions were left raw.
Great piece...

Miss Frou Frou said...

Xine - thank you... high praise intend considering how much I enjoy reading your words

Wylie - he was a difficult man, but very lovable...an utter contradiction, as I am discovering I am too

Scorpy said...

I absolutely loved this....well done. I saw a lot of my childhood and my dad in this...both happy and sad. Thanks

Miss Frou Frou said...

Scorpy - you're welcome. I think lots of us have the mixture of memories... as Kate Hepburn told Jane Fonda in On Golden Pond... everyone has a terrible childhood!