Starting School

When I started school I knew I was different then the other kids.  Way different.  When Oma brought me into have me tested for placement in Kindergarten, I could read, I could write a little, I could count to ten in English and German, and I could sign my name in cursive.  There was discussion about putting me in 1^st grade, but they decided to put me in Kindergarten, because I lacked social skills. 

I remember being shocked by the stupidity of the kids around me.  Sorry if I sound arrogant here.  They did not know their numbers, their colors or shapes, and could not read.  Much less they did not understand German.  I thought everyone spoke another language at home.  I remember walking into the cafeteria and watching some of them eat with their hands.  These were not kids that were from ethnicities that ate with their hands.  These were American children, who should have known how to use a fork and spoon.  I was shocked and appalled. 

My first week of school I understood I was different than the other kids.  Some of my clothes, were what was hot that year in German fashion.  I didn’t care a back pack, I cared a satchel.  Oma had gotten it from German for me.  I knew I was different, and I desperately wanted to fit in, make friends and be liked.  Instead I would be singled out and called crazy or weird for my entire schooling. 

Angie was my best friend and Sean was my boyfriend.  Sean had been in my life as long as I could remember.  He was this beautiful little boy with blond hair.  His mother and grandmother cut Oma’s hair.  I have this memory of Sean and I being in the closet together and getting caught.  When they found us,  Oma and them had shocked looks on their faces.  Neither one of us remembers what we were doing.  But I am sure the two of us were up to now good!  LOL! 

Sean and I would get married in the morning, on the play ground and then divorced by lunch.  I remember lying in this ditch birthing his imaginary babies, while my friend I nicknamed Doc attended.  We did this every day.  Sean and I would sleep next to each other at nap time and cuddle.  I would even throw my leg over him.  Oh the teachers did not like that and had to separate us.  It really upset me.  I felt like I was all alone.  Sean remained my on-again-off-again boyfriend until the 3^rd grade, when I caught him holding another girl’s hand.  That was it for us.  I avoided him after that.  It helped we were also in separate classes.

Sean and I found each other on Facebook several years ago, and I got to see him on a trip into town.  He is just as beautiful as ever.   I was just as attracted to him, as I was when we were little.  He has a beautiful bald head, now that all his lovely blond hair fell out.  I got the chance to apologize to him for ignoring him all those years, we were still in school together.  He told me I am still his longest relationship to date. 

I attended Logansport Rosenwald Elementary School.  Now the Rosenwald here is a bit of a misnomer.  Julius Rosenwald built 5000 or so schools across the country to help educate mainly African-American children in the early 20^th century.  These schools were 1^st -12^th grade.  Our Rosenwald school was opened in 1952 and used as a segregated high school until the 70’s.  I remember going to school and seeing large photos of all black graduating classes.  Now I lived in a very small town.  There was only one high school.  It didn’t make since to me as Rosenwald was then used as an elementary school up until 6^th grade, and then you went to the high school.  I just kept looking at those pictures wondering where all the white kids were?  What was Rosenwald High School?  How do you explain the past of the segregated south and Jim Crow laws to a kindergartener?

My school was very small.  Maybe a 1000 kids from K-12.  The year I started school we had 90 in my class, by the time I graduated there would be 47 of us.  We were all a pretty tight knit group.

In May of 1982 Mom would met the man I would call my father for the rest of my life.  I talked about that in Novelle. They married that summer.   Daddy loved me almost instantly.  He picked up the gauntlet of being my father, long after Beau had thrown in down.  I think the great thing about Daddy was that he always considered me.  I remember going on family dates.  We’d have a picnic or go to the zoo.  When Mom got to go on a date, I got to go too.  I loved that.  I was a bit confused.  When Dad married Mom I thought he was marrying me too.  I used to go around and tell people, “well you know I got married this summer.”  LOL! 

They married in the same church, I would marry in 20 years later.  I was Mom’s Maid of Honor.  When they kissed I was so embarrassed I put my hand over my face, and just shook my head.  There is a picture of this.  I could not believe they were embarrassing me by kissing in church!!

Daddy legally adopted me that fall.  He never had any natural children of his own.  I am the closest thing he has.  Now let me have you understand, Jef is my father, Beau is my biological father.  Jef fed me.  Jef clothed me.  Jef disciplined me when I did wrong.  I was accountable to Jef when I screwed up in school.  Jef taught me to dance, love Motown, and read.  It was Jef I confided in and drank my first beer with.  It was my conversation with Jef and his offer to move me home, that got me to leave my abusive relationship.  It was Jef that gave me away at my wedding.  Beau did none of that.  So by everything that a father is measured by, Jef is my father and will be heralded here as such. 

Oma loved my Dad, Jef.  She found great comfort in him I think.  I remember we would have a big dinner, and after coffee they would sit and drink peppermint schnapps.  My dad is the only man I have ever seen stand up to my Grandfather, James Parker.  And the only man I ever saw my Grandfather back down from.  My dad was a godsend for all of us, a father, a husband, a lover, a son-in-law, but most of all, an advocate and a fighter for both my mother and I. 

During my first grade year they would diagnose Oma with Multiple Myeloma, a terrible form of cancer.  She would die before I started 2^nd grade.  She was 57.  By the time they found the cancer, she was already in the advance stages of the disease.  It had metastasized to her bones.  The end was not pretty and made me an advocate of euthanasia. 

Oma was shuffled back and forth between the hospital and home.  There was no hospice in those days.  My Mom and Dad did everything for her.  The rest of the family refused to help.  Perhaps they thought it was my Mom’s place because she was the girl?  Perhaps because she didn’t have a job?  During that year period I would spend a lot of time with Novelle and the rest of my new family. 

My last memory of Oma coherent is hard to put down on paper.  I was in the kitchen standing by the refrigerator and Oma was laid out in her brown leather recliner in the living room, not 20 ft. from me.  I suddenly hear this very loud, ragged, sucking inhalation.  I look up at her and a few moments later I hear her utter, “It was so beautiful.”  I know now she was traveling between worlds and had just come back into her body.  The Gods and The Dead were preparing her for her death.  She turned and she saw me standing in the kitchen.

 “Oh Ilsa, when I die I am going to be your garden angel.” 

I was confused.  I told her, “Well when you die tell Elvis I said Hello then.”  She and I were big Elvis fans back then. 

She smiled and told me to bring her some grapefruit juice. 

The last time I saw her we were in her hospital room.  They must have called all the family in, because they were all there.  I was the only kid in the room.  I am sitting on Mom’s knee and she whispers in my ear to take a good look, because that may be the last time I ever see Oma alive.  I wish to the Gods she had not.  That image is still stuck in my head of Oma laying there with a green oxygen mask on, moaning in pain, and finally she started screaming and I was ushered out of the room.  The morphine had long since quite working. 

I remember the whole family standing around her bed arguing who was going to take care of her.  My Mom begging my uncles to come and give her and Dad a break, as they were caring for Oma all the time and were exhausted.  One uncle said flatly, “I have a daughter to raise.”  I know made no since to me either.  Grandpa never hired a nurse.  I wonder if he thought, “why should I pay, I have free help in my daughter and her husband.”  Grandpa did take her at night after Mom and Dad left. 

When you have a family member come down with an illness that requires round the clock care, you really start to see the families true colors, and who you can depend on.  Usually one family member is singled out, just as my Mom was, to “handle it.”  I guess so the rest of the family isn’t inconvenienced. 

I was not allowed to attend Oma’s funeral.  I was only 7, but other kids in the family did.  I know my parents were trying to shield me.  I don’t know if going would have better or worse on me.  I will never know.  I understand Oma’s funeral was so packed that the men stood outside, to let the women and children have a place to sit.

My mother took Oma’s death very hard.  She nearly grieved herself to death, she became depressed and suicidal, and she also became anorexic.  Those were tough years for me.  I had lost my Oma, in my little girl heart my mother, and then to watch what my Mom loose her mind.  I had to become my mother’s emotional protector, both Daddy and I did.   Every word I said to her had to be measured, as to whether it would make her breakdown in tears.  For years I walked on eggshells around her and others.  I have often felt, too much was placed on me too soon.

I did not know that I was also in a deep depression at this time.  It became like second nature to me.  For most of my life I forgot what real true happiness felt like.  I hated myself and felt like a burden to my family.  So depression, anxiety and suicidal thoughts became my norm. 

The first time I remember wanting to kill myself was not long after Oma died.  I walked into Mom and Dad’s bedroom and told them I wanted to be with Oma.  Mom said, “You want to die?”  I don’t remember what I said but it was in the affirmative.  My Mom lost it and I was pushed out of the room. As far as I know no one ever discussed with my Mom getting her any kind of mental help.  She refuses it to this day even though she is plagued with Panic Attacks and Anxiety a well.  I wish to God they had, for both of our sakes.

Ilsa

 

 

 

 

 

 

My first memories

So I’ve taken you forward, now I want to take you backwards in my life.  I set out to let you know what happened to me during my marriage to Mike, to tell you things I didn’t answer in my “Prodigal Daughter” articles, and forward from the end of those articles until now.  I think I am done talking about that part of my life for a while.  I want to talk about my early life.  I hope you will enjoy it.

I covered my birth, Mom’s surgery, and Beau leaving in Hello Ilsa, Goodbye Beau.  My first memories are not of my Mom but are of Oma.

I was a loved and adored child by all those in my life.  I was welcomed in the same pomp and circumstance that most babies are in this culture. I was a cute and precocious child, ever the entertainer.  I remember jumping on the top of tables to sing and dance.  Putting a straw pot cover for a plant, on my head and dancing about.  Tucking a pair of pliers under my neck and pretending to be the doctor, and was ready to give Oma a shot. 

Angie was my best friend at that time.  She was my cousin, born two months after me.  Many of my pictures at this age include her in them.  Grandpa would later pit us against each other, making us compete against each other.   He would give us a dollar for every A on our report card.  His way of motivating us I guess.   He would say things like, “Well Angie got all A’s this semester and you only got 3.  You need to do better next time.” 

In Kindergarten I was devastated that she would not play with me.  I remember just balling.   Angie, and Sean, who I will talk about in Starting School, were my only friends.  Angie was from a little different socio-economic class then I was.  She was a bit more middle class and I was just working poor.  She gravitate more towards those of her own kind, nothing wrong with that.  She would become a cheerleader and one of the popular kids.  Although we are still family, we are not friends like when we were kids.  She is now a grown woman, a teacher , and has children of her own.  I recently saw her at a family function and was so please that she sat next to me.  We visit with each other on Facebook and share our lives, but I don’t think we will ever be that close again. 

I grew up literally next door to Oma and Grandpa.  They had moved Mom’s trailer next to them after the surgery.  Mom, Dad, Me, Oma and Grandpa all shared about a 5 acre spread in Logansport.  It was big enough for two houses and a large garden.  I have early memories of falling asleep in Oma’s house and waking up in my own bed.  I would start crying, because I didn’t know where I was. I spent lots of time with Oma and Grandpa.  I often wonder if my first language was not German.  I believe Oma spoke it to me a lot as I grew up.  I still understand more then I speak.  Angie and the other cousins visited occasionally, but as far as I know never spent the night.  Knowing what Grandpa did to me, I am very grateful for that.  I hope he never got any other grandchild other then me. 

I have an early memory of Oma taking me from her house to Mom’s house and telling me I was going to start sleeping at my own house.  I was screaming and crying I kept calling Oma my mother.   By the time Oma got me in the house, she had to calm me down and tell me, “I am not your Mother.  I am your Oma.”  Mom says this conversation never took place either, but she could not hear us, as we were in the hall and she was in the kitchen.  My little girl brain did not understand that Oma was not my mother.  I thought that my mother was my big sister.  Sorry but a lot of my early memories of my Mom,  are of her going out and “looking for a new daddy” for me.  I used to go up to strange men and ask them if they wanted to be my Daddy. 

I could read long before I went to kindergarten, by about age 3 or 4 I think.  Oma would read me the books, and then tell me to read them back to her.  I am still big about books and parents reading to their kids.  Grandpa imparted his wisdom on things like the stars, gardening, and his world travels.  He was a Merchant Marine, that’s how he met Oma you know.  He was often at sea, but in the summer time, me, Momma, Oma and him, would all travel in his motor home aka RV.  He sold Chase refrigerated doors.  These are the doors you see in the grocery store, that are made of vinyl, and seal in the cold air in the meat and frozen food areas.  They are usually split down the middle and have clear windows in them.  I traveled 7 southern states, before I was 5. 

Three of my early memories happened in that motor home.  The first is of my mother.  We had been driving all night.  We pulled over, parked and slept.  I remember awaking in the dark to the sound of  ocean waves crashing against the shore.  My mother was lying beside me in bed.  We had arrived at Biloxi Beach and we spent the day there swimming.  My next early memory is of sitting at Oma’s feet, crocheting and singing “On the road again.”  I was maybe 3 or 4. 

The third memory is I believe of Grandpa attacking me.  I believe he attacked me at least twice.  Once about 2 ½ and other time about age 4 or 5.  I believe he would attack me in my sleep.  I believe these two times I woke up during the attacks.  I have this memory of just him and me alone in the motor home, on a trip by ourselves.  My mother says it never happened, but I remember him telling me this story of us being on a trip in Mississippi.  He told me he could not get me to quit screaming.  That I screamed from Mississippi, until he put me pack in Oma’s arms here in Louisiana.  I remember part of this.  I was sitting in the big chair up front, and every time I looked at him I started screaming and crying.  I believe he attacked me on this trip and this was my reaction. 

Oma made one more trip to German before she died, in the early 1980’s.  I know there has been talk, from family members, over the years that many believe Oma would never come home.  That she would just stay in Germany, now that her children were grown.  That finally, she could be free of Grandpa.  Whatever her reasons, whether she came back for me or us grandkids, or for Mom, or for other reasons she came back. 

Ilsa