“Mrs. Farrell, Mrs. Farrell, your daughter’s out in the drive and she done got rocks stuck up her nose!” These were the words of a lady that had babysat us from time-to-time and I was the daughter with the rocks stuck up my nose. Don’t ask me why I would do such a thing; I was only 3 or 4-years-old. If the rocks up my nose seem strange to you, then what about the fact that I was this little kid, playing outside, by myself? That’s the thought I always had when mom would tell this particular story.
I remember waking up when I was not much older than my granddaughter Alyssa—almost 5-years-old—and being within inches of the floor furnace. Do I know why? Nope, haven’t a clue, but I do know mom would tell people about it as if it was the most natural thing in the world for a kid to do. We lived in a house with floor furnaces, when our children were small, and I would threaten them within an inch of their lives if they got near the things, but not my mom. I often wonder if she thought, ‘Oh well, we have five kids, what’s the harm?’
I can remember my mom introducing my sisters and me, “These are my three beautiful, smart daughters, Duhha, Durhee, and Diddee, and this is Donna, she can draw.” It was rather like, “Yes, we do have to let her out of the closet from, time-to-time.” Mom and I were always like fire and ice. Not the best relationship a girl or woman can have with their mom. Most of the really, really stupid things I did, while growing up, I did to irritate her.
Mom was right, I could draw, and I stopped drawing because it seemed to be the only thing she ever really knew about me, but it was never enough. I was my father’s child, with his ability to hide feelings within myself. However, while my dad was out-going, never met a stranger, and had the rare talent for telling people “How the cow ate the cabbage” I was very introverted and shy. If I had not been, it’s doubtful I would have lived to see life after mom.
But, I learned a lot from watching my mom interact with other people and the lessons, once learned, stuck with me through life. Mom taught us that it was impolite to make a scene in public, and then she would proceed to do what she had taught us not to do. She was the worlds worst for making a scene in public and she was right, it was extremely impolite, and worse, it was embarrassing.
She was, and still is somewhere behind the mask of Dementia, one of the smartest women one could ever know, but she had a temper. My dad and I could set her on edge without really trying. Making mom mad, didn’t require a great stroke of genius, on my part, just my presence was enough to do it, most days. It’s not as if it was all bad, sometimes she really didn’t like me…and as an adult, I learned that her silence was my piece of mind.
I believe that children learn everything their parents teach them, but are not always willing or able to be the person the parent wants them to be. My brother and I have had psychological discussions about things…neither of us is a psychologist, yet we have come up with some interesting theories pertaining to the “Whys” that lead to children growing up in the same house, with the same parents, and the same set of rules, and turning out so differently. We agree that exterior forces have the most impact on the differences, friends, and environments that one might find themselves in that the other does not, also figure in to the theories.
And perhaps, the last reason; not all children are treated the same by their parents. While dad always treated me as if I were one of the kids, mom treated me as if I had a learning disorder and was a thing to be ashamed of, so I reacted in kind. If drawing were the only thing good that I ever accomplished it occurred to me, at some point, that it was not worthwhile. I still draw, occasionally, but more in cartoon form and most often when making fun of myself. It’s my sense of humor, finally unleashed, after all these years.
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