I’ve worked really hard to create a successful life for myself, rising above some pretty challenging circumstances. I know I’m not the only one, and I know many of you can relate to what I’ve been through.
And the theme of my blogs so far has been about perseverance and strength and making those defining choices that help you grow from your life experiences instead of drown in them.
This will be my longest post yet, but I hope you read it to the end and that it triggers memories that make you smile from your own childhood.
My parents divorced when I was just a year or so old and not long after that my mom remarried. My baby pictures were lost in a fire in our first mobile home, so I have very few visual memories of that time of my life. Only bits and pieces that surface every once in awhile, or are brought up at a family gathering as we reminisce.
When I was two and my brother was three, we lived in a small apartment in Fort Atkinson, Wisconsin. The apartment was an old brick building and we often played outside in the parking lot, surrounded by piles of bricks and rubble.
One day, my brother and I were fighting, as we so often did growing up. I must have been really angry with him, as I picked up a brick and whacked him in the head with it. To this day, I have visions of the blood in my brother’s blond hair, my mom rinsing it out with a little toy plate that I had been playing with that day.
The long-standing joke now is that I had to hit my brother with a brick back then because it was the only time that I would have an opportunity, as he has always been bigger and stronger than me.
By around five, things start to take a little more shape in my head. One of my favorite stories from that year earned me the nickname “The Milk Girl.” We had just gotten home from the grocery store and my stepfather asked me if I could carry the gallon of milk up to the house. A long, narrow concrete sidewalk (probably about 20 feet long) waited ominously ahead of me.
I knew I couldn’t do it, had myself talked out of it before I even tried. But he insisted. So, I took the gallon of milk, tears welling up in my eyes, the weight of it heavy on my arm from the first step.
As I walked unsteadily up the sidewalk, the milk got heavier and heavier, my gait lurching to the right as I struggled to make my way up the walk. Then, the unthinkable happened….the gallon of milk went crashing to the concrete and spilling down the sidewalk. I was mortified, and he laughed and put his arm around me and thanked me for trying.
I will never forget that moment. And I vowed that a gallon of milk would never again conquer me.
After that, most of my early childhood memories are of the life we made in a trailer park on a rural road on the outskirts of Whitewater, Wisconsin. A long, straight driveway, marred by potholes, surrounded on both sides by tiny metal boxes.
At the end of the drive, a rundown park with a rusty metal swing set. I lived in one of those boxes for seven years of my childhood. A box that housed my two brothers, my mom, my step dad and me.
And a boatload of tiny dreams.
I remember how it felt to grow up and adjust to a new stepfather, and spend every other weekend with my dad down in Illinois. I remember Daddy picking us up in his little blue Toyota pickup truck and all three of us crammed in the front seat (because there was only one). My brother and I would fight over who had to sit in the middle, because the truck was a stick shift and Daddy would always hit our knees with his arm when he shifted gears.
I can still feel his hand against my knee, and to this day, it triggers memories of weekends in his tiny apartment with egg sandwiches for breakfast.
I remember the cat lady who lived next door, who would buy anything that had cats on it. We’d scrounge through our things for anything that had a cat picture or said something about cats. We’d knock on her trailer door, try not to let any cats out, and she would look at the things we had for sale and if she liked them, would buy them from us.
Then we’d take that money and ride our bikes down to the gas station and buy 10 cent boxes of candy.
I remember Halloween and the farmhouse down the road that gave out life size Snickers bars. Trick or treat was always at night and mom and my step dad would let us wander the trailer park and neighboring streets alone to gather up candy.
I remember many nights swinging on the old rubber swing down on the rusty swing set and making up songs about life, and singing them at the top of my lungs. I had no idea what the other families living in those other boxes thought, and back then I didn’t really care.
I remember the time that my aunt came over for Christmas and got the tip of her finger cut off in the car door. I couldn’t believe how much blood there was and the bright red tracks it made in the snow. My step dad brought the fingertip in and put it in the freezer, but it was too late to re-attach.
I remember the old wood stove that we used to heat the trailer. And the smell of burnt crayons from the time that we left a box of them on top of it and forgot to take it off when the stove was lit.
I was mesmerized by the merging of all of the colors of the crayons in a giant, melty puddle.
I am a middle child, sandwiched between two brothers, one older and one younger. And they were relentless growing up. I have many memories of the arguments we had, the horrible things they did to me and my belongings, and how they embarrassed me in front of my friends.
I remember one day that my older brother and I were at the kitchen table having breakfast. He was being mean to me as usual, and asked me to pass the milk. I pushed the gallon of milk across the table to him (a little harder than I probably needed to), and it caught on the crack where the leaf meets the table, and spilled all over him!!
He was so angry at me that he came over to my side of the table and bonked me full force on the head! Imagine a Looney Tunes cartoon where the Road Runner picks up a sledge hammer and bonks Wile E Coyote on the head. I literally saw stars!
I remember when my brother and his friend from two doors down took my Barbie dolls and threw them on the trailer roof so I couldn’t reach them. And how I cried and how they laughed.
Oh, how I hated him that day!
Despite these times that made me so angry, I can’t imagine life without my brothers now. They build me up and support me in a way that I could never have imagined when we were young.
I remember when my stepdad was building an addition on the trailer and we were playing hide and seek. My brother leaned too far into the insulation and broke through to the outside.
I can still see the surprised look on mom’s face when he knocked on the front door for her to let him back in.
I remember that back then all of the stores were closed on Sunday, even gas stations. If we needed gas on a Sunday, we were out of luck and couldn’t go anywhere until they opened Monday morning.
I remember riding in the back of our old station wagon at night with blankets and pillows piled up, staring at the stars through the window.
No seatbelts back then...we took our chances.
I remember my Mom, tucking me in every night with an “I love you” and a goodnight kiss. To this day, I do the same for my boys and I know one day they will do the same for their children.
We didn’t have much money. My stepfather worked as an auto-mechanic to support our family and my mom stayed home and cared for us. We wore hand-me-downs and ate a lot of soup. We fought like siblings do, and frustrated our parents.
But for the most part, we were happy. We had fun and spent the majority of our days outside playing. Especially in the summertime, we’d bike into town and ride around all day, exploring.
Such a different time then, compared to now.
I dreamt of being a singer, an actress, a teacher, but most of my dreams were of being a writer. Even back then at seven or eight years old, I loved to read and words spoke to me. I buried myself in books and lived vicariously through thousands of different characters. I wrote short stories and poems, and dreamt of publishing them someday.
When I was growing up, there were days when I wished I would have had a more “normal” childhood. One where we lived in a real house, and had a beautiful dining room and ate food that didn't come in a can.
But, now, so many years later, I am in a different place where I realize that there was a reason that I spent those years in that trailer park and had those specific life experiences.
They gave me the perspective that helps me be empathetic when I meet new people, navigate through challenging projects at work, and guide my boys through life.
And for that, I am eternally grateful.