The House Not at Pooh Corners

In the Irish Catholic 70’s, in Pennsyltucky, there were a lot of things you still didn’t talk about, and my parents were a lot of those things plus some things so odd they hadn't been added to the 'taboo' list yet: Intellectually Gifted, Divorced, Alcoholic, parents of Dope smoking, shoplifting, ‘befriending of the blacks’ teenagers and toddlers (well, the toddlers hadn't started up yet with the dope smoking, but I definitely was fond of the 'chocolate people.) They were older than all the other parents, of different class back grounds from each other, and negotiating that issue poorly.

Those things made them different, made us different, from almost everyone else. They weren’t joiners, and, obviously, I couldn’t have verbalized this at the time, but both of them, with native IQ's that made most Mensa candidates look like shop clerks, had very strong personalities, and a general belief that they just knew better, existed in a just barely sub-clinical state of paranoia and self-grandeur in which neighbors, coworkers and other family members were constantly persecuting them, but were also idiots. They were idiots, but we must keep secrets from them. So, we really didn’t have much of a social network.

Before my baby sister was born, I remember parties and people visiting. Other odd ducks and malcontents came over to play poker. I might mainly remember them because they coincided with a couple of near death/disfigurement instances for me while my parents were drunk, but I generally remember them as happy times.

By the time my sister was born, I was four and a half and my parents were 45. We were ‘late life babies’ or cabooses. Not so common in the 70’s outside of Appalachia. I, in fact, am the product of the world’s oldest shotgun wedding. At the tender age of 40, my parents “had” to get married. For my father’s sake, I still pretend not to know this.

My baby sister, out of all 6 of my dad’s children, was the only intentional pregnancy. They tried to get pregnant with her, there was even some sort of rudimentary fertility drug involved. Somehow, though, when she was faced with two preschooler in her late forties, my mother, a delicate sort, lost some serious steam, cause that’s about when the parties stopped and the world got a lot grimmer. It’s also why I started grammar school way too early.

Her phobias began around that time. I think the one with the most practical impact for me was the ‘not driving over bridges’ phobia. Her sister lived on the other side of the river that divided our town, and we’d visit on the weekends. Her four kids were a little older than me, and were my closest facsimiles to peers, so it was a huge treat to go there.

My aunt’s house was different from ours. The shades weren’t drawn, it was noisy, with kids coming and going, toys everywhere, cookies being made, my aunt’s laughter, my grandmother tickling me. I remember it as being so bright there. When my mother lost the ability to drive over bridges, I lost that.