Summer quickly approaches... and reminds me of swimming

**Just to anyone who might find this a little disturbing to read, it contains a little more graphic information than some may care to read.. so please, just read with caution or stop reading where I have placed an asterik. Thanks.

I'm looking forward to summer.. and then I'm not. It has been kind of going back and forth.

See.. I work at a school and I have two school aged children. And while I love my job, love my children, and love being able to be available to them (since I work there)... summer is a bit different.

As any mom or dad could probably relate... summer is a time that goes WAY too fast for kids and seems to drag on and on for parents. If past summers prove anything, it is that by day 3 of summer break, my children will be belly aching and complaining that they are *BORED* and that there isn't *anything* to **DO**.

When I was growing up, I don't remember much of the summer months - especially when I was younger. I remember it being hotter than hell outside and I also remember my mom yelling, "In or out!" almost constantly (can't say that I blame her).

Just up the street from where I spent most of my childhood, there was a "pool club". To this day, I don't know the correct term for it... but it was a neighborhood thing that you had to pay an annual dues to and had to live in this certain area. Other than that, I don't know what the hell to call it.

Anyway... I remember spending MORE than a few days at that pool. It was almost exactly 1/4 mile up the road and I was in charge of my younger siblings. I was responsible for making sure they had sunscreen, towels, pop money and most importantly, I was responsible for getting everyone home - on time.

I was the eldest of three, with my brother 3 years younger and my sister 3 years younger than him. My sister really wasn't a problem.... but now my brother. Ugh.

See, we had to walk that 1/4 mile to the pool and back (daily) and since the pool didn't open until 12:30, it wasn't exactly the coolest time of day to make a trek and especially when you were carrying a load of crap with you.

Most times, my sister would pull herself reluctantly from the pool when I told her it was time to go.. but now my brother on the other hand.. he'd take great joy in seeing me 'lose' it. I would start to yell, then I would start to screech and walk up and down the length of the pool pleading, begging him to come out.

I knew what was waiting if I didn't get all of us home in time. I would get blamed and in turn - beat. That's just the way it was. I guess I was supposed to be able to force my younger siblings into doing whatever I said because.. well... just because.

My brother didn't care - it wasn't his skin on the line.

There was one day in particular that it was really bad. We wound up being almost a 1/2 hour late coming home and I was close to hysteria by the time our house was maybe a 1/2 block away.

My dad was home early.

It didn't matter that it wasn't me keeping us from getting there on time... and it certainly didn't matter that I was near hysterics by the time we walked through the front door.

What did matter... is that I was in charge and once again... I failed.

*

My 'punishment' was getting whacked across the backs of my thighs with the wire end of a fly swatter. He held on to the floppy plastic part and beat the hide off the back of my legs with the metal part. I made the mistake of sticking my hands back there because it hurt SO freaking bad... and he didn't care. He kept going, smacking thighs, fingers and arms.

Have you ever been in so much pain that you literally, couldn't breathe? That is exactly how I felt. I remember the exact spot I was standing, I remember that I was screaming bloody murder, which seemed to fuel him on.

I wound up with black fingernails and bloody welts across the backs of both legs. I had gone upstairs, peeled off my swimsuit and got into underwear, shorts, and a teeshirt. Later that night, I had soak in a tub of water to get my shorts off, because they were stuck to me because of my oozing welts.

I still have a very hard time NOT hating him for that!

We didn't go to the pool again for over a week, needless to say.

After all, how could I explain bloody welts and black nails - he was a hard working guy with well mannered kids after all... who would believe us....?

The day I knew that I was different

It was a summer day. The only way I remember this, is because I was wearing a romper. It was my favorite.. red and white checks with little lady bugs on a big pocket across the front.

I am the eldest of three children. My brother, three years younger than me and my sister, three years younger than him. My sister was born in 1974 and was just a baby when this took place.

My mother never worked outside the home except on the rare occasion that she felt the need to have some pocket money or needed a break from us kids. I don't know if there were other reasons or not, I'm only making assumptions.

My parents struggled quite a bit when we were all little.. much as any other family with young children, I suppose. We never went to bed hungry, we were always clothed and we were never without a home. All the material things that a kid could want, we had.

The one thing we didn't have... was peace of mind. Affection either, for that matter.

On this particular summer day, the window AC was running really loudly in the dining room and my mother was frantically digging through the china hutch. It was directly on the other side of the dining room across from the AC unit.

I remember standing there watching her and staring at her long brown wisps of hair that had fallen out of her bun, floating around as if someone with invisible fingers were playing with them.

She slammed the top drawer shut, and then dumped her purse on the dining room table.. cursing. She started crying, flinging papers all over the table top, and some were falling to the floor. At that point, I wandered into the living room to play with this doll I had. It was a pretty cool doll... it stood as tall as me. When I took it's hands into mine and walked backwards, the doll 'walked' with me. I don't think I had named it, but I loved it just the same.

Next thing I know, my father comes in from working outside and I hear mumbled voices at first. Fighting. Soon, he was yelling at her and said something about some doctor bill. From what I could gather, he was very angry because they were looking for some canceled check or receipt or something along those lines.

My brother wandered in from his bedroom and my dad yelled at him to, "Get the hell out of here!" and he came running into me carrying some rubber toy......

Then, it happened.

My father rushed into the living room and asked my brother and I if we had seen a small box that had checks like this (he held up my mom's checkbook). I said no and my brother just shook his head.

Apparently, this isn't what my father wanted to hear. He charged at us, smacked my brother upside the head, knocking him to the floor, and then lifted me up by one arm and whaled into me like there was no tomorrow. There was my brother, laying on the floor, screaming bloody murder, my mother was screaming at my dad to 'leave them alone' and me, dangling by my wrist being hit repeatedly until he finally dropped me to the floor.

He asked again.

"Have you seen or did you take, a small box with checks in it like this!"

I whisper/cried, "No..." Instead of yanking me up this time he grabbed my doll.. the one I loved SO much, and he swung it around and broke it over my back. Broke it so badly, that the torso split in two, the head popped off and one leg went flying.

I felt like that damn doll looked. I often wondered what he'd done if MY head had popped off instead of that dolls head. I was so scared. I remember sobbing so hard that I couldn't breathe. I wanted to run away and I was laying there.. my back, head, legs, wrist and arms.. burning and stinging like mad. I couldn't figure out why he was so angry... and why my mom didn't DO anything.

Time went by and things are a bit fuzzy for me memory wise, but next thing I knew, my mom walks in and says she found it. My dad proceeds to bend down and give my brother a hug and tell him that he was sorry.

....


I sat there staring at him. Why was he sorry for hitting my brother, but he wasn't sorry for beating the shit out of me? Do you know what I was told by my mother later when I asked her, "Why did dad say sorry to **** and didn't say sorry to me?"

"You're the oldest. You have to be the example for your brother and sister."


That's the day I realized looking back, that at that moment, I knew I was different than my siblings.. and things for me while living under their roof, would never be peaceful for me.


The year was 1975 and I was six years old.