Age 1: You're Not Leaving Without Me, Mommy

I can't remember my earliest memory, which is probably the result of enjoying college just a bit too much.

Well, I'm going to go with this one. I could make it up. Who the hell would know? I don't recall how old I was, but Margaret says it doesn't matter, and she's the boss in this hive. So, I won't make anything up, intentionally.

It must have been a Saturday afternoon. My dad was at home. He was on the davenport (that's what we called a couch) watching television in his underwear. We lived in a second-floor apartment and there was no air-conditioning. It was probably a college football game and it was being broadcast in black and white. It was the early sixties, before the Beatles. Hell, it was even before JFK's assassination. The poor guy worked six days a week. I must have been bored with him or he was tired and he'd had enough of me. He wasn't paying attention to me and he let me out of his sight. He would never do it, again.

Mom had just left and she didn't take me with her. How dare she! She always did. I was pissed. She loved window shopping, even though that's all it was. She always dragged me along, she wouldn't pay for a babysitter. She didn't work. But, she always took me into Woolworth's for a cherry phosphate. That's probably why I was pissed.

She, on the other hand, probably wanted to be alone. That was a concept I had yet to learn. I rather enjoy it now.

I wish I was as resourceful as I was back then -- in a diaper. There was a door leading from the kitchen to the stairs down, but it was chain locked. I knew how to operate it, I'd seen it done a thousand times. But, I couldn't reach it. It seemed like it was on the ceiling and I was probably 2-feet tall on my tippie-toes. 

I looked at the kitchen table. There were four chairs around it. So, I used all my strength to push and pull the closest one up to the door. I don't remember, but it was probably a chore in itself just to climb up onto the chair. From my devious perch, I could reach the chain. I slid the chain over to unlock it as quietly as possible. I didn't want dad to hear. That's when the plan took a turn for the worst.

He heard it and yelled my name. But, because he was in his underwear, he couldn't get to me until after I'd jumped down from the chair, opened the door, ran down the stairs, out the front door, and nearly half way down the block. I knew which direction to head. We only lived a block from a major street that led to the "North End," which was two blocks of small stores. Mom and I had walked it for what seemed like a hundred times. If I'd made it a little further, I'd of had to cross that busy street.

I stopped at the intersection and looked for mom, but she was nowhere in sight. I looked back just in time to watch my dad bend over, grab me, spank my butt, and tuck me under his arm. He was furious. He carried me for the two blocks back to our apartment. That was more than 55 years ago and I don't think I've ever seen him any angrier. He's the mellowest man I've ever known. I don't recall him ever lifting his hand to me, again. Mom was the total opposite. It the roles had been reversed, I may not be here today. She had a skinny bamboo cane that she whacked across my ass until it I literally couldn't sit down. And I wasn't a bad kid. She finally broke it -- over my ass, of course. She had issues that led to issues for me decades later.

Dad never told her what had happened that day. I mentioned it years and years later, when I thought it was just a chuckle. Mom still didn't find the humor in it, which made him a little nervous.