Burying the Buick

 

Everybody in my generation likely has a Buick embedded somewhere deep in their psyche.  Mine is a pale yellow 1955 model that sat in our driveway in Pasadena, Texas for most of my childhood.  And the memories I have of the beast are incredibly different than the carefree images in pictures of the era.  You see, I was scared of the car in every way possible.  I was nine years old, a quiet little girl who had an even quieter big sister and three noisy and hyperactive younger half-siblings.  Parents who apparently hated each other.  We were seven souls living a few blocks down the road from the Houston Ship Channel.  A violent and abusive step-father and a mother who had little education and no coping skills whatever. 

Seventy years later, I have compassion for all of us.  But the journey from there to here wasn’t smooth or easy.  For most of my life that Buick served as a symbol of abuse, neglect, and poverty.

My only pleasant memory of the car is riding on the “back shelf”.  That’s what we called it anyway.  I could arrange myself on it so I saw only clouds in the sky, green grass or occasionally the sandy beaches of Galveston.  While looking at the town from that unique vantage point, I remember daydreaming about having a pair of penny loafers or my very own ball of Silly Putty. 

One of many unpleasant memories is the first time I ever saw the Gulf of Mexico.  We were all piled into the Buick; kids in the back seat and grown-ups in the front.  The little kids could stand up and see over the dashboard – out to the sand, but my sister and I weren’t allowed.  So when the wheels of the Buick hit the sand, from my vantage point anyway, all I could see was water.  I looked out the side windows, saw nothing but more water.  I thought the entire vehicle had just launched into the shoreline and I panicked.   

I screamed.  Got yelled at. I dropped to the floorboard to hide.  Covered my head with my arms and shut my “big mouth”.as instructed.  Later I got another cussing and a spanking anyway for “scaring the little ones”.  I don’t remember the rest of that day. 

Many years ago, I had lots and lots of therapy and did a lot of healing from that childhood abuse.  But once in a while, one of them will surface like the Buick just did.  And my response, as always, is to write about it.  This way; I am comforting that scared little girl inside me with a gentle hug and telling her everything will be all right. 

Anticipating the Arrival …

 

Of people.  At my front door.  As soon as the outside temperature drops to my age or lower. 

You see, it’s like this: parties are not my thing.  Never have been and never will be.  I’m an introvert, a wallflower, a loner.  Being a hostess is the very last thing anybody would ever expect me to enjoy.  But here I am, thinking of having an open house at my new home.

It’ll be after Labor Day, when all the children will be back in school and most folks will be home from wherever they spent their summer.  It’ll be on a weekday, because most of my friends are retired or self-employed.  The weather will smile on us.  The house will finally be unpacked and the walls won’t be bare of artwork.  I swear I can smell cinnamon in the kitchen just thinking about it. 

The other day I counted up all the chairs I own.  I had already made my guest list and wondered how many of them could actually sit down.  I know, I know, it’ll be an open house and people will be coming and going, but still – I have no idea how to be a hostess.  I told myself it’s high time I learned, because I want to show my appreciation for all the people who have helped me survive this past year. 

So, if you helped me in any form or fashion since the Hill house hit the market, during the Possum Event, the fender-bender fiasco, the apartment-duplex-rent house-assisted living search, the fall, the walker(s) the packing and moving from Dumble or the unpacking and settling in … you are on the guest list. 

Heck, since this is probably going to be my one-and-only experience of being a hostess, I might even put on some lipstick and wear a dress.  We will see.