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.