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.
