Prodigy Mom: Scene 1: First Draft
I killed a whole bunch of people. Back to that later.

First thing, I want to credit the name of this piece. I was watching Running With Scissors when it was a recent video release. While watching the Augusten Burroughs character interact with his mother minutes after the credits, it hit me. I stopped the movie to switch to the seat in front of the computer's monitor screen. Like myself he was his mother's adult caretaker, providing her the approval, companionship, and emotional protection she didn't feel she was getting from others. She shared with me how her limitless genius, well, except for math, made her an utterly superior being. A prodigy, no less. All she needed was the unconditional nurturing any prodigy is entitled to in order to bloom. What more appropriate place than a mother-son relationship. Certainly Mozart and Einstein had that. Of course they had mothers. It seems Mom and I had something in common. Neither of us had mothers, at least not for long.

Her early life was fine, nearly ideal as I recall. Except her Daddy went to prison when she was very young, not really a happy situation in 1930's rural North Dakota. Her memories of that time were still rosy, and I think she lived with both sets of her Grandparents at different times. I don't know if she went back to live with her mother shortly before or after her father was released when she was eight or nearly so. Either way, it wasn't long before her three bothers arrived one right after the other. Trouble was Elmer didn't stop drinking, and Dorothy, my grandmother divorced him. Worse than having a man in prison in those days, was not having one. By then they were living in the projects in Seattle, and unknown to them for at least another 30 years Daddy the Bigamist had already started his second family.

Well, my uncles lived through having their teachers stand them in front of class and announcing, "This is little Jeffery, or Daniel, or Joseph. He is new to class, and he doesn't have a daddy." A very different introduction from the kids whose fathers were killed in World War II. Probably, the same introduction as kids who were bastards. I once saw my parent's birth certificates, both had boxes indicating whether their parents were married. North Dakota's was labeled "legitimate/illegitimate" Washington State was not so progressive, it simply said "bastard". At the time I thought it very humorous, because buying into the whole okie and yokel stereotypes said it should have been the other way around.

Well my mother and uncles may have had the correct boxes checked, but they were treated with the same ostracism as legal bastards. Was it because grandma was a stunning woman and the other ladies were jealous, and she didn't put out for any of the fathers? Or simple bigotry? Either way the stigma was worse than if a child were forced to where an Osama Bin Laden T-shirt every day, or you were always forced to wear a Bush T-shirt around people capable of independent thought.

Grandma did not deal with the stress of the situation well at all. She worked herself to the bone in order to support her children. She was also one of the most brutal child abusers I've ever heard of. My father was a young attorney when I was born. My Grandma Seal was in jail, and wanting to be the dutiful son he got her out of jail to visit her first Grandchild. He is now a retired Superior Court judge, and with his gained experience deeply regrets to this day his actions. Grandma Seal had beaten her fourteen year old son so badly, opening the festivities with an electrical cord, that hardened cops who were veterans in the high crime projects which where the only place she could afford to live, were literally in tears. Ultimately Uncle Jeff moved across Puget Sound to our neck of the woods, spending a lot of time in our guest cottage. Having heard a few case histories over the years, it now seems likely he would have died had he stayed at home. The oldest had moved out, and eventually did a stint for armed robbery like his father. The middle son was never beaten, he was the household deity, and as a result I think the most damaged.

Joe the oldest died early, in the manner of Jimi Hendrix, though he wasn't famous, he still choked to death the same way, while by himself and a bit older. He had three stepchildren he adored, but they never had any use for their alcoholic step dad. He was a good hearted man, but never able to cope with his upbringing. Daniel moved out of state a while back, Montana I think.

I'm not aware of Uncle Daniel ever giving another human being a heartfelt compliment. He did tell his seventeen year old son, I don't know why I had you, I never even liked you. Oh yeah, so I wouldn't have to go to Vietnam. That son, his only child, killed himself before he reached 30. Jeff's daughter survived, but I nearly cried at what I saw the one time I met her as an adult. Not the precocious, brilliant seven year old I took Star Wars when it was first released, and insisted on sitting in the first row of the Cinerama. I've not seen Jeff since 1984. As a child he was my hero, the only big brother I ever had, but he stopped communicating with me when I became an adult, except via vicious second slander about my character. I rarely saw Daniel except with Jeff, so it's been longer since I've seen him. Stopped seeing my Mom twenty years later.

Whoa, that's forcing you all into the cold water the fast way. Well, that's about it for a bit. Needed to get the background in, a little exposition for your enjoyment. It's overwhelming, and a premeditated device.

My life started out ideal too. I lived on the beach of Puget Sound on a big lot, and a year before we started kindergarten my best friends the Browns moved in two doors down on another lot the same size in an old schoolhouse. Next door to them was the old post office, where the crazy girl lived sometimes. There were old but small fruit orchards here and there overgrown with blackberries. We'd spend days making tunnels and forts among the briars, never bothered for long by the jabs and gashes from the thorns. Days eating fruit straight off the trees until we were stuffed probably weren't that common, but they are strong in my memory.

Bewitched and I Dream of Jeannie came out when I was 6 and 7 years old, respectively. They were the first grown up television shows I remember watching without supervision. Then Gilligan's Island and after our parents saw it a few times Lost in Space was on the approved list. Mom was a blond knockout, Mrs. Brown a brunette bombshell. Of course, they were just our moms. The moms and wives in those TV shows seemed absolutely everyday and authentic to me. It was the life we were leading.

My first day of kindergarten was also Evan Brown's first day. Going home he tried to fool me into getting on the wrong bus. I recognized the bus I needed to ride, and I got on it -- I had occasional bouts of stubbornness. I was the last one off. I had gotten on the wrong bus, and somehow the bus driver had deciphered the bizarre geolocation as described by a lost five year old. I think he probably recognized the Swan kid's names, who had a number of older children he certainly would have known, and lived on the other side of the Brown's house from the old post office. I think that is probably how I described it.

I got home and was greeted with a sharp, "Where were you young man?" I didn't understand the fuss, I'd gotten off the bus like I was supposed to. Of course Mom was a little upset at having to wait an extra hour and startled to have the school bus drive down our little loop and drop me at the doorstep, but Evan had told everyone that stupid Scott had gotten on the wrong bus. No news helicopters were called, and my Mom who panics at the drop of a hat was only a little irritated, and had not even called Dad. The only thing I took away was that I had to get on the same bus that dope Evan Brown had already tried to trick me with. It wasn't nearly as good. The stupid thing stopped up on the highway (as we called the minor arterial), but nobody would ever let me ride the good bus again.

I had to be in second grade, when the novelty of school itself had worn off. One of the other kids had a dentist or doctor appointment and their mother came to pick them up. I'm certain I stared. I remember the shock I felt. She was as ancient and fat as a grandma. Well, a great grandma, because neither of my grandma's were fat, but Great Grandma was. I'd met a few other kid's moms, including a Billy Gray. He lived about a third of a mile away, and it was a daring trek the first few times, but he was another close grade school buddy. His mother was another striking blond, our father's still talk of her. The Kirk's lived next door on the uphill side, where my sometimes girlfriend Kathleen lived. Her mother was also a lovely redhead, but we didn't care, we all had crushes on Kathleen.

So seeing this heavy set woman, probably no bigger than Rosie O'Donnell in the 80's or 90's, with frizzy brownish hair instead of a meticulously put up doo was something I'd never seen. It was like the creature from the Black Lagoon had stepped out from under the sink in the art supply corner with Evan or Kathleen in his slavering mouth. I was scared for my classmate, and in shock when the teacher and the kid bravely acted as if everything were okay.

People say the old sitcoms were ridiculous because they had no connection with reality. They didn't live in my neighborhood. We may have been insulated from a bit of reality, and we didn't live as much in the spasms of induced terror so common today. There was a risk, but my idyllic early years say it was well worth the risk. We were taught to beware of strangers and the media hyped fear of the day, was blasting caps as a few kids had lost some fingers after finding them in construction sites. Probably five or less cases over a decade across the entire country. We weren't immune to the seduction of media induced fear, it just wasn't as glossy. Looking back the fact that every kid within several years of my age knew blasting caps were out there just waiting to get them seems ridiculous today. We didn't even now what the fuck a blasting cap was. They just looked like really technical firecrackers.

We'll always have bogeymen I suppose. Inappropriate fear seems to be an integral part of the american psyche. Now we have pedophiles, just a more descriptive label for strangers. A creepier threat, but not a new one, nor a more common one, just more graphic and titillating for our short attention span society. Of course as the 60's rolled forward drugs were added to the phobia list. I liked the simpler phobia list, when strangers, blasting caps, and teenagers with beer were the demons of which to beware. Of course there was the whole commie paranoia, but that wasn't something used to frighten the kiddies like today's conservatives.

Now, just to set the record straight I didn't watch Leave It To Beaver or Howdy Doody as I'm not quite that old. They were over by the time I watched TV, and didn't go into reruns much on the channels or times we watched. I did see a few Mickey Mouse Club reruns. They were on just before I got ready for school for a while. TV was limited in the morning, so I only saw bits before or after Dad watched the news. In those days households very rarely had more than one TV. Still, I lived the Golden Age of Television, and it was a damn joyful time.

[The following is intended to be a physical bit, showing both humor and a the foundation of a very healthy loving relationship.]
The morning ritual. "Up and Adam!" That's A-D-A-M. I never understood why my Dad said that. It made no sense at all, and it never occurred to me to ask. It was just one of those things Dad said. He was boisterous in the morning. I have no recollection of walking from my room down the little hall to the bathroom. I remember "Up and Adam." I came to hate Adam, whoever he was. I figure Cain slew the wrong guy. If he'd nailed Adam things would have gone much better. I am not a morning person. I remember the cold toilet vaguely. I remember the showers. Dad was always singing "O Solo Mio! My Heart's on Fire! La da da da. Da da da da." and gesturing and getting soap in my eyes. He'd admonish me, "You dumb bunny, close your eyes when you're washing your face!" While he was vigorously trying to rinse the soap out of my eyes I never once dared to tell him it was his him throwing suds in my face that did it.

Then, I'd stand on the stool in front of the pedestal sink and brush my teeth with Crest. Then he'd massage my head head to "Wake up the scalp!", only I knew it was really round one in the pain endurance test -- then came the comb. I had very fine but tough hair, that tangled easily, especially after the initial phase of the pain endurance test. I'd be yelping at the acute pain as he tried to comb out all the fresh tangles, usually against the nap, and he'd bellow for me to stop my damn hollering and be tough and quiet down. Then the whole thing would be repeated with VO5, but there weren't usually any tangles.

I never understood why the VO5 didn't go in the first time, when it would grease out the tangles. Then he'd comb my hair, gouge with the fat pointy end-tooth to form perfectly straight part down the right side and comb the hair straight away from it. Then, the wave. The left front hairline would be combed back to the right in order form a wave. It took an average of ten times to get it right. By then it felt like the teeth of the comb were about to puncture the skull. He had the same hairstyle, and it usually took one attempt to get the wave. His hair was jet black and curly and it looked cool. I was a straight haired towhead as a kid, and it looked dorky, and still does by comparison.

Kids on TV shows always had my envy if they had mussy hair, and greased hard to comb doos had my sympathy. Poor Eddie Munster! I could hardly wait until I was tall enough to see more than my part in the mirror. I was the shortest kid in my second grade class. But... By the end of the year I was the tallest. Of course I totally lost my coordination until my late twenties as a result, but I finally got to comb my own hair. If you want your five or six year old boy to grow taller, just use the Maddock Instructional Hair Grooming Method. Apparently it doesn't work for girls, because my sister had a similar experience with Mom. Either that or you require a Mad Welshman instead of a Nutty Norwegian.
- posted by Scott @ 8:25 PM