Wisdom Spring by Andrew Cunningham Read Free Book Online Page B

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Chapter 6
     
    Talking about your life is supposed to evoke remembrances of a happy childhood—or of a difficult childhood. We have memories of family trips, barbecues, holidays, playing catch, or being read to by our parents. Or, we have memories of abuse—emotional or physical—turmoil, yelling, sadness, and anger. Either way, the memories involve emotion in some way.
    Not me. I never realized it at the time, but my home was completely devoid of emotion. You don’t necessarily notice these things as a kid. You don’t really know what’s supposed to be normal. You don’t compare your family to your friends’ families, at least maybe not until you’re a teenager.
    So as I described my childhood to Jess, I could see an expression of sympathy forming. Or maybe it was a look of pity. At minimum, it was incomprehension. Could someone really grow up like that?
    My father was an Army drill sergeant. My early years were spent going from base to base. Nothing ever felt permanent in those days. Friends never lasted long. Either we’d move or they would. Our house was never “homey”, it always had a transient feel to it. When he became a drill sergeant, things seemed to settle down. He was stationed at Fort Jackson, in South Carolina. We were there for what seemed like a long time.
    “It’s funny,” I said to Jess. “On my way here, I passed Fort Jackson when I was on Interstate 20. Okay, maybe my thoughts were elsewhere, but you’d think I would get some sort of feeling of nostalgia. But no. Nothing. Not a thing.”
    “So what made it emotionless?” she asked. “Whether you know it or not, you are not being emotionless as you describe your childhood. I’m sensing a tremendous amount of sadness.”
    “Now. Not then. Yes, now I feel sad. For years after my parents died I felt nothing but anger toward them. I guess that’s finally dissipated. You’re right. Now it’s just a profound sadness.”
    I explained to Jess that the life of a drill sergeant isn’t easy. Long hours and a tremendous amount of stress. I didn’t see much of my father, but when I did, he really didn’t have time for my brother and me. When he was home, he would spend hours washing and waxing his car—a vintage Pontiac Trans Am—usually with a buddy or two.
    “He was one of those people who kept everything bottled up. He never talked much. Maybe it’s because he talked and yelled so much in his job. When he did talk, it was to reminisce about his teenage years—he seemed to be happiest then—before he had to enter life for real. When he wasn’t home, or at work, he’d be at the bar with those same buddies, his fellow drill sergeants. I can’t say I really knew my father. Looking back, I think he was really unhappy—unhappy with his career choice, with my mother, with just about everything. Even his Trans Am. He spent a lot of time with it, but it wasn’t his ‘pride and joy’ like you see in the movies. It was just something else to occupy his time.”
    “Listening to you, I feel like putting a gun to my head,” said Jess. “That’s really depressing. I get the feeling your mother wasn’t much different.”
    “If there were two people made for each other, it was them. I think they both had a secret death wish. My mother had no personality whatsoever. Again, you really don’t notice it as a kid, but looking back I can see it. She went through the motions. She got together with the other Army wives, but I think it was more because she felt she had to. I don’t have a lot of memories of the other wives as time went on. I think they slowly distanced themselves from her. She wasn’t a horrible mother from the standpoint of keeping us fed and clean, helping us with our homework, things like that, but there wasn’t anything behind it. I don’t think she ever formed that mother-child bond with us.”
    “Anyway,” I continued, though not enjoying the conversation at all, “my father retired when he hit the