IV

It's late at night; my mom is working at the bar, and I'm alone in the house with my dad. I feel lost and aimless.

I look for my dad, and failing to find him in the places he should have been, I enter my room. He sits on my bed, his head in his hands, his elbows on his knees, sobbing.

III

I sit crumpled next to my mom's Cadillac Eldorado, yellowish white and out of style. There's a sense of danger being near the underside of a car, as if it would suddenly roll over my little toe, or entangle my hair in its gnarled metal undersides, chewing me up and leaving me behind in the damp Spring grass. I am bored, despite my considerations of the auto.

I'm in a large clearing lined with leafy trees, and the parked car sits in the mouth of the drive, facing the lake. I am looking towards the lake and to the left, ahead of me, where another car is parked in the yard. I believe there is a house behind me. A man leans against the opposing car, and my mother against the man as she looks into his dark face with it's long dark hair. They kiss.

II

My house feels cramped, muggy, and gray. The grungy sensation of illness pervades the back hall between the bedrooms and bathroom, which is very dark, it's walls seemingly perspiring with wood stove heat. It feels like February, maybe March, and my dad, John, has been sick for a long time.

Dad lies on the tarnished brass four poster my parents have had my entire life, with a large peach colored comforter of the discount variety covering a beautiful red wool blanket, the kind miners and trappers have used as long as Scandinavians have been in Minnesota. The bed has a strange smell, and the covers seem damp and uninviting.

For the first time I don't feel like crawling in (always from the foot, underneath, wiggling up between my parents to the top like a garden snake).

Mom has been taking care of him while working at Anderson Fabrics, where I attend pre-school, in addition to keeping up the camp. I'm pacing around between the kitchen and the hall, half following my mom, half peeking in on my dad, who seems entirely unapproachable in his state.

Suddenly there is a commotion at the front of the house, in the doorway that leads from the four season porch into the kitchen. A large man is forcing his way in past my mom. He seems huge and dirty, and also carries the sharp and heady smell of two stroke engine oil and what I now know to be alcohol, probably cheap whiskey.

He pushes his way past me, forcing my retreat into the corner of the hall opposite my parent's bedroom door, and approaches my dad in his bed. I can hear him slurring something, and my dad's muffled response, both inaudible.

Eventually the man heeds my mom's screaming and tugging on his shirt, and makes his way toward the door. Following them through the house, I can see her at the front door from my vantage on the porch. She grabs the man by the oily back of his woolen collar while holding him out over the steps. Lastly, she places her foot on his backend, and splat! He lands in the slushy mud of our front path.

I

Sitting on the wooden floor of my bedroom, which has not yet been painted gray, I lay a picture book across my pretzel legs.

I am between two twin beds, facing a small bookshelf, made of dark brown wood and somewhat ornate, though rather petite. I believe it was built by my great grandfather, Gunnard Wanhala. The beds have tiny, light blue gingham print, with small yarn-knots, like a quilt, which resemble small peach-colored flowers, to my eye. There is a window above the bookcase, which faces the bright green forest. It is Summer, afternoon, and golden light streams down onto my book.

The objects in the room are huge to me, from my floor-bound perspective.

I have a pencil, which feels like rubber in my right hand as I attempt to write on the paper cover of the book, which gives way against my knee. I feel frustrated and am concentrating very deeply. I can picture how my name looks when my mother, Lisa, writes it, and attempt to lay claim to my book by labeling it.

Much later, when I was maybe 6 or 7, I found a stack of my books, which I wanted to share with my brother, Jesse. Inside the front covers were the letters "t i o;" apparently this was my attempt at Katie.

(i-iii)

(i)
Lately I've been trying to synthesize a few different ideas I've had floating around in my head, relating to maturation, my secret novel, and memory. My big problem all along has been getting myself to record these things. I think I've always had a hard time conceiving of a blog as anything other than a diary. I'm hoping this will function in a slightly more academic/intellectual way.

Part of my problem is that I tend to develop new ideas or to find more concrete points of view through conversation. I come to a solution or realization within a dialogue and find myself content to let it slip away, never to be put down for my personal posterity. I also considered making this a handwritten journal, but quickly realized I find typing much more enjoyable, and efficient, than handwriting. I guess I am fully participant in the age of computers.

(ii)
Naturally, the theme for this blog came from a conversation. Jocelyn and I were up late sharing our family histories, small-town memories, and lost loves. We were considering the difference between using psychotherapy/analysis and the good old fashioned approach of 'dealing with it.' We are both members of the latter camp. Although I'm someone who strives to hold on to childhood memories as thoroughly as I'm able, I also feel comfortable 'sublimating' negative emotions that could feasibly be attached to various rememberances. To my mind, the ability to accept the obvious fact that an incident has taken place, to be able to access the memory when we so choose, and to fully realize that it contributes to our growth and can shape our adult personality in a positive way, has apparently worked very well for me ('apparently' because I only just realized that this is what I've been doing).

As someone who looks back on their childhood as having been incredibly happy and pleasant, I suppose it sounds a bit ridiculous for me to wax poetic on matters of trauma and sublimation. However, as I've become more and more conscious of the world around me, of what is and isn't 'normal,' I've found that many of my own memories, and much of my family history, is a bit beyond the pale. Hence, my realization that I've been processing these events and my reactions in the manner described above. I think this is partly why I remember, and feel my childhood to have been a wonderful time in my life. It's also the reason I've always enjoyed birthdays, both for the opportunity to celebrate the place in which I find myself, and the people around me, and because I know that I've had one more year of experience, good and bad, with it's own difficulties, joys, and boredoms.

(iii)
This appreciation for experience, of any kind, came from my mother's stories of her youth, which she would tell while we sat around in the woods. She's always conveyed a sense of worldly knowledge, what I've always referred to as having been around the block twice. It was something I admired in her, this openness, and was certainly an inspiration for me in many of my choices. This is where it all ties into my 'novel,' and my research and practice. It deals heavily with memory, storytelling, and family, and these meditations on experience and childhood are central ingredients in my concoction.

What I hope to do here is make some permanent record of my earliest memories, my scariest moments, and the bigger cruxes of my life. Something like a tidbit runthrough of my existance so far. The only question is if I'll bother to keep it up!