It is difficult to find a word to describe my childhood without sounding like a cliche. Words like “dysfunctional” or “traumatic” are  too broad and often overused.  I can list a dozen words but honestly it has always depended on what time of my childhood I happen to be thinking of.  If you had asked me in my 30s and 40s I would have said something like “depressing” or lonely”    Now on the cusp of 55 I can find a word that fits.  “Melancholic” is the word I would use now.  I spent a lot of time alone, sad, longing for friends and comparing myself to everyone around me. I would wish for a “normal life” whatever that was.  I was a young child in the 70s and most  families were thriving.  Or at least it seemed to me they were.

We often lived in crowded, chaotic, cockroach infested apartments that were always full of people.  My mom, my dad, me and four siblings and one grandparent. We even had a dog.  I loved that dog.  

How can I describe my home?  Well lets just say my sisters (2 of them) were in one room.  My brothers in another room , my parents and my papa.  Three girls. One queen size mattress on the floor with a sheet (most days) and a few thin cheap blankets. 

   I did not know about how other kids’ homes looked until I was invited one day to visit a friend April at her house. She was an only child and her house was two stories.  All those rooms and only 3 people!  I was astounded    that there were no siblings to take your things. I was so jealous. 

 Her house was so clean and shiny.  A refrigerator that had food in it. She even had her own bedroom.  When we went up to play and I walked in I stood still and was speechless.  She had a pink, purple and white canopy bed covered with heart shaped pillows and Care Bears. I think she had all of them.  A matching dresser, desk, rug and even one of those nets that hang in the corner in the room where you can put all of your stuffed animals.  I did not even own a single stuffed animal and here was one girl who had so many I could not count. 

     That was the day I realized how poor we were and how sad my life was. I was probably about 8 years old then   I never went back and never invited her to my house.  Of course I did not.  How embarrassing.  I felt so horrible after that visit I never went back to her house. She asked if she could come to mine but that was out of the question. I always had a good reason.

I can remember I  used to collect cans, bottles and newspapers to recycle.  I did not do this so I could buy stickers and toys. I did it so I had money to buy something to eat.  Usually it was junk food but on occasion I did purchase milk and cereal if we had no food at home.   I learned very early on how to count by 5s.  12 cans ?  60 cents.  Two candy bars and a shasta cola from the machine.  25 cents for a full size candy bar,  10 cents for shasta soda or 25 cents for Coca Cola.  We never had Coca Cola. Why would I pay 25 cents for one when I could get 2 Shasta colas and have 5 cents left over.  This was what was in my brain at age 8.

About once a week I set out on my route. I  had my regulars who would save their old newspapers for me .  Occasionally I would get a few cans or a bottle but those were cash so harder to come by or have someone give to you.   Newspapers were a penny a pound.   My father would drive me when I had enough to fill the entire back of the station wagon. They weighed your car before you went in, you unloaded then they weighed your car again.  I usually got a few dollars and my father always collected a fee from me for “gas” , I guess he thought he was teaching me about the value of money but he did not have to. I already knew that.  

I can remember always being hungry.   When we lived in Milpitas there were these crab apple trees that crowded our neighbors yard.  THey let me pick them at times. I thought they were being nice but in reality I was cleaning up their yard for free because these apples were not good for eating.  My papa taught me how to make applesauce. I made a lot of applesauce that summer and of course I shared it with my siblings..  We all ate so much we ended up with diarrhea.  To this day I cannot eat applesauce.  I had trouble even feeding it to my babies.  The smell, the appearance all brought back bad memories.

The cans and bottles I would recycle at the store came from  my dad and papa.  They always had beer and I would be there ready to swoop them up as soon as they were empty.  Take it out back, smash them by jumping on them and put it in the bag.  When I had enough I would walk to the store to cash them in.  Cans 5 cents Bottles 10 cents.  

My father drank. My papa drank ever.  The word Alcoholic had not yet entered my vocabulary. Almost everyone drank and smoked back then. My father was a belligerent drunk.  My papa was the opposite. I never could understand why. Even if my dad wanted to stop, his body physically could not tolerate it.  He would experience the DT’s.   Now at that age I did not know the word, nor was I aware that people could not quit cold turkey if they were that far in.  But I was witness to this when I was 16. That is another story for another day.

I loved seeing all those empty cans because it meant I could buy something to eat and maybe even have enough for a treat like a box of donuts.  I would sit and wait for them to be empty and go in on the premise of “cleaning up” . I would empty ashtrays and take empty cans and bottles outside.  He rarely thanked me but I did not need it.  I was grateful for those nickels adding up.  I often walked out to the supermarket with my wagon full of smashed cans.  Calculating and dreaming about the treats I would buy and of course I would buy them for my younger siblings also.  They would sit and wait for me to return.

However , later in my life those cans became a sore site.  There came a time when I  hated seeing them.  By then I  was in my teens and my parents were fighting a lot.  When I say fighting I mean physically fighting. Once I had to step in and protect my mother. Let’s just say I had to stop my father from hurting my mom .  I hit it with a broom. In the spot no man wants to be hit.  He never did that in front of me again. But his anger never abated permanently.  It came and went in waves. I had no idea what drove it but I could see alcohol was part of it. He was so unhappy. 

    He would leave then come back and leave.  Lather rinse repeat.  It became a pattern and I can remember feeling physically sick when I saw my fathers suitcase opened on the bed in the room signaling his return.  I began to resent my mother but now years later I understand.  I really understand why she let him come back over and over.  When my father left or my mother kicked him out would there be no alcohol.  These were the only peaceful times in our home.

 I can remember coming home from 5th grade and walking in the apartment. I could hear the music my dad was playing on his old record player. Also I would hear his typewriter clacking away.  His spot was  always a kitchen  at the cheap formica kitchen table facing the window, windows open (thank god), Air full of smoke from his ever burning pall mall non filters.  And of course empty cans of beer on the table.  Those cans did not interest me anymore.  I started to hate the sight of those cans.

The more cans there were the more trouble there would be.   I would walk in and pass by and count the cans.

If there were 4-5 then things were ok still.  He would still be in a fair mood.  6 to 8 cans meant it was  time to be quieter and not bother him so much.  9 or more cans (and sometimes the sight of a pint of cheap whiskey which he drank out of an old chipped coffee mug) meant  it was time to go.  Straight to my room or back out the front door.

What would happen on these 9+ can days?  Well it varied.  Some days he would just scowl and complain.  Other days he was downright angry and mad.  I can remember one 9+ day when I was in my room minding my own business.

I had been told to clean up my room but I got distracted and when he came in to check on my progress and saw me messing around he flew into a rage.  He looked at the messy dirty bed and the piles of dirty laundry and suddenly it was all my fault. We did not even own a washer or dryer.  We needed quarters for those but that did not matter.   My dad did not clean; he felt it was beneath him.  It was up to us kids.  

He flew into a rampage,shouting and yelling at how disgusting things were.   Demanding I stand up and get cleaned.  I guess I did not move fast enough because he was on me quickly. .  He grabbed me by the back of my neck pulling me towards the closet where a lot of the mess was. All the time hissing and spitting . His face was red and twisted in anger. I wondered, Why does he hate me so much?

He pushed my face into the carpet and said, “See that.???”  It was a piece of lint or paper.  Very small.  

He snarled,  “I am coming back in here in one hour and if this place is not clean you will get a whipping. Even if there is one small speck like that!!.”   Pushing my face into the rug as he referred to a small piece of lint or paper barely the size of a dime.

 ( A dime.  Two cans. Five cents each. I can buy a can of Shasta Pop)  He rubbed my face in the rug and then left.  I was only about 11 or 12 at the time.I had not yet learned to fight back yet.  I cleaned that room and sat in fear waiting for him to return.  He never did.  He stayed at the kitchen table and either forgot or felt bad. I never asked.  That was a 9+ day.  I should have walked quieter. Maybe I should have just gone to a friend’s house instead.  I should have cleaned faster. Or maybe I could have washed some of the clothes in the bathroom sink.  Or made the bed.. 

I hated the sight of those cans.  It was no longer a chance for me to get a few coins to buy a treat. No more candy bars, Shasta Colas or ice cream truck money. 

 Now they were  a sign of impending danger. A caution sign,  “Steer clear 

or else”.  

This memory had been locked up inside of me until one day when I was in my yard with my son. 

 I was teaching my son how to smash cans with his tennis shoes.  We laughed a lot when he or I missed and a can would go flying sideways. I was having so much fun I almost forgot. 

 I almost forgot. 

 For a few seconds I thought about sharing this story with him but  he was only 9.  

Counting cans had been both a blessing and a curse in my childhood.

My son never met my father. How could I begin to explain to him what it was like?  I did not want him to have his mind polluted with such trauma so I held onto it.   No one in my home ever needs to “count cans.”  Maybe one day I will tell him.  Until then I do not know what to do.  No one tells you what to do with the painful memories you hold.  Let them go?  Share them?  At what cost? 

. Maybe I can figure out how to crush my bad memories? (literally and figuratively) Or maybe we need to hold them inside to help us parents remember why we do what we do.  Why we love, why we encourage, why we protect our children.  If we do not.  Who will?