It was 1983; wavy lines of heat raised off the blacktop the dry hot of a High Desert Summer was in full swing. There was a sound permeating the air, the locust singing there familiar buzzing song. It was 1983 and I was forming what was going to be my first memory; A real memory of an experience, not a flash memory. We all have those flash memories from childhood mom leaning over us, feeding us a spoonful of something wonderful, and brushing her hand across your face. This was going to be something more than that, this was an awakening. All my memories up until this point are playing with He-Man, Transformers and G.I. Joe and also the screaming, fights, the yelling and the vomiting.
This was going to be amazing! The boxes were packed: Autobots in one, Decepticons in the other. My brother, Caleb, and I would of course have a long heated debate over just who would be the bad guys and who would be the good guys. The boxes were casually tossed in the large rear bench seat of a Silver Chevy Nova that would be our home for the next few days. This car wasn't the flashy silver like you see on the cars today; this car was rough almost dingy silver. It smelled of leaded gas, gas that made for a puff of dark pungent smoke pouring out of the rear tail pipe. I was daydreaming about what could make this possible when a shout to "Get in!" startled me away from marveling at the wonder of it all.
What should have been a seven hour drive of wonder to our greater Oregon Coast quickly turned into a waking nightmare. I remember peaking over the back of the front seat; it was dark, where had the day gone? I saw my dad crouched over a dirty mirror, he turned towards me furious, "Go back to sleep!" he shouted. We were driving along the coast and it was dark, scary. Where was my brother? I didn't want to go to sleep, I was having a nightmare: my dad kicked me off the cliff in to the dark screaming ocean, the cliffs we were driving along now - I got very small and quiet.
I have no memories of playing with the Transformers we packaged so carefully, but I do remember the Motel. I remember my Mother accusing me of missing the toilet with a piece of soiled toilet paper. An accident – unknowingly done, she thought I did it to in some way hurt her. I denied it, I was five and didn't understand the situation. She wanted to make me understand; to understand how much what I did had hurt her and how much my lying about it hurt her. She beat me with a thin women’s belt that ‘hurt her more than it hurt me.’ I don't know how long she beat me but she kept getting madder and madder because I would not stop trying to block the belt with my hands. I had welts up and down my back, on my arms and legs. The trip ended for me after that.
My next memory was that Monday in school and my trip to the principal's office. I was "out of control" a term that I would become very familiar with throughout my childhood. The school just didn't know what to do with me. My Principal quickly noticed the blistering welts, just like I notice them every time I wake up sweating because my Dad has just kicked me off a cliff in to the dark screaming ocean.
