1956 was big year for my family. One day dad went to work driving a car that I do not remember and when he came home he had a brand new 1956 Chevrolet Bel-Aire. Cream on red. Oh, it was the most magnificent thing we had ever owned. Owned, had the title and everything. (My dad has never had a car payment in his life. If he could not pay cash for a car he didn't buy it.) The smell of the new car was like heaven on wheels. We all ran out and sat in the car. Mom in the front, brother and me in the back. I marveled at the car, the upholstery was elegant, (nope, seen one since then, really ugly). I touched every surface I could reach. Brother seemed unimpressed. I think we was drawing that invisible line in the backseat that I was not to cross.
As exciting as this was many other wonders awaited this 3 year old child. I started taking lessons at the Elizabeth King Studio of Dance. Ah ha! My parents see my unbelievable gifts. They are grooming me for something big. Broadway? Movies? Didn't matter to me, I could do both. (Later in my life mother told me they put me dance class because I was such a klutz. Dad advised me he calculated that my learning how to skip cost him $150.00).
And brother, well, he was the star. He had been taking piano lessons and was already showing great promise in that area. He was in school and was proving to be smarter than most of the children in his class. My parents occasionally used the word "genius" when talking about brother. I got the impression he was special. My parents were so lucky to have been blessed with gifted children.
1956 was the year my dad was hospitalized with depression for the first time. This information was not shared with anyone. Not even me. Dad had hypoglycemia. Mom talked about dad coming home from the hospital and we needed to be good. All the time. First rule, never wake up dad. Not for a nightmare, not for water, not for any reason at all.
Dad had always been the parent who read to me and made jokes about the books he read. He would put me on his lap and read the funnies to me. He had a different voice for every character. When my brother and his friends would play war dad would tell far fetched tales about being in the Navy. He had a story about taking Hirohito's sword from him. His favorite was about swimming to China when he was a boy to find sunshine. My favorite was about his time stationed in Alaska where it was, "so cold your words froze and would have to be thawed over the fire before you could hear them."
Dad came home from the hospital and I tried so hard to be good. All the time. I was quiet. I tried to stay hidden so I didn't inadvertently upset him. He didn't pick me up and say "Shadrach, Meshach and tobedwego", every night anymore. He didn't say "s'queet" when we went to get burgers. No funny bedtime stories. Hypoglycemia seemed very scary. Dad was sad all the time. Mother worried constantly. About everything. This is when she started her list of things that could maim or kill you or at the very least make you deathly ill. My little world became full of dark things I couldn't understand.
On the upside I got to spend more time at my best friends house, including sleep overs! She lived right down the street, of course, as all best friends seemed to in the 1950s. Bridget was three weeks younger than me. We took dance together, went to the same church, Sunday School class and sang together in the children's choir and we would march off to kindergarten together.
She would soon show me that I was average.
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