Storytelling Thursdays
The 4Generation House (Part Four)
My computer files are filled with the stories I have written. Some are true, some are not. Some made it into books, some did not. Some are still in my head waiting to be written. Hopefully, having a story in your inbox on Thursdays will brighten your weeks as winter trudges toward spring. I will also recommend some books I have loved!
The 4Generation House (2011-2013)
This story (shared over the next few weeks) was part of a manuscript written before I began my therapy journey in 2014. It was never published but sections were included in two chapters of A Brave Life: Survival, Resilience, Faith and Hope after Childhood Trauma. Many of our most treasured—and stressful—memories occurred during those three years. I am grateful that I paused to collect the stories.
The thing about family disasters is that you never have to wait long
before the next one puts the previous one into perspective.
—Robert Brault—
Let the Chaos Begin
Sometimes the chaos came out of nowhere. Thing would be moving along fine when some type of space anomaly would occur, and the house seemed to spin out of control. This happened one night when I stepped on Scott’s foot. Honestly, I just tried to give him a kiss. His feet are big, and I stepped on one of them—grinding into it even more as I tried to regain my balance.
Just then, we heard eight-year-old Sabien wailing down- stairs. Then came a wail from three-year-old Aria and frantic barks from the dog. We moved in the direction of the wailing, only to find Sabien on the floor in the bathroom.
“I fell down and my knee hurts!” (Dog barking)
“Aria why are you crying?” (Dog barking)
“Sabien fell down. (Sob).”(Dog barking)
“OK, Sabien you are fine. Aria, Sabien’s fine.” (Dog barking)
We returned upstairs, and as Melinda dumped a load of clothes on the laundry room floor Sabien limped up the stairs after us.
“But look, my knee is bleeding.”
“Oh, my goodness, it certainly is!” I exclaimed. “Come sit here and we will get band aids.” (Barking dog jumping on Sabien)
“Someone put the dog in the laundry room!” I pleaded.
Melinda interjected, “No, there are clothes on the floor, and he will drag them outside. Put him in the back yard!”
Ahh, there followed a very short moment of calmness. With Sabien bandaged, clothes in the washer, and the dog back in the house, Scott grabbed the trash and headed through the laundry room to the garage.
Crash!
I screamed, then yelled. “What on earth?”
Scott groaned. “I tripped over the dog bone and fell onto the washing machine.”
Then the doorbell rang on the TV. (Dog barking frenzy!)
Aria began to cry.
Somewhat dazed, Melinda tried to capture and calm the dog while I soothed Aria. Scott made one more attempt with the trash.
Grandpa Jenkins Remains Calm
My dad, who seldom heard the chaos from his bedroom, calmly dozed through such episodes. Sometimes ignorance really is bliss. Unless the family brought the chaos to the bedroom, he simply enjoyed the stories in the aftermath.
His doorbell eventually became a signal for things such as a forgotten paper, another cup of coffee, or—much to my embarrassment—a forgotten meal. Yes, it happened. We joked about it being elder abuse, but it did seem possible I might be getting too old to care for the elderly.
My dad’s quick mind often kept us on track. Soon after the move, during a doctor visit, they asked me our address. I told them I didn’t know. But my father did. From then on, they asked him the questions.
Not that my dad didn’t have his moments. One morning he was absentmindedly reading the newspaper when he asked Scott if the paper had come yet.
Scott wasn’t exactly sure how to respond. “Uh, Dad, you’re reading it.”
My father looked down at the paper in front of him and burst into laughter. I reminded him about the time much ear- lier in his life when he threw his socks in the toilet instead of the hamper. He reminded me of my driver’s test at sixteen when I didn’t know how to put the brake on and tried to get my foot up on the brake release handle. We both laughed and decided the problem wasn’t age.
To Be Continued
(Reprinted from A Brave Life: Survival, Resilience, Faith and Hope after Childhood Trauma)
Have you read about Alexander’s Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day?
A few days ago, my daughter called me on her drive home from work (one of my favorite things for her to do). She had had a rough day. As she recounted all the mishaps, I said, “You probably need to move to Australia.” We both laughed. Sometimes books embed themselves into family life. I am sure Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day (1972) by Judith Viorst and illustrated by Ray Cruz, is part of many family conversations.