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I grew up in a small town in rural North Carolina.  These were pre-internet days, and small-town life was not very exciting.  But my grandparents lived just south of Chicago.  And every so often when they would come see us, or even on the phone, my grandfather would say, next time you come up to see us, we'll go see the White Sox play.  Well we could hardly be described as a sports-oriented family, but hey, a Major League Baseball game was high excitement for my brother and me.  We must have been six and seven at the time.  Something like that anyway.

Soon enough we did visit them.  And so it came to pass that my grandfather secured four tickets to see a White Sox game.  Nose-bleed tickets, but who cared?  It was my grandfather, my father, his son-in-law, and my brother and myself.  Now my father would rather have had a colonoscopy than sit through a baseball game.  But much to his chagrin, when we got to Chicago, he learned that my grandfather had purchased four tickets rather than three.  So politeness demanded that he had to go too.

We drove into the city from their little town, found parking, and headed towards the stadium.  And almost at the gates, some fellow, a complete stranger, comes up to us and says, Hey, I have an extra box seat ticket that I cannot use.  Do you want it?  Very kind of course.  But he had one box seat ticket.  And again, there were four of us.

Now let's stop right here and ask:  What would be the response of any normal person?

But if my family was normal, we would not be here, reader or writer.  So my grandfather, without so much as a look in our direction, says, Man-oh-man, that's great, thanks so much!  Then after the fellow trotted off, he turns to my father to rather disingenuously discuss how they would use this unexpected windfall.

So, my father and brother and I went off to watch the ball game, together, in the cheap seats.  And my grandfather went off in another direction, to watch the game from the best seats in the house, with strangers.

To this day, it is the only MLB game that I have ever attended.
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The Shadow

So what is your earliest memory?  Is it happy?  I'd like to tell you mine.

No, that's not quite correct; I don't really want to tell you.  But I need to record it.  And this seems as good a place as any.

I was maybe, four or five.  This was early 1970's.  A time when small-town parents still allowed their children to wander unattended.  And that is where my lifetime of memories begin.

Late one afternoon I was out roaming the neighborhood with my best bud, kid next door, and frequent bully, Steve Cashwell.  And right in front of my house, we found a pack of matches in the street.  Big stuff for pre-internet five-year-olds.

Steve, who was bigger and stronger, took custody of the newfound afternoon possibilities.  And against my urgent protests, he immediately went looking to put the pyrotechnics to use.  I stumbled along, as bullied kids so often do.

He settled on a solitary bush just off the street between our two houses.  As I am sure he'd never before struck a match, it took a little doing.  But before long, he had the dried leaves beneath the bush alight.  And then very quickly, he had that bush ablaze.

Well, that was too scary for me and I took off for help.  I ran through our front yard, past the front door, headed around the house, toward the back door that we actually used.  Unbeknownst to me, my father had arrived home, and saw the burning bush from his bedroom window.  We met just beyond the front door.

He yelled at me to go inside while he went and dealt with the Cashwell's flaming shrubbery.  Steve, by this time was no where to be found.

Afterwards, my father came inside the house and beat the crap out of me.

I tried to tell the story.  Of course I did.  And even after the beating, I denied that I was responsible.  So my parents, my well-educated, liberal parents, did what they considered appropriate and sufficient due diligence:  They phoned over to the Cashwell's, to find out what had actually happened.

And when they were informed during that telephone conversation that ... I ... was the actual culprit, they beat the crap out of me for a second time that night.  For lying about it.

~~~

Like all of us, the most basic needs of children are food, water, and shelter.  But Maslow taught us that right above these physiological needs sits:  Safety.  Even before love, children need to feel safe.  This is the primary job of parents.  This is the primary purpose of a home.

And I learned very early that my parents and our home were not reliably safe.  My greatest fear as a child was not the dark or getting lost or whatever it is that children typically fear.  Rather, I feared the volatile and capricious nature of my parents.  All too eager to find fault; all too willing to strike with unpredictable abuse.  Physical as well as venomous verbal assaults.  Abuse used to insure preternatural behavior and obedience, and to protect a warped view of their own reputation.  For my parents, fear was the tool of choice in their burden of childrearing.

I did not feel safe with my parents.  How could I?  I was scared to death of them.  Trust is a vital element of safety and we are all born trusting.  But if you learn at the age of three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, and beyond, that your parents cannot be trusted, do not be surprised if you have trouble trusting anyone, ever.  How does such a child find mental and emotional stability?  You can expect trouble forming and maintaining relationships, distrust of authority, and other symptoms of the maladjusted.

And if a child's home is not safe, he may never feel home anywhere.  He may spend a lifetime seeking a home that he lacks the emotional capacity to find.  If a child does not feel safe, how can he possibly develop Maslow's higher-level pursuits of belonging, self-esteem, and self-actualization?

My parents did not give two cents about the self-esteem of their children.

But that is not all.  Abused children are likely to grow up to be angry adults.  And this internal rage affects everything they do.  And all of their relationships.  How could it not?  I wonder what percentage of our prison population were abused as children?

So angry and unfulfilled.  And unable to find happiness.  Yeah, that sounds about right.  But Jordan Peterson says that happiness is not the goal.  It is rather, a mere byproduct of moral venture.  So I guess, there's always hope.  One muddles onward, searching and hoping.  What choice is there?  The question becomes:  Can abused children transcend their anger and their lack of self-esteem to live a life of moral venture?  Here's hoping.

In any case, there was nothing special about the abuse described above; it was just the first incident that I remember clearly.  My parents were always ready, even eager, to find fault and assume the worst about their children and act on those assumptions.  They knew that Steve was bigger and stronger and a bully.  But they found the idea, that their kid was the one responsible, irresistible.  This was the defining element of my childhood.  Imagine what that does to the psyche of a little kid.  I don't think I ever got over it.

Now I know, plenty have it worse.  Far worse.  Some are hospitalized; some go hungry.  But parents should provide all that they can for their children.  Once they've been fed, it is the parent's job to make them safe.  And yes, feel safe.  When children do not have this, it follows them, like a shadow, into adulthood.  Where it lingers...for a lifetime.
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The Great Bear Hunt

I have an 18-month-old niece in need of a teddy bear.  So I thought that would make a great Christmas present, maybe even starting a trend of being the uncle with the cool presents.  Okay, that’s a stretch, but one can aspire to greatness, right?

So like every other major purchase, I begin my quest for the perfect teddy bear online.  I first visit the venerable Vermont Teddy Bear.  Let me say, they have terrific stuff.  But while perusing their site, I learned two things.  One, an 18-month-old does not need a fancy bear dressed up as a firefighter or a surgeon.  No, I was looking for high quality, but basic.  And two, I realized right away that I was not going to be able to make this purchase online – I needed to feel it and eyeball the height and weight, etc.  I needed to put my hands on it before I bought it.  A teddy bear is not like a book or airline tickets.  A bear requires a personal interview.

Now I have little experience with kids, and even less with toys.  So I email a friend and ask for help.  Her sage advice is to visit a store called Build-A-Bear where kids can create a bear and build it right there in the store.  It’s an excellent concept.  My friend says, Your niece gets the bear of her dreams and you get to spend time with her.  My friend even offers to play tour guide.  I think she realized how out of my depth I truly was and took pity on me.

Well I thought about this for a while.  And I came to the conclusion that my niece is a bit young to appreciate the Build-A-Bear concept.  They are a lot like Vermont Teddy Bear – Both retailers really sell specialty bears – and I’m still going for basic.  But my judgment in these matters is not to be trusted, so I call the mother-in-charge, my sister.  Yes, she knew of Build-A-Bear, but she agreed that her daughter is too young to appreciate it.

Later, I’m relaying this story to another friend, Vanna.  Now her step-mother has been in and out of the hospital recently battling cancer.  Vanna says, well to tell you the truth, the best teddy bears I’ve seen lately are found at hospital gift shops.  Sigh.

So yesterday, I set off, sans tour guide, on the great bear hunt.  First to Toys-R-Us.  It’s a week before Christmas, you can imagine the traffic.  I learned right away – Do not even think about beating a mother in a minivan to a decent parking space.  I parked next door and walked over.  Now, Toys-R-Us had a limited selection of stuffed animals of dubious distinction.  Evidently, low-tech toys are not in this year.  It took more time to find the aisle than it did to realize the parking battle had been for naught.

My next idea was Disney.  I remember years ago visiting a Disney store with Winnie-the-Pooh in various sizes.  Hell, I did not even know if Disney stores were still around.  But, I know a guy and I made a call – And while sitting in the car outside of the Toys-R-Us, the Verizon operator connected me with our one local Disney store.  So I abandoned the big boxes and headed for the mall.

The traffic went from terrible to miserable.  But what the heck, I had decided to make a day of it.  And, I actually scored a better parking space at the mall than I had at Toy-R-Us.  It was a good sign, right?  Truth-be-told, I was feeling pretty confident at this point – I had a plan:  A destination and a target.  Pooh would be perfect.

Turns out, the Disney store is right next to Build-A-Bear.  No kidding.  And, I’m thinking this is childs play.  So I march in and immediately spy the stuffed animals at the back of the store.  Well, turns out Pooh comes in two sizes:  Too big and too small.  And decidedly not, just right.  Okay, I think, this is not a problem, I’ll just go with too big and be done with it.  Ah, but I don’t see any.  So I ask a store associate to point me to the big Poohs – And it’s a week before Christmas and they are sold out.  They are OUT!  Will you get more?  We never know.  Where’s the next nearest store?  An hour and a half away.  Should I just go with too small?  No, that did not meet my very important goal of being the uncle with the cool presents.  So my Pooh idea died right there in the Disney store.

But on the bright side – I’m parked and in a huge mall.  Surely, there’s the perfect teddy bear here somewhere.  First, I hit the Build-A-Bear next door.  It’s everything my friend said it was and perfect for what it is.  But unfortunately, it’s not what I need.  I long for my tour guide.  So I start wandering the mall.  The store associate at Disney told me that Sears has some Disney products – so I head in that direction.  On the way, I keep a sharp eye out for bears.  I remembered someone saying Godiva Chocolate has cute bears.  I pass one on my way to Sears, and they do – Too small.

Anyway, the Sears’ Disney products are inferior to the Disney store’s Disney products.  Duh.  So, I venture to Macy’s.  Now Macy’s has only one bear, but it's perfect – truly.  It also happens to be the most expensive one I saw all day.  But alas – Too small.  Brooks Brothers has bears (who knew?), but not basic.

I stop for coffee.  Now, I don’t often shop in malls, but I can see why people do.  It’s lovely actually.  Crowded of course, but a retailing Mecca.  Again I long for my tour guide.  I wander around for another hour or so, but no luck in the bear hunt.

Finally, crestfallen, I abandon the mall and my lovely parking space.  By this time, it’s later in the day, and traffic has gone from miserable to catastrophic.  I decide to sneak out the back of the mall parking lot and return to my office the back way.

Now it just so happens that the back way from Crabtree Valley Mall to my office goes right past Rex Hospital.  And it’s Rex where Vanna’s step-mother has been battling cancer.  I know the family, but I have no idea whether she’s in the hospital.  But I’m here, and I’ll go see her if she is.  Free parking – At a hospital, hard to believe.  Anyway, I march up to the information counter and ask if she is there.  The lady at the counter consults her computer and says, no, but perhaps we’re spelling it wrong.  (Who stops into a hospital on a whim, right?)  No, I say, but since she’s not here, could you point me to the gift shop?  Now, the lady looks at me like I’m from another planet, but she manages to direct me to the shop.

And there, in the Rex Hospital gift shop, I find the perfect bear.  As I walk outside with my newfound treasure, it begins to snow.

Merry Christmas.
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