I had a most unconventional upbringing. My earliest memories are of racetracks, Vegas casinos and picking up champagne corks in the backyard on Saturday mornings. Oh, there are other memories scattered in there: snuggled into the passenger seat of my Mom's Spitfire as she raced across town at midnight to pick my Dad up from his shift as an X-Ray Tech at the hospital, my Grandma Poulsom using a comb to tug (painfully) through my waist length curly hair that always tangled, eating onion sandwiches with Grandpa Poulsom (much to Grandma's horror!), sitting in the back of a classroom in the evening, coloring, as my mom taught on some obscure aspect of Nuclear Medicine.
My godparents, whom I called Uncle Clyde & Aunt Kathy, taught me how to pick the best race horse & would always give me a dollar to bet on the one I thought would win. (Uncle Clyde also taught me, at the age of 5, how to shift gears as we rode in his red Triumph speedster.) I loved going to the racetrack. It seemed exciting: the flourish of the man with the silver trumpet who would herald the start of the race, colorful jockeys & beautiful horses, all the cheering and clapping! I suppose now it's illegal for minors to go to a track. In the early 60's it was apparently fine. When we were in L.A. last week our hotel was a few miles from Santa Anita racetrack. As we drove past it twice a day, memories came flooding back to me. It is a beautiful track, with the most amazing Art Deco architecture. I so wanted to go walk around it to get a better look, since I never cared much for the structure itself when I was a child. I was more interested in the horses.
My parents would go to Las Vegas and on the rare occasion that a babysitter could not be found, they would take me with them. I would sit under the slot machine or blackjack table as they gambled. Again, something not allowed today, and for good reason! Surprisingly I have no bad memories of this. Probably because as an only child, I was good at occupying myself with a coloring book or something to read.
The odd thing about my childhood is that while I have some very unconventional memories & experiences, none of it was traumatic or horrific. I was always well fed, clothed, tended to & loved. I knew that my family was different only in the aspect that my mother worked & other kid's mom's got to stay at home. Looking back now my parents, who became Christians when I was 13 years old, roll their eyes & say "What on earth were we thinking?!?!"
As I was reading William Zinsser's "Inventing The Truth" (see sidebar) the other day, my mom said, "When you finally write a book, tell the truth!" I mentioned to her that there might be parts of the truth of my life she might not want to see in print. "No, just tell the truth" was her firm reply.
As I thought about this I realized that in my childhood (and my life) no matter how many things should have been done differently by my parents and by myself, God was in control of it all. And so in the retelling of events the only thing that matters is the sovereignty and mercy of God, who protected me and brought me to a saving knowledge of Him. That is the truth!
Lori,
That's so interesting. My dad was an x-ray tech, too. He's 76, and still filling in for others' vacations. :-)
The children can go to the racetrack in WVA, here, but not into the room where the gambling/slot machines are.
Posted by: Julana | June 10, 2006 at 05:54 PM