Assignment 5 (Jim) - The Early Years
Jung associates memories, dreams and visions with inner life. Of inner life he says, ‘The only events in my life worth telling are when the imperishable world irrupted into this transitory one... other memories of travels, or people, or surroundings have largely faded or disappeared. beside these interior happenings.’ He continues, ‘other people are established inalienably in my memories only if their names were entered in the scrolls of my destiny from the beginning, so that encountering them was at the same time a kind of recollection.’ For ‘life is... like a plant that lives on its rhizome... something lives and endures underneath the eternal flux.’ Thus he speaks chiefly of inner experiences. He concludes, for ‘I can understand myself only in the light of inner happenings.’ To get at what lies underneath the flux, my inner life, I begin thus with my earliest memories that endure.
I am the oldest of six children, all are roughly a year apart, from each other. I have two sisters, the third oldest and the youngest, and four brothers. My parents married when my Dad returned from service in the Korean conflict, which he never left the U.S. for. My Dad was 24 at that time and my Mom was 21. I was born a year later on April 22nd of 1956, when they promptly moved to an apartment in St. Louis, Missouri, where my Dad had begun work as a CPA for Price Waterhouse. My parents and I only stayed one year in St. Louis. During that year, my Mom says that I was a sickly, pasty baby, that cried the whole time except for when I was held by an elderly neighbor lady. They thought they were terrible parents, until Tom, the 2nd oldest, was born. He was a beautiful, plump, smiling cherub, with black curls.
I remember none of that, but the family story continues, that my parents both lived for the weekends. Dad found his work very stimulating, traveling during the week, while the children were being born, but Mom was quite homesick and overwhelmed with raising the kids alone. So every other weekend, and for weeks during the summers, we stayed at the farm where my Mom had grown up.
Something I do remember, very early on, is the feeling of a presence, of a monstrous ferocious black panther, that lived under my bed. It was both terror and protection. Terror in that I dare not move, relax, or leave my bed, till morning light, when it had gone. And safety in that no one, or no thing could get to me either, while I slept. That was also a magical time. I never misused it, but I was certain that I had the power to control the weather. I also was certain I could fly, and that I did so regularly, yet secretly.
And I remember the farm, fondly. The farm connected us, it was our rich roots and our escape. We had descended, it seems, from nomadic, gypsy like Irish shepherds that lived with their flock, trailing it night and day in a brightly painted covered wagon. My Dad’s great-grandfather had been a German carpenter. I remember that my Mom’s father seemed to know everyone. One day he took us to the livestock auction. On the way he rarely watched the old county roads, swerving the last second when a rare car crossed our path. His eyes were on every house we passed during the hour long drive. He was remembering and reciting each family and their family tree. During the winters he had done a little of everything, from being a policeman, to lumbering, to working in the mines and for the railroad. He often took drifters in. And so Grandpa had great stories and he would wrestle all six of us kids and all our cousins at once. Every Sunday after church growing up, he and the town boys, would have glorious fights out back.
There was an old rodeo horse, that much to my Mom’s chagrin, was named Marge, after her. Marge would tolerate us on her back for a while, then would gently raise up on her hind legs so that we slid off. Tom was so mad at my Grandfather, when Marge dropped him in a mud puddle, that he wouldn’t speak to him for days. Worse, Grandpa laughed and laughed over it. Another time Tom and I fought with Marge at every step to take us to the far end of the pasture, but once we turned to head back, she put her head down and ran full speed, with us hanging on for dear life. There were our cousins to play with there, there were trees to climb, livestock, a milking barn, granaries, a hayloft, a chicken house and a silo with pigeons, there. There was always homemade bread and rolls, real butter and raw milk, popcorn and homemade ice-cream. It would take our parents hours to get us to come out of hiding in the hayloft to return home again.
And there are other memory fragments from while we still lived on the border between Belleville and East St. Louis, Illinois, before my 4th grade, but these stand out in singularity, like islands, in a vast sea, whose connections lie deep below the surface. I remember my brother Tom and I smashing the fenders on each others new Schwinn bicycles with baseball bats, for example. I remember tunneling in the wheat field, and fearing the farmer would catch us. One day three blocks of dry wheat went up in a flash in a huge fire behind our house. The fire trucks tore through our yard, but were helpless. The neighborhood kids had lost the trash can lid they used to put out the fires they lit, before losing control of it. I also remember flying the apple tree, calling pilot, to co-pilot, to bombardier, with my brother Tom and our neighbor Greg. And I remember, wanting Greg (my confirmation name) Sinclair to be my best friend, but my brother Tom and him beating me up instead. I remember stepping on a rusty nail that ran all the way through my foot and out the other side. I told no one, till my Mom discovered the blood in my sheets, days later. I remember once riding way past our neighborhood and deep into E. St. Louis and being confronted at knife point. I remember my youngest brother Dick, opening the car door and swinging out into the street as we rounded a curve, till Mom snatched him back in. And finally I remember the heavy wooden crucifix on my parents bedroom wall being blown across the room as the Kroger, two blocks away blew up. We moved, the next week, to St. Louis County.
One summer, we tried to see how many kids could ride on a bicycle at one time. My foot slipped and went between the frame and spokes, tearing away all the skin, muscle and tendons on my right ankle. My Mom had c-sections with the last two prenancies, and so we had a maid, Orlean, to help her out. Orlean was the first black person us kids had ever seen in the flesh. My Mom was mortally embarrassed but Orlean didn’t mind when we asked why her palms were white and everything else was black. I went to Orlean when I couldn’t train my hair to stay in place. She me one of her huge old nylons to put on my head at night to train it. She and my Mom, soaked my ankle everyday and then drug me around the house, that summer, so my bones would atrophy. Orlean was always there for me.
I am the oldest of six children, all are roughly a year apart, from each other. I have two sisters, the third oldest and the youngest, and four brothers. My parents married when my Dad returned from service in the Korean conflict, which he never left the U.S. for. My Dad was 24 at that time and my Mom was 21. I was born a year later on April 22nd of 1956, when they promptly moved to an apartment in St. Louis, Missouri, where my Dad had begun work as a CPA for Price Waterhouse. My parents and I only stayed one year in St. Louis. During that year, my Mom says that I was a sickly, pasty baby, that cried the whole time except for when I was held by an elderly neighbor lady. They thought they were terrible parents, until Tom, the 2nd oldest, was born. He was a beautiful, plump, smiling cherub, with black curls.
I remember none of that, but the family story continues, that my parents both lived for the weekends. Dad found his work very stimulating, traveling during the week, while the children were being born, but Mom was quite homesick and overwhelmed with raising the kids alone. So every other weekend, and for weeks during the summers, we stayed at the farm where my Mom had grown up.
Something I do remember, very early on, is the feeling of a presence, of a monstrous ferocious black panther, that lived under my bed. It was both terror and protection. Terror in that I dare not move, relax, or leave my bed, till morning light, when it had gone. And safety in that no one, or no thing could get to me either, while I slept. That was also a magical time. I never misused it, but I was certain that I had the power to control the weather. I also was certain I could fly, and that I did so regularly, yet secretly.
And I remember the farm, fondly. The farm connected us, it was our rich roots and our escape. We had descended, it seems, from nomadic, gypsy like Irish shepherds that lived with their flock, trailing it night and day in a brightly painted covered wagon. My Dad’s great-grandfather had been a German carpenter. I remember that my Mom’s father seemed to know everyone. One day he took us to the livestock auction. On the way he rarely watched the old county roads, swerving the last second when a rare car crossed our path. His eyes were on every house we passed during the hour long drive. He was remembering and reciting each family and their family tree. During the winters he had done a little of everything, from being a policeman, to lumbering, to working in the mines and for the railroad. He often took drifters in. And so Grandpa had great stories and he would wrestle all six of us kids and all our cousins at once. Every Sunday after church growing up, he and the town boys, would have glorious fights out back.
There was an old rodeo horse, that much to my Mom’s chagrin, was named Marge, after her. Marge would tolerate us on her back for a while, then would gently raise up on her hind legs so that we slid off. Tom was so mad at my Grandfather, when Marge dropped him in a mud puddle, that he wouldn’t speak to him for days. Worse, Grandpa laughed and laughed over it. Another time Tom and I fought with Marge at every step to take us to the far end of the pasture, but once we turned to head back, she put her head down and ran full speed, with us hanging on for dear life. There were our cousins to play with there, there were trees to climb, livestock, a milking barn, granaries, a hayloft, a chicken house and a silo with pigeons, there. There was always homemade bread and rolls, real butter and raw milk, popcorn and homemade ice-cream. It would take our parents hours to get us to come out of hiding in the hayloft to return home again.
And there are other memory fragments from while we still lived on the border between Belleville and East St. Louis, Illinois, before my 4th grade, but these stand out in singularity, like islands, in a vast sea, whose connections lie deep below the surface. I remember my brother Tom and I smashing the fenders on each others new Schwinn bicycles with baseball bats, for example. I remember tunneling in the wheat field, and fearing the farmer would catch us. One day three blocks of dry wheat went up in a flash in a huge fire behind our house. The fire trucks tore through our yard, but were helpless. The neighborhood kids had lost the trash can lid they used to put out the fires they lit, before losing control of it. I also remember flying the apple tree, calling pilot, to co-pilot, to bombardier, with my brother Tom and our neighbor Greg. And I remember, wanting Greg (my confirmation name) Sinclair to be my best friend, but my brother Tom and him beating me up instead. I remember stepping on a rusty nail that ran all the way through my foot and out the other side. I told no one, till my Mom discovered the blood in my sheets, days later. I remember once riding way past our neighborhood and deep into E. St. Louis and being confronted at knife point. I remember my youngest brother Dick, opening the car door and swinging out into the street as we rounded a curve, till Mom snatched him back in. And finally I remember the heavy wooden crucifix on my parents bedroom wall being blown across the room as the Kroger, two blocks away blew up. We moved, the next week, to St. Louis County.
One summer, we tried to see how many kids could ride on a bicycle at one time. My foot slipped and went between the frame and spokes, tearing away all the skin, muscle and tendons on my right ankle. My Mom had c-sections with the last two prenancies, and so we had a maid, Orlean, to help her out. Orlean was the first black person us kids had ever seen in the flesh. My Mom was mortally embarrassed but Orlean didn’t mind when we asked why her palms were white and everything else was black. I went to Orlean when I couldn’t train my hair to stay in place. She me one of her huge old nylons to put on my head at night to train it. She and my Mom, soaked my ankle everyday and then drug me around the house, that summer, so my bones would atrophy. Orlean was always there for me.
posted by LifeWriter at 9:59 AM
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