In the Olden Days

I was raised in the olden days when the world was sepia-colored and there were no bright colors except hot pink and orange in 1965. This was back when parents beat their children and accidentally sexually abused them. I remember my sister being beat up. She still has the don't kill me startle on her face, stuck and frozen from when she was eleven. Abuse and narcissism was what our parents learned from their parents and grandparents. I knew at age five that I never wanted to be a mother. I wanted our family dog to be my mother. I would curl up with Teddy on his rug and whimper, hoping he would adopt me. The fact that he was a male Scottish Deer Hound didn't matter. He was a better mother to me than my mother would ever be. I even loved the scent of his breath when he would pant in the back of the station wagon on long car trips.

I enjoyed taking walks with him around the brook in our neighborhood. I was a dreamer and I imagined living in the thatched-roof cottage that was on my walk. I spotted water-rats and frogs and mostly just day-dreamed. I was not afraid of anything except my biological father who I suspected was driving by slowly while spying on me. "Get the license plate," my mother would say. I never remember cleaning up after my dog. I never remember him even pooping. He must have!