Elemental Transformations

                                                                      Elemental Transformations

    I remember feeling the vibrancy and immediacy of the natural world when I was younger. The forest sand and the leaves, especially after a rainstorm, smelled earthy and wholesome. The wet leaves dissolved to feed the plants, and the sand provided nourishment for the trees to grow—the latter is a phenomenon peculiar to the South Jersey pinelands region. The woodland pond provided the turtles and frogs simple, peaceful lives, floating on lily pads and surrounded by everything they needed—no more, no less. Their days and nights, though action-filled, were relatively predictable. Animals always thrilled and amazed me—I think because they were so different from me.
   
    The tall forest trees sheltered me from detection by adults or bullies and gave me a sense of stability because they were always there, the next day and the next, on and on. I hid in the trees like the squirrels and the birds and in the pond like the bullfrogs. I never wanted to leave this enchanted hideout—especially when I had to go home.

    Losing a family is never easy—believe me, I know. But in comparison to when it was time to go home and the anguish and nausea I felt because of that, I’d have to admit that I’d take losing the family again. Nothing has ever been quite as bad as home was back then.

    We lived in a rancher-style house with a carport on one acre of land—precisely an acre, just enough to have a horse. We barbequed in the carport during the summer and parked the car in it during the winter. Six- to seven-feet evergreen trees hid the house from neighbors and strangers.

    The front yard was about twenty feet from the street, and ran about forty feet longer than the length of the house. There was roughly a quarter-acre of land in the front, a quarter-acre in the back, and a quarter on each side of the house. An enormous dark-barked pine tree with lots of cones shrouded the yard on the west side of the house. The tree created a four-inch-layer of green and golden pine needles on the ground below it. I can smell the piney scent, like the pine tree car fresheners, as I recall this part of the yard and feel the sticky pine glue that stained my arms and legs along with my clothes and shoes.

    The same pine tree hid my bedroom window.          

    Bordering the front lawn along the street was a seven-foot-wide dense bush—an Atlantic white cypress—with tiny, dark bluish-green leaves and small white berries on it. The bush was too dense for a person, even a child, to hide in, but animals and birds often nested in it. Next to the bush was a ten-foot willow tree with soft pink and green flowers that floated to the ground like angels’ feathers. A natural border of planted flowers along the sidewalk leading up to the house, the evergreen trees, and the dense bush enclosed the front yard.

    The front yard was magical when the noon sun shone upon it, appearing as if the sky was casting a spotlight on this specific spot on Earth. When I sat in the willow tree on the highest branch at noon, I believed the angels and fairies of the natural world could protect me from the painful life hidden behind the pine trees, but they couldn’t. 

    I’m reading the Stephen King novel, 11/22/63, about the only survivor of three brothers, a sister, and a mother whom were bludgeoned to death by the father. My father murdered us as well; it just took much longer than ten minutes of bashing their heads in with a sledgehammer. My father killed us slowly, moment by moment … day by day … year after year… my sister, my mom, and me, that is.

    People knew something wasn’t right with him, they saw his raging outbursts, smacks across the face for chewing gum or coughing—he hated when we coughed—and the terror he struck in all of us if we said or did something that he didn’t like.
Funny thing is that my father hated his father for my grandfather’s meanness, yet he did the same things to me, my mom, and my sister that his father had done to him. He told us stories about my grandfather waking him for school by kicking him with his long toenails, which dug into my father’s legs. He also told us that he had to sleep with my grandfather, but he never explained why, although eventually, I learned the reason. We also knew my father hated him because he was alcoholic.

    Maybe because he was alcoholic, there was always sweat above his upper lip, but we had to kiss him whenever we saw him—my father made us. My father’s brother and sister were also alcoholic. My father was what you might call a “dry” alcoholic. He only drank on New Year’s Eve and at the police banquets held in town every few months. But, boy! Watch out for those parties! When he got ready to drink, he ate raw eggs and milk-of-magnesia to prepare his stomach for the coming Tequila. He knew when he drank that he drank hard, often making fools of himself and my mom by hitting on other mens' wives or girlfriends. The mornings following these banquets, my mother would smile and say, “Yes, we had a nice time.” The magnitude of her denial never ceased to amaze me.

    Concerning my mom’s denial, I don’t remember the years between the ages of 4 through 16—no holidays, no birthdays, and no school days. I don’t remember any of the actual sex abuses, except for the first one in the bathroom on Miller Street. I don’t remember if it happened in the basement or my bedroom on Bittle Ave. I think maybe my bedroom because I get a chilling feeling when I think of the room. I used to set my hair in the middle of the night, trying to straighten it for school so I’d look like the other girls. That’s when he came into my room, before he went to work. I don’t remember if he came into the bathroom while I was showering as well, although I know we weren’t allowed to lock the bathroom door, or any other door for that matter—I’ve just started locking doors, forty years later. 

    I don’t remember ever being young and innocent. Was there such a time? Probably when I tried to dig to China. I was pretty naïve at that time! I’m still surprised that I really believed I could dig my way to China. I’d heard someone say, “Wow! They’re digging that hole so deep they’re liable to end up in China,” and I ran with the possibility. I just wanted to be gone or become invisible. I know I ran away a couple of times. I wish I hadn’t ever gone back.
         
    I remember the day that Alex remarked how gorgeous the sun looked shining on our front yard. Why couldn’t I see the beauty of that day like he did? I thought he was as depressed as me, but I guess he wasn’t. I thought that what he went through as a child was as bad as what I went through. But maybe it wasn’t because he still saw the sunshine.

    I see the sunshine today, as if the sky is gleaming light on our tiny parcel on Earth. The atmosphere feels magical as well, as if the winds are carrying sacred spirits and fanciful fairies. The trees and the plants are all different shades of green—emerald, sap green, apple green, and sea-foam colors. And the wild Jessamine, South Carolina’s first spring flower, smells intoxicating, making me breathe as deeply as possible to capture its scintillating fragrance. The sugary scents of gardenias, Southern magnolias, and Oriental lilies scent the forests, and the spicy tastes of Wild bergamot, mountain mint, elderberry, and lyre leaf sage make for wholesome home meals.

    I know that God exists. As the psychiatrist Carl Jung said, he knew that God existed—he didn’t just believe it. He knew. I know, too. Once you experience God, you’re certain.

Copyright Eileen M. Sembrot 2012